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
Cafe 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 cafe.
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.
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