Later again, when I brought out _Sombre Lives_, I sometimes saw Sawa in the small hours of the morning, his long locks flowing, and followed by his dog. He always gripped my hand with such force that it did me some hurt, and then he would say to me, in a tragic tone: "Be proud! You have written _Sombre Lives_." I took it as a joke. 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_.