Every seat in the columned auditorium at Madrid's Club Mercantil had been taken, but still the people came. Mink-coated ladies and threadbare scholars jostled for places behind the doors, crowded onto the balcony overlooking the hall. They waited patiently for the wiry little man with unruly white hair to step to the gold desk on the dais. When he did, they burst into cheers. They clapped and shouted so long that they seemed almost hysterical. The little man smiled, slowly raised his arms for silence. Then he began to speak.
The speech José Ortega...
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