Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

Then through the silence there stole the softest, sweetest sounds. Quasimodo was interpreting the thoughts of others. He had chosen that soothing, flowing, exquisite Träumerei 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.

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 Tannhäuser, thrilled the darkness. He slided into Handel's airs, and with the aid of a wonderful voix céleste, 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.