"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: