Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

He went on in all his varying moods, until again there came a pause, and once more Schumann's Träumerei 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.

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.