One day Alejandro wrote me to come to his house. He was living on the
Cuesta de Santo Domingo. I betook myself there, and he made me a
proposition which was obviously preposterous. He handed me five or six
articles, written by him, which had already been published, together
with some notes, saying that if I would add certain material, we should
then be able to make up a book of "Parisian Impressions," which could
appear under the names of us both.
I read the articles and did not care for them. When I went to return
them, he asked me:
"What have you done?"
"Nothing. I think it would be difficult for us to collaborate; there is
no possible bond of unity in what we write."
"How is that?"
"You are one of these eloquent writers, and I am not."
This remark gave great offence.
Another reason for Alejandro's enmity was an opinion expressed by my
brother, Ricardo.
Ricardo wished to paint the portrait of Manuel Sawa in oils, as Manuel
had marked personality at that time, when he still wore a beard.
"But here am I," said Alejandro. "Am I not a more interesting subject to
be painted?"
"No, no, not at all," we all shouted together--this took place in the
Café de Lisboa--"Manuel has more character."
Alejandro said nothing, but, a few moments later, he rose, looked at
himself in the glass, arranged his flowing locks, and then, glaring at
us from top to toe, while he pronounced the letter with the utmost
distinctness, he said simply:
"M...." and walked out of the café.
Some time passed before Alejandro heard that I had put him into one of
my novels and he conceived a certain dislike for me, in spite of which
we saw each other now and then, always conversing affectionately.
One day he sent for me to come and see him. He was living in the Calle
del Conde Duque. He was in bed, already blind. His spirit was as high as
before, while his interest in literary matters remained the same. His
brother, Miguel, who was present, happened to say during the
conversation that the hat I wore, which I had purchased in Paris a few
days previously, had a flatter brim than was usual. Alejandro asked to
examine it, and busied himself feeling of the brim.
"This is a hat," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "that a man can wear
with long hair." Some months subsequent to his death a book of his,
_Light Among the Shadows_, was published, in which Alejandro spoke
ill of me, although he had a good word for _Sombre Lives_.
He called me a country-man, said that my bones were misshapen, and then
stated that glory does not go hand in hand with tuberculosis. Poor
Alejandro! He was sound at heart, an eloquent child of the
Mediterranean, born to orate in the lands of the sun, but he took it
into his head that it was his duty to make himself over into the
likeness of one of the putrid products of the North.