may fail to be
noticed here by careless readers.

I am an advocate of art for art's sake. I think it in very bad taste,
always impertinent, and often pedantic, to attempt to prove theses by
writing stories. For such a purpose dissertations or books purely and
severely didactic should be written. The object of a novel should be to
charm, through a faithful representation of human actions and human
passions, and to create by this fidelity to nature a beautiful work. The
object of art is the creation of the beautiful, and whoever applies it
to any other end, of however great utility this end may be, debases it.
But it may chance, through a conjunction of favorable circumstances, by
a happy inspiration, because in a given moment everything is, disposed
as by enchantment, or by supernatural influences, that an author's soul
may become like a clear and magic mirror wherein are reflected all the
ideas and all the sentiments that animate the eclectic spirit of his
country, and in which these ideas and these sentiments lose their
discordance, and group and combine themselves in pleasing agreement and
harmony.

Herein is the explanation of the interest of "Pepita Ximenez." It was
written when Spain was agitated to its center, and everything was thrown
out of its regular course by a radical revolution that at the same time
shook to their foundations the throne and religions unity. It was
written when everything in fusion, like molten metal, might readily
amalgamate, and be molded into new forms. It was written when the strife
raged fiercest between ancient and modern ideals; and, finally, it was
written in all the plenitude of my powers, when my soul was sanest and
most joyful in the possession of an enviable optimism and an
all-embracing love and sympathy for humanity that, to my misfortune, can
never again find place within my breast.

If I had endeavored by dialectics and by reasoning to conciliate
opinions and beliefs, the disapprobation would have been general; but,
as the conciliating and syncretic spirit manifested itself naturally in
a diverting story, every one accepted and approved it, each one drawing
from my book the conclusions that best suited himself. Thus it was that,
from the most orthodox Jesuit father down to the most rabid
revolutionist, and from the ultra-Catholic who cherishes the dream of
restoring the Inquisition, to the rationalist who is the irreconcilable
enemy of every religion, all were pleased with