"Then if one has to go through such wretched moments to get used to it, surely the thing isn't worth the trouble, you see! This does not happen with Italian music; you enjoy it from the very first."

"Of course, for the most part of Italian music is only a melody accompanied by four guitars."

"Silence, man, silence! Don't speak blasphemies. Would you think of comparing rubbish, which they themselves don't understand, with the sublime finale of _Lucia_, or with the soprano aria of La Favorita which begins, _Oh mioooo--Ferna--a--a--an--do--riii--raaa--ri--ro--ra--riii--ira--_"

"Ah, if you had heard the fourth act of _Les Huguenots!_ What dramatic music! How expressive! It makes the hair stand on end! How magnificent this duet is: _La--sciami--paar--tiiir--la--sciami--paar--tiiiir--riira--riri--riri--ra --rooo--riri--ra--roo--laaa--to--rii--ro--ra--_"

"But could you ever hear anything sweeter than the concerted piece in _Somnambula_ beginning, _Tooo--ra--ri--ro--ra--roooo--laa--riii--roo--raa--rora--rooo,--rii--ra --ri--roo_?"

"Impossible! impossible!" said several at once.

"Above all, Italian music stirs the heart, while German music only deafens you," added the Senorita de Delgado.

"That's true," affirmed her sister, the widow.

"I believe," continued the senorita, "that the object of music is to move ... to elevate the soul ... to cause us to shed tears ... to transport us to ideal regions far away from the prosaic world in which we live.... For the truth is that prose is getting such control over society that soon it will seem ridiculous to speak of things which are not material and sordid."

"Certainly," affirmed the widow again.

"Music follows the road of prose like everything else.... Don't you hear what silly things they sing nowadays? what insipid, popular airs? And you are lucky if it isn't some indecent piece from some opera bouffe! In songs love is not mentioned; there are only phrases with double meanings hiding some nastiness."

"I believe that you know some very pretty romantic ballads, and sing them admirably," said the youth with the banged hair, ready, as always, to provide the tertulia with a new enjoyment.

"No, senor ... don't you believe it.... In days gone by I used to sing some ... but I have forgotten them...."

"For my part," persisted the youth, with a deeply diplomatic smile,--"and I think the same may be said of all these people--it would give the greatest pleasure if you would search into your memory and let us listen to some.... Isn't it so, friends?"

"Yes, yes, Margarita, sing something, for Heaven's sake!"

"But supposing I don't remember anything!"

"Nonsense! it will come back to you.... If you once begin, you will find yourself gradually remembering it."

"It seems to me impossible.... Besides I always accompanied myself with the guitar."

"Isn't there a guitar in the house?" quickly asked the youth, jumping up from his chair.

The guitar which Marta brought lacked two or three strings, and they had to be put on, in which operation some time was lost. Then there was delay in getting them in tune. When it was once tuned the Senorita de Delgado declared up and down that she would not sing, for she did not remember anything. The tertulia was deeply grieved, and with reiterated entreaties endeavored to inspire her to recollect some delicious melody.

But as the singer did not put up the instrument, and continued to thumb the strings softly, all became silent and waited eagerly for the song.

However, just as the sensitive senorita was about to utter the first note, she made a fresh and categorical protestation to the same effect as before, and this so grieved the tertulia and particularly the youth with the banged hair, that they would gladly have granted the singer all the memory at their disposal, on condition that she would not leave it in any bad place. At last the senorita fixed her eyes on the ceiling, and in a quite dulcet though quavering voice, she struck up the following song, the music of which I would transfer to paper with great pleasure, if I knew how to write the score. Unfortunately, in my philharmonic studies I never went beyond the key of G with even moderate success:--

"_Hope that art so flattering to my inmost feeling,_ _Thou dost all my bitter sorrow calm._ _Ay! thou art no creature of imagination._ _To the heart thou bringest welcome balm._ _If a cruel fate remove me from the presence_ _Of my loved one many leagues away,_ _Then 'tis Hope alone that soothes my deep affliction,_ _Promising a brighter, happier day._"

"Bravo, bravo!"--"How pretty!"--"How sweet!"--"How melancholy!"--"Go on, Margarita, do go on!" The Senorita de Delgado continued in this way:--

"_If at solitary midnight I am thinking_ _Of my sweetheart's ever blessed name,_ _And before my spellbound memory slowly rises_ _Her enchanting features limned in flame,--_ _Then 'tis thou, O Hope, that softly prophesyest_ _That my loved one will not say me nay;_ _Then 'tis Hope alone that soothes my deep affliction,_ _Promising a brighter, happier day._"

Just as this point was reached, and when the audience was getting ready to enjoy the unspeakable sweetness of a new strophe, even more pa.s.sionate and more pathetic than the last, when the Senorita de Delgado was languorously laying her pudgy fingers on the strings of the instrument, and drooping her head still more languorously on her bosom in testimony of her bitter grief, there occurred one of those strange and terrible events, more terrible still from being unexpected, and therefore overwhelming, that suspend and for the time being cut short the use of speech: an extraordinary scene, occurring with such rapidity that it allowed no time for reflection, and left the spectators in the deepest consternation without power of interference.

The parlor door was thrown violently open, and the eyes of the bystanders turned toward it, saw with surprise the pale face of a servant, who addressed his master, saying,--

"Senor! Senor!"

"What is the trouble?" asked Don Mariano, in the energetic tone customary to high-strung natures, when they suspect danger.

"The soldiers are here!"

"And what have I to do with soldiers, you dolt!" replied the master in an angry voice.

"Th-they're c-come to arrest you!"

"It isn't true!" cried a voice from the hall.

And at the same time six or eight figures filled the doorway behind the servant. The first to be seen were a very young officer in undress uniform, and a caballero, not very well favored, in a tight-b.u.t.toned great-coat, and holding in his hand a staff with ta.s.sels. Behind them were seen the caps and the muskets of several soldiers. The man with the staff, who was apparently the one who had spoken, advanced two steps into the parlor, and without removing his hat asked Don Mariano sharply,--

"Are you Don Mariano Elorza?"

The old gentleman's eyes sparkled with indignation.

"First of all, take off your hat!"

The man with the staff, somewhat bluffed by Don Mariano's att.i.tude and the looks of the company, took off his sombrero.

"Now, what is your business?"

"Are you Don Mariano Elorza?"

"No! I am the _excelentisimo senor_ Don Mariano Elorza!"

"It's the same thing."

"It is not the same thing!"

"Well, let us drop discussions; I have orders to arrest your daughter, Dona Maria."

All the Senor de Elorza's energy suddenly vanished like a shadow, at hearing those portentous words. He stood a few moments bewildered and petrified, with his face crestfallen, like one who has just beheld a miracle and has no faith in his own eyes. Then suddenly recovering himself, he sprang at the man with the staff, and shaking him violently by the lappel of his coat, he said to him in a voice of thunder,--

"And who are you, insolent man, to dare think of such a thing?"

"I am the chief of police[54] for this province, and I warn you that if you offer the least resistance I shall make use of the force which I have with me."

"Are you perfectly sure that it is my daughter whom you come to arrest?"

"Yes Sir; I have orders to arrest the Senorita Dona Maria Elorza. I request you to hand her over to me without delay."

"Here I am," said Maria, issuing from the hollow of the balconied window, and advancing toward the chief of police.

"But it cannot be," thundered Don Mariano again, holding his daughter back. "This man is crazy or has come to the wrong place."