"Impossible! impossible!" said several at once.
"Above all, Italian music stirs the heart, while German music only deafens you," added the Señorita de Delgado.
"That's true," affirmed her sister, the widow.
"I believe," continued the señorita, "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, señor ... 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!"