We never discovered the mystery. Whether the ghost was a little out of its mind, whether it was its peculiar way of taking exercise, or whether it suffered from kleptomania and had a passion for collecting sticks and umbrellas, nothing of this was ever learned. We only knew that the ghost looked like a broken-down dissenting parson, that it dressed in sable garments, and went about with a pale face and large black eyes that seemed to glow with hidden fire suggestive of madness, and long, straight, black hair plastered down each side of its face; a curiously unpleasant object to encounter at every trick and turn of the gloomy corridors.
Tarragona possesses two distinct elements, both in an eminent degree. The town, especially the lower town, is mean and common-place. Ascending beyond a certain point, you come upon everything refined and beautiful. It stands on a hill which gradually rises to some seven or eight hundred feet above the sea-level. At the highest point of all is its mediæval cathedral, surpassing most of the cathedrals of Spain or elsewhere—one of those wonders of architecture that visit us in our dreams, but are seldom actually found. It does not, however, stand out far and wide in magnificent outlines, like Manresa or Lerida. Only a close inspection reveals its charms.
The upper town is surrounded by walls ancient and imposing. Within their boundaries are many Roman and Christian remains, such as few places still possess, making of Tarragona a dream of the past crowded with interest. Outside the walls the views are splendid and extensive. Looking towards the ever-changing sea, the coast-line is magnificent. Point after point juts out; hill after hill rises towards the East. Far down at one's feet lies the little harbour, encircling all the craft that seek its shelter: steamers from Barcelona with their daily freights, steamers from Norway and Sweden laden with scented pinewood, a whole fleet of picturesque fishing boats. Inland, the country is a succession of rich green pastures and sunny vineyards, whilst on the sloping hills afar off reposes many a town and village.
CHAPTER XXV.
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 Träumerei—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.
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.