This experience of my boyhood partly explains my anti-clericalism. I
recall Don Tirso with an undying hate, and were he still alive--I have
no idea whether he is or not--I should not hesitate to climb up to the
roof of his house some dark night, and shout down his chimney in a
cavernous voice: "Don Tirso! You are a damned villain!"




A VISIONARY ROWDY


I was something of a rowdy as a boy and rather quarrelsome. The first
day I went to school in Pamplona, I came out disputing with another boy
of my own age, and we fought in the street until we were separated by a
cobbler and the blows of a leather strap, to which he added kicks.
Later, I foolishly quarrelled and fought whenever the other boys set me
on. In our stone-throwing escapades on the outskirts of the town, I was
always the aggressor, and quite indefatigable.

When I began to study medicine, I found that my aggressiveness had
departed completely. One day after quarrelling with another student in
the cloisters of San Carlos, I challenged him to fight. When we got out
on the street, it struck me as foolish to goad him to hit me in the eye
or else to land on my nose with his fist, and I slipped off and went
home. I lost my morale as a bully then and there. Although I was a
fighter from infancy, I was also something of a dreamer, and the two
strains scarcely make a harmonious blend.

Before I was grown, I saw Gisbert's Death of the Comuneros reproduced as