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 Заголовок сообщения: M.Bookchin.The Spanish Anarchists;Heroic Years1868-1936
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Murray Bookchin

THE SPANISH ANARCHISTS
THE HEROIC YEARS 1868-1936


«En memoria de Russell Blackwell
-mi amigo y mi companero»


Contents

Introduction
Prologue: Fanelli's Journey
I. The "Idea" and Spain
BACKGROUND
MIKHAIL BAKUNIN
II. The Topography of Revolution
Ill. The Beginning
THE INTERNATIONAL IN SPAIN
THE CONGRESS OF 1870
THE LIBERAL FAILURE
IV. The Early Years
PROLETARIAN ANARCHISM
REBELLION AND REPRESSION
V. The Disinherited
PEASANT ANARCHISM
AGRARIAN UNIONS AND UPRISINGS
VI. Terrorists and "Saints"
Vll. Anarchosyndicalism
THE NEW FERMENT
THE "TRAGIC WEEK"
VIII. The CNT
THE EARLY YEARS
THE POSTWAR YEARS
THE PISTOLEROS
IX. From Dictatorship to Republic
THE PRIMO DE RIVERA DICTATORSHIP
THE AZANA COALITION
X. The Road to Revolution
EL BIENIO NEGRO
FROM FEBRUARY TO JULY
XI. Concluding Remarks
Bibliographical Essay
Index


Introduction

It is not widely known to the general reader that the largest movement in pre-Franco Spain was greatly influenced by Anarchist ideas . In 1936 , on the eve of the Spanish Civil War , approximately a million people were members of the Anarchosyndicalist CNT (Confederacion Nacional del Trabajo , or National Confederation of Labor) - an immense following if one bears in mind that the Spanish population numbered only twenty-four million . Until the victory of Franco , the CNT remained one of the largest labor federations in Spain .
Barcelona , then the largest industrial city in Spain , became an Anarchosyndicalist enclave within the republic . Its working class , overwhelmingly committed to the CNT , established a far-reaching , system of syndicalist self-management .Factories, utilities, transport facilities, even retail and wholesale enterprises, were taken over and administered by workers' committees and unions. The city itself was policed by a part-time guard of workingmen and justice was me ted out by popular revolutionary tribunals. Nor was Barcelona alone in this radical reconstruction of economic and social life; the movement, in varying degrees, embraced Valencia, Malaga, CNT-controlled factories in the large Basque industrial cities, and smaller communities such as Lerida, Alcoy, Granollers, Gerona, and Rubi.
Many of the land laborers and peasants of Andalusia were also Anarchist in outlook. During the first few weeks of the Civil War, before the south of Spain was overrun by fascist armies, these rural people established communal systems of land tenure, in some cases abolishing the use of money for intemal transactions, establishing free, communistic systems of production and distribution, and creating a decision-making procedure based on popular assemblies and direct, face-to-face democracy. Perhaps even more significant were the well-organized Anarchist collectives in Republican-held areas of Aragon, which were grouped into a network under the Council of Aragon, largely under the control of the CNT. Collectives tended to predominate in many areas of Catalonia and the Levant, and were common even in Socialist-controlled Castile.
These experiences alone, so challenging to popular notions of a libertarian society as an unworkable utopia, would warrant a book on Spanish Anarchism. But they also have a certain intrinsic interest. To anyone with a concern for novel social forms, the Anarchist collectives of Spain raise many fascinating questions: how were the collective farms and factories established? How well did they work? Did they create any administrative difficulties? These collectives, moreover, were not mere experiments created by idle dreamers; they emerged from a dramatic social revolution that was to mark the climax - and tragic end - of the traditional workers' movement. High-lighting the reconstructive efforts of the Anarchists was the Spanish Civil War itself, an unforgettable conflict that was to last nearly three bitter years, claim an estimated million lives, and stir the deepest passions of people throughout the world .
No less sig nificant was the development of the Spanish Anarchist movement from the 1870s to the mid-1930s-its forms of organization, its influence on the lives of ordinary workers and peasants, its internal conflicts, and its varied fortunes. For Spanish Anarchism remained above all a peoples' movement, reflecting the cherished ideals, dreams, and values of ordinary individ uals, not an esoteric credo and tightly knit professional party far removed from the everyday experiences of the villager and factory worker. The resiliency and tenacity that kept Spanish Anarchism alive in urban barrios and rural pueblos for nearly seventy years, despite unrelenting persecution, is understandable only if we view this movement as an expression of plebian Spanish society itself rather than as a body of exotic libertarian doctrines.
The present volume (the first of two that will trace the history of the movement up to the current period) is primarily concerned with the organizational and social issues that marked the years of Spanish Anarchism's ascendency and, finally, of its drift toward civil war - a
span of time I have designated as its "heroic period" . Despite the fascination that the collectives of 1936-39 hold for us, I believe it is immensely rewarding to explore how ordinary workers and peasants for nearly three generations managed to build the combative organizations that formed the underpinning of these collectives; how they managed to claim for themselves and incorporate in their everyday lives revolutionary societies and unions that we normally relegate to the work place and the political sphere. Quite as significant in my eyes are the organizational structures, so libertarian in character, that made it possible for workers and peasants to participate in these societies and unions, to exercise extraordinary control over their policies, and to gain for themselves a new sense of personality and inner individual strength . Whatever our views of Spanish Anarchism, it has far too much to teach us to remain so little known to general reader, and it is primarily for this reader that I have written the present volume.
To a certain extent I have been researching the materials for this book since the early 1960s. In 1967 I began systematically to gather data with a view toward writing it during a lengthy trip to Europe, where I interviewed exiled Spanish Anarchists. The present volume was almost entirely completed by 1969. At that time virtually no literature existed in English on Spanish Anarchism except for Gerald Brenan's empathetic but rather incomplete accounts in the Spanish Labyrinth and the largely personal narratives of Franz Borkenau and George Orwell. Apart from these works, the scanty references to the Spanish Anarchists in English seemed appallingly insensitive to the ideals of a very sizable section of the Spanish people. Even today, most of the works on Spain by conservative, liberal, and Marxist writers offer no serious appraisal of the libertarian viewpoint and exhibit shocking malice toward its so-called "extreme" wing as represented by the Anarchist action groups. It may well be felt by many students of Spanish Anarchism that I have gone to another extreme.
Perhaps - but it seemed especially important to me, whatever my personal reservations, that the voices of these groups be expressed with a greater degree of understanding than they have generally received.
The Spanish Civil War, in fact, was very much part of my own life and affected me more deeply than any other conflict in a lifetime that has seen a terrible international war and the decades of nearly chronic warfare that followed it. My sympathies, indeed my utter devotion, lay with the Spanish left, which I initinlly identified as a very young man with the Communist Party and, later, as the Civil War came to its terrible close, with the POUM (Partido Obrero de Unificacion Marxista).
By the late 1950s, however, I had become more informed about Spanish Anarchism, " movement that had been little known to American radicals of the 1930s, and began to study its origins and trajectory. As one who had lived through the Spanish Civil War period, indeed, who vividly recalled the uprising of the Asturian miners in October 1934, I thought it all the more necessary to correct the false image that, if it existed in my mind, almost certainly existed in the minds of my less politically involved contemporaries. Thus this book is in part a rediscovery of a magnificent historic experience that culminated in a deeply moving tragedy. I have tried to offer at least an understanding voice to those liberty-loving people who marched, fought, and died by the thousands under the black-and-red banners of Spanish Anarchosyndicalism, to pay a fair tribute to their idealism without removing their organizations from the light of well-intentioned criticism.
Another, more contemporary factor motivated me to write this book. The appearance of the black flag of Anarchism in the streets of Paris and many American cities during the 1960s, the strong anarchistic sentiments of radical youth during that fervent decade, and the wide in terest in Anarchist theories that exists today, seem to warrant an account and evaluation of the largest organized Anarchist movement to appear in our century. There are many differences, to be sure, between the Anarchist movement of Spain and the anarchistic currents that seemed to flow in the youth revolt of the 1960s. Spanish Anarchism was rooted in an era of material scarcity; its essential thrust was directed against the poverty and exploitation that had reduced millions of Spanish workers and peasants to near-animal squalor. Not surprisingly, the Spanish Anarchists saw the world through puritanical lenses. Uving in a society where little was available for all to enjoy, they excoriated the dissoluteness of the ruling classes as grossly immoral . They reacted to the opulence and idleness of the wealthy with a stern ethical credo that emphasized duty, the responsibility of all to work, and a disdain for the pleasures of the flesh.
The anarchistic youth of the 1960s, on the other hand, held diametrically opposite views. Raised in an era of dazzling advances in technology and productivity, they questioned the need for toil and the renunciation of pleasure.
Their credos were sensuous and hedonistic. Whether they were conscious of tradition or not, their plea for enlarging experience seemed to echo the writings of Sade, Lautreamont, the Dadaists and the surrealists rather than those of the "classical" Anarchists of a century ago.
Yet when I started this book, I could not help feeling that an aging Spanish Anarchist easily could have communicated with the revolutionary youth of the 1960s and with the ecologically oriented young people of today. In contrast to Marxian movements, Spanish Anarchism placed a strong emphasis on life-style: on a total remaking
of the individual along libertarian lines. It deeply valued spontaneity, passion, and initiative from below. And it thoroughly detested authority and hierarchy in any form. Despite its stern moral outlook, Spanish Anarchism opposed the marriage ceremony as a bourgeois sham, advocating instead a free union of partners, and it regarded sexual practices as a private affair, governable only by a respect for the rights of women. One must know the Spain of the 1930s, with its strong patriarchal traditions, to recognize what a bold departure Anarchist practices represented from the norms of even the poorest, most exploited, and most neglected classes in the country.
Above all, Spanish Anarchism was vitally experimental. The Summerhill-type schools of recent memory were the direct heirs of experiments in libertarian education initiated by Spanish intellectuals who had been nourished by Anarchist ideals. The concept of living close to nature lent Spanish Anarchism some of its most unique feature - vegetarian diets, often favoring uncooked foods; ecological horticulture; simplicity of dress; a passion for the countryside; even nudism - but such expressions of "naturalism" also became the subject of much buffoonery in the Spanish press of the time (and of condescending disdain on the part of many present-day academicians). The movement was keenly preoccupied with all the concrete details of a future libertarian society. Spanish Anarchists avidly discussed almost every change a revolution could be expected to make in their daily lives, and many of them immediately translated precept into practice as far as this was humanly possible. Thousands of Spanish Anarchists altered their diets and abandoned such habit-forming "vices" as cigarette-smoking and drinking. Many became proficient in Esperanto in the conviction that, after the revolution, all national barriers would fall away and human beings would speak a
common language and share a common cultural traditional.
This high sense of community and solidarity gave rise to the Anarchist "affinity group," an organizational form based not merely on political or ideological ties, but often on close friendship and deep personal involvement. In a movement that called for the use of direct action, Anarchist groups produced individuals of unusual character and striking boldness. To be sure, I would not want these remarks to create the impression that the Spanish Anarchist movement was a revolutionary crusade of uncompromising, morally unblemished "saints". Like all organizations in Spain, the movement had its fair share of self-seeking opportunists who betrayed its libertarian ideals in critical moments of struggle. But what made it unique, even in a land where courage and dignity have always been highly prized, were those remarkable personalities like Fermin Salvochea, Anselmo Lorenzo, and Buenaventura Durruti, who literally personified different aspects of its temperament and libertarian ideals. It has been my good fortune to meet some of the best living representatives of this movement in their places of exile and to gain their assistance in gathering material for this book.
I do not claim to have written an exhaustive account of Spanish Anarchism.For an author to make such a claim would require the backing of several volumes. The scholarly literature consists of sizable works that deal with periods of a decade or less, a literature that is not likely to command the attention of the general reader. Accordingly, I have chosen to dwell upon the turning points of the movement, especially those moments of social creativity which are Likely to have importance for our own time. I have also tried to tell the story of the more outstanding Spanish Anarchists: the saint-like ascetics and fiery pistoleros, the defiant terrorists and plodding organizers, the scholarly theorists and untutored activists.
The Spanish Civil War came to an end almost forty years ago. The generation that was so deeply involved in its affairs, whether in Spain itself or abroad, is passing away. A real danger exists that the passions aroused by this immense conflict will disappear in the future literature on the subject. And without that passion, it will be difficult
to appraise the largest popular movement in the conflict - the Spanish Anarchists - for it was a movement that made spiritual demands of its adherents that are often incomprehensible today. Leaving aside the changes in life-style I've already noted, I should emphasize that to be an Anarchist in Spain , indeed, to be a radical generally in the 1930s, meant that one was uncompromisingly opposed to the established order. Even Socialists retained this high sence of revolutionary principle, in Spain and in many other countries, despite the reformism of the Communist and Social Democratic parties. To participate in bourgeois cabinets, for example, enrned one the epithet of "Millerandism," a harshly derogatory term which referred to the unprecedented entry of the French Socialist Millerand into a bourgeois cabinet prior to the First World War.
Today, an ecumenical reformism is taken for granted by virtually the entire left. If the word "Millerandism" has been dropped from the political vocabulary of the left, it is not because revolutionary "purity" has been restored in the major workers' parties but, quite to the contrary, because the practice is too widespread to require an opprobrious designation. The term "libertarian" , devised by French Anarchists to deal with the harsh anti-Anarchist legislation at the end of the last century, has lost virtually all its revolutionary meaning. The word "Anarchist" itself becomes meaningless when it is used as a self-
description by political dilettantes so light-minded that they move in and out of authoritarian or reformistic organizations as casually as they change a brand of bread or coffee. Contemporary capitalism, with its "revolutionary" motor vehicles and hand lotions, has subverted not only the time-honored ideals of radicalism, but the language and nomenclature for expressing them.
It is emotionally refreshing as well as intellectually rewarding to look back to a time when these words still had meaning, indeed, when content and conviction as such had definition and reality. People today do not hold ideals; they hold "opinions." The Spanish Anarchists, as well as many other radicals of the pre-Civil War era, still had ideals which they did not lightly discard like the brand names of products. The Anarchists imparted a spiritual meaning, intellectual logic, and dignity to the libertarian ideal which precluded flirtations with their opponents - those not only in the bourgeois world but also in the authoritarian left. However unsophisticated they proved to be in many ideological matters, it would have seemed inconceivable to them that an Anarchist could acknowledge the coexistence of a propertied sector of society with a collective one, ignore or slight differences in class interests and politics, or accept a policy of accommodation with a centralized state or authoritarian party, however "libertarian" their opponents might seem in other respects. Basic diffe rences were meant to be respected, not ignored; indeed, they were meant to be deepened by the logic of dispute and examination, not compromised by emphasizing superficial resemblances and a liberal accommodation to ideological divisions. The slaughter and terror that followed in the wake of Franco's march toward Madrid in the late summer of 1936 and the physical hemorrhage that claimed so many lives in the long course of the Civil War produced a spiritual hemorrhage as well, bringing to the surface all the latent weaknesses of the classica l workers' movement as such, both Anarchist and Socialist. I have pointed to some of these weaknesses in the closing chapter of this volume. But a high sense of revolutionary commitment remained and continued for decades. That events involving the sheer physical survival of people may induce compromises between ideals and realities is no more surprising in the lifetime of a movement than it is in that of an individual. But that these very ideals should be casually dismissed or forgotten, replaced by a flippant ecumenicnlism in which one deals with social goals like fashions, is unforgivable.
My feeling for the Spanish Anarchist sense of commitment to a highly principled libertarian ideal - organizationally as well as ideologically - forms still another part of my motives for writing this book. A decent respect for the memory of the many thousands who perished for their libertarian goals would require that we state these goals clearly and unequivocillly, quite aside from whether we agree with them or not. For surely these dead deserve the minimal tribute of identifying Anarchism with social revolution, not with fashionable concepts of decentralization and self-management that comfortably
coexist with state power, the profit economy, and multinational corporations. Few people today seem concerned to distinguish the Spanish Anarchists' version of revolutionary decentralization and self-management from the liberal ones that are so much in vogue. Anselmo Lorenzo, Fermin Salvochea, and the young faistas of the
1930s would have been appalled at the claim that their ideas had found realization in present-day Chinese "communes" or in the European trade-union leaders who sit as "workers' representatives" on corporate boards of directors. Spanish Anarchist notions of communes, self-management, and technological innovation are totally
incompatible with any system of state power or private property and ullerly opposed to any compromise with bourgeois society.
Contemporaneity alone does not, in my view, establish the need for a book on Spanish Anarchism. I could easily have adduced Franco's death as justification for offering this book to the public, and certainly it could be cited as a good reason for reading such a work, but my motives for writing it are not to be explained by the current interest in Spain. The basic question raised by Spanish Anarchism was whether it is possible for people to gain full, direct, face-to-face control over their everyday lives, to manage society in their own way - not as "masses" guided by professional leaders, but as thoroughly liberated individuals in a world without leaders or led, without masters or slaves. The greatly popular uprising of july 1936, especially in the Anarchist centers of Spain, tried to approximate this goal. That the effort failed at a terrible cost in life and morale does not nullify the inherent truth of the goal itself.
Finally, I would like to remind the reader that Spanish life has changed greatly from the conditions described in this volume. Spain is no longer a predominantly agrarian country and the traditional pueblo is rapidly giving way to the modern town and city. This should be clearly borne in mind at all times while reading the book. The image of "eternal Spain" has always been a reactionary one. Today, when Spain has become one of the most industrialized countries in the world, it is simply absurd. Yet there is much of a preindustrial and precapitalist nature that lingers on in Spain, and it is devoutly to be hoped that the old Anarchist dreamers of melding the solidarity of earlier village lifeways with a fairly advanced technological society will have reality for the Spanish present and future.

Before concluding this introduction, I would like to explain certain unorthodoxies in the writing of the book and extend my acknow-ledgement to individuals who rendered invaluable assistance in its preparation.
Throughout most of their history, the Spanish Anarchists were adherents of a trade-union form of Anarchism which is generally designated as "Anarchosyndicalism"(1*). In contrast to many writers on the subject who see Spanish Anarchosyndicalism as a distinctly twentieth-century development ,one that had its origins in France, I am now quite convinced that the Spanish section of the First International was Anarchosyndicalist from its very inception in the early 1870s. This tradition persisted, I believe, in virtually all libertarian unions up to and into the formation of the CNT. The tradition, moreover, applied as much to the land laborers' unions of Andalusia as to the textile workers' unions of Barcelona. French Anarchosyndicalism mаy have been the source for а comprehensive theory of the syndicalist general strike, but the Spanish Anarchists were practicing Anarchosyndicalist tactics decades earlier and, in many cases, were quite conscious of their revolutionary import before the word "Anarchosyndicalist" itself came into vogue.(*2)
Accordingly, I have used the terms "Anarchist" and " Anarchosyndicalist" almost intuitively, ordinarily combining libertarians of all persuasions under the "Anarchist" rubric when they seemed to confront the Marxists, the state power, and their class opponents as a fairly unified tendency in Spanish society and singling out "Anarchosyndicalists" when they were functioning largely from a syndicalist point of view. The mingling of these terms was not uncommon in many works on Spain during the 1930s, as witness Gerald Brenan's Tire Spanish Labyrinth and Franz Borkenau's Tire Spanish Cockpit.
I should also note that I have abandoned the use of the usual accent that appears in many Spanish words. I fail to see why Lerida and Leon (the latter by no means consistently) have accents, while Andalusia and Aragon do not. For the sake of consistency, I have removed the accents entirely, all the more because this book is written for an English-reading public.
The Spanish Anarchists were given to acronyms like faista, cenetista, and ugetista for members of the FAI, CNT, and the Socialist-controlled UGT. I have retained this vocabulary in the book but have avoided the more familiar diminutives they used for their periodicals, such as "Soli" for Solidaridad Obrera.
Whatever originality this book can claim is due primarily to interviews I have had with Spanish Anarchists and with non-Spaniards who were personally involved with their movement. Although I have consulted a large number of books, periodicals, letters, and reports on the Spanish Anarchist movement, my most rewarding experiences have come from the individuals who knew it at first hand.
Space limitations make it possible for me to list the names of only a few. I am deeply grateful to a very kindly man, Jose Peirats, the historian of Spanish Anarchism in its Inter period, for painstnkingly explaining the structure of the CNT and FAI, and for many facts about the atmosphere in Barcelona during the years of his youth.
Peirats, whom I view as a friend, has done more to convey the mood of the Spanish Anarchist movement in the pre-Civil War period than any text could possibly do. For this sense of personal contact as well as for his invaluable writings on the trajectory of Spanish Anarchism, I owe him an immeasurable debt.
I have also learned a great deal from personal conversations with Gaston Leval. He has been an indispensable source of information about the Anarchist collectives in Spain during the Civil War (a field in which his command of the facts is unparalleled); he has also given me the benefit of his insights and, for the purposes of this first volume, of his experiences in the CNT during the 1920s. Leval, who is no apologist for the CNT and FAI, contributed considerably to my appraisal of the exaggerated emphasis on Anarchist pistolerismo during that critical time and presented me with a more balanced picture of the early 1920s than I have received from the conventional literature on the subject.
To Pablo Ruiz, I owe a truly immense debt for the detailed account he gave me of the founding and activities of the Friends of Durruti, the small but heroic group that did so much to uphold the honor of Spanish Anarchism during the difficult "ministerial" crisis within the movement in 1936-37. The late Cipriano Mera provided me with invaluable details on the structure of the Anarchist militias during the Civil War and on the movement's activities in Madrid during the early 1930s. Although a movement in exile is ordinarily distorted by its isolation and internal connicts, I gained some sense of the life of Spanish Anarchism by attending meetings of the CNT in Paris, visiting the homes of its members, and hearing deeply moving accounts of the solidarity these individuals retained in the years following the defeat of their movement in 1939.
I owe a great deal to two friends, Sam Dolgoff and the late Russell Blackwell, for their assistance in assembling data for this book and giving freely of their personal recollections. That I dedicated this volume to the memory of Russell Blackwell is more than act of friendship. Blackwell had fought with the Friends of Durruti in Barcelona during the May uprising in 1937. In time he came to symbolize the melding of Spanish and American libertarian ideals in a form that seemed unsurpassed by anyone I had known. I must also express my
appreciation to Federico Arcos and Will Watson for making materials available to me that are very difficult to obtain in the United States; to my good friend, Vernon Richards, for his valuable critical insights; to Frank Mintz for sharing many facts drawn from this own researches; to the custodians of the Labadie Collection at the University of Michigan for permission to freely examine documents and unpublished dissertations on various periods of the movement's history; to Susan Harding for sending me additional European material and offering criticisms that have been useful in preparing the text.
In writing a general narrative of this kind, an author must make a decision on where to draw the limits to his research if he is to complete the work in a reasonable period of time. Despite the comparatively improved climate of Franco's Spain a decade ago, my visit to the country in 1967 coincided precisely with the publication of an article in my own name in a leading European Anarchist periodical, and I decided it would be imprudent to continue the research I had planned in that country. In any case, European archives on Spanish Anarchism are so immense that I could foresee many years of research abroad were I to sacrifice my goal of a general narrative for a detailed history based on primary sources. Accordingly, I decided to shift my research back to the United States after visiting various European cities where I was fortuna te to gather much of the material I required to write this book.
Since the late 1960s, a truly voluminous literature has been published on different periods of Spanish Anarchism. Wherever possible I have made use of these new studies to check and modify my own largely completed work. Happily, I have found surprisingly little that required alteration and much that supports generalizations that were partly hypothetical when they were first committed to paper. In so far-reaching a project, it is inevitable that factual errors will occur. I can only hope they will prove to be minimal and insignificant. The
historical interpretations in this volume are my responsibility alone and should not be imputed to the many individuals who so generously aided me in other respects.

«Murray Bookchin
November, 1976
Ramapo College of New Jersey
Mahwah, New Jersey

Goddard College
Plainfield, Vermont

Notes
(*1) For an explanation of the different forms of Anarchism, see pages 17-31
below.
(*2) Engels, it is worth noting, clearly showed an understanding of the
Anarchosyndicalist nature of the Spanish section in his article ''Bakuninists at Work." Surprisingly, this fact has yet to be adequately reflected in many current works on the Spanish Anarchist movement.


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 Заголовок сообщения: Re: M.Bookchin.The Spanish Anarchists;Heroic Years1868-1936
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Prologue:
Fanelli's Journey


In late October 1868, Giuseppi Fanelli, a tall, heavily bearded Italian of about forty, arrived at Barcelona after a railroad journey from Geneva. It was Fanelli's first visit to Spain. He had reached the city without incident and he would leave it, a few months later, without any interference by the Spanish authorities. There was nothing in his appearance that would have distinguished him from any other visiting Italian, except perhaps for his height and his intense prepossessing stature.
But Giuseppi Fanelli was not an ordinary visitor to Spain. His brief journey was to have a far-reaching influence, providing the catalyst for what was not only the most widespread workers' and peasants' movement in modern Spain, but the largest Anarchist movement in modern Europe. For Fanelli was an experienced Italian revolutionary, a supporter of the Russian Anarchist Mikhail Bakunin, and a highly gifted propagandist. His journey had been organized by Bakunin in order to gain Spanish adherents to the International Workingmen's Association, the famous "First International" established by European workers a few years earlier.
Fanelli's trip should have been a complete fiasco. Financially, it was conducted on a shoestring. Bakunin had raised barely enough money to pay for the fare, with the result that Fanelli, chronically short of funds, was constantly pressed for time. His knowledge of Spain was limited and he could speak scarcely a sentence in Spanish.
In Barcelona, he managed after some difficulty to find Elie Redus, the distinguished French anthropologist and a firm Bakuninist, who was visiting the Catalan port for journalistic reasons. Otherwise, Fanelli knew no one in the city. Apparently, the two men quarreled over Reclus's accommodating attitude toward his Spanish Republican
friends, for Fanelli, much to his host's embarrassment, tried to win them over to Anarchism. After borrowing some money from Reclus to continue his journey, the Italian went on to Madrid where he met Jose Guisascola, the owner of the periodical La Igualdad. He put Fanelli in touch with a group of workers with "very advanced ideas",
and a small, intimate meeting was arranged in the guest room of one Rubau Donadeu. Fanelli could only address them in Italian or French, and the workers, most of whom knew only Spanish, had neglected to bring along an interpreter. But once the tall, lean Italian began to speak, his rapport with the audience was so complete that all barriers of language were quickly swept away. Using a wealth of Latin gestures and tonal expressions, Fanelli managed to convey with electric effect the richness of his libertarian visions and the bitterness of his anger toward human suffering and exploitation. The workers, accustomed to the moderate expressions of Spanish liberals, were stunned.
Decades later, Anselmo Lorenzo, who attended the meeting as a young man, describes the talk with a vividness of memory that time seems to have left undimmed. Fanelli's "black expressive eyes," he recalls, "flashed like lightning or took on the appearance of kindly
compassion according to the sentiments that dominated him. His voice had a metallic tone and was susceptible to all the inflections ^propriate to what he was saying, passing rapidly from accents of anger and menace against tyrants and exploiters to take on those of
suffering, regret, and consolation, when he spoke of the pains of the exploited, either as one who without suffering them himself understands them, or as one who through his altruistic feelings delights in presenting an ultra-revolutionary ideal of peace and fraternity. He spoke in French and Italian, but we could understand his expressive mimicry and follow his speech."
Fanelli scored a complete triumph. All those present declared themselves for the International. He extended his stay in Madrid for several weeks, cultivating his newly won adherents; together they had three or four "propaganda sessions," alternating with intimate conversations on walks and in cafes. Lorenzo recalls that he was "especially favored" with Fanelli's confidences. If this is so, Fanelli
showed excellent judgment: Anselmo Lorenzo was to live for many years, and he remained a dedicated revolutionary, earning the sobriquet "the grandfather of Spanish Anarchism." His contribution to the spread of Anarchist ideas in Barcelona and Andalusia over the
decades ahead was enormous.
On January 24, 1869, Fanelli met with his Madrid converts for the last time. Although the small group, composed mostly of printing workers, house painters, and shoemakers, numbered little more than twenty, it officially declared itself the Madrid section of the International Workingmen's Association. Lorenzo tried to persuade Fanelli to remain longer, but he declined. The Italian explained that he had to leave because it was necessary for individuals and groups to develop "by their own efforts, with their own values," so that the "great common work will not lack the individual and local characteristics
which make for a kind of variety that does not endanger unity," but in fact yields a "whole that is the sum of many different elements." In these few remarks, summarized by Lorenzo, Fanelli touches upon the organizational principle and practice so basic to Anarchism, that order reaches its most harmonious form through the spontaneous, unhampered development of individuality and variety. Ultimately, the vitality of the Spanish Anarchist movement was to depend on the extent to which it made this principle a living force in its social and
organizational activites.
Before leaving Spain, Fanelli stopped again in Barcelona. This time he had a letter of introduction from Jose Rubau Donadeu, one of his Madrid converts, to the painter Jose Luis Pellicer, a radical democrat with strong Federalist convictions. Pellicer arranged a meeting in his studio that attracted some twenty Republicans, most of whom were individuals with established professional backgrounds. This sophisticated, middle-class audience was more skeptical of Fanelli's impassioned oratory than the Madrilenos. Probably no more than a handful of young men, mostly students, were inclined to commit themselves to the Italian's Anarchist ideas, but they included Rafael Farga Pellicer, the nephew of Jose Luis, who was to play an important role in establishing the International in Barcelona. By this time, Fanelli was almost out of funds, and after a brief stay in the Catalan seaport, he departed for Marseilles.
Guiseppi Fanelli never returned to Spain. He died only eight years later, a victim of tuberculosis at the age of forty-eight. Like so many young Italians of his day, Fanelli had given up a promising career as an architect and engineer to work for the revolution, at first serving under Garibaldi and later as an emissary of Mazzini. With the victory of the national cause in 1861, he became a deputy in the Italian parliament. His official position earned him the traditional free railway pass to travel all over Italy, and the government provided him with a modest pension for the loss of his health as a political prisoner of the Bourbons. He met Bakunin in 1866 at Ischia, only two years before his journey to Spain, and fell completely under the charismatic spell of the Russian revolutionary. For Fanelli, revolution was a way of life, not merely a distant theoretical goal, and his latter years as a
deputy were spent on the railways, preaching social revolution during the day in peasant villages throughout Italy, later returning to sleep in the train at night.
It is doubtful that he fully recognized the scope of his achievement in Spain. Previous attempts to implant Anarchist ideas there go as far back as 1845, when Ramon de la Sagra, a disciple of Proudhon, founded a libertarian journal in Coruna. But the paper. El Porvenir, was soon suppressed by the authorities and Sagra died in exile without exerting any influence in his native country.
Fanelli's achievement was unique and prophetic. Perhaps there is hyperbole in this story as it has come down to us. But even that is important because it shows the passionately imaginative elements that enter into the Spanish yearnings for freedom. And, we shall see, Spain was uniquely susceptible to Anarchist visions of liberation.


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Chapter One: The "Idea" and Spain


Background .


What was the "Idea" , as it was destined to be called, that Guiseppi Fanelli brought to Madrid and Barcelona ? Why did it sink such deep and lasting roots in Spain ?
Few visions of a free society resented than Anarchism . Strictly speaking , anarchy means without authority , rulerless—hence, a stateless society based on self-administration. In the popular mind , the word is invariably equated with chaos , disorder , and terrorist bombings . This could not be more incorrect . Violence and terror are not intrinsic features of Anarchism . There are some Anarchists who have turned to terrorist actions , just as there are others who object to the use of violence as a matter of principle .
Unlike Marxism , with its founders , distinct body of texts , and clearly definable ideology, anarchistic ideals are difficult to fix into a hard and fast credo. Anarchism is a great libidinal movement of humanity to shake off the repressive apparatus created by hierarchical society .It originates in the age-old drive of the oppossed to assert the spirit of freedom, equality, and spontaneity over values and institutions based on authority .This accounts for the enormous atiquity of anarchistic visions , their irrepressibility and continual reemergence in history , particularly in periods of social transition and revolution .The multitude of creeds that surface from this great movement of the social depths are essentially concrete adaptations to a given historical period of more diffuse underlying sentiments , not of eternally fixed doctrines . Just as the values and institiitions of hierarchy have changed over the ages , so too have the anarchic creeds that attempted to dislodge them .
In antiquity , these creeds were articulated by a number of highly sophisticated philosophers, but all the theories were pale reflections of mass upheavals that began with the breakup of the village economy and culminated in millenarian Christianity. Indeed, for cen­ turies, the church fathers were to be occupied with mass heresies that emphasized freedom, equality, and at times, a wild hedonism. The slaves and poor who flocked to Christianity saw the second coming of Christ as a time when "a grain of wheat would bear ten thousand ears," when hunger, illness, coercion, and hierarchy would be banished forever from the earth.
These heresies, which had never ceased to percolate through medieval society, boiled up toward its end in great peasant move­ ments and wildly ecstatic visions of freedom and equality. Some of the medival anarchistic sects were astonishingly modern and affirmed a freedom "so reckless and unqualified," writes Norman Cohn, "that it amounted to a total denial of every kind of restraint." (The specific heresy to which Cohn refers here is the Free Spirit, a hedonistic sect which spread throughout southern Germany during the fourteenth century.) "These people," Cohn emphasizes "could be regarded as remote precursors of Bakunin and Nietzsche—or rather of that Bohemian intelligentsia which during the last half-century has been living from ideas once expressed by Bakunin and Nietzsche in their wilder moments." More typical, however, were the revolutionary peasant move­ ments of the late Middle Ages which demanded village autonomy, the preservation of the communal lands, and in some cases, outright communism. Although these movements reached their apogee in the Reformation, they never disappeared completely; indeed, as late as the twentieth century, Ukranian peasant milifias, led by Nestor Makhno, were to fight White Guards and Bolsheviks alike in the Russian Civil War under Anarchist black flags inscribed with the traditional demand of "Liberty and Land." Anarchistic theories found entirely new forms as revolutionary passions began to surge up in the towns and cities. The word "Anarchist" was first used widely as an epithet against the Enrages, the street orators of Paris, during the Great French Revolution. Al­ though the Enrages did not make demands that would be regarded today as a basic departure from radical democratism, the use of the epithet was not entirely unjustified. The fiery nature of their oratory, their egalitarianism, their appeals to direct action, and their implaca­ ble hatred of the upper classes, menaced the new hierarchy of wealth and privilege reared by the revolution. They were crushed by Robes­ pierre shortly before his downfall, but one of the most able Enrages, Jean Varlet, who managed to escape the guillotine, was to draw the ultimate conclusion from his experiences. "For any reasonable being," he wrote years afterward, "Government and Revolution are incompatible. . . ." The plebian Anarchism of the towns directed its energies against disparities in wealth, but like the peasant Anarchism of the coun­ tryside, its social outlook was diffuse and inchoate. With the emergence of the nineteenth century, these diffuse sentiments and ideas of the past were solidified by the new spirit of scientific rationalism that swept Europe. And for the first time, systematic works on Anarchist theory began to appear.
Perhaps the first man to call himself publicly an "Anarchist" and to present his ideas in a methodical manner was Pierre Joseph Proudhon, whose writings were to exercise a great deal of influence in the Latin countries. Proudhon's use of the word "Anarchist" to designate his views must be taken with reservations. Personally, he was an industrious man with fixed habits and a strong taste for the quietude and pleasantries of domestic life. He was raised in a small town and trained as a printer. The views of this paterfamilias were often limited by the social barriers of a craftsman and provincial, despite his long stays in Paris and other large cities.
This is clearly evident in his writings and correspondence.
Proudhon envisions a free society as one in which small craftsmen, peasants, and collectively owned industrial enterprises negotiate and contract with each other to satisfy their material needs. Exploitation is brought to an end, and people simply claim the rewards of their labor, freely working and exchanging their produce without any compulsion to compete or seek profit. Although these views involve a break with capitalism, by no means can they be regarded as com­ munist ideas, a body of views emphasizing publicly owned property and a goal in which human needs are satisfied without regard to the contribution of each individual's labor.
Despite the considerable influence Spanish Anarchists have attri­ buted to Proudhon, his mutualist views were the target of many attacks by the early Spanish labor movement. The cooperativist movement, perhaps more authentically Proudhonian than Anarchist, raised many obstacles to the revolutionary trajectory of the Spanish Anarchist movement. As "cooperativists," the mutualists were to seek a peaceful and piecemeal erosion of capitalism. The Anarchists, in turn, were to stress the need for militant struggle, general strike, and insurrection.
Nevertheless, Proudhon, more than any writer in his day, was responsible for the popularity of federalism in the Socialist and Anarchist movements of the last century. In his vision of a federal society, the different municipalities join together into local and re­ gional federations, delegating little if any "power to a central government .They deal with common administrative problems and fay to adjudicate their differences in an amicable manner. Proudhon, in fact, sees no need for a centralized administration and at times seems to be calling for the total abolition of the state.
Although his style is vigorous and often ringing, Proudhon's temperament, methods, and his emphasis on contractiial relations can hardly be called revolutionary, much less anarchistic. Nevertheless, his theories were to have enormous influence in France and on the Iberian Peninsula.
Mutiialism and Proudhon's ideas became firmly rooted in Spain through the work of a young Catalan, Francisco Pi y Margall. In 1854 Pi published Reaction y Revolution, a work that was to exersice a pro­ found influence on radical thought in Spain. Pi had been a bank clerk in Madrid who, in his spare hours, combined occasional ventures into journalism with the authoring of several books on art. Although he was not an Anarchist and was never to become one, his book contains thrusts against centralized authority and power that could have easily come from Bakunin's pen. "Every man who has power over anoth­ er " writes the young Catalan, "is a tyrant." Further: "I shall divide and subdivide power; I shall make it changeable and go on destroying it." The similarity between these statements and Proudhon s views has led some writers to regard Pi as a disciple of the Frenchman .
Actually, it was Hegel who initially exercised the greatest influence on Pi's thought in the early 1850s. The Hegelian notion of lawful social development and "unity in variety" were the guiding concepts in Pi's early federalist ideas. It was not until later that the Catalan tiimed increasingly to Proudhon and shed many of his Hegelian ideas. Although keenly sympathetic to the wretchedness of Spain's poor. Pi shunned the use of revolutionary violence. Their living con­ ditions, he argued, could best be improved by reformistic and gradualistic measures. .. The book caused a great stir among the Spanish radical intelligentsia. To many. Federalism seemed like the ideal solution to Spain's mounting social problems. The men whom Fanelli addresse in Madrid and Barcelona were largely Federalists, as were most of the Republicans in the two cities. Federalist ideas had become so wide­ spread in Spain, in fact, that its supporters were to provide the most important intellectual recruits to the Anarchist movement.
Mutiialism became the dominant social philosophy both of the radical Spanish Republicans of the 1860s and of the Parisian Com­ munards of 1871. But it was largely due to the work of a famous revolutionary exile—the "Garibaldi of Socialism," as Gerald Brenan calls him—that the collectivist and Federalist elements in Proudhon's theories were given a revolutionary thrust—and were carried into Spain as a fiery anarchistic ideal


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Mikhail Bakunin

The man who was most successful in providing the vast plebian elements of Spanish Anarchism with a coherent body of ideas was neither a Spaniard nor a plebian, but a Russian aristocrat, Mikhail Bakunin. Although a century has passed since his death, he remains one of the most controversial, littie known, and maligned figures in the history of the nineteenth-century revolutionary movements. He enjoys none of the posthumous honors that are heaped on Marx. To this day, nearly all accounts of his life and ideas by non-Anarchist writers are streaked with malice and hostility. His name still conjures up images of violence, rapine, terrorism, and flaming rebellion. In an age that has made the cooptation of dead revolutionaries into a fine art, Bakunin enjoys the unique distinction of being the most deni­ grated revolutionary of his time.
That the mere appearance of Bakunin would have evoked a sense of menace is attested by every description his contemporaries hand down to us. All portray him in massive strokes: an immensely tall, heavy man (Marx described him as a "bullock"), with a tousled, leonine mane, shaggy eyebrows, a broad forehead, and a heavily bearded face with thick Slavic features. These gargantuan traits were matched by an ebullient personality and an extraordinary amount of energy. The urbane Russian exile, Alexander Herzen, leaves us with a priceless description of the time when Bakunin, already approach­ing fifty, stayed at his home in London. Bakunin, he tells us, argued, preached, gave orders, shouted, decided, arranged, organized, exhorted, the whole day, the whole night, the whole twenty-four hours on end. In the brief moments which remained, he would throw himself down on his desk, sweep a small space clear of tobacco ash, and begin to write five, ten, fifteen letters to Semipalatinsk and Arad, to Belgrade, Moldavia, and White Russia. In the middle of a letter he would throw down his pen in order to refute some reactionary Dalmatian; then, with­ out finishing his speech, he would seize his pen and go on writing. . . .
His activity, his appetite, like all his other characteristics—even his gigantic size and continual sweat — were of superhuman propor­tions. . . .
This was written after the weary, politically disillusioned Herzen had parted company with the exuberant revolutionary. Nevertheless the description gives us an image of the sheer elemental force that emanated from Bakunin, qualities which were to carry him through trials that would have easily crushed ordinary men. Bakunin's force-fulness, overbearing as it was to Herzen, was softened by a natural simplicity and an absence of pretension and malice which verged on
childlike innocence. Like so many Russian exiles at the time, Bakunin was kindly and generous to a fault. There were some who exploited these traits for dubious ends, but there were others (among them, young Italian, Spanish, and Russian revolutionaries) who, strongly attracted by the warmth of his personality, were to turn to him for moral inspiration throughout his life.
He was born in May 1814, in Premukhina, a moderately large estate 150 miles northwest of Moscow. A nobleman whose mother was connected by lineage to the ruling circles of Russia, Bakunin abandoned a distasteful military career and the prospect of genteel stagnation on his family estate for a life of wandering and revolution­ ary activity in Europe. The year 1848 found him in Paris, later in Prague, and finally in Dresden, where he literally journeyed from one insurrection to another in his appetite for action. From May 1849 he was bandied about from one prison to another—Saxon, Austrian, and Russian—before escaping from Siberia to arrive in London in 1863.
Up to the 1860s Bakunin had essentially been a revolutionary ac­tivist, loosely adhering to the radical democratic and nationalist views of the day. It was in London, and especially during a long stay in Italy, that he began to formulate his Anarchist views. In the thirteen years of life remaining before him, he never ceased to be the barricade fighter of 1848 and was involved repeatedly in revolutionary plots, but it was also in this period that he developed the most mature of his theoretical ideas.
Bakunin's Anarchism converges toward a single point: unre­stricted freedom. He brooks no compromise with this goal, and it permeates all of his mature writings. "I have in mind the only liberty worthy of that name," he writes, liberty consisting in the full development of all the material, intellectual, and moral powers latent in every man; a liberty which does not recognize any other restrictions but those which are traced by the laws of our nature, which, properly speaking, is tantamount to saying that there are no restrictions at all, since these laws are not imposed upon us by some outside legislator standing above us or alongside us. These laws are immanent, inherent in us; they constitute the very basis of our being, material as well as intellectual and moral; and instead of finding in them a limit to our liberty we should regard them as its effective reason.
The "immanent" and "inherent" laws that form the basis of human nature, however, do not lead to a rabid individualism that sees social life as a restriction; Bakunin emphatically denies that indi­viduals can live as asocial "egos." People want to be free in order to fulfill themselves, he argues, and to fulfill themselves they must live
with others in communities. If these communities are not distorted by property, exploitation, and authority, they tend to approach a cooperative and humanistic equilibrium out of sheer common in­terest.
Bakunin's criticism of capitalism leans heavily on the writings of Marx. He never ceased to praise Marx for his theoretical contributions to revolutionary theory, even during their bitter conflicts within the International. The basic disagreement between Marx and Bakunin centers around the social role of the state and the effects of centralism on society and on revolutionary organizations. Although Marx shared the Anarchist vision of a stateless society—the "ultimate goal" of Marxian communism,in fact, is a form of anarchy—he regards the historical role of the state as "progressive" and sees centralization as an advance over localism and regionalism. Bakunin emphatically dis­ agrees with this viewpoint. The state, he admits, may be "historically necessary" in the sense that its development was unavoidable during humanity's emergence from barbarism, but it is an "historically necessary evil, as necessary in the past as its complete extinction will be necessary sooner or later, just as necessary as primitive bestiality and theological divagations were necessary in the past." The point is that Bakunin, in contrast to Marx, continually em­phasizes the negative aspects of the state:
Even when it commands the good, it makes this valueless by command­ ing it; for every command slaps liberty in the face; as soon as this good is commanded, it is transformed into an evil in the eyes of true (that is, human, by no means divine) morality, of the dignity of man, of lib­erty. . . .
This intensely moral judgment plays an important role in Baku­nin's outlook, indeed, in Anarchism generally. Human beings, to Bakunin, are not "instruments" of an abstraction called "history";
they are ends in themselves, for which there are no abstract substi­tutes. If people begin to conceive themselves as "instruments" of any kind, they may well become a means rather than an end, and modify the course of events in such a way that they never achieve freedom.
In erroneously prejudging themselves and their "function," they may ignore opportunities that could lead directly to liberation or that could create favorable social conditions for freedom later.
With this existential emphasis, Bakunin departs radically from Marxism, which continually stresses the economic preconditions for freedom and often smuggles in intensely authoritarian methods and institutions for advancing economic development. Bakunin does not ignore the important role of technology in ripening the conditions for freedom, but he feels that we cannot say in advance when these conditions are ripe or not. Hence we must continually strive for com­plete freedom lest we miss opportunities to achieve it or, at least, prepare the conditions for its achievement.
These seemingly abstract theoretical differences between Marx and Bakunin lead to opposing conclusions of a very concrete and practical nature. For Marx, whose concept of freedom is vitiated by preconditions and abstractions, the immediate goal of revolution is to seize political power and replace the bourgeois state by a highly cen­tralized "proletarian" dictatorship. The proletariat must thus or­ganize a mass centralized political party and use every means, includ­ing parliamentary and electoral methods, to enlarge its control over society. For Bakunin, on the other hand, the immediate goal of re­volution is to extend the individual's control over his or her own life;
hence revolution must be directed not toward the "seizure of power" but its dissolution. A revolutionary group that turns into a political party, structuring itself along hierarchical lines and participating in elections, Bakunin warns, will eventually abandon its revolutionary goals. It will become denatured by the needs of political life and finally become coopted by the very society it seeks to overthrow.
From the outset, then, the revolution must destroy the state ap­paratus: the police, the army, the bureaucracy. If violence is neces­sary, it must be exercised by the armed revolutionary people, or­ganized in popular militias. The revolutionary movement, in turn, must try to reflect the society it is trying to create. If the movement is to avoid turning into an end in itself, into another state, complete conformity must exist between its means and ends, between form and content. Writing on the structure of the International, Bakunin insists that it must differ essentially from state organization. Just as much as the state is authoritarian, artificial, and violent, alien, and hostile to the natural development of the people's interests and instincts, so must the organi­zation of the International be free and natural, conforming in every re­spect to those interests and instincts.
Accordingly, in the last years of the International, Bakunin was to oppose Marx's efforts to centralize the movement and invest virtually commanding powers in its General Council (*1) .
Bakunin places strong emphasis on the role of spontaneity in the revolution and in revolutionary activity. If people are to achieve free­dom, if they are to be revolutionized by the revolution, they must make the revolution themselves, not under the tutelage of an all-knowing political party. Bakunin also recognizes, however, that a revolutionary movement is needed to (Stalyze revolutionary possibilities into realities, to foster a revolutionary development by means of propaganda, ideas, and programs. The revolutionary movement, he believes, should be organized in small groups of dedi­cated "brothers" (the word recurs often in his discussion of organiza­tion) who single-mindedly pursue the task of fomenting revolution.
His emphasis on smallness is motivated partly by the need for secrecy that existed in the southern European countries of his day, partly also by his desire to foster intimacy within the revolutionary movement.
For Bakunin, a revolutionary organization is a community of per­sonally involved brothers and sisters, not an apparatus based on bureaucracy, hierarchy, and programmatic agreement. More so than any of the great revolutionaries of his day, Bakunin sought a concor­dance between the life-style and goals of the revolutionary movement . He was unique in his appreciation of revolution as a festival.
Kecalling his experiences in Paris, shortiy after the 1848 revolution he writes :"I breathed through all my senses and through all my pores the intoxica­tion of the revolutionary atmosphere. It was a festival without beginning nor end; I saw everyone and I saw no one, for each individual was lost in the same innumerable and wandering crowd; I spoke to everyone with­ out remembering either my own words or those of others, for my atten­tion was absorbed by new events and objects and by unexpected news.
Bakunin's emphasis on conspiracy and secrecy can be under­stood only against the social background of Italy, Spain, and Russia the three countries in Europe where conspiracy and secrecy were matters of sheer survival. In contrast to Marx, who greatly ad­mired the well-disciplined, centralized German proletariat, Bakunin placed his greatest hopes for social revolution on the Latin countries.
He foresaw the danger of the embourgeoisement of the industrial proletariat and warned of its consequences. Following a predisposition to mistrust stable, complacent, institiitionalized classes in society, Bakunin turned increasingly to decomposing, precapitalist classes of the kind that prevailed in Russia and southern Europe; landless peas­ants, workers with no stake in society, artisans faced by ruin, foot­ loose declasse intellectuals and students. Marx regarded the formation of a stable industrial working class as a precondition for social revolu­tion. Bakunin, however, saw in this process the ruin of all hopes for a genuinely revolutionary movement—and in this respect he proved deeply prophetic.
Bakunin was not a communist. He may have recognized that economic development in his day did not admit of the communist precept, "From each according to his ability; to each according to his needs." In any case he accepted Proudhon's notion that the satisfac­tion of material needs would have to be tied to the labor contributed by each individual. Bakunin also closely followed Proudhon's federalist approach to social organization. But in contrast to the French mutualist, he regarded the collective, and not the indepen­dent artisan, as the basic social unit. He was sharply critical of Proudhonian mutualists who conceive society as the result of the free contract of individuals absolutely independent of one another and entering into mutual rela­tions only because of the convention drawn up among them. As if these men had dropped from the skies, bringing with them speech, will, origi­nal thought, and as if they were alien to anything of the earth, that is, anything having social origins.
In time this view acquired the name "Collectivist Anarchism" to distinguish it both from Proudhonian mutualism and, later, from the "Anarchist Communism" propounded by Peter Kropotkin. (For a discussion of Kropotkin's Communist views, see pp. 115-116 below.) A mere sketch of Bakunin's theories does not capture the flavor of his writings, the animating spirit that catapulted his personality into the foreground of nineteenth-century radical history. Although a deeply humane and kindly man (indeed because of his intrinsic humanity and kindness) Bakunin did not shrink from violence. He faced the problem with disarming candor and refused to dilute the need for violence—and the reality of the violence which the ruling classes practiced daily in their relations with the oppressed—with a hypocritical stance of moral outrage. "The urge to destroy," he wrote as a young man, "is also a creative urge." His writings exude a sense of violent rebellion against authority, of unrestrained anger against in­ justice, of fiery militancy on behalf of the exploited and oppressed.
There can be little question that he lived this spirit with consistency and great personal daring.
Beneath the surface of Bakunin's theories lies the more basic revolt of the community principle against the state principle, of the social principle against the political principle. Bakuninism, in this respect, can be traced back to those subterranean currents in humanity that have tried at all times to restore community as the structural unit of social life. Bakunin deeply admired the traditional collectivistic as­pects of the Russian village, not out of any atavistic illusions about the past, but because he wished to see industrial society pervaded by its atmosphere of mutual aid and solidarity. Like virtually all the intellec­tuals of his day, he acknowledged the importance of science as a means of promoting eventual human betterment; hence the embat­tled atheism and anticlericalism that pervades all his writings. By the same token, he demanded that the scientific and technological re­sources of sodety be mobilized in support of social cooperation, free­ dom, and community, instead of being abused for profit, competitive advantage, and war. In this respect, Mikhail Bakunin was not behind his times, but a century or more ahead of them.
To the young revolutionary Spaniards of the 1860s, to the militant workers of Barcelona and the restive land laborers of Andalusia, the ideas propounded by Bakunin seemed to crystallize all their vague feelings and thoughts into an inspired vision of truth. He provided them with a coherent body of ideas that answered admirably to their needs: a vigorous federalism revolutionary in its methods, and a radi­cal collectivism rooted in local initiative and decentralist social forms.
Even his militant atheism seemed to satisfy the strong wave of anti­clerical feeling that was surging through Spain. The prospect of participating in the work of the International held the promise of linking their destinies to a worldwide cause of historic dimensions. Finally, Spain had been prepared for Bakunin's theories not only sodally, but also intellectually. If Bakuninist Anarchism was new to Fanelli's audi­ence, some of its elements, such as federalism, were familiar topics of discussion in Madrid and Barcelona.
No less important than Bakunin's federalist ideas were his atheis­tic views and his attacks on clericalism. We shall see that the Spanish church had become the strongest single prop of absolutism and reac­tion in the early nineteenth century, later rallying around the Carlist line (the reactionary pretenders to the Spanish throne) and the most conservative trends in political life. The collusion between the Catholic hierarchy and the Spanish ruling classes had completely "undermined the prestige of fhe clergy among the working classes," writes Elena de La Souchere, "and brought about a de-Christianization of the masses which is in fact the essential phenomenon of the history of Spain in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Spanish bourgeoisie had constructed a per­fect city from which the plebians, kept beyond the walls, enveloped the clergy in the hate they bore the institutions and castes which were admitted to that closed city." Accordingly, as early as 1835, anger against Carlist atrocities in the north had led to church burnings in many large towns of Spain.
The monks were detested as parasites and the higher echelons of the hierarchy were seen as simply the clerical equivalents of wealthy secular landowners and bourgeois. They were hated all the more fervently because of their religious pretensions and their invocations of humility and the virtues of poverty.
Bakunin's emphasis on collectivism, so much stronger than Proudhon's, had a particularly wide appeal to the dispossessed rural classes. It conformed admirably to their sense of the patria chica, the autonomous village world that had been deserted by the ruling clas­ses for a comfortable life in the larger provincial cities.
Similarly, the Robin Hood mentality that permeates so much of Bakunin's thought and, in its own way, forms a conspicuous trait of his own life, doubtless had a strong appeal in areas like Andalusia where the peasantry had come to venerate the social bandit as an avenger of injustice. In this land of the "permanent guerrilla"—a figure that reaches as far back as the Moorish invasion—the lonely band, striking a blow for freedom, had become especially dear to the rural poor and nourished a multitude of local myths and legends.
Finally, Bakunin's appeal to direct action found a wealth of prece­dents in village and urban uprisings. Lacking even a modicum of protection by the law, the Spanish people increasingly relied on their own action for the redress of grievances. We shall see that the use of the ballot in Spain was to become meaningless, even after universal suffrage had been introduced. In many Spanish villages, local politi­cal bosses, the caciques (generally, landowners, but often lawyers and priests) held absolute control over political life. Using their econorhic power and, where necessary, outright coercion, the caciques appointed all the local officials of their districts and "delivered the vote" to polit­ical parties of their choice. This scandalous system of undisguised political manipulation, combined with the repeated coups d'etat—the notorious pronunciamientos—of Spanish military officers, created an atmosphere of widespread cynicism toward electoral activity. The Spanish people did not have to be convinced by a Russian aristocrat that the state was the private domain of the ruling classes; their edu­cation came directly from the arrogant land magnates and bourgeoisie of their own country.
Thus, the fact that Guiseppi Fanelli could have scored an im­ mediate triumph in Madrid may have been unique, but it need hardly seem too surprising. The views he brought with him did not require elaborate theoretical explanation. It sufficed for his audience to grasp mere shreds of Bakunin's ideas to feel a living affinity between their sodal problems in Spain and the passionate ideas of the Russian exile in Geneva.

Note (*1) Perhaps the greatest single failing of Bakunin is his inconsistency in translating his avowed organizational precepts into practice. For a discussion of this problem, see pp. 46-50 below.


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Chapter Two:
The Topography of Revolution


We must now try to see how remarkably well Bakunin's ideas suited the needs of a revolutionary workers' and peasants' movement in Spain.
To nineteenth-century liberalism, the problems of Spain could be reduced to a classic formula: a backward agrarian country, faced with the tasks of land reform, industrial development, and the creation of a middle-class democratic state. The parallel with France on the eve of the Great Revolution is unmistakable: a liberal bourgeoisie, demand­ing a governing voice in the state; an absolute monarchy, passing into an advanced state of decomposition; a stagnant nobility, lost in dar­kening memories of its past grandeur; a reactionary church, steeped in medievalism; and a savagely exploited working class and im­ poverished, land-hungry peasantry. The consciousness of this paral­lel, almost bordering on fatalism, was so strong that Spanish political factions often modeled themselves on Jacobins, Girondins, Royalists, and Bonapartists.
But there were many profound differences between Spain in the nineteenth century and France in the eighteenth. Some of them, such as the emergence of a modern industrial proletariat, could be explained by the passage of time. Others, however, were peculiar to Spain, and had few historical precedents. It is these differences that account for the extraordinary popularity of Bakunin's Anarchism below the Pyrenees.
The most striking characteristic of the Iberian Peninsula is its startling variety—its variety of landscapes, land tenure, cultural fea­tures, and social forms. It is the sudden changes in topography that catch the attention of a traveler in Spain. Within a few hours, one can pass from green, rolling country, with well-watered soil and abun­dant crops, to baked, arid plains, more reminiscent of North Africa than of Europe. "The north western provinces," observed an English traveler a century ago, "are more rainy than Devonshire, while the centre plains are more calcined than those of the deserts of Arabia, and the littoral south or eastern coasts altogether Algerian." For Spain, this has meant not only different forms of land tenure, but different types of agrarian unrest. In the well-watered mountain­ ous north, the agricultural economy had long solidified around small, well-tended farms, based on mixed crops and dairy produce. Here, the democratic traditions of pre-Moslem Spain were firmly rooted, and independent peasants, tenants, and rentiers mixed on an easy, almost egalitarian basis. The long heritage of communal life, almost neolithic in origin, had produced a deeply conservative outlook whose spiritual focus was the church and whose anti-Christ was the emerging industrial world with its unsettling values, its startling pro­ducts, and its invasive claims on village autonomy. The small, duncolored villages of this great northern region, each hugging its hilltop or mountain ledge like a fortress, lived out their fixed cycles of daily life by the incantations of dogmatic, often fanatical priests and by codes that often went beyond the memory of the most venerable myths.
By the nineteenth century, these villages had emerged from lethargy and isolation to face a world of social and economic upheav­ al. In their volatile response, revolt took the anachronistic form of permanent counterrevolution. United by a passionate Catholicism, by an embattled sense of local independence, and by deeply rooted communal and patriarchal traditions, the peasantry of the northern mountains provided the largest single reservoir of political reaction in Spain. In the years to follow, these parochial villages produced wave after wave of peasant militia—fearsome men armed with scythes, cudgels, and antique guns—led by village priests with a sinister repu­tation for butchery. The first of these waves rolled against Napoleon, who personified not only the traditional French invader but also the detested French Revolution. Later, in two bloody civil wars, the northern peasantry took up arms in support of the Carlist line. We shall see that as the nineteenth century drew to a close, new social forces were to dilute this reservoir of reaction with liberal, even Socialist, ideals; nevertheless, it was from the small landowners of the mountains of Navarre and nearby areas that General Franco was to recruit the most enthusiastic domestic masses for his infantry in 1936.
If the north could be regarded as the reactionary Vendee of the French Revolution, the Meseta could be regarded as its moderate Gironde. On this great, treeless, windswept plateau of central Spain, reaction shaded into a cautious liberalism. From the time of the Reconquest, when the Moors were driven from the Iberian Peninsula, the Castilians of the central Meseta have regarded themselves as the wellsprings of Spanish culture and the indisputable heirs of the Spanish state. All other inhabitants of Spain are viewed as social inferiors. Yet rarely in history has a "master race" been confined to a more inhospitable region of the country under its control. The Meseta has a harsh, erratic climate. Its soil, in the absence of irrigation works, is poor and demanding. During Fanelli's day, a traveler would have found all the conditions for chronic agrarian revolts: large estates, owned by absentee aristocrats and newly rich bourgeois, existing side by side with small, wretched farms. Usury and land speculation bur­ dened the plateau to a point where many of the lesser nobility were reduced to the material status of a peasant. A larp population of tenant families, working the land under precarious, short-term leases, eked out a miserable subsistence livelihood and were totally indifferent to the needs of the soil.
But this potential for agrarian revolt rarely exploded mto a major uprising. In contrast to the north, where the church had shrewdly deflected peasant dissatisfaction into reactionary channels, on the Meseta, chauvinism served more as a political instrument of the cent­ral government in Madrid (and here any comparisons with the French Girondins end) than as the foundations of a coherent reactionary ideology. Nearly all social classes, wealthy and poor, upheld the supremacy of the central government over Carlism and regionalism, but beyond this chauvinistic umbrella, allegiances tended to follow economic lines. The landed aristocracy of the Meseta,like its peers elsewhere in Spain, remained Catholic and conservative, the rural bourgeoisie tended to support the policies of moderate liberalism, when social unrest did not stampede it into reactionary causes. The great mass of peasants and tenants were politically inert throughout most of the nineteenth century, the objects of manipulation by the large landowners; eventually, however, they drifted into orderly, bureaucratic Socialist unions.
All further analogies with the French Revolution come to an end the moment one passes southward through the Sierra Morena, one of the most important mountain barriers in Spain. North of the Morena lies classical Spain: stern, morally rigid, obsessed by an unyieldmg sense of responsibility and duty. To the south lies Andalusia: easy­ going, pleasure-loving, and delightfully impulsive. This large, populous region had been successively colonized by Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, German barbarian tribes, and Moors. The Moors held Andalusia for nearly five centuries and left behind a hedonistic tradition that survived the Holy Inquisition, the auto-da-fe, and the rule of sullen Castilian bureaucrats. The Romans, who held the region even longer than the Moors, left behind the latifundium, a plantation economy based on gang labor and bestial conditions of exploitation.
The latifundium could well be described as the agrarian ulcer of the Mediterranean world and in many respects bears comparison with the plantation economy of the antebellum American South. His­ torically rooted in slavery, the two shared identical traditions of labor management and common forms of land tenure. In the cotton dis­tricts around Seville, even the crops were the same. Most of the Andalusian latifundia cultivated olives, grapes, and grain—the typi­cal crop pattern of Mediterranean agriculture. The long rainless summers of the region posed formidable problems of moisture con­servation. In the absence of agricultural machinery, specially adapted to dry farming, large tracts of land had to be left fallow and sown for crops every second or third year. The largest estates tended to con­gregate in the Guadalquiver valley, the huge triangular basin that lies between the Sierra Morena and the mountain chains of the southern coast. It was here, in the best lands of the most fertile districts of Andalusia, that one found the largest holdings, the immense masses of gang labor, and those grotesque economic contrasts that gave the region its reputation for misery and agrarian rebellion.
In Andalusia, as far back as Roman times, two classes stood op­posed to each other: the land magnates and a huge population of landless laborers. If the land magnate lived on his estate, his presence was feared by all. If he liyed in the cities, as was so often the case, the task of managing his properties was left to stewards who mercilessly extracted every bit of labor from the gang workers beneath them.
Between this handful of land magnates and the great mass of landless there existed a chasm that few of the institutions of official Spain could bridge. The church alone had been capable of doing so, but with its declining influence in the latter part of the nineteenth cen­tury, the last links were broken. It was here, on these immense es­tates of the south, that Spanish Anarchism was to find massive popu­lar support.
To the west of the Meseta, in Estremadura, a traveler found a wild arid region stretching from the central plateau to the Portuguese fron­tier. Most of the land was held by a few absentee owners and culti­vated by the yunteros, a class of rural proletarians who owned nothing but their mule teams. Work was seasonal, often uncertain, and re­warded by pittances. Further northward in Galicia, Spain's wes­ternmost province, rural life had sunk to an incredibly low material level. If Andalusia was the land of the latifundium, Galicia could be called the land of the minifundium, of plots so small that they could scarcely support a single family. Turning to the east, along the
Mediterranean coastal region, the provinces of Valencia and Murcia (the Spanish Levant) included irrigated vegas (plains) which were parceled into small prosperous holdings of orange growers and in­ land mountain areas stricken by bitter poverty. Politically, the land­ lords of the vegas vacillated between the Liberal and Conservative parties. The peasants of the mountain region were destined to pro­vide some of the most militant Anarchists in Spain.
The uniformity of these major agricultural regions, however, is more apparent than real. Within Andalusia, for example, mountain districts contained mostly small holdings and communally owned pasture. In the lowlands there were many small farmsteads, worked by peasant owners and tenants. In the mountainous north, the high­ lands of Aragon, supported the impoverished sheepherders of the Maestrazzo—people who were to be drawn to Carlism not because they shared the material prosperity of their northern brethren, but on the contrary, because they did not. In the steppe country of Aragon, the hronic material poverty generated by a combination of large estates, usury, and land hunger provided a hospitable climate for Anarchism. In the vegas of the south, Granada was to form an enclave of socialism, despite the surrounding Anarchist sentiment of the rural laborers, while in the reactionary mountainous north, islands of Anarchists and Anarchosyndicalist unions were to emerge in distant Galicia, in Asturias, and in the wine-growing districts of the upper Ebro valley. . .
Spain, however, is a land of startling contrasts not only in its geography and land tenure. The contrasts extend also to cultures which, in the case of the Basques and Catalans, verge on fairly dis­tinct nations. The Basques occupy the Atlantic area of the north form­ing a corner with France, in which live another sizeable portion of their people. Basque is an ancient language unrelated to any other in Europe. A deeply pious, outwardly stern people, whose sense of self-discipline is relaxed in buoyant songs and satiric pantomines, the Basques succeeded in holding firmly to their independence and unique ways of life for centuries. Economically oriented toward Atlantic Europe, they managed to resist Latinization and only nominally fell under Roman rule. During the Middle Ages, they successfully kept Visigothic, Frankish, and Moorish invaders from occupying their an­ cestral lands. For two centuries, between the tenth and thirteenth, nearly all the Basques of Spain were united in the Navarrese kingdom—the Christian kingdom that played so large a part in the reconquest of the Iberian Peninsula from the Moors.
The advance of the Castilian state in the Meseta gradually pared away their liberties, driving them into unsuccessful revolts and finally into the Carlist camp. In the meantime, their ports began to grow and their trade with Europe expanded steadily. Bilboa, owing to its pro­ximity to high-grade iron-ore mines and the Asturian coal fields, soon became the most important steel-producing city in Spain. Basque financiers played a leading role in all phases of the Spanish economy and Basque shipping magnates succeeded in gathering the bulk of Spanish merchant tonnage into their hands. This industrial and fi­nancial bourgeoisie, one of the most modern and businesslike in Spain, soon began to subsidize a moderate nationalist movement— devoutly Catholic in religion, liberal in economic policy, reformist in social program and politics. The Basque working class, recruited largely from the conservative peasantry of the coastal mountains, was never infused with the kind of revolutionary fervor that emanated from Barcelona. Although some steel workers turned to Anarchosyn­dicalism, the majority of the Basque workers divided their loyalties between Catholic and Sodalist unions.
Traditionally oriented toward the north, beyond the Pyrenees, Catalonia was never an organic part of Spain. Rather, it belonged to the vigorous, progressive langue d'oc civilization of southern France, and northern Italy. The Catalan language is akin to Provencal, not to Spanish, although both are Latin tongues. The "crusade" against the Albigensian heresy in the thirteenth century shattered this colorful world but left many of its cultural roots intact. Definitively separated from France, their trade ruined by the Turkish conquest of Constan­tinople, the Catalans were compelled to turn away from the north and look toward the Iberian Peninsula. They never liked what they saw. A sophisticated merchant people, with an urbane cultural lineage of their own, the Catalans never ceased to harbor separatist tendencies. By the early nineteenth century, the centrifugal forces created by culture were reinforced by industrial development. At a point in history when all the institutions of the Castilian state in Madrid were in visible decomposition, a viable industrial bourgeoisie and proletariat had emerged not in the center of Spain, but on its periphery. The Basque country and Catalonia each presented economic, political, and cultural demands that threatened to under­ mine the entire traditional structure of Spain as it had been known since the Reconquest.
Even more threatening to the centralized state than regional nationalism is the intense localism of Spanish social life: the patria chica (literally, "small fatherland"), an almost untranslatable term that denotes the. village and its immediate region—in short, the living arena of the rural Spaniard's world.
The Spanish word for village is pueblo. Pueblo also means "people," and this is by no means accidental. J.A. Pitt-Rivers, who devoted years of study to Spanish village life in Andalusia, notes that "the Greek word (orpolis far more nearly translates 'pueblo' than any English word, for the community is not merely a geographical or political unit, but the unit of society in every context. The pueblo furnishes a completeness of human relations which make it the prime concept of all social thought.(*1)"
For the traditional pueblo, this completeness involved not only a deep sense of moral unity, common purpose, and mutual aid, but also a body of rights, orfueros, which defined the community's au­tonomy in local affairs and protected it from the encroachment of outside authority. Many fueros were born from the needs of the Reconquest, when the kings of Spain granted local privileges for milit­ ary aid against the Moors. Others were granted by the monarchy in order to gain municipal support against intractable nobles and milit­ ary orders. But there were fueros, such as those of the Basques, which were never "granted" at all, indeed, which go back to a far-distant time when chiefs and later monarchs were democratically elected by popuftr village assemblies. Elena de La Souchere observes that the Moorish invasion, by shattering the Romano-Germanic state, indi­ rectly fostered the resurrection of these very early social forms. The Iberians of the northern mountains who had successfully resisted Roman, German, and Moorish influence were destined not only to spearhead the Reconquest, "but to perfect and even bring back to other parts of the country their peculiar institutions and customs.
That the fueros retained their vitality after the Reconquest was due, ironically, to the nature of the Spanish monarchy and to its impact on economic life. The immense wealth that Spain had acquired from her empire did not go to the Spanish middle classes. It filled the coffers of the absolutist monarchy (perhaps the earliest of its kind in modern times) and was eventually dissipated in imperial adventures to con­trol Europe and the peninsula. This steady drain of potential capital, of resources that might have been invested in industrial develop­ment, led to the contraction of domestic trade and the decay of the Spanish bourgeoisie.
Marx, who understood Spain better than many of his Spanish disciples, notes that as commerce and industry declined and as the early bourgeois towns began to stagnate, "internal exchanges became rare the mingling of different provinces less frequent, and the great roads gradually deserted." This sweeping economic decline in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries greatly strengthened the local life of the pueblos and regions. Spain and the Spanish state began to acquire inefiable qualities. Although the monarchy had all the trap­pings of absolutism, its control over the country was often nominal or nonexistent. Spain could be defined with geographic exactitude on a map in periods of peace, but an invader soon found, much to his chagrin, that it dissolved into many Spains in times of war. Marx shrewdly observes that Napoleon, who regarded Spain "as an inani­mate corpse," was astonished to find "that when the Spanish State was dead, Spanish society was full of life, and every part of it over­ flowing with powers of resistance." The fueros, which this unique development fostered, helped to provide a sturdiness to the pueblo that no amount of bureaucratic structuring could possibly match. They also generated those cen­trifugal forces that continually threatened the central power, or at least challenged the validity of its functions. What need had Spaniards for a distant, bureaucratic, anonymous state when their pueblos, human in scale, intimate in cohesion, with a comforting sol­idarity and spirit of mutual aid, could meet most of their social and material needs? What need was there for a remote political entity, for vague legal generalities, when the fueros provided Spaniards with highly democratic guidelines for social management? Spaniards graded their allegiances from below to above, from pueblo to locality, from locality to region, and from region to province, reserving the least loyalty, if any still remained, for the centralized state in Madrid.
This intense feeling for community, for the human scale, for self-management, made the Spaniard highly susceptible to libertarian ideas and methods. Transported into an urban environment, this propensity for localism turned the city into a composite oipueblos, the trade union into a patria chica, the factory into a community.


Note (*1).
Which is not to say that Ihe pueblo did not harbor the petty tyrannies of rigid custom, parochialism, superstition, and the more overt tyrannies of the caciques, clergy, and nobility. As we shall see, Spanish Anarchism tried to sift the more positive features of the pueblo from its reactionary social characteris­ tics and rear its concept of the future on the mutualism of village life.


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