Youth and Egolatry Part 21

Although a man may never have amounted to anything, and will probably continue in much the same case, that is to say never amounting to anything, yet there are persons who will take pride in having given him his start in the world--in short, upon having made him known. Senor Ruiz Contreras has set up some such absurd claim in regard to me.

According to Ruiz Contreras, he brought me into public notice through a review which he published in 1899, under the t.i.tle _Revista Nueva_.

Thus, according to Ruiz Contreras, I am known, and have been for eighteen years! Although it may seem scarcely worth while to expose such an obvious joke, I should like to clear up this question for the benefit of any future biographers. Why should I not indulge the hope of having them?

In 1899, Ruiz Contreras invited my co-operation in a weekly magazine, in which I was to be both stockholder and editor. Those days already seem a long way off. At first I refused, but he insisted; at length we agreed that I should write for the magazine and share in meeting the expenses, in company with Ruiz Contreras, Reparaz, La.s.salle and the novelist Matheu.

I made two or three payments, and moved down some of my pictures and furniture to the office in consequence, until the time came when I began to feel that it was humorous for me to be paying for publis.h.i.+ng my articles, when I was perfectly well able to dispose of them to any other sheet. Upon my cutting off payments, Ruiz Contreras informed me that a number of the stockholders, among whom was Icaza, who had replaced Reparaz, took the position that if I did not pay, I should not be permitted to write for the magazine.

"Very well, I shall not write." And I ceased to write.

Previous to my connection with the _Revista Nueva_, I had contributed articles to _El Liberal_, _El Pais_, _El Globo_, _La Justicia_, and _La Voz de Guipuzcoa_, as well as to other publications.

A year after my contributions to the _Revista Nueva_, I brought out _Sombre Lives_, which scarcely sold one hundred copies, and, then, a little later, _The House of Aizgorri_, the sale of which fell short of fifty.

At this time, Martinez Ruiz published a comedy, _The Power of Love_, for which I provided a prologue, and I went about with the publisher, Rodriguez Serra, through the bookshops, peddling the book. In a shop on the Plaza de Santa Ana, Rodriguez Serra asked the proprietor, not altogether without a touch of malice:

"What do you think of this book?"

"It would be all right," answered the proprietor, who did not know me, "if anybody knew who Martinez Ruiz was; and who is this Pio Baroja?"

Senor Ruiz Contreras says that he made me known, but the fact is that n.o.body knew me in those days; Senor Ruiz Contreras flatters himself that he did me a great favour by publis.h.i.+ng my articles, at a cost to me, at the very least, of two or three _duros_ apiece.

If this is to be a patron of letters, I should like to patronize half the planet.

As for literary influence, Ruiz Contreras never had any upon me. He was an admirer of a.r.s.ene Houssage, Paul Bourget, and other novelists with a sophisticated air, who never meant anything to me. The theatre also obsessed him, a malady which I have never suffered, and he was a devotee of the poet, Zorrilla, in which respect I was unable to share his enthusiasm, nor can I do so today. Finally, he was a political reactionary, while I am a man of radical tendencies.

XIII

PARISIAN DAYS

For the past twenty years I have been in the habit of visiting Paris, not for the purpose of becoming acquainted with the city--to see it once is enough; nor do I go in order to meet French authors, as, for the most part, they consider themselves so immeasurably above Spaniards that there is no way in which a self-respecting person can approach them. I go to meet the members of the Spanish colony, which includes some types which are most interesting.

I have gathered a large number of stories and anecdotes in this way, some of which I have incorporated in my books.

ESTeVANEZ

Don Nicolas Estevanez was a good friend of mine. During my sojourns in Paris, I met him every afternoon in the Cafe de la Fleur in the Boulevard St. Germain.

When I was writing _The Last of the Romantics_ and _Grotesque Tragedies_, Estevanez furnished me with data and information concerning life in Paris under the Second Empire.

When I last saw him in the autumn of 1913, he made a practice of coming to the cafe with a paper scribbled over with notes, to a.s.sist his memory to recall the anecdotes which he had it in mind to tell.

I can see him now in the Cafe de la Fleur, with his blue eyes, his long white beard, his cheeks, which were still rosy, his calm and always phlegmatic air.

Once he became much excited. Javier Bueno and I happened on him in a cafe on the Avenue d'Orleans, not far from the Lion de Belfort. Bueno asked some questions about the recent attempt by Moral to a.s.sa.s.sinate the King in Madrid, and Estevanez suddenly went to pieces. An anarchist told me afterwards that Estevanez had carried the bomb which was thrown by Morral in Madrid, from Paris to Barcelona, at which port he had taken s.h.i.+p for Cuba, by arrangement with the Duke of Bivona.

I believe this story to have been a pure fabrication, but I feel perfectly certain that Estevanez knew beforehand that the crime was to be attempted.

MY VERSATILITY ACCORDING TO BONAFOUX

Speaking of Estevanez, I recall also Bonafoux, whom I saw frequently.

According to Gonzalez de la Pena, the painter, he held my versatility against me.

"Bonafoux," remarked Pena, "feels that you are too versatile and too volatile."

"Indeed? In what way?"

"One day you entered the bar and said to Bonafoux that a testimonial banquet ought to be organized for Estevanez, enlarging upon it enthusiastically. Bonafoux answered: 'Go ahead and make the preparations, and we will all get together.' When you came into the cafe a few nights later, Bonafoux asked: 'How about that banquet?' 'What banquet?' you replied. It had already pa.s.sed out of your mind. Now, tell me: Is this true?" inquired Pena.

"Yes, it is. We all have something of Tartarin in us, more or less. We talk and we talk, and then we forget what we say."

Other Parisian types return to me when I think of those days. There was a Cuban journalist, who was satisfactorily dirty, of whom Bonafoux used to say that he not only ate his plate of soup but managed to wash his face in it at the same time. There was a Catalan guitar player, besides some girls from Madrid who walked the tight rope, whom we used to invite to join us at the cafe from time to time. And then there was a whole host of other persons, all more or less shabby, down at the heel and picturesque.

XIV

LITERARY ENMITIES

Making our entrance into the world of letters hurling contradictions right and left, the young men of our generation were received by the writers of established reputation with unfriendly demonstrations. As was natural, this was not only the att.i.tude of the older writers, but it extended to our contemporaries in years as well, even to those who were most modern.

THE ENMITY OF DICENTA

Among those who cherished a deadly hatred of me was Dicenta. It was an antipathy which had its origin in the realm of ideas, and it was accentuated subsequently by an article which I contributed to _El Globo_ upon his drama _Aurora_, in which I maintained that Dicenta was not a man of new or broad ideas, but completely preoccupied with the ancient conceptions of honesty and honour. One night in the Cafe Fornos--I am able to vouch for the truth of this incident because, years afterwards, he told me the story himself--Dicenta accosted a young man who was sitting at an adjacent table taking supper, and attempted to draw him into discussion, under the impression that it was I. The young man was so frightened that he never dared to open his mouth.

"Come," shouted Dicenta, "we shall settle this matter at once."

"I have nothing to settle with you," replied the young man.

"Yes, sir, you have; you have stated in an article that my ideas are not revolutionary."