Glories of Spain Part 35

"No," replied Quasimodo; "I have no inspiration. I possess the souls of others, I have no soul of my own. It is given to me to interpret the thoughts of all musicians with a wonderful interpretation, but not a single thought of my own do I possess. Not a single line can I extemporise. I am like a man to whom has been given all the feelings, all the aspirations, all the fire of the poet, and from whom is withheld the gift of language. But I am content. All the thoughts of the great masters are mine, my very own, and I am grateful for the power. It is a gift. As a rule I need no music. All is stamped on my brain in undying characters. You shall hear. This is a book of Bach's Fugues that I scarcely need; and this quiet and devoted creature is my organ-blower.

He is deaf and dumb, which explains his silence."

"But you have not told us your reason for turning night into day," we remarked. "Everything about you is so weird and unusual that we cannot help our curiosity. You must not think it impertinence."

"True," replied Quasimodo. "It must indeed seem strange to you that I come here now, yet the reason is simple enough. I teach all day long, for I have to work for my living. Yet I cannot live without occasionally pouring out my soul in music; and as I have no time but the night, I come here now rather than not at all. I was not here last night or the night before; I shall not be here again any night this week. I have to work not only for my own living, but for a wife and two lovely children.

You start. You wonder that any woman could have married this grotesque creature--much more a beautiful woman. You do not wonder more than I do.

I tell my wife that she married me for my music, not for myself. The music charmed and bewitched her; threw a glamour over her eyes and judgment and taste. She laughs in reply. We have been married twelve years now, and she still seems the happiest of women, most devoted of wives. Heaven be praised, there is nothing grotesque in our lovely children. They might have come from paradise. But now I will go and play, and you shall listen. You have chosen to enter here, and here you must remain until I let you out again. I will leave you my lantern and you may wander where you will."

With that he placed his lamp in our hand, and lighting a small wax candle which he produced from his pocket, departed down the long, dark, solemn, solitary aisle, followed by his silent Shadow. We soon lost them in the gloom, and nothing but the distant sound of Quasimodo's footsteps told us we were not alone. Even this sound ceased, and for a time absolute silence reigned.

Presently a far-off glimmer showed where the organ-loft was placed.

Quasimodo had lighted the candles and taken his seat. We turned off the light of our lantern. The moonlight was playing upon the windows, and the pale rays streamed across the aisles upon pillars and arches. Never was a more weird, more telling and effective scene.

We sat down on the steps of one of the chapels. The whole ghostly building, shrouded in gloom and mystery and moonbeams, stood before us in all its solidity, all its grandeur and magnificence. Intense silence reigned. We could hear the beating of our hearts, feel the quickening of our pulses.

Then through the silence there stole the softest, sweetest sounds.

Quasimodo was interpreting the thoughts of others. He had chosen that soothing, flowing, exquisite Traumerei of Schumann's, and rendered it as never rendered before. The whole melody was hushed and subdued. Nothing seemed to rise above a whisper. All the aisles and arches were full of exquisite vibrations. Quasimodo appeared to linger upon every note as though he loved it and could not part with it. One note melted into another. The sense of rhythm was perfect.

We listened spellbound to the end. Never had the simple, beautiful melody so held all our senses captive. It ceased, and again for a moment the whole vast interior was steeped in profound silence; the moonbeams streaming their pale light through the windows possessed the building.

Then a different spirit held Quasimodo. Our dream changed. Louder stops were pulled out, and he plunged into a vigorous fugue of Bach's. Again we had never heard it so played. Every note fell clear and distinct. The music seemed gifted with words suggesting wild thoughts and emotions.

What Quasimodo had said was true. The souls of the dead-and-gone masters possessed him. He was their true interpreter. The fugue came to an end.

Again a moment's silence and again a change in our dream.

[Ill.u.s.tration: INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA.]

This time it was Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. More fitting time and place could never have existed. The pulses thrilled as we listened.

Never had music seemed so perfect. Beethoven himself would have declared the rendering beyond his own conception. Quasimodo was a magician. His body might be grotesque, his mind was angelic. Be his wife never so beautiful, he never so grotesque, she could not fail to love that soul and spirit. He was worthy, and she was wise.

Again the soft sweet strains went trolling through aisles and arches, all their exquisite melancholy cadence fully rendered. And presently it changed to the louder, more pa.s.sionate strains, suggestive more of storm and tempest than serene moonlight. It ceased; and one thing gave place to another; Quasimodo's moods seemed as wild and eccentric as they were uncertain but ever charming. For two whole hours he kept us spell-bound.

We never thought of the night; of the pa.s.sing of time; of the necessity for rest. We were in a new world. The moonbeams travelled onwards and downwards.

Midnight struck. Twelve slow strokes fell upon the air. The ghosts came out to listen; it was their hour. We were persuaded that the aisles and arches were full of them. We saw faint shadows thrown upon the moonbeams, as they pa.s.sed to and fro. It is useless to say ghosts do not throw shadows: that night we distinctly saw them. The wonderful moonlit building seemed full of sighs and subdued sobbings. H. C. declared it was nothing but the vibrations of the organ: we knew better. The ghosts were sighing and sobbing at the wonderful music. There could not be a more ghostly time or place; and they would not often have such harmonies to listen to.

The moments pa.s.sed. One o'clock struck; solitary, melancholy sound; more suggestive of ghosts and death and the long journey we must all take before we become ghosts ourselves, than the twelve drawn-out strokes of midnight which bear each other company.

Into those two hours Quasimodo seemed to have crowded an eternity of music. Every vein, from the mournful to the triumphant, from the faintest whisper to a crashing torrent, possessed him. He pa.s.sed into Wagner, and the sweetest strains from Lohengrin, the most impa.s.sioned from Tannhauser, thrilled the darkness. He slided into Handel's airs, and with the aid of a wonderful voix celeste, that loveliest of melodies, _I know that my Redeemer liveth_, stole through the moonlit aisles with such pathos that our eyes wept involuntary tears, and the Divine drama of nearly two thousand years ago pa.s.sed in detail before our mental vision.

Quasimodo seemed to have power to raise emotion, to play upon every nerve, and he appeared to delight in using that power.

He went on in all his varying moods, until again there came a pause, and once more Schumann's Traumerei in soft, sweet strains went stealing through the aisles. With this he had begun, with this he would end: as one who had taken a long journey, and would bring us safely back to haven.

A journey indeed; a flight into fairyland; spiritual realms where nothing earthly can enter.

It came to an end: and we had to return to earth. Quasimodo had poured out his soul and was satisfied. No wonder he could not live without it.

Such a gift must find expression, or the spirit would die. The lights went out in the distant organ-loft, and by the help of his taper Quasimodo groped his way down the winding stair, followed by his silent Shadow. We turned on the lamp, and its light guided him to us. He sat down beside us on the steps.

"Well," he said, "have you enjoyed my music? Have they kept you spell-bound, all the thoughts of the great masters of the past? Did you think there was so much in them? Have I given you new ideas, revealed unsuspected beauties? Have the hours pa.s.sed as moments? Oh, the divine gift of melody to man, which brings us nearest to heaven! How could we live without it?"

He had played himself into rapture. He was intoxicated with the influence of all the melody to which he had given such amazing expression. It was a language more powerful than words, more beautiful than poetry, more soul-satisfying than love itself. What a strange contradiction had nature here been guilty of--this grotesque, almost deformed exterior united to such loveliness of mind and spirit.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CLOISTERS: TARRAGONA.]

But time was pa.s.sing. We could not indulge for ever in these dreams, perfect though they were. The change in the moonbeams warned us that the night was growing old. The ghosts would soon depart to the land of shadows. Yet the building was so weird and mysterious, the outlines were so marvellous, that it was difficult to break the spell. It had to be done. The grey dawn must not find us here. All our romance, all our charm of music would evaporate before the cold creeping upwards of daybreak.

So we rose from the steps, and Quasimodo rose too, and his Shadow took up its customary position.

We still held the lamp. As we went down the long aisles we flashed it to and fro. Lights and shadows mingled with the moonbeams, and all the fantastic forms we awoke were only reflections from ghostland. At the south doorway Quasimodo inserted the key; the door opened and we pa.s.sed out into the night.

The moon and the stars had travelled far; the sky itself seemed full of all the music and melody we had listened to. Quasimodo locked the door and joined us, followed by his Shadow. But once outside the iron gate the Shadow bade him good-night by a silent gesture in which we were included, and rapidly and silently, like the shadow he was, glided away and was soon lost to sight.

We stood looking at the cathedral, all its wonderful outlines showing up clearly in the pale pure moonlight. Silence and solitude now reigned within and without. Then we turned away, and Quasimodo accompanied us as far as the bottom of the steps. There he bade us farewell and we never met him again.

The incident pa.s.sed almost as a dream. We sometimes ask ourselves whether Quasimodo was really flesh and blood, or an angel that for a short time had visited the earth in the form of man. But he was no spirit. We watched his quaint shape as he went down the narrow street, flashing his light. Towards the end he looked back and turned the lamp full upon us, as though by way of final benediction. Another turn and he had pa.s.sed out of sight.

The street had not the glimmer of a light or the ghost of a sound. Our own broad thoroughfare was in darkness. The Roman tower seemed wrapped in the silence and mystery of the centuries. From the end of the road we looked over the cliff at the sea sleeping in all its expanse, bathed in moonlight. In the harbour one caught the outlines of the vessels, and from one of them came the bark of a dog baying at the moon. It was one of those perfect nights, still, clear and calm, only to be found in these lat.i.tudes.

The cathedral clock had long struck two, when we finally turned towards the hotel. What if the night-porter failed us, as he had failed in Lerida? But he was more cunning. He was not there, indeed, but he had left the door ajar, and the gas slightly turned on at the foot of the staircase.

We made all fast and sought our rooms. With open windows, even from here we could hear the faint plash and beating of the ripples upon the sh.o.r.e--the slight ebb-and-flow movement of this tideless sea. Our dreams that night were haunted by Quasimodo. We had left the world for realms where no limit was, and divine harmonies for ever filled the air. Some hours later this harmony suddenly resolved itself into a bugle call, and we woke to a new day.

CHAPTER XXVI.

IN THE DAYS OF THE ROMANS.

Charms of Tarragona--Roman traces--Cyclopean remains--Augustus closes Temple of Ja.n.u.s--Great past--House of Pontius Pilate--Views from ramparts--Feluccas with white sails set--Life a paradise--City walls--Cathedral outlines--Lively market-place--Remarkable exterior--Dream-world--West doorways--Internal effect--In the cloisters--Proud sacristan--Man of taste and learning--Delighted with our enthusiasm--Great concession--Appealing to the soul--Senor Ancora--Human or angelic?--In the cloister garden--Sacristan's domestic troubles--Silent ecclesiastic--Sad history--Church of San Pablo--Challenge invited--Future genius--Rare picture--Roman aqueduct--A modern Caesar--Reminiscences--Rich country--Where the best wines are made--Aqueduct--El puente del diablo--Giddy heights--Lonely valley--H. C. sentimental--Rosalie and fair Costello--Romantic situation--Quarrelsome Reus--Masters of the world--Our driver turns umpire--Battle averted--Men of Reus--Whatever is, is wrong--Driver's philosophy--Dream of the centuries.

Only the broad daylight could discover all the charms of Tarragona: the beauty of its situation, the extent of its ancient remains. The very perfect walls, fine in tone, bore distinct Roman traces. Below them, on a level with the sh.o.r.e, were other traces of a Roman amphitheatre. There were also Cyclopean remains, dating from prehistoric times. Tarragona was a great Roman station when the brothers Publius and Cneidos Scipio occupied it. Augustus raised it to the dignity of a capital: and twenty-six years B.C., after his Cantabrian campaign, he here issued his decree closing the Temple of Ja.n.u.s--open until then for seven hundred years.

Tarragona was already a large and flourishing city with over a million of inhabitants. It was rich and highly favoured, and its chief people considered themselves lords of the world. Many temples were erected, one of them to the honour of Augustus, making him a G.o.d whilst still living.

There are fragments in the cloister museum said to have belonged to this temple, which was repaired by Adrian.

On our upward way near the Roman tower we pa.s.sed the still wonderful house of Pontius Pilate, who was claimed by the Tarragonese as a fellow-townsman. It is said to have been also the palace of Augustus, and the lower portion bears traces of an existence before the Romans.

To-day it is a prison, and as some of its walls are twenty feet thick the prisoners have small chances of escape. Few spots in Spain are more interesting, or so completely carry you back to the early centuries. On its south wall is an entrance to a short pa.s.sage leading to the Cyclopean doorway, communicating by a subterranean pa.s.sage with the comparatively modern Puerta del Rosario. To the east of this gateway we soon reach the ramparts, just above a ruined fort, and near the modern battery of San Fernando. From these ramparts you have the finest view of Tarragona and its surroundings.

On one side stretch far and wide the blue waters of the Mediterranean.

Lateen-rigged feluccas, with white sails set, are wafted to and fro by the gentle breeze. Life on board seems a paradise of luxurious ease and indolence. Nothing marks the pa.s.sing hours but the slow progress of the sun. The sky is as intensely blue as the sea, and the air seems full of light. You are dazzled by so much brilliance. Distant objects stand out in clear detail. The wide undulating plain stretches far away to the left, broken by towns and villages, the famous castle of Altafulla in the distance. Below the town lies the aqueduct, one of the most perfect Roman remains in Spain.

At our feet are the city walls, enclosing all the wonderful antiquities, and above the picturesque roofs of the houses rise the matchless outlines of the cathedral.

To this same cathedral we made our way this morning, pa.s.sing through the market-place lively with stalls, buyers and sellers; Spanish men and women picturesque in their national costumes: a modern human picture side by side with outlines of the highest antiquity.

Pa.s.sing through an archway we found ourselves in the Cathedral Square, dazzled by the splendour of the vision. Here the market had overflowed, and the market-women, full of life and colouring and animation, sat in front of their fruit and flower-stalls. One and all tempted us to buy, and rare were the wares they sold. Again the new and the ancient blended together; for beyond the women rose those marvellous outlines, sharply pencilled against the brilliant blue sky: magnificent contrast of colouring, wherein everything was in strong light and shadow.

Our strange experience of last night was still full upon us. We had hardly recovered from the dream state into which the marvellous music of Quasimodo had plunged us with strange mesmeric influence.