The great Langairiños was between thirty and forty; a pronounced abdomen, aquiline nose and a strong, thick black beard.
One of the imbeciles among his enemies, seeing him so vertebrate and cerebral,—one of those vipers who try to sink their fangs into the armour of great personalities,—asseverated that Langairiños’s appearance was grotesque. A false statement whichever way you look at it, for, despite the fact that his attire did not respond to the requirements of the most foppish dandyism; despite the fact that his trousers were always baggy and frayed, and his sack-coats studded with constellations of stains; despite all this, his natural elegance, his air of superiority and distinction erased these minor imperfections, even as the waves of the sea wipe out tracks upon the sand of the beach.
Langairiños practised criticism, and a cruel criticism it was. His articles appeared simultaneously in nine newspapers. His impressionistic manner scorned such banal phrases as “La Señorita Pérez rose to great heights,” “the characters of the work are well sustained,” and others of the same class.
In two apothegms the Superman concentrated all his ideas as to the world that surrounded him. They were two terrible sentences, in a bitter, lacerating style. If any one asserted that such and such a politician or journalist had influence, money or ability, he would reply: “Yes, yes, I know whom you mean.” And if another announced that a certain novelist or dramatist was at work upon a new book or piece, or had just finished one, he would answer: “Very good; very good. Through the other door.”
Langairiños’s superior type of mind did not permit him to suppose that any man other than himself could be any better than another.
His masterpiece was an article entitled “They’re All Ragamuffins.” It was a conversation between a master of journalism—himself—and a cub reporter.
This avalanche of Attic salt concluded with the following gem of humour:
The Cub Reporter: One must have principles.
The Master: At table.