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Updated: May 14, 2025
It was a hotchpotch of illiterate abuse of Martin, and of assertion that the "so- called Martin Eden" who was selling stories to magazines was no writer at all, and that in reality he was stealing stories from old magazines, typing them, and sending them out as his own. The envelope was postmarked "San Leandro." Martin did not require a second thought to discover the author.
At times he recalled his father's counsel, but he would never have summoned the courage to carry it through. One Saturday afternoon, after a bitter dispute with Milagros, Leandro invited Manuel to make the rounds that night together with him. "Where'll we go?" asked Manuel. "To the Naranjeros cafe, or to the Engrima restaurant." "Wherever you please."
The Conte Leandro Lombardoni, lady-killer, Don Juan, and poet, whose fortunes and misfortunes in these characters had made him the butt of the entire society, and had perhaps contributed, together with his well- known extraordinarily pronounced propensity for cramming himself with pastry, to give him the pale, puffed, pasty face, swelling around a pair of pale fish-like eyes, that distinguished him, the Conte Leandro Lombardoni; indeed, had gone to the Castelmare palace as "Apollo," in a costume which young Ludovico Castelmare, the Marchese Lamberto's nephew, would insist on mistaking for that of Aesop; and had now, according to a programme perfectly well known previously throughout the city, come to the Circolo as "Dante."
Sunset greeted them when, after a wide circle to the east and south, they cleared the divide of the Contra Costa hills and began dropping down the long grade that led past Redwood Peak to Fruitvale. Beneath them stretched the flatlands to the bay, checkerboarded into fields and broken by the towns of Elmhurst, San Leandro, and Haywards.
There the Conte Leandro found him, and came and sat down by his side; much, at first, to the Marchese's annoyance. "What! you not in the supper-room, Signor Leandro. I thought your place was always there?" said the Marchese. "I'm no greater a supper-eater than another; let them say what they please.
When, however, some hours later, Signor Fortini came to the door, and despite what the servants told him of the state their master was in, and of his refusal to see the Conte Leandro, insisted on being announced, the Marchese admitted him.
And, in this condition, he waited and waited till almost a wild hope began to creep upon him that the Conte Leandro had lied to him. Suddenly he saw them coming towards the edge of the wood. With difficulty, he stood upright, resting the front of his shoulder and his forehead against the trunk of a tree, from behind which he glared out, while his eyes were blasted by what he saw.
But he also was perfectly determined not to leave him in the room with the strangers, though almost as much at a loss as Paolina how to prevent it. "Oh, hang the Contessa Giulia! In any case, it is too late to go to her now, and I am sure I shall like much better to stay here," said Leandro. "Very likely.
It is a pity there are not eight other prime donne to make up the sacred number. Then we should see our Leandro in his true position and vocation. Give me a sheet of paper, and I will show you a new presentation of Apollo and the Muses. They are all presenting him with pasticcerie and bonbons.
They could not get along, for Milagros was a bit haughty and a climber, considering herself a social superior fallen upon evil days, while Leandro, on the other hand, was abrupt and irascible. The cobbler's other neighbour, Senor Zurro, a quaint, picturesque type, had nothing to do with Senor Ignacio and felt for the proof-reader a most cordial hatred.
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