A mutual friend, Antonio Gil Campos, introduced me to Silverio Lanza. Silverio Lanza was a man of great originality, endowed with an enormous fund of thwarted ambition and pride, which was only natural, as he was a notably fine writer who had not yet met with success, nor even with the recognition which other younger writers enjoyed. The first time that I saw Lanza, I remember how his eyes sparkled when I told him that I liked his books. Nobody ever paid any attention to him in those days. Silverio Lanza was a singular character. At times he seemed benevolent, and then again there were times when he would appear malignant in the extreme. His ideas upon the subject of literature were positively absurd. When I sent him Sombre Lives, he wrote me an unending letter in which he attempted to convince me that I ought to append a lesson or moral, to every tale. If I did not wish to write them, he offered to do it himself. Silverio thought that literature was not to be composed like history, according to Quintilian's definition, ad narrandum, but ad probandum. When I gave him The House of Aizgorri, he was outraged by the optimistic conclusion of the book, and advised me to change it. According to his theory, if the son of the Aizgorri family came to a bad end, the daughter ought to come to a bad end also. Being of a somewhat fantastical turn of mind, Silverio Lanza was full of political projects that were extraordinary. I remember that one of his ideas was that we ought all to write the King a personal note of congratulation upon his attaining his majority. "It is the most revolutionary thing that can be done at such a time," insisted Lanza, apparently quite convinced. "I am unable to see it," I replied. AzorÍn and myself were of the opinion that it was a ridiculous proceeding which would never produce the desired result. Another of Lanza's hobbies was an aggressive misogyny. "Baroja, my friend," he would say to me, "you are too gallant and respectful in your novels with the ladies. Women are like laws, they are to be violated." I laughed at him. One day I was walking with my friend Gil Campos and my cousin GoÑi, when we happened on Silverio Lanza, who took us to the CafÉ de San SebastiÁn, where we sat down in the section facing the Plazuela del Angel. It was a company that was singularly assorted. Silverio reverted to the theme that women should be handled with the rod. Gil Campos proceeded to laugh, being gifted with an ironic vein, and made fun of him. For my part, I was tired of it, so I said to Lanza: "See here, Don Juan" (his real name was Juan Bautista AmorÓs), "what you are giving us now is literature, and poor literature at that. You are not, and I am not, able to violate law and women as we see fit. That may be all very well for Caesars and Napoleons and Borgias, but you are a respectable gentleman who lives in a little house at Getafe with your wife, and I am a poor man myself, who manages as best he may to make a living. You would tremble in your boots if you ever broke a law, or even a municipal ordinance, and so would I. As far as women are concerned, we are both of us glad to take what we can get, if we can get anything, and I am afraid that neither of us is ever going to get very much, despite the fact"—I added by way of a humorous touch—"that we are two of the most distinguished minds in Europe." My cousin GoÑi replied to this with the rare tact that was characteristic of him, arguing that within the miserable sphere of tangible reality I was right, while Lanza moved upon a higher plane, which was more ideal and more romantic. He went on to add that Lanza and he were both Berbers, and so violent and passionate, while I was an Aryan, although a vulgar Aryan, whose ideas were simply those which were shared by everybody. Lanza was not satisfied with my cousin's explanation and departed with a marked lack of cordiality. Since that time, Silverio has regarded me with mixed emotions, half friendly, half the reverse, although in one of his latest books, The Surrender of Santiago, he has referred to me as a great friend and a great writer. I suspect, however, that he does not love me. |