"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 Señorita 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 señorita 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 señorita 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 Señorita 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 passionate and more pathetic than the last, when the Señorita 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,—