The Spanish Civil War - pg. 83

The noise died as Unamuno stood up slowly. His quiet voice was an
impressive contrast.


All of you are hanging on my words. You all know me and are aware
that I am unable to remain silent. At times to be silent is to lie. For
silence can be interpreted as acquiescence. I want to comment on
the speech, to give it that name, of General Millan Astray, who is
here among us. Let us waive the personal affront implied in the sudden
outburst of vituperation against the Basques and Catalans. I was
myself, of course, born in Bilabo. The bishop, whether he likes it or
not, is a Catalan from Barcelona.

The bishop of Salamanca seemed discomforted at the public reminder
of his birth, which was almost in itself an implication of disloyalty to the
Nationalist crusade. Everyone stood in numbed silence as Unamuno
went on:


Just now I heard a necrophilous and senseless cry: 'Lond live death'.
And I, who have spent my life shaping paradoxes must tell you as an
expert authority, that this outlandish paradox is repellent to me. General Millan Astray is a cripple. Let it be said without any slighting undertone. He is a war invalid. So was Cervantes. Unfortunately there are all too many cripples in Spain now. And soon there will be even more of them if God does not come to our aid. It pains me to think that General Millan Astray should dictate the pattern of mass psychology. A cripple who lacks the greatness of Cervantes is wont to seek ominous relief in causing mutilation around him. General Millan Astray would like to create Spain anew, a negative creation in his own image and likeness, for that reason he wishes to see Spain crippled as he unwittingly made clear.


The general was unable to contain his almost inarticulate fuury any longer. He could only scream 'Muerta la inteligencia. Viva la Muerte!' ('Death to intellectuals! Long live death!'). The Falangists took up his cry and army officers took out their pistols. Apparently, the general's bodyguard even levelled his submachine-gun at Unamuno's head, but this did not deter Unamuno from crying defiance.


This is the temple of the intellet, and I am its high priest. It is you
who profane its sacred precincts. You will win, because you have more
than enough brute force. But you will not convince. For to persuade
you would need what you lack: reason and right in your struggle. I
consider it futile to exhort you to think of Spain.