QUASIMODO.
Tarragona by night--Cathedral--Moonlight
vision--Dream-fabric--Deserted streets--Ghostly form
approaches--Quilp or Quasimodo?--Redeeming qualities--Pale
spiritual face--Open sesame--Approaching the apparition--Question
and answer--Invitation accepted--Prisoners--The Shadow--Under the
cold moonlight--Enter cathedral--Vast interior--Gloom and
silence--Fantastic effects--Enigma solved--Strange proceeding--No
inspiration--Why Quasimodo turned night into day--Weird moonlight
scene--Soft sweet sounds--Schumann's Traeumerei--Spellbound--The
magician--Witching hour--Cathedral ghosts--An eternity of
music--Varying moods--Returning to earth--Quasimodo's
rapture--Travelling moonbeams--Night grows old--Sky full of
music--Lost to sight--Dreams haunted by Quasimodo--New day.
That first night we went out into the darkness, when details were lost
in outlines. We passed the barracks where bugling seemed to be in full
play. A narrow street to the right led to a short flight of steps, above
which rose the west front of the cathedral. As far as we could see, the
porches were deep and beautiful. But it was the south and east sides
that presented the most marvellous outlines. Even the darkness could not
hide their beauty. And presently, when the moon rose and her pale
silvery light shone full upon the grey walls and gleamed upon the Gothic
windows and ancient tower, it turned to a dream-fabric.
The night was intensely still, not a sound could be heard, not a soul
was visible. Our footsteps alone woke the echoes as we walked to and fro
before that moonlight vision, and felt unable to leave it.
[Illustration: SOUTH-WEST EXTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL: TARRAGONA.]
The cathedral clock struck eleven. As the last stroke vibrated upon the
air, we saw a shadowy form approaching. It was not yet the ghostly hour,
therefore it must be flesh and blood, to be boldly challenged. Was
the mysterious being that haunted our corridors prowling these precincts
in search of relics? No; as the form approached we saw that it was short
and slender; almost diaphanous, almost deformed. The head seemed
enormous in comparison with the body; legs and arms were unusually long.
Yet even in the moonlight we noticed that something pale and spiritual
about the face redeemed its ugliness. We thought of Quilp, of Quasimodo,
all the grotesques we had ever heard of, but he only resembled these at
a distance; we soon found that he was far better than they.
This apparition was followed by a lean, lanky youth who seemed to be
shod in india-rubber, so silent his footsteps. He towered above
Quasimodo, whom he followed as a shadow follows its substance. We
happened to be standing near a small gate in the south railings, and up
to this gate came Quasimodo, inserted a magic key into the lock and
swung it open. What did it mean? Were they, this moonlight night, going
into the interior? What a weird experience; what an opportunity not to
be lost! The apparition must be won over.
"Are you entering the cathedral?" we asked as they passed in and half
closed the gate. To our relief a very earthly voice responded in
matter-of-fact tones.
"Yes," it replied. "Do you want to enter also?"
It needed no further invitation. We passed through, and the gate was
closed and locked. As we heard the sharp click and Quasimodo pocketed
the key, we felt ourselves prisoners. All the possible and impossible
stories we had ever heard of midnight murders and mysterious
disappearances flashed through the brain. But the die was cast and we
must follow. The enigma which even at the instant puzzled us was the
motive for this midnight visit. We could think of none.
We stood for a moment in the space between the railings and the
building. Repairs were going on; it had been turned into a stonemason's
yard. The cold moonlight fell upon heavy blocks of marble lying about.
There was an erection that looked for all the world like a gibbet, and
we almost expected to see a ghostly skeleton dangling from its
cross-beam.
Quasimodo moved on and opened a small south door. He entered and we
waited whilst he took a lantern from the hands of the Shadow. It was
lighted in a moment, and we found it to be a powerful electric lamp.
Then we too passed in, and the door closed upon us. If we were to be
murdered, it would not be in utter darkness. The lantern was brilliant,
and threw around its ghostly lights and shadows. We are compelled to
repeat the adjective, for everything was ghostly and weird.
The vast interior was lost in profoundest silence and gloom. No single
light could reach the depths and spaces, but round about us the lantern
lighted up the outlines of aisles and arches and pillars.
The effect was inexpressibly solemn. There seemed no limit to the space.
We paced the aisles and thought them endless. Our footsteps awoke
ghostly echoes. As far as could be discerned, we were surrounded by the
loveliest, most refined outlines. Gothic aisles and arches were dimly
visible. And still the Shadow followed Quasimodo, and still his
footsteps made no sound.
Quasimodo walked in silence for a time, evidently enjoying our own
silent delight and experience. His long arms and legs, his large head,
his long-drawn, backward shadow, all suggested gnome-land. He swung the
lantern about as though charmed and allured by all the fantastic effects
it produced.
At last we felt we must break the silence.
"Why are you here?" we said. "May we ask? It seems so strange to be
walking with you in this midnight space and darkness."
"Can you not guess?" he returned. "What object could I have in coming
here at this dark hour? Look."
Then we noticed for the first time that the Shadow carried a music-book.
The enigma was solved. Quasimodo had come to practise.
"But what a strange hour!" we exclaimed. "You turn night into day. Is it
that these ghostly shadows inspire you as nothing else can?"
[Illustration: EAST END OF CATHEDRAL, SHOWING NORMAN APSE: TARRAGONA.]
"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 Traeumerei 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.
[Illustration: 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 passionate 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 passing 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 passed 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 passed. 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 passed into
Wagner, and the sweetest strains from Lohengrin, the most impassioned
from Tannhaeuser, 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 passed 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 Traeumerei 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 passed 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.
[Illustration: CLOISTERS: TARRAGONA.]
But time was passing. 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 passed
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 passed 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 passed 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 latitudes.
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
shore--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.