Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-06-01
DESPERATE DON QUIXOTE
FIGHTS FOR FREE SPAIN
Don Miguel de Unamuno, Philosopher,
Author and Patriot, Has Become Cham
piOn of Youth of His Nation.
BY ANGEL FLORES.

that hot July afternoon IN 1873.
Tourists from BiarritZ and st.
Jean-de-LuZ were flocking to
San Sebastian to attend a prize
fight between Pauline and Winter
Some young fellows were trying to hide
nv yalise They did not want me to
get off at Hendaye. l showed them my
Spanish visa and finally convinced them
with one last optimistic argument: :
why the trolley car leaves every hall
hour. Besides, 1t takes only so minutes
to get to San Sebastian. You'll see me
there SOON"
They were tall, we'll proportioned
chaps, with quick. bubbling laughter;
they spoke in perfect Spanish, but could
shift to equally good French and Eng
lish. l said in English What are you
fellows, anyway as they escaped from
one language into another. Their beretS.
dropping OH one side. with little tail
saucily appended, gave them childish
look of candor. I'VE are medical stu
dents from the University of Vienna"
But they represented to me typical
European students, Spanish or Austrian.
it's all the same. AdVenturing keenly.
familiar with many languages. very
much interested in the political destiny
of their native country. omnivorous
readers, they are SwashbucKllng GAL
lants in life and letters.
| on to see an exciting fiSticuffs duel. I
walked across the station plaza to the
Hotel Brocca and sat comfortably in
front of a glass of chacoli. Despite
the pleasant chat with my medical stu
| dents. / was not able to forget the
| words 1 had read, an hour before, on
the dial of the fifteenth century church
at Urrugne: "Vulnerant omnes. ultima
necat'-"They all wound, the last one
kills"
Last Hour May Be Best.
Indeed, time scars and f1ays us; but,
after all, maybe the last hour Is the
best.
It was rather incongruouS to be
thinking Of death when the oaks ana
chestnuts and araucarias. the blue skies
and the green meadows. were all speak
ing of life. But I was there, In little
hotel between Spain and France. walt
ing to see a man who had lived In
One of his books bore the significant
title: "The Tragic Sense of Life"
Perhaps the hot. disturbing breath In
| that work of Don Miguel de Unamuno
had made me think OF the dial at Ur-
| rugne.
Don Miguel had moved from the
hotel. His family had arrived from
Salamanca and he had taken house
near Hendaye-Plage. I walked up the
steeply inclined streets, asking for Don
Miguels home.
It was late. The servant, o pretty
little Basque girl, led me directly into
the dining room. Large and well fur
niShed, the room looked small, for
seated at a long table were enough
| people to give one the impression OF a
crowd. shook hands with Don Miguel,
and soon found myself seated by him,
before a fragrant demi-tasse. Don
Miguel was proud of his family. He
was proud to be a grandfather, that he
had given pledges to the future. Sonora
de Unamuno, a stout magnificent ma
| tron tender and kind-hearted, sat at
| his left. ART und the table were six or
| seven of his eight children.
Don Miguel sat there like patriarch.
Thick, short gray hair, high forehead,
very fair skin, rosy cheeks, pointed
grayish beard, curved aquiline nose.
clear serene eyes casting penetrating
chances through gold-trimmed SpectacleS
here was the veteran warrior. not yet
retired from the battlefield, one whose
colors were still Haunted bravely as he
challenged fate, not waiting for attack.
Has Hands Of Artist.
But il his spiritual attitude Is that
of the warrior philosopher. his hands
betray him to be also sensitive artist.
While he talked he played with bread
crumbs, shaping birds, fishes and men
as If he we're modelling In clay. His
hands were like farmer's-rough,
powerful and stocky, but the uncanny
fingers populated the world with foury
archetypeS.
Don Miguel told us stories. anecdotes,
hriV mi n
philosophical implications. He was no
longer a thinker past his sixties, one
of the leading minds of cotemporary
Europe: as KeySerling said, probably
the most important Spaniard that has
ever lived since Goya" Don Miguel
was just child, amusing himself get
ting ready his own Christmas tree.
Yes, sir. Spain has produced three
great Miguels--Miguel de CervanteS,
Miguel Primo de Rivera and myself"
His eyes glittered maliciouSly. One
of the three Miguels had been respOn-
sible for his four years of suffering, for
his exile. But he assured me that It
would not be long before he would re-
turn to Spain. Although he had been
pardoned by the King, it was not time
yet. He would live to be hundred
200 if necessary, but he would yet re-
turn to Spain, and with his head up
lifted.
After a while his family left, with
demonstrations Of affection for the kind
old patriarch before they retired. I
remained alone with him. A tete-a-tete
with Unamuno Is something one cannot
easily forget. He is so original, his
thoughts are so torrential, his opinions
SO recalcitrant. NietSsche and Kierke-
gard were probably like him-men full
of warmth and Vehemence, thinking
aloud. paradoxical, electrifying.
The mere mention of Thomas HardyS
death made him range over the whole
history of English fiction, and he fell
into ecStasies over GUIDE, the Obscure"
THE Egoinst" and "Wuthering Heights"
Praises MeIville's Novels.
England led us to America. He
praised, above all, "The Education of
Henry Adams" and the novels of Mel
vile. During his analysis of American
letters he quoted profusely from Tho
reau and Emerson. But the mention
of Mencken made him smile.
But his was not all bookish taste
Literary gossip was duly interpolated
with spicy remarks on sports, cookery
architecture. Naturally, to a man like
Unamuno life is the important thing.
Life in all its broad. complex aspects.
He is an inveterate hiker; he likes to
challenge young fellows in a Basque
exercise somewhat similar to wrestling
Unamuno is very young. despite his
60-odd years. His great passion is
the open fields. the open sky. He strolls
about hatleSs, with merry gait, watch
ing the sun and the clouds, smelling
with avid nose the scents from the trees
and the plants. In the country he can
dream. And he has stored plenty of
fresh air in his lungs to aerate the
thoughts cached in the printed pages.
When we left the table could see that
he was rather tall than short, with a
hard, athletic body. His feet are firm