The bakery has been brandished against me in literature.
When I first wrote, it was said:
"This Baroja is a crusty fellow; naturally, he is a baker."
A certain picturesque academician, who was also a dramatist, and given
to composing stupendous _quintillas_ and _cuartetas_ in his
day, which, despite their flatness, were received with applause, had the
inspiration to add:
"All this modernism has been cooked up in Baroja's oven."
Even the Catalans lost no time in throwing the fact of my being a baker
in my face, although they are a commercial, manufacturing people.
Whether calico is nobler than flour, or flour than calico, I am not
sure, but the subject is one for discussion, as Maeztu would have it.
I am an eclectic myself on this score. I prefer flour in the shape of
bread with my dinner, but cloth will go further with a man who desires
to appear well in public.
When I was serving upon the Town Council, an anonymous publication
entitled "Masks Off," printed the following among other gems: "Pío
Baroja is a man of letters who runs a bake-shop."
A Madrid critic recently declared in an American periodical that I had
two personalities: one that of a writer and the other of a baker. He was
solicitous to let me know later that he intended no harm.
But if I should say to him: "Mr. So and So" is a writer who is
excellently posted upon the value of cloth, as his father sold
dry-goods, it would appeal to his mind as bad taste.
Another journalist paid his respects to me some months ago in _El
Parlamentario_, saying I baked rolls, oppressed the people, and
sucked the blood of the workingman.
It would appear to be more demeaning to own a small factory or a shop,
according to the standards of both literary and non-literary circles,
than it is to accept money from the corruption funds of the Government,
or bounties from the exchequers of foreign Embassies.
When I hear talk nowadays about the dues of the common people, my
propensity to laugh is so great that I am apprehensive that my end may
be like that of the Greek philosopher in Diogenes Laertius, who died of
laughter because he saw an ass eating figs.