Charms of Tarragona—Dream of the past—Quasimodo comes not—Of another world—Host's offer—Francisco inconsolable—A mixed sorrow—No more holidays—List of grievances—Fair scene—Luxuriance of the South—Hospitalet—Pilgrims of the Middle Ages—Amposta—Centre of lost centuries—Historical past—Here worked St. Paul—Our fellow-travellers—Undertones—Enter old priest—Draws conclusions—Love's young dream—Impressions and appearances—Not always a priest—Fool's paradise—Youth and age—Awaking to realities—Driven out of paradise—Was it a judgment?—Calmness returns—Judging in mercy—Nameless grave—"Writ in water"—Withdrawing from the world—Entering the church—Busy life—Romances of the Confessional—"To Eve in Paradise"—Tortosa—Garden of Spain—Vinaroz—Wise mermen—Cradle of history and romance—Gibraltar of the West—A race apart—Benicarlo—Flourishing vineyards—"If the English only knew"—Eve recognises priest—"I am that charming daughter"—Lovely cousin engaged—Count Pedro de la Torre—Mutual recognitions—Congratulations—Breaking news to H. C.—Despair—"To Adam in Hades"—Gallant priest—Saved from temptation.
WITH sorrowful hearts we turned our backs one morning upon Tarragona.
Though bound for Valencia, Tarragona the delightful possessed charms Valencia could never rival. Not again should we meet with such a cathedral, such cloisters, or even so original and enthusiastic a sacristan. We were leaving all that wonderful historical atmosphere that made this exceptional place a Dream of the Past, and great was our regret.
We had stood near the tomb of the Scipios and fancied ourselves back in the days when our own era was dawning. Before us the ever-changing yet changeless sea looked just as it must have looked when they, loving it, decided to sleep within sound of its waters. In a last moonlight visit to the cathedral we had waited and listened in hope of hearing Quasimodo's footsteps, seeing his quaint and curious form approaching.
He never came. No unseen talisman whispered to him our desire. Perhaps it was as well. A second experience is never the same as the first. The subtle charm of the new and the strange, the unexpected, the unprepared, is no longer there. Quasimodo now dwelt in our minds as a being spiritual, intangible, of another world. That he belonged to the highest order in this, is certain. The influence of his music haunted us, haunts us still. In waking and sleeping dreams we live over and over again the weird charm and experience of that wonderful night; see the moonbeams falling in shafts of clear-cut light across pillars and aisles and arches; hear and feel the touch, as of a passing breath, of the ghostly visitants from Shadow-land. All the marvellous music steals into our soul. There can be but one Quasimodo in the world. We doubt if there was ever another at any time endowed with his marvellous faculty. It was pain and grief to feel that we should see and hear him no more.
Our very host added slightly to our reluctant leaving by declaring that if we would only stay another week he would charge us half-price for everything: nay, we should settle our own terms. Francisco was inconsolable, but perhaps a little selfishness was mixed with his sorrow.
"No more holidays," he cried. "No more excursions to Poblet; no escape from French lessons. And yet, señor, there are other places besides Poblet, and every one of them would have delighted you. Think of all the lost luncheons; all the first-class compartments that will now be empty. There are lovely excursions, too, by sea." The boy's catalogue of grievances was as long as Don Giovanni's list of transgressions.
But time the inexorable refused to stand still, and when the final hour struck, the relentless omnibus carried us away.
Francisco accompanied us to the station, having an idea that without his help we should inevitably go wrong. He was a witness to the abominably rude station-master, who in this respect has not his equal in Spain, according to our experience. Finally we moved off.
At the moment we felt a distinct mental wrench. Tarragona was indeed over. To our right was the harbour with its little crowd of fishing-boats; out on the sea lovely white-winged feluccas glided to and fro. The whole journey was one of extreme beauty. Very soon we had the sea on our left, and often the train skirted the very waves as they rolled over their golden sands. The coast was broken and diversified, now rising to hills and cliffs, now falling to a level with the shore. Where we passed inland the country was rich and fruitful, showing more and more the luxuriance of the South.