In all the length and breadth of Spain no writer (with the possible exception of that slashing, incorrigible, brilliant reviewer, Antonio de Valbuena) is better known and more feared than Leopoldo Alas (b. 1852), who uses the pseudonym of Clarín. Alas is often accused of fierce intolerance as a critic; and the charge has this much truth in it—that he is righteously, splendidly intolerant of a pretender, a mountebank, or a dullard. He may be right or wrong in judgment; but there is something noble in the intrepidity with which he handles an established reputation, in the infinite malice with which he riddles an enemy. An ample knowledge of other literatures than his own, a catholic taste, as pretty a wit as our days have seen, and a most combative, gallant spirit make him a critical force which, on the whole, is used for good. He is not mentioned here, however, as the formidable gladiator of journalism, but as the author of one of the best contemporary novels. La Regenta (1884-1885) is, in the first place, a searching analysis of criminal passion, marked by fine insight; and the examination of false mysticism which betrays Ana Ozores is among the subtlest, most masterly achievements in recent literature. Galdós is realistic and persuasive: Alas is real and convincing. He has not the cunning of the contriver of situations, and as he never condescends to the novelist's artifice, he imperils his chance of popularity. In truth, far from enjoying a vulgar vogue, La Regenta has had the distinction of being condemned by criticasters who have never read it. Su único Hijo, and the collection of short stories entitled Pipá, interesting and finished in detail, are of slighter substance and value. The duties of a law professorship at the University of Oviedo, the tasks of journalism, have occupied Alas during the last four years. Literature in Spain is but a poor crutch, and even the popular Valera has told us that he must perish did he depend upon his pen. Spanish men of letters have to be content with fame. Meanwhile, it is known that Alas is at work upon the long-promised Esperaindeo, in which we may fairly hope to find a companion to La Regenta.
Of Armando Palacio Valdés (b. 1853) it can hardly be said that he has fulfilled the promise of Marta y María and La Hermana de San Sulpicio. Alas, with whom Palacio Valdés collaborated in a critical review of the literature of 1881, has succeeded in absorbing the good elements of the modern French naturalistic school without losing his Spanish savour. Palacio Valdés has surrendered great part of his nationality in Espuma and in La Fe, which might, with a change of names, be taken for translations of French novels. He has abundant cleverness, a sure hand in construction, a distinct power of character-drawing, which have won him more consideration out of Spain than in it, and he has a fair claim to rank as the chief of the modern naturalistic school. His most distinguished rival is the Galician, the Sra. Quiroga, better known by her maiden name of Emilia Pardo Bazán (b. 1851), the best authoress that Spain has produced during the present century. Her earliest effort was a prize essay on Feijóo (1876), followed by a volume of verses which I have never seen, and upon which the writer is satisfied that oblivion should scatter its poppy. She pleases most in picturesque description of country life and manners in her province, of scenes in La Coruña, which she glorifies in her writings as Marineda. Her foundation of a critical review, the Nuevo Teatro Crítico, written entirely by herself, showed confidence and enterprise, and enabled her to propagate her eclectic views on life and art. Women have hitherto been more impressionable than original, and Doña Emilia has been drawn into the French naturalistic current in Los Pazos de Ulloa (1886) and in La Madre Naturaleza (1887). Both novels contain episodes of remarkable power, and La Madre Naturaleza is an almost epical glorification of primitive instincts. But Spain has a native realism of her own, and it is scarcely probable that the French variety will ever supersede it. It is as a naturalistic novelist that the Sra. Pardo Bazán is generally known; but the fashion of naturalism is already passing, and it is by the rich colouring, the local knowledge, the patriotic enthusiasm, and the exact vision of such transcripts of local scene and custom as abound in De mi tierra that she best conveys the impressions of an exuberant and even irresistible temperament. What Pereda has accomplished for the land of the mountain the Sra. Pardo Bazán has, in lesser measure, done for Galicia.
One must hold it against her that she should have aided in establishing the trivial vogue of the Jesuit, Luis Coloma (b. 1851), whose Pequeñeces (1890) caused more sensation than any novel of the last twenty years. Palacio Valdés has been severely censured for writing, in Espuma, of "society" in which he has never moved. "What," asked Isaac Disraeli, "what does my son know about dukes?" The Padre Coloma's acquaintance with dukes is extensive and peculiar. Born at Jerez de la Frontera, he came under the influence of Fernán Caballero, whom he has pictured in El Viernes de Dolores, and with whom he collaborated in Juan Miseria. His lively youth was spent in drawing-rooms where Alfonsist plots were hatched; and when, at the age of twenty-three, he joined the Society of Jesus after receiving a mysterious bullet-wound which brought him to death's door, he knew as much of Madrid "society" as any man in Spain. His literary mission appears to be to satirise the Spanish aristocracy, and Pequeñeces is his capital effort in that kind. An angry controversy followed, in which Valera made one of his few mistakes by taking the field against Coloma, who, with all his superficial smartness, is a special pleader and not an artist. A roman à clef is always sure of ephemeral success, and readers were too intent on identifying the originals of Currita Albornoz and Villamelón to observe that Pequeñeces was a hasty improvisation, void of plot and character and truth and style. Certain scenes are good enough to pass as episodical caricatures, and had the Padre Coloma the endowment of wit and gaiety and distinction, he might hope to develop into a clerical Gyp. As it is, he has shot his bolt, achieved a notoriety which is even now fading, and is in a fair way to be dethroned from his position by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez, the author of Flor de Mayo, and by Juan Ochoa, the writer of Un Alma de Dios. These two novelists, the rising hopes of the immediate future, are rapidly growing in repute as in accomplishment. Narcís Oller y Moragas (b. 1846) has shown singular gifts in such tales as L'Escanyapobres, Vilaníu, and Viva Espanya. But, as he writes in Catalan, we have no immediate concern with him here.
Of the modern Spanish theatre there is little originality to report. Tamayo's successor in popular esteem is José Echegaray (1832), who first came into notice as a mathematician, a political economist, a revolutionary orator, and a minister of the short-lived republic. Writing under the obvious anagram of Jorge Hayeseca, Echegaray first attempted the drama so late as 1874, and has since then succeeded and failed with innumerable pieces. He is essentially a romantic, as he proves in La Esposa del Vengador and in Ó Locura ó Santidad; but there is nothing distinctively national in his work, which continually reflects the passing fashions of the moment. His plays are commonly well constructed, as one might expect from a mathematician applying his science to the scene, and he has a certain power of gloomy realisation, as in El Gran Galeoto, which moves and impresses; yet he has created no character, he delights in cheap effects, and when he betakes himself to verse, is prone to a banality which is almost vulgar. A delightfully middle-class writer, his appreciation by middle-class audiences calls for no special comment. It even speaks for itself.
The drama has also been attempted by Gaspar Núñez de Arce (b. 1834), whose Haz de Leña, in which Felipe II. figures, is the most distinguished historical drama of the century, written with a reserve and elegance rare on the modern Spanish stage. Núñez de Arce, however, though he began with a successful play in his fifteenth year, was well advised when he forsook the scene and gave himself to pure lyrism. His disillusioning political experiences as Secretary of State for the Colonies have reduced him to silence during the last few years. He was born to sing songs of victory, to be the poet of ordered liberty, and circumstances have cast his lot in times of disaster and revolutionary excess. He has had no opportunity of celebrating a national triumph, and his hopes of a golden age, to be brought about by a few constitutional changes, have been grievously disappointed. Yet it is as a political singer that he has won a present fame and that he will pass onward to renown. His Idilio is a rustic love story of fine simplicity, of an impressive, pure realism which lifts it above the common level of pastoral poems, and its sincerity, its austere finish, are characteristic of the poet, who is always a scrupulous artist, a passionate devotee and observer of nature, as he has proved once more in La Pesca. In Raimundo Lulio, Núñez de Arce's superb execution is displayed with a superb result which almost tempts the coldest reader into pardoning the confusion of two separate themes—allegory and amorism. But a political poet he remains, and the famous Gritos de Combate (1875), in which he denounces anarchy, pleads for freedom and for concord, with a civic courage beyond all praise, is a lasting monument in its kind. Modern Castilian shows no poetic figure to compare with him, and the only promises of our time are Jacinto Verdaguer and Joan Maragall, two Catalan singers who fall without our limit.
The present century has produced no great Spanish historian, though there has been an active movement of historical research, headed by scholars like Fidel Fita, specialists like Cárdenas, Azcárate, Costa, Pérez Pujol, Ribera, Jiménez de la Espada, Fernández Duro, and Hinojosa, all of whom have produced brilliant monographs, or have accumulated valuable materials for the Mariana of the future. In criticism also there has been a marked advance of scholarship and tolerance, thanks to the example of Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo (b. 1856), whose extraordinary learning and argumentative acuteness were first shown in his Ciencia Española (1878), and his Historia de los Heterodoxos Españoles (1880-81). Since then the slight touch of acerbity, of provincial narrowness, has disappeared, the writer's talent has matured, and, starting as the standard-bearer of an aggressive party, anxious to recover lost ground, his sympathies have widened as his erudition has taken deeper root, till at the present moment he is accepted by his ancient foes as the most sagacious and accomplished of Spanish critics. His Odas, Epístolas y Tragedias, is a signal instance of technical excellence in versification, containing as good a version of the Isles of Greece as any foreigner has achieved. But, after all, it is not as poet, but as critic, as literary historian, that he is hailed by his countrymen as a prodigy. He has, perhaps, undertaken too much, and the editing of Lope de Vega may cause the Historia de las Ideas Estéticas en España to remain an unfinished torso; but his example and influence have been wholly exercised for good, and are evident in the excellent work of the younger generation—the work of Emilio Cotarelo y Mori, of Rafael Altamira y Crevea, of Ramón Menéndez Pidal. It would be a singular thing if the bright, improvident Spain, which to most of us stands for the embodiment of reckless romanticism, were to produce a race of writers of the German type, a breed absorbed in detail and minute observation; and as a nation's genius is no more subject to change than is the temperament of individuals, the development may not come to pass. But, as the century closes, the tendency inclines that way.
Footnote:
[31] See the Revue hispanique (Paris, 1894), vol. i. pp. 236-257.