Unable to get to bed or work or do anything. The good man took the key of the apartment, and left, down Calle Salmeron, Paseo de Gracia, down, up to the Gran Via. Then he sat in a chair for those who paid ten cents, screws a cigarette, and abandoned his thoughts on melodramatic and appeared before his mind with an air of Italian film.

He was twenty-two years. He lived with his mother in the Plaza of the Beats. The mother did not like it to be a painter. Ever had reviewed their roles, and he was frightened about the dolls: those academies that drew Gaspar in the class of natural … It seemed impossible to her mother, who could be a good person doing these things: the soul of his son could not be saved at all. He said enough: But, Mom, if it is allowed! even if the Pope in Rome, has figures of this kind, and require us to copy it. The poor old n’entenia not all, of everything, and always ended up saying: Take, take, my son, if this is your vocation. So we came, the parents, to sacrifice for their children …

Then in Melrosada dreamed in Paris, but impossible to win any board: the end of the year was weaker. He had put the hat that had to be a painter, but all teachers were convinced they would never do anything. On Sundays he went outside with his brushes and canvases, and come empastifar green and yellow and blue, and he left a cromets tristíssims, which give to some friend’s house or purchased from a four quartos benefited from San Francisco very fond of painting.