1. In seeking to disentangle the history of Spain since the eighteenth century, I have followed the evolution of three tensions that have been central to the whole period. The first and most obvious was ideological or temperamental, between those who championed parliamentary government and economic progress and sought to learn from the contemporary experiences of other nations and those who defended accepted beliefs and practices. Conservative clergymen were long the most vocal spokesmen of the second group, with the result that the two contending parties frequently appeared simply as clericals and anticlericals. This was true at the Cortes of Cadiz (although some of their "anticlericals" were Jansenist monks and priests), it was true in the Carlist War, in the Revolution of 1868, in the Tragic Week of 1909, and in the Second Republic and the Civil War. The clerical issue tended to cover the fact that differing political philosophies or ideologies were essentially rationalizations to defend or attack entrenched institutions and privileged social positions. So prominent was this struggle in the whole period that it led many observers and historians to accept the existence of "two Spains," as if the country had become divided into two different peoples.

The second tension sprang from the unequal division of land in vast areas of central and southern Spain, where a struggling peasantry dug their existence from tiny overworked plots and am opulent landowning oligarchy lorded it over downtrodden agricultural workers. From Charles III to the Second Republic reformers who sought to aid the rural poor failed before the immensity of the task and the [263] power of the oligarchy. The only attempt that produced results, the disentail of church and municipal lands in the nineteenth century, ended in strengthening the class of large owners.

The third tension was geographic, between the arid, depopulated rural central plateau and the urban, watered periphery of the north and east--between Old and New Castile, supported usually by Andalusia, on the one hand, and the Basque Provinces and Catalonia, joined at times by Galicia, Asturias, Navarre, and Valencia, on the other. The Carlist War took this form, as did the conflicts of the First Republic (except that here Andalusia acted against Castile). In one guise the tension appeared as the resentment of industrial entrepreneurs against agrarian partisans of low tariffs, and in another as Basque and Catalan nationalist movements against Castilian centralism. The Civil War was its most violent manifestation, for by this time it also involved the conflict between industrial proletariat and capitalist class typical of a budding industrial society. As on this occasion, the city of Madrid was often aligned with the periphery.

All three issues emerged in the eighteenth century and, although their form evolved, continued through the nineteenth century and were at the heart of the cataclysm of the 1930's. Since then, however, the first two have lost much of their virulence, while the third has taken new form. Ideologies have not disappeared from Spain, but as in other parts of the world they no longer inspire the blind following they once enjoyed. Although Franco has continued to evoke the red specter of the war years in his attacks on his opponents, he has always been a pragmatist and the actions of his governments have belied his words. Spain has opened trade with eastern Europe and continued cultural and economic relations with the Cuba of Fidel Castro despite the displeasure of its North American ally.

On the other side, students and workers still like to think that they are inspired by some form of Marxism or other collectivist doctrine, but too many changes have taken place in Spain and the rest of Europe since the Civil War for Spanish revolutionaries to convince a wide audience that any specific doctrine offers the only solution to the nation's injustices. What is more significant, the new generation of rebels no longer finds its principal enemy in the clergy. They may fear Opus Dei and dislike certain conservative prelates, but the new tone of the church since the time of Pope John XXIII, and the appearance of revolutionary young priests encouraging militant Catholic labor unions and cooperating with illegal workers' commissions, have convinced the rebels that they have friends within the church. One would find scant acceptance among younger Spaniards of the argument that Spain's problems could be solved if the Jesuits were expelled and the crucifix removed from the classroom. This fact alone means that the ideological conflict that raged from the Cortes of Cadiz to the Civil War has [264] lost its strength. Like Franco, his opposition has become more pragmatic.

Franco never attacked the rural oligarchy directly--after all, they were one of the sources of his strength--but his governments did try to improve the lot of the small farmer with irrigation, parcelary concentration, credit for farm machinery, and other programs. None of these measures would have brought the good life to the masses of Spain's rural poor, especially the myriads of landless workers in New Castile and Andalusia for whom they did little. Independent developments, however, began to reduce the age-old problem. The great rural exodus of the late fifties and sixties offered a solution that reformers of two centuries had been unable to find. It did not provide land for the landless, as liberals and Republicans wanted to do, nor did it create cooperative farms such as the socialists proposed. It began instead to remove excess hands and mouths from the countryside. In the sixties the peasants who remained in the towns which had been cursed for generations with small holdings were buying tractors or going into grazing, either way turning agriculture into a business enterprise. Meanwhile Andalusian latifundistas began to complain that the scarcity of labor was forcing them to pay more than they could afford. They were ceasing to be lords of their local subjects and having to bargain with them as business associates. Spanish agriculture still had plenty of ills, and the unplanned exodus was bringing new ones, but the classic problems of a vast impoverished proletariat and marginal peasant farmers were becoming things of the past. When the national economy suffered a recession in 1967-68, some recent emigrants found the new rural conditions encouraging enough to return.

Of the three conflicts, the one between center and periphery has remained the most tenacious. Catalans and Basques fought Franco more bitterly than any ruler since Isabel II, and he retaliated with oppressive measures against their culture and self-government. The regime sought steadily to strengthen central Spain vis-a-vis these regions. It cooperated with the major banks to unify the financial structure of the country and make Madrid the center of it. It encouraged the development of heavy industry in Madrid and other cities of the center and south. Except for two in Franco's native Galicia, the seven "poles of development" established by the four-year Development Plan of 1963 were all in this area.⁽¹⁾

So far these policies have not destroyed the human and economic potential behind Catalan and Basque regionalism. The momentum from earlier periods and the better location of these two zones have kept their population growing faster than that of the center. Between 1941 and 1955 Barcelona province accounted for 44 percent of the [265] net immigration registered by all Spanish provinces, and Madrid was second with 35 percent. In 1960 thirteen peninsular provinces showed a net balance of immigration of workers. All but Madrid and Zaragoza were in the periphery of the north and east, and the highest was Barcelona.⁽²⁾ The percent of the population located in each of the major areas of the peninsula at various dates in the twentieth century is as follows:

* According to estimates in Instituto Nacional de Estadística, Anuario estadístico, 1968, pp. 466-67.

**These figures differ from those in the table on page 116. In that table Santander province was included in the center although it is located on the northern coast. In 1797 it was part of Burgos Province, and its population for that date could not be separated from that of the rest of the province, which belongs in the center. For purposes of comparison, its population had to be included in the center in 1900 as well.

The eastern seaboard steadily gained a greater share of the total population, until in 1967 it reached almost 27 percent, while the remaining [266] areas showed little relative change after 1900. Although the demographic evolution appears at first sight to continue the pattern of peripheral growth initiated in the seventeenth century, there is an important difference from previous periods.⁽³⁾ In the twentieth century the growth of the north and east has been concentrated in the industrial Basque and Catalan regions. Between 1900 and 1967 Catalonia rose from 11 to almost 15 percent of the total population of the peninsula, and the Basque Provinces doubled their share from 3.4 to 6.9 percent. Without the growth of these two regions, both the north and the east would have registered declines since 1900 relative to the rest of the peninsula. After 1950 industrialization and the flight from the countryside became the main factors behind the evolution of the demographic pattern. Aided by government-inspired industrialization, cities of the center like Zaragoza and Valladolid were growing as fast as Barcelona, but their growth could not offset the thousands of rural emigrants from the central area, many of whom by the logic of the situation ended up in Basque and Catalan cities. Only Madrid acted as a demographic counterpoise. Because of its position as national political and financial capital, official pressure for its industrialization, and its attraction for tourists, its province grew faster than any other, rising between 1900 and 1967 from 4.3 to 10.3 percent of the total population of the peninsula. Politically, however, its expansion was a doubtful counterpoise, since in the Civil War and earlier it had sided with the periphery.

After 1950 the government tried to placate the Basques and Catalans by relaxing the antiregionalist measures taken during the Civil War, allowing publication of works in their languages. These measures did not calm their hatred of Franco. Local nationalism remained very much alive, encouraged by young priests who used their languages in church services and participated in underground movements. The University of Barcelona was second only to Madrid's in the daring of its student protests. Catalan and Basque factory workers and Asturian miners led the opposition to wage control and syndicalist regimentation with strikes and violent demonstrations. All of these types of activity, however, revealed an evolution in the nature of the conflict between these regions and the central government that had been foreshadowed in the Civil War. More than a geographic division between zones of different economic activities, or even a drive for the rights of local nationalities, the conflict was now a struggle of the employed groups, industrial workers and future technicians, against a centralized state bent on preventing economic disruption and thus in effect protecting the interests of the corporate financial elite.

The fact that all three historic tensions have been changing rapidly [267] under Franco suggests that one might profitably look for some common factor involved in their current evolution.

2. When Unamuno sought to explain what was wrong with Spain at the end of the nineteenth century, he drew a contrast between the political classes who were divided between the partisans of Europeaniza-tion and the defenders of Hispanic purity, on the one hand, and on the other, the masses of the common people, the bearers of the true Spanish tradition. The first, who made the news and were the subject of written history, according to Unamuno were merely the frothy waves on the surface of the deep and silent sea of the real Spain. He mocked General Prim who in 1868 spoke of "destroying the obstacles in the midst of the storm" and the men of the Restoration of 1875 who claimed to be tying together the broken strands of Spain's history.

It was not the Restoration of 1875 that reunited the thread of Spanish history, it was the millions of men who continued performing the same activities as always, those millions for whom the sun was the same after September 29, 1868 as it was before, for whom the tasks were the same, and the songs the same with which they followed the furrow of the plow. And in truth they did not tie anything together, for nothing had been broken.⁽⁴⁾

Some persons soon began to study the nature of the peasantry, Unamuno's intrahistory, but they were ethnographers or social anthropologists, not historians. Since his day the study of peasant life in various parts of the world has become one of the principal activities of anthropologists. They distinguish peasants from the primitive tribes which had earlier attracted them, in that primitive peoples have virtually no frame of reference outside their own society, whereas peasants are part of a society that is greater than their own. To quote a leading American anthropologist, A. L. Kroeber: "Peasants are definitely rural [268] --yet live in relation to market towns; they form a class segment of a larger population which usually contains urban centers, sometimes metropolitan capitals. They constitute part-societies with part-cultures."⁽⁵⁾ Their inclusion in a society whose authority is beyond their

I control places them in a state of tension with the outside world. To determine the nature and effects of this tension has been one of the quests of the social anthropologists.

The scholar who has dealt most brilliantly with this question in Spain is Julian Pitt-Rivers, whose The People of the Sierra is the product of a period spent living in a pueblo in the mountains of the province of Cadiz in the early 1950's. His observation of the patterns of life of Alcalá de la Sierra, as he calls the town in his book, led him to conclude that its society was basically egalitarian. The only essential differences recognized among themselves by the people of the pueblo consisted of age and sex and characteristics derived from them, such as marital status and ability to support a family. Occupation, insofar as it was carried on within the economic unit of the pueblo, had little bearing on one's social status. The common people of Alcalá were not its only inhabitants, however. There was another group whose wealth, profession, or official position brought them into direct relation with the outside world. State appointees like the alcalde, the schoolteachers, the doctor, and the civil guards mostly came from other places and thus did not belong fully to the society of the pueblo, and this was true also of the priest. The larger landowners, whose income permitted them to reside in Malaga or Jerez and return only for vacations, had chosen to escape from the cultural limitations of the pueblo and enter the large world of Andalusia or Spain. Because of the existence of this varied group of people who did not fit into the society of the town, the term "pueblo," besides meaning the town as a physical entity, had a second meaning, which was the common people, those who had only local interests and stood united in face of the upper group whichrepresented outside authority.

The culture of the pueblo, in both senses of the word, reflected the tension between the egalitarian local community and the authoritarian state.

The formally constituted institutions controlled by the ruling group or the state and the activities wherein the pueblo avoids them stand in opposition to one another. The latter spring from the network of interpersonal relations within the community and depend upon the memories and cultural traditions of the pueblo rather than on the written word. The former owe their existence to authority delegated by a central [269] power. . . . The two systems are, at the same time, interdependent and in opposition. They are both part of the same structure. If a tension exists between the two, it is as much a condition of one as of the other.⁽⁶⁾

In his search for the causes of the structural tensions in Alcalá, Pitt-Rivers concentrates on the relations between the egalitarian pueblo and the authoritarian state. That is, he sees the tensions arising out of a political and economic conflict. There is another side of the explanation that he tends to lose sight of, although he gives many examples of it; the accompanying tension between the culture of the pueblo and that of the city. In Kroeber's words, peasants are not only a part-society, they are a part-culture, and the ruling group of Alcalá represented not only the state but a different way of life, one based on edu-cation and the written word. The larger landowners who could afford to move their families to the city spoke condescendingly of the pueblo. "This place is dead," "Nothing ever happens here."⁽¹⁰⁾ The common people responded by referring to such persons as señoritos, a term which [270] implied a curious mixture of respect and scorn at their inability to do a hard day's work. The señoritos had joined the wider social group of the urban middle classes and as a result escaped the moral sanctions of the pueblo. The common people imagined the city as a place where one went to do things that he could not do in the pueblo without loss of reputation--keep a mistress, become a prostitute.⁽¹¹⁾

Other anthropologists have attached more importance than Pitt-Rivers to the cultural distinction between city and town. Robert Red-field, an American scholar who did much to establish the study of peasantry as a discipline, sought to define the nature of the distinction. He called the intellectual frames of reference of educated men and of common people respectively the "great tradition" and the "little tradition."

In a civilization there is a great tradition of the reflective few, and there is a little tradition of the largely unreflective many. The great tradition is cultivated in schools or temples; the little tradition works itself out and keeps itself going in the lives of the unlettered in their village communities. The tradition of the philosopher, theologian, and literary man is a tradition consciously cultivated and handed down; that of the little people is for the most part taken for granted and not submitted to much scrutiny or considered refinement and improvement.

If we enter a village within a civilization we see at once that the culture there has been flowing into it from teachers and exemplars who never saw that village, who did their work in intellectual circles perhaps far away in space and time.⁽¹²⁾

There is a striking similarity between Redfield's great and little traditions and Unamuno's history and intrahistory. Both were trying to put into words a reality that they had perceived in societies with peasant masses: two distinct levels of culture existing side by side and to a certain extent interdependent. Whereas Redfield concluded that mostinnovation came from above, Unamuno believed that any initiative leading to national achievements would come from below, from the uncorrupted peasantry. The two views are not strictly incompatible, but Unamuno did add a refinement to the concept which is essential to a full understanding of the relationship between the two levels in [271] Spain. He pointed out that at the historical or great tradition level a conflict was in progress between Europeanizers and defenders of casticismo. The barrenness of their controversy explains why he looked to the common people to save the country. With this additional feature, the concept of two traditions helps to bring to light much of the motive force behind the last two centuries of Spanish history.

One suspects that for some time before the eighteenth century, probably during most of the period of Habsburg rule, Redfield's model of two unified traditions describes fairly accurately the relationship between the Spanish countryside and the cultural centers. In the eighteenth century, however, the great tradition split in two--in the fashion Unamuno pointed out. This was the meaning of the Enlightenment and the ideological conflict of the next two centuries. Although the Enlightenment derived much of its structure and content from medieval and classical thought, it made its appearance in conflict with the dominant religious culture. The Enlightenment and the doctrines that later evolved out of it, liberalism, socialism, and anarchism, struck at the roots of the old great tradition, for to doubt the teachings of the church and demand free expression was no superficial matter. We can therefore alter the model and describe Spain's subsequent history as involving a conflict between the bearers of two great traditions, who struggled for control of the instruments of political authority. Because of the constant interaction between great tradition and little tradition, the conflict affected the latter and in so doing turned the relation between the two levels into a factor in political life. More properly speaking, those who were involved in the conflict exploited the relation between the great and little traditions as best they could for their own ends. From time to time in the course of our story we have observed the political effects of the separation between the educated political classes and the unsophisticated common people, especially the divorce between cities and countryside. It will be helpful to review the story briefly, using the concepts just introduced.

In the eighteenth century the bearers of the great tradition were a small minority inhabiting urban islands in a great rural ocean. Only about 10 percent of the population lived in cities, and most of these were uneducated. Because at the outset the little tradition reflected the earlier form of the great tradition, the conservative Catholic view of the universe and society, it was easy for those defending the old great tradition to mobilize large sections of the common people, both urban and rural, against the new forms of thought. They presented them as something alien and wicked, a threat to the bases of Spanish society, to monarchy, and particularly to religion. This happened most clearly during the Napoleonic war, when the clergy aroused the lower classes first against the French and then against the Cadiz Liberals, whom they depicted as bearers of the French poison. The restoration of Ferdinand [272] in 1814 rested on the loyalty of the common people to the older tradition.

During the first half of the nineteenth century, however, the urban lower-classes, who had welcomed Ferdinand back and excoriated the Liberals as eagerly as did the peasants, slowly adopted ideas from the new, rational, Europeanizing great tradition. They were in a position to hear the arguments of the Liberals, Progresistas, and Democrats. During the Carlist War, the urban proletariat joined the radical elements of the shopkeeper.....class in sacking monasteries and murdering monks and friars, and after 1840 factory workers in Barcelona began to follow socialist leaders. Carlist strength lay in the north, where economically independent Basque, Navarrese, and Catalan peasants under clerical inspiration fought for the old order, for the intransigent Church and the absolute monarchy. The active persons in the cities of these regions, like Bilbao and Barcelona, including the working classes, supported the cause of Isabel, and they successfully withstood Carlist sieges. Most of the urban lower classes, however, could receive only a rudimentary view of the new political philosophies in the form of slogans and catch phrases. One could say that beneath the two great traditions there were now two little traditions, one urban and one rural. Their opposing conceptions of the nature of the good life and the correct source for knowledge of social organization--revealed and traditional, as opposed to rational and empirical--made them distinct traditions.

The rural people of arid Spain did not become involved in the civil struggles of the nineteenth century in the same way as the Carlist peasants, but they too had their role in politics. While there were Carlists in these areas, there was also a rural oligarchy that benefited from the confiscation and sale of church lands, and it kept the countryside quiet during the Carlist War. The oligarchy rejected most radical doctrines, but it was not in its interest to arouse the peasants and landless jornaleros with an appeal to traditional beliefs, and it evidently managed to control the local clergy as well. Later in the century, when the landowners had become a pillar of the Moderado regime and had to defend it against Progresistas and Republicans, who were urban and peripheral, they discovered in the peasants a precious resource. Besides furnishing the manpower for their exploitation of the land, the rural masses provided docile recruits for the army, and by the end of the century they could also vote.

The techniques used to keep the peasantry on the conservative side of the ideological conflict have not received much attention. Historians have tended to see caciquismo as the use of local patronage, stiffened when needed by recourse to economic reprisals and the Civil Guard, but this is surely not the whole story. In one way, caciquismo seems so natural as hardly to need an explanation. The rural people were [273] imbued with the older tradition and looked with suspicion on those who believed in new ways. Although peasants' sons and daughters migrated to the cities throughout the nineteenth century, there was in-sufficient interchange between the two worlds for the cities to seem near and familiar. It is true that there were intermediate places, like many cabezas de partido, whose affinities were in some ways with the cities and in others with the pueblos. Nevertheless, when a peasant arrived at the provincial or national capital in his rural dress on business or to seek employment, he felt conspicuous and ill at ease. He knew that city dwellers applied the contemptuous term paleto (hick) to him, and he sought the company of people from his own town or region for protection and reassurance. Peasants were alienated from the city and what it stood for.

There may seem little connection between such alienation and the political arena, for there was no direct reason for it to make the peasants support the political objectives of the Moderado oligarchy. This was not how it worked. All that was necessary was to keep the rujal masses away from the influence of the urban reformers. Commitment to the oligarchy was not a prerequisite for caciquismo, nor was a strong religious conviction, only passivity and estrangement from the city, so that, in Unamuno's image, the peasants would remain the deep silent sea beneath the frothy waves. The rest of the process can be imagined. Priests, alcaldes, and reliable schoolteachers appointed from outside, as in Pitt-Rivers' Alcalá, could paint the cities as morally evil, where radical movements attacked God and property. As late as 1964 in a small town in the province of Avila in Old Castile, the alcalde, who was also the boys' schoolteacher, summed up for me in two brief sentences what he considered the essential features of the nearby mill town of Bejar. "It has many factories," he said. "There there are rojos (reds)." He and his wife, who taught the girls, had both come from the city, but they were much loved by the pueblo for their dedication to the local children. I visited the town with an elderly priest, no friend of rojos either, who had once served that parish but had been transferred to a larger town nearby. As we walked down the only street of the town, women and children, surprised at his presence, came out of the doorways to greet him fondly and kiss his hand. Their reaction reflected an age now rapidly disappearing. The corollary would have been, in time of election, to vote as the priest and alcalde suggested, in a time of civil strife to send their sons to the army that the town leaders favored. "When they ask me to vote," an old farmer of Alcalá said to Pitt-Rivers, "I ask who for, and when they tell me who for, I vote. And if they don't ask me to vote I stay at home and mind my own business."⁽¹³⁾

[274] Two cases stand out where by the end of the nineteenth century the rural people came under the influence of urban doctrines. The first was in the original centers of Carlist strength. Navarre, where there were no major cities, remained true to the Carlist faith, but the Basque and Catalan peasantry joined urban middle classes behind the demand for local autonomy. Ideologically the change was not abrupt, because the new nationalisms continued the Carlist hatred of centralization and glorified local fueros and traditions much as the Carlists had done. Taking their cue from Romantic writers and poets, Catalan and Basque merchants and industrialists discovered how to gain support among the rural classes for their struggles with Madrid. The movements glorified the speech and customs of the countryside, where Castilian language and modern ways were still foreign, and in this way tied the peasants to what was basically an urban struggle against the centralist, agrarian policies of the national government. What had happened was that the urban middle classes had discovered how to appear to be the defenders of the old tradition. After 1900 they used the peasants against their own workers, who were becoming anarchist and socialist and could be painted as radicals infested with foreign ideas, Just as the Carlist clergy had once done with the liberals. The whole process was a variation of the caciquismo of central Spain in an area where the peasantry had become politically aware. Catalan nationalism had an ambiguous career as a result. Until after the First World War it was used by the local dominant groups alternately against the central government and in alliance with the central government against the urban proletariat. Their case was not unique. Propertied classes in France and Germany were using nationalism in the form of rural populism in much the same way.

The other case, the spread of anarchism through rural Andalusia at the end of the nineteenth century, is almost the reverse. Pitt-Rivers explains it as a natural defense of the rights of the pueblo against the encroachment of the state, but the phenomenon was more complex. It did not occur in the central meseta, although the state was also encroaching on local affairs. One of the reasons was certainly the difference in size of towns, far larger on the average in Andalusia than in central Spain. Even though the Andalusian economy was based on agriculture, its towns had distinctly urban characteristics, with merchants, craftsmen, and a ruling group, which as Pitt-Rivers shows in Alcalá was not part of the egalitarian pueblo society. The latifundistas also belonged to this group, even if they lived in the capitals and appeared only for vacations. To the common people this group was responsible for their economic hardships and was the bearer of an alien culture. Because of its proximity and visibility, the ruling group could not maintain the fiction before the pueblo that the common enemy was someone in the cities with new ideas. Instead, when wandering [275] anarchist missionaries came preaching their new doctrines against the local rulers, they found willing listeners, both among the agricultural workers and the artisans. Like Catalan and Basque nationalism in the north, anarchist doctrines echoed the accepted norms of the local ' common people: in this case social equality, self-rule, and distribution of land to all. But unlike the north, in Andalusia the lower classes were adopting a little tradition derived from the new great tradition. Their millenarian visions of the future--comunismo libertario was one of the terms--were related to the sophisticated doctrines of proletarian revolutionary leaders much as the religious beliefs of the rural masses were to the lessons taught in theological seminaries. The working classes of Andalusian towns, in effect, were experiencing the same process as those of the more industrialized cities of the north had done earlier in the century.

Andalusian anarchists ceased to be part of the silent sea, but they did not become reliable legions for progressive Spaniards. They only mobilized for action sporadically, in outbursts of frenzy, which usually did not coincide with a national struggle. They did not believe in voting, so they were no help against caciquismo. Indeed, they remained fundamentally suspicious of the cities, which for them embodied the sins of their ruling oligarchy, and this suspicion hindered their effective organization.⁽¹⁴⁾ The gifted English observer and historian of Spain Gerald Brenan has recounted an experience at the beginning of the Civil War:

I was standing on a hill watching the smoke and flames of some two hundred houses in Malaga mount into the sky. An old Anarchist of my acquaintance was standing beside me.

"What do you think of that?" he asked.

I said: "They are burning down Malaga."

"Yes," he said: "they are burning it down. And I tell you--not one stone will be left on another stone--no, not a plant nor even a cabbage will grow there, so that there may be no more wickedness in the world."⁽¹⁵⁾

3. At the very end of his book, Pitt-Rivers writes:

Yet today the divergence between the national rulers and the pueblo grows less. State education, the radio, the cinema, easy communications and the experience of military service all in their different ways carry the culture of urban society to Alcalá.⁽¹⁶⁾

At the same time the towns have been coming into closer contact with urban culture. I have described some of the means by which the city has invaded the town: the appearance of motor transport and the extension of the highway network, the spread of electricity and the telephone. First colorful local costumes disappeared in the face of cheaper factory made dark cottons and corduroys; then the radio began [277] to drive out folk songs and dances. About the time Pitt-Rivers was in Alcalá the process suddenly accelerated as a result of the burgeoning economic transformation of the country. An example from my own experience will illustrate the point.

In 1951 I spent two weeks with my wife and son in a small town in the Alcarria, a poor rough region about one hundred kilometers northeast of Madrid. The trip had been arranged in advance by mail, for there was no public transportation into Jaranda, as I shall call the town. After changing buses in the provincial capital of Guadalajara and taking one of prewar vintage which rattled and shook for what seemed an interminable time along an unpaved country road, we descended at Masegoso, the stop nearest to our destination. Here we were met by a man of advanced age who had come from Jaranda with his mule to fetch us. We walked for eight to ten kilometers over fragrant hills of thyme and rosemary and through narrow gorges past small grain fields set between rocky outcroppings, while our guide described to whom each field belonged and how some owners were planting vines on a trial basis. During the Civil War the front line had run just south of Jaranda, and we passed first the Republican trenches and then on a hill opposite those of the Nationalists, both makeshift shallow affairs in front of which the soldiers had piled occasional mounds of loose rock to protect snipers. Italian troops had occupied Jaranda, and they had built a temporary road of some twelve kilometers in from the north to supply themselves, but since the war no motor transport had used it and it had fallen into disrepair.

The town was perched on the side of a narrow valley, at a place where an abundant natural spring had been turned into a town fountain. The settlement consisted of some sixty houses, with a population of less than 250 people. Its life could have changed little in the past century. There was no telephone or electricity. Lighting was by candiles, the simplest of metal oil lamps, which were hung from the wall or on the chimney. The central room of the houses was the kitchen, which had a vast fireplace whose fires served both for cooking and heat, burning wood gathered in the hills. The only public building was a church dating from the absolute monarchy. One house served as the town hall, and the second floor of another was both schoolhouse and residence of the teacher, but no schoolmistress had ever stayed more than a few months and we were able to live in her residence.

The economy was purely agricultural and largely self-sufficient. The townspeople owned sheep, which shepherds watched day and night in the hills except during the worst weather, and goats, which were taken out daily to pasture by a goatherd and slept along with the mules in the stables on the lowest level of the houses. The people raised vegetables for their consumption in the flat bottom of the valley on small irrigated plots called huertas. The basic market crop, however, [278] was wheat, sown and harvested individually by each farmer on tiny strips of land scattered wherever feasible on the rolling hills above the town. The men plowed with mules and wooden plows, and everyone of both sexes who was old enough and strong enough shared in harvesting the wheat by hand with sickles, under the hot July sun. Later they used their mules to drag wooden sledges over the grain stalks on a stone-paved threshing ground, or era, above the town. When the kernels had been dislodged by this process, the men and women would winnow the grain by tossing it in the wind with wooden pitchforks.

In their official relations with the state, the townspeople carried on a stubborn defense of their independent economy. According to the regulations introduced by Franco, the entire wheat crop had to be sold to the National Wheat Service at controlled prices, and it all had to be taken to the city to be ground. The peasants obeyed the regulations only so far as they had to in order not to shock the authorities. Part of their harvest they kept for themselves, and part ended up in the black market. There were two mills on the stream, both officially closed. One was in ruin, but the other was inhabited by a miller and his family, and he kept it going clandestinely and ground the wheat needed by the town for its own consumption. When civil guards approached the town he was warned, and cleaned off the millstones, replaced the official seal on them, and shut off the water at the dam. There was also a town baker, a Catalan veteran of the Loyalist armies who had appeared after the war with his wife and children looking for a living. Once or twice a week he rose before dawn and built a fire in the town's old stone oven with wood he had collected. When the oven was hot, the peasant wives appeared with round loaves they had prepared the day before, letting them stand overnight to leaven, and the baker baked them, keeping one for every twelve he baked.

While we were there a peddlar came through with his mule loaded with dishes, pots, pans, cloth, and notions, which he spread out before the church. For such staples as olive oil and wine the men drove their mules to Masegoso or another town on the highway, and they picked up any mail that might be waiting. The young men did their military service, and some girls went off to be maids in Madrid in households that were properly recommended, and usually returned to marry. The girls who came back might wear printed cottons, but most women still dressed in black, and the men in dark corduroy. The town was too small to have a priest of its own; one came from time to time on foot or by mule from a nearby parish to say mass. Except for the experience of the Civil War, the outside world had never impinged much on the life of Jaranda. The townspeople could easily have kept the road open, if they had had any motivation to do so.

We returned to Jaranda thirteen years later. This time we drove into it by car, for the road had been repaired and extended so that [279] it went through the town and out to another road. After repeated petitions to the civil governor of the province, Jaranda had recently obtained regular bus service on alternate days, joining it and the other towns on its road to the provincial capital. Although the older generation continued to wear dark clothes, the marriageable girls sported colored skirts and blouses. Little girls and boys were decked out for their first communion in white frilly dresses and formal suits, just as in the city. The baker and his oven had disappeared and the mill was abandoned, its dam empty and overgrown with reeds. All the harvest now went out by truck, and a regular delivery service brought in bread baked in a larger town and distributed it to the housewives according to prearranged orders. Jaranda even boasted an automobile, a Seat 600, the smallest car manufactured in Spain. It belonged to a tailor, who used it to market his suits to the surrounding territory. He kept in touch with his customers by telephone. A small, fresh, windowless building stood by the town fountain. It housed transformers to step down the electrical current coming into Jaranda for distribution to the houses. A television set had been installed in the building that served as town hall for the benefit of the community, and one enterprising peasant had turned his house into a bar, where he had a refrigerator and sold cold beer and soft drinks. There was now a regular schoolteacher for the children. The outside world now not only existed for Jaranda, it had invaded the town, and the younger people in particular were doing all within their power to become indistinct from it.

Only the agriculture had changed little. The town was waiting for parcelary concentration, and until such time the fields were too small and the soil too poor for anything but mule-drawn plows and hand harvesting. The more enterprising men were becoming impatient with the slow rate of economic change. Some were leaving their fields un-tilled and going to work in the cities, especially Madrid. Between 1950 and 1960 the population fell by a dozen people, but by 1964 the decline was more marked, although there was no census count. Even the largest landowner of, all, the alcalde, had decided to abandon his lands and escape to the national capital to be a mason. Later we visited one family that had gone to Madrid, to a small apartment in a working-class suburb. The husband had a regular job and they were happy as urban proletariat, having exchanged the hot summers, freezing winters, and ceaseless drudgery of rural life for urban civilization, fixed working hours, and better schooling for their children. It did not matter to them that prosperous residents of Madrid were seeking ways to escape from urban crowding and air pollution to the open countryside, at least in summer.

The experience of Jaranda could be multiplied thousands of times through the remote regions of Spain. Roads and television were transforming life in the countryside. When Franco was celebrating [280] twenty-five years of peace, my research took me through the rural areas of western Spain and Andalusia. I did not find a town which could not be reached by car and truck, although some of the roads were primitive beyond belief. Everywhere the story was of the penetration of urban culture and emigration. The large proportion of elderly people and children bore eloquent evidence of the depletion of young adults. The traditional rivalry between neighboring towns now took the form of boasting which had more television sets. They were in the town halls, bars, and wealthier homes, and everyone was free to gather around them and watch. The passion for spectator sports, formerly limited perforce to the cities, had spread throughout the country, and elderly men and women in tiny towns, who had probably never been inside a city bull ring, would discuss knowingly the latest corrida in Madrid. Spanish radio and television are commercial, so that any sporting event, movie, news broadcast, or other program is interspersed with advertisements for beer, cosmetics, banks, butane gas stoves, refrigerators, and more television sets. Electricity and highways were making all these products of modern civilization seem relevant and accessible to the peasant, even if he could not at present afford them. One observer found the people of a town in Guadalajara Province criticizing a radio program called "Agricultural Spain," which featured a peasant discussing rural problems. They felt that the speaker's use of rural mannerisms, which the producers had intended to appeal to his audience, served only to ridicule them. "He is too paleto," they said, unconsciously repeating the slur they had suffered from.⁽¹⁸⁾ The dichotomy between the city and the pueblo had not disappeared--this is why so massive a rural exodus was in progress--but the city was fast losing its distance and hostility.

This transformation marks a profound break in the evolution of Spain. For over a century, between the war against Napoleon and the Civil War, the privileged groups cultivated support among the rural population by painting the bearers of progressive doctrines as enemies of a tradition which they claimed to share with the peasants. The common people of the countryside were culturally unprepared to look beyond these sermons to the real issues involved. By the time of the Second Republic, however, the proportion of the population living in cities was growing rapidly and peasant alienation was breaking down. Socialist and anarchist organizers were attracting rural support, although one suspects still mostly in the larger towns. Franco had to rely on outside help as well as peasant alienation to achieve his victory.

The tremendous changes that have taken place since 1950 have completed the destruction of the social structure on which the Moderado order was based. The privileged sectors can no longer fall back on the [280] countryside, for it no longer has the will or the strength to oppose the cities.

In this transformation one can see a basic reason why the three tensions that marked Spain's history for nearly two centuries have evolved sharply under Franco. The improving condition of the men who labor on the land in arid Spain is a central feature of breakdown of rural isolation, an effect of this "most singular agrarian reform of all time," as it has been called. The displacement of the church from the center of ideological controversy has resulted from the decision of young priests to support the urban proletariat. Unlike the majority of clergy of previous generations, who were more at home in rural parishes, young priests, like young peasants, no longer feel alien to the common people of the cities, and therefore join in their struggles. They believe, as did Pope Leo XIII seventy years earlier, that the future of the church lies in winning the new industrial proletariat, not in mobilizing the middle classes and peasantry against it. This decision, along with the changing outlook throughout Western Europe, has been instrumental in reducing ideological tensions in Spain since the Second World War. Finally, the end of rural alienation has been central to altering the nature of the conflict between center and periphery. As indicated earlier, the struggle of the peripheral areas now represents that of the employed groups against the forces in control of industry. The Civil War already had strong overtones of this conflict, but it also still represented the older conflicts between industrial and agricultural zones and between urban and rural Spain, which have since been outmoded.

The most persistent historical conundrum of Spain's recent history has been the reason for its inability to settle on a stable form of government once the French Revolution and Napoleonic invasion had destroyed the aura of absolute monarchy. As we saw in the second chapter, for over half a century the most popular answer was that the experience of Spaniards as a people in earlier ages endowed them with a collective character that was violent and incompatible with parliamentary government. Not all historians have been so gloomy, and other reasons besides national character have been proposed. One is the lack of a strong middle class, which presumably would have understood the workings and benefits of representative government and defended it before the rest of the country. Some, like Americo Castro, believe Spain's character, adverse to economic activity, precluded the growth of a bourgeoisie; others, like Sanchez Albornoz, believe it was stifled by the policies of the Habsburg rulers. Another answer is Spain's strong particularism, the loyalty to the culture and interests of local regions. For Ortega y Gasset, particularism, not only of regions but of interest groups, was an effect of Spain's historic lack of a guiding elite.⁽¹⁹⁾ Recently the [282] English historian Raymond Carr has argued that both regionalism and the weakness of the middle class stemmed from the poverty of the country, which prevented the development of a flourishing integrated economy. It also made impossible the mass education needed to create an enlightened electorate.⁽²⁰⁾

Except for national character, whose effects have never been concretely demonstrated, all these explanations of instability have validity. But they all, in one way or another, indicate that the causes lie outside the history of the last two hundred years. They all see Spain suffering from a kind of original sin from which it had no escape. A different explanation, one that comes out of the life of the Spanish people during this period, is the lack of cultural integration between rural and urban Spaniards. It is obviously true that once the French Revolution and the Napoleonic invasion destroyed the aura of absolute monarchy, Spain did not have a class committed to parliamentary government that was strong enough to make it function on a permanent basis. Stated simply, however, this explanation implies that there was a stronger class opposed to parliamentary government. This was not the case, at least numerically. The progressive groups had facing them an enigmatic foe. It seemed small in numbers, unjustly privileged, and easily overthrown if the progressives could mobilize their forces. Yet, whenever the progressives appeared to have won the contest, their foe always turned out to have unexpected strength and managed to dislodge them. Partly the fault lay with the progressive groups. The middle and working classes could unite to overthrow the oligarchy, but they regularly fell out after victory. This occurred after the revolutions of 1854 and 1868, in 1917, and in the Second Republic and Civil War. However, these conflicts were typical of all industrializing European societies, and everywhere they contributed to political instability. The defeat of the progressives was also partly due to outside intervention, aimed at silencing dangerous doctrines or protecting foreign investments--1823 represented the first reason, 1936 both. Spain became a second-rate power after the loss of its empire, and suffered the fate of such countries.

More reasons than these account for the defeat of Spanish progressives, however. When pushed to the wall, the privileged groups, who did not want the Cortes to develop into a forum where all classes could claim their due, called on the countryside for help. Their intermittent recourse to the rural masses meant that the relative strength of the contending parties varied wildly and goes far to explain the violent swings of the political pendulum. The pueblo, instead of rising as Unamuno hoped to drive out the ruling classes of both persuasions [283] and purify the nation, appeared on the scene only when the traditionalists called on it in their times of need.

I conclude that the alienation of the common people of rural Spain from the urban groups holding progressive doctrines, brought about by the process described above, was the most important cause for Spain's political instability in the last two centuries. This alienation arose after the Enlightenment introduced an ideological schism into the ruling groups, and it is disappearing with the integration of the countryside into modern urban culture. Accompanying this process was the rise and fall of the Moderado order, which rested on this alienation. If this is the case, it means that Spain is emerging from the era that it entered in the eighteenth century, from what we might call the age of rural-urban disjuncture.

4. This is not to argue naively that conflict will cease; only that it will take a different form. What seems likely is that henceforth Spain will experience the divisions of an industrial society, between an interconnected elite that controls industrial, and to a lesser extent agricultural, production and the more numerous groups that are employed at various levels in these activities. Whether their conflicts can be kept from open fighting and attacks on the constitutional structure will depend largely on whether the opponents of the government are willing to solve the issues within the present structure by becoming a loyal opposition; in other words, on how far Franco's regime has become legitimate.

Before Franco all rulers since 1808 sought in vain to revive the legitimacy once enjoyed by the absolute kings. They all failed largely because they were unable to establish a form of government that did not represent the victory of one of the contending parties. The restoration monarchy under Canovas' constitution came the closest, but when the opposition threatened to upset the Moderado order by legal means, the king and the army overthrew the constitution, showing that they did not accept its legitimacy. Despite his plebiscite, Primo de Rivera did not solve the problem, for he never dared convoke freely elected cortes, where his opponents could speak out. The Second Republic also failed to stand above the fray. By writing anticlerical legislation into the constitution, the Republicans turned it into a partisan program rather than a document that could win the loyalty of all major groups. In the terms of the sociologist Max Weber, once the traditional basis for legitimacy had been destroyed, there remained only the possibilities of a charismatic leader reestablishing it or of the general acceptance of a new legal structure and constitution because they were believed to be impartial in their working. Spain found no charismatic leader, and the [284] bitter ideological division within the political classes and its repercussion on the common people produced a situation where every new constitution seemed to large numbers of Spaniards an arbitrary instrument for protecting their opponents' position.

How to establish his legitimacy was thus one of the most serious challenges facing Franco. At the outset the task might seem hopeless. He was too cold and inhibited to become a charismatic leader. Although he called his cause a crusade and national movement, half the Spanish people, more than half of those politically committed, had fought him and could see in him only a military dictator who had been forced on the country by outside powers. Abroad in 1945 the United Nations read his regime out of the family of civilized nations.

For a quarter of a century Franco struggled to gain acceptance. Like Primo de Rivera, in 1947 he resorted to a plebiscite so that he could base his rule on more than the force of arms, and he sought to attach to himself what remained of the aura of the former monarchy. After 1950 his alliance with the Catholic church and his boasted reputation as a successful anti-Communist finally won him official acceptance in America, if not in Europe. Legitimacy at home was much harder to come by. Defense of privilege, police rule, corruption, and favoritism meant the regime was not impartial. So long as Franco denied his opponents freedom of expression and organization, he clearly did not believe a loyal opposition had developed. Nevertheless, the simple fact of remaining in power for decades while a new generation matured that had not been involved in the Civil War gave his regime stability, and the social and economic transformation in progress made people at all levels apprehensive of any change that might deprive them of their material gains. By the time of the celebrations of twenty-five years of peace, few Spaniards any longer dreamed of overthrowing Franco as head of state.

The success of the celebrations and the booming economy encouraged the government to give the opposition greater freedom of action. The reform of the Cortes in 1967 created the first directly elected members of that body. In the same year, spurred on by a spirited minister of information, Manuel Fraga Iribarne, Franco at last modified the censorship law of 1938. Compulsory prior censorship of books and newspapers was abolished, but publishers and editors would still be held responsible for any attacks on the state and morality and could be punished with heavy fines, confiscation of objectionable books, and suspension of periodicals. On paper the change did not seem profound, but in the next years considerably wider expression of opinion developed. Newspapers began to report candidly domestic news, books by and about Marx and other revolutionary leaders were published, and periodicals like Cuadernos para el diálogo discussed controversial issues frankly.

The euphoria was brought up short in 1967. The rapid economic [285] expansion gave way to a recession, which, while part of a general European development, was particularly severe in Spain. Reports began to circulate that Franco's health was declining and that he no longer controlled his ministers with his usual firm hand. The recent reforms did not calm agitation: illegal workers' commissions disrupted industrial production and students continued refractory. The year 1968 was no better. The economy continued to stagnate, and the government was unable to start its second four-year development plan on time.⁽²¹⁾ In the summer Basque nationalists flouted the regime with acts of sabo-tage, armed robbery, and assassinations. The government responded by proclaiming a "state of exception" in the Basque province of Guipuzcoa, on August 5, 1968. The decree suspended various articles of the Fuero de los Españoles of 1945, thereby permitting the police to arrest or deport hundreds of suspects, including at least fifteen priests. With the beginning of the new school year, students began to insult the Head of State directly. On October 31 demonstrators at the University of Madrid burned Franco's portrait, and on January 18, 1969 others at the University of Barcelona threw a bust of Franco out of the window of the rector's office into the street. Freedom of the press to report these events magnified their audacity.

The opposition found a subject they could exploit with telling effect in the treatment accorded the new wave of political prisoners. Although they were spared the terror of the postwar years, those accused of political crimes still faced special courts and received different treatment from ordinary criminals. During the months of December 1968 and January 1969 small groups of women relatives of men in prison for participation in workers' commissions staged sit-ins in churches in Madrid, Bilbao, and San Sebastian, for days at a time. Thirteen hundred intellectuals signed a petition in January asking for the investigation of alleged police tortures, and the associations of lawyers of Madrid and Barcelona petitioned the ministry to abolish the special military and civil courts for the trial of political prisoners. All these acts publicized the hypocrisy of a government that pretended to liberalize the press and Cortes while maintaining a police state. When a student of the University of Madrid died during a police interrogation on January 20, 1969--a suicide, according to official statements--the campus exploded in a virtual rebellion. Mass meetings and demonstrations of students rocked the Ciudad Universitaria, complete with red flags bearing the hammer and sickle, and angry groups spread out through the city blocking traffic and shouting insults at the authorities.

Although Franco had survived worse disturbances, the full publicity given these events threw into a panic certain generals and ministers, who had before them the image of the violent student disorders in Paris in May 1968 which had almost toppled de Gaulle. On January 24, [286] hearkening to their demand for forceful measures, Franco proclaimed I a state of exception for three months throughout the country. The decree suspended freedom of expression and assembly, the right to choose one's residence, immunity of private homes from search without a warrant, and the right of an arrested person to have charges presented against him within seventy-two hours, all of which were guaranteed by the Fuero de los Españoles. With the press safely muzzled, in the next weeks the police acted against persons suspected of subversive activities in labor organizations, the universities, and the Catalan and Basque nationalist movements. A score of professors of the University of Madrid were deported to small towns, and student leaders were arrested or confined to their homes. Perhaps 700 persons went to prison throughout all Spain.

The numbers were tiny by comparison with the mass arrests that followed the Civil War, but the significance of the measure lay else-I where. At one blow, and without protest, all the liberal advances of recent years suddenly evaporated, and Spain returned to the conditions of the forties. Franco's government had proved far more dramatically than the opposition that the country was still a police dictatorship. Although the government subsequently tried to convince the public that the measure was only a normal reaction to the attempt of a small minority of Spaniards to threaten the peace, the state of exception was a catastrophic blow to the long efforts to achieve legitimacy. Once again the rulers themselves had shown that they did not believe the public accepted their rule.

The disastrous effects of the measure rapidly became evident abroad. Spanish exiles and foreign enemies of Franco mounted demonstrations against his regime, and his revived reputation as a military dictator threatened Spain's application for membership in the European Common Market. Worse, Franco's best friend appeared about to desert him. Since 1968 the United States and Spain had been negotiating without success a renewal of the military bases agreement, and the state of exception gave ammunition to American congressmen who wished to force an end to the alliance. These developments enabled the saner heads in Franco's ministry to convince him of his mistake. On March 21, while the state of exception still had more than a month to run, Franco lifted it as suddenly as he had imposed it.

The shock and uncertainty felt by Spaniards in the wake of the state of exception demonstrated the need to provide for the continuity of the regime once Franco should disappear, especially since rumors of his declining health could not be silenced. Franco's appreciation of the seriousness of the situation at last overcame his long aversion to naming a successor. On July 22, 1969 he appeared before a special session of the Cortes, and in accordance with the Law of Succession of 1947 he nominated Juan Carlos of Bourbon, grandson of Alfonso XIII, to be the future king of Spain, succeeding Franco as head of state. He would [287] ascend the throne when Franco should die or be incapacitated, and until such time his title would be Prince of Spain. In a brief speech Franco asserted that the monarchy he had established "with the con-sent of the nation" was "traditional, Catholic, social, and representative." It did not, however, he insisted, represent a restoration of the previous monarchy. It was a "monarchy of the Movimiento National," and arose out of "the decisive act of July 18 [1936]."⁽²²⁾ Thus indirectly he justified passing over Alfonso XIII's son Don Juan, who had steadfastly refused to become Franco's creature by swearing loyalty to the Movimiento and was now in Portugal, betrayed, he felt, by his son. The Cortes approved the nomination at once, although nineteen deputies, Carlists, supporters of Don Juan, and angry Falangists, voted No.

Thirty years after the end of the Civil War, twenty-two after the plebiscite restoring the monarchy, Franco finally played his best card by ending speculation over his choice of successor. His choice surprised no one--what was surprising was his decision at last to name someone to stand with him at the summit of the state. By subordinating his vanity to the needs of the hour, he had once more shown his pragmatic approach to ruling. Nevertheless, he had no intention of letting the untried young prince actually replace him. Under the structure established by the fundamental laws, the authority held by Franco would fall to no single person. According to the Organic Law of State of 1967, besides the king as next head of state, there would be a president of the government or prime minister, a position which Franco also occupied. The Council of the Realm, of seventeen members, ten of them deputies of the Cortes, would advise the king and sanction his decisions. On the other hand, effective sovereignty, which was denied to the king, would not fall to the president of the government or the Cortes either. The president of the government and the other ministers would be responsible to the king, appointed and dismissed by him with the approval of the Council of the Realm. The Cortes could not by an adverse vote overthrow the ministry if the king should choose to preserve it. The total result was a strange division of powers, which by giving final authority to no one, king, or ministry, or Cortes, left the future working of the system a matter of doubt.⁽²³⁾

Naming Franco's successor hardly appeared to solve the problem of legitimacy. By calling the monarchy a product of the Movimiento, Franco perpetuated the partisan role of the crown, which had been its greatest weakness from Ferdinand VII to Alfonso XIII. References to the Catholic, traditional nature of the Movimiento could not hide the fact that Franco's claim for its legitimacy rested originally on victory by arms and thereafter on police rule, a reality that the state of exception [288] had brutally recalled. Tying the crown to the Movimiento was a serious gamble, which appeared to prejudice the position of the future king before he reached the throne, but one that the logic of Franco's career rendered inevitable. His pragmatism never went so far as to recognize in his foes anything but anti-Spanish usurpers of the national authority. Thus, although the social change under Franco was altering the tensions that plagued the country for two centuries, he missed the opportunity to make the new constitution appear impartial. There remained the possibility, however, that the social and economic gains of the past two decades would persuade the conflicting parties to carry on their struggle within the established framework rather than risk the loss through civil turmoil of the style of life they had achieved.

The following day Franco brought the prince to the Cortes to be invested. Juan Carlos was thirty-one, a tall, handsome blond of whom the public knew little except that he was married to a Greek princess and had two daughters and an infant son named Philip. In the streets a small crowd applauded politely when the Head of State and his heir arrived. Both wore military uniforms. The old genera] looked bent and frail beside Juan Carlos, who was a full foot taller than he. Now seventy-seven, Franco had aged visibly since the triumphal celebrations of twenty-five years of peace in 1964. On the podium of the Cortes, where Isabel II as a young queen had inaugurated the building a hundred and nineteen years before, her great-great-grandson Juan Carlos kneeled and swore loyalty to the Head of State and to the principles of the Movimiento Nacional. Then he rose and addressed the body. The deputies, many of them middle-aged men in Falange uniforms, cheered when he promised not to shrink from any act needed to uphold the principles to which he had just pledged his word, but they remained almost silent when he said:

I am close indeed to youth. I admire and share its desire to seek a better and more genuine world. I know that within the rebellion which worries so many persons there lives the fine generosity of those who want an open future, often in the form of unattainable dreams, but always with the noble desire for the best for the people.⁽²⁴⁾

1. See p. 21.

2. Angel Cabo Alonso, "Valor de la inmigración madrileña," Estudios geográficos, XXII (1961), 361, and Jesus Garcia Fernandez, "El movimiento migratorio de trabajadores en España, ibid., XXV (1964), 144.

3. Compare to the table on p. 116.

4. Miguel de Unamuno, En torno al casticismo ("Colección austral," Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1943), p. 28.

5. Quoted in Robert Redfield, Peasant Society and Culture, an Anthropological Approach to Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956), pp. 29-30.

6. J. A. Pitt-Rivers, The People of the Sierra (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961), pp. 200-201. This and following quotations from Pitt-Rivers are reprinted by permission of the author and S. G. Phillips, Inc., Publisher.

7. See p. 58.

8. Ibid., p. 220.

9. Ibid., p. 17.

10. Ibid., p. 16.

11. Ibid., pp. 70-81. See also Julian Pitt-Rivers, "Honour and Social Status," in Honour and Shame: the Values of Mediterranean Society, ed. J. G. Peristiany (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), pp. 19-77, esp. 50-51 and 61-73.

12. Redfield, p. 70.

13. Pitt-Rivers, p. 159.

14. Ibid., pp. 17-18.

15. Gerald Brenan, Spanish Labyrinth, p. 189.

16. Pitt-Rivers, p. 223.

17. See above, pp. 20-22 and 116.

18. Perez Diaz, pp. 136-37.

19. See above, pp. 30-32.

20. Raymond Carr, Spain 1808-1939 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966). For a discussion of his interpretation, which is broader than stated here, see my review in The English Historical Review, LXXXII (1967), 580-85.

21. See above, pp. 14-16 and 21-22.

22. ABC (Madrid), July 23, 1969; The New York Times, July 23, 1969, pp. 1, 16.

23. See Rodrigo Fernandez-Carvajal, La Constitution española (Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1969).

24. Speech quoted in ABC, July 24, 1969; see The New York Times, July 24 1969, pp. 1, 3.