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.
SEMI-HATRED ON THE PART OF SILVERIO LANZA
A mutual friend, Antonio Gil Campos, introduced me to Silverio Lanza.
Silverio Lanza was a man of great originality, endowed with an enormous
fund of thwarted ambition and pride, which was only natural, as he was a
notably fine writer who had not yet met with success, nor even with the
recognition which other younger writers enjoyed.
Pages:
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156