Alarcón's writings have been brought together in nineteen volumes,
sixteen of which are of the well known _Colección de Escritores
Castellanos_. There are three volumes of short stories, the _Novelas
Cortas_; four longer novels, [p. ix]
_El Escándalo_, _La Pródiga_, _El Final de Norma_, _El Niño de la Bola_;
two stories that are neither long nor short, _El Capitán Veneno_ and _El
Sombrero de tres picos_; one volume of popular sketches, _Cosas que
fueron_; three volumes of travels, _Viajes por España_, one volume, and
_De Madrid a Nápoles_, two; an historic-geographical study, _La
Alpujarra_; one volume of essays, _Juicios Literarios_; and one volume
of verse. The three volumes outside the collection contain the
celebrated _Diario de un testigo de la Guerra de África_.
Of all this mass, only two works are really first-rate: _El Sombrero de
tres picos_ and _El Capitán Veneno_; of the special merits of these we
shall speak again presently. The diary of the African war has won
praise, and so have the books of travel; an occasional short story is
good; the longer novels have no permanent worth, the verse is
insignificant.
The most ambitious of the novels, _El Escándalo_, was published in 1875.
Its author, in his _Historia de mis libros_, included in the collected
works in the volume with _El Capitán Veneno_, makes a defence of this
book that is most illuminating as to the principles of criticism
practiced by the Spanish critics of the day, and that gives us a clear
sight of the literary conditions of the time. The artistic question does
not seem to have been raised: the one asked is simply as to the author's
attitude toward certain other matters, chiefly of religion; and it is on
the correctness of these views that the book is to stand or fall.
Alarcón in his defence, accepts the situation, and joins issue: and he
does this with a willingness that lets us see [p. x] that his own mind
could discover no impropriety in treating literature in that way.[1]
Herein lies the explanation of many weaknesses in Alarcón's work, which,
given his many good qualities, might else cause us to wonder.
Alarcón's best points are a very keen eye for a situation, thorough
control of a language adequate to his matter, an excellent idea of the
exigencies of style offered by his situations, and a keen sense of
humor, which, however, occasionally goes to sleep or deserts. His
weakness lies in the faulty idea of his task already pointed out, in a
certain immaturity, a childish petulance that stays with him to the
last, and in an utter inability to develop a character. He can picture
one admirably, but he cannot make one grow; and in general, he does not
try it. The one place in which he has some measure of success in this
not easy task is in Don Jorge of the _Capitán Veneno_, whose struggle is
very prettily exhibited; but the great, the serious effort, Fabián Conde
in _El Escándalo_, falls flat. His is a metempsychosis, not a
development.
The Spanish language does not lend itself with much grace to the needs
of the modern short story. Its leisurely diffuseness is a fair reflex of
the mode of thought it represents; so Alarcón cannot, except within the
four seas of Spain, be held a really good writer in this _genre_.[2] It
is in the happy borderland between the long and the very [p. xi] short,
that he has done his best. Finding himself for once--or for twice--with
a literary task (quite unconsciously to himself, it is true) exactly
fitted to his abilities, he has arrived, and succeeded. _El Capitán
Veneno_ and _El Sombrero de tres picos_ are real works of art, for their
author in them has shaken himself free of self-consciousness, forgotten
to preach or to moralize, let ethics and politics alone and written
without outward haste or inward restraint.
Alarcón's work in pure literature was beyond question much hampered by
his political life, and by the false notions of the aims and ends of
belles-lettres into which, as he grew older, the life of the times and
his own disposition caused him to fall. The history of Spain of his
lifetime is a nightmare. Whether, if he had lived in happier days, he
would have done better work, is one of those literary questions that are
good and pleasant to think and talk over, but unprofitable to write
about. Still, the constructive psychologist should have great joy in
Alarcón, should he have the patience to read all his works, for the man
reveals himself naked as do few; and it is most edifying to see the
conservative academician of _El Escándalo_ and _La Época_ making his
peace with the world and with heaven for the sins of the editor of _El
Látigo_. Truly he seems to wish that we should know that he felt indeed
that he had sinned much, and need make great haste.