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Title: The Fortunate Isles
       Life and Travel in Majorca, Minorca and Iviza


Author: Mary Stuart Boyd



Release Date: March 19, 2012  [eBook #39199]

Language: English

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THE FORTUNATE ISLES

       *       *       *       *       *

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR


      _Travel_

  OUR STOLEN SUMMER

  A VERSAILLES CHRISTMAS-TIDE


      _Novels_

  THE GLEN

  THE FIRST STONE

  WITH CLIPPED WINGS

  THE MAN IN THE WOOD

  BACKWATERS

  HER BESETTING VIRTUE

  THE MISSES MAKE-BELIEVE

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Calle Del Calvario, Pollensa]


THE FORTUNATE ISLES

Life and Travel in Majorca, Minorca and Iviza

by

MARY STUART BOYD

With Eight Illustrations in Colour and Fifty-Two Pen Drawings
by A. S. Boyd, R.S.W.







Methuen & Co. Ltd.
36 Essex Street W.C.
London

First Published in 1911




FOREWARNING


"I hear you think of spending the winter in the Balearic Islands?"
said the only Briton we met who had been there. "Well, I warn you,
you won't enjoy them. They are quite out of the world. There are no
tourists. Not a soul understands a word of English, and there's
nothing whatever to do. If you take my advice you won't go."

So we went. And what follows is a faithful account of what befell us
in these fortunate isles.

                                                        M. S. B.




CONTENTS


                                                PAGE

       I. SOUTHWARDS                               1

      II. OUR CASA IN SPAIN                       14

     III. PALMA, THE PEARL OF THE MEDITERRANEAN   26

      IV. HOUSEKEEPING                            39

       V. TWO HISTORIC BUILDINGS                  51

      VI. THE FAIR AT INCA                        60

     VII. VALLDEMOSA                              66

    VIII. MIRAMAR                                 79

      IX. SOLLER                                  94

       X. ANDRAITX                               107

      XI. UP AMONG THE WINDMILLS                 117

     XII. NAVIDAD                                128

    XIII. THE FEAST OF THE CONQUISTADOR          143

     XIV. POLLENSA                               152

      XV. THE PORT OF ALCUDIA                    168

     XVI. MINORCA                                179

    XVII. STORM-BOUND                            193

   XVIII. ALARO                                  203

     XIX. THE DRAGON CAVES AND MANACOR           215

      XX. ARTA AND ITS CAVES                     225

     XXI. AMONG THE HILLS                        242

    XXII. DEYA, AND A PALMA PROCESSION           252

   XXIII. OF FAIR WOMEN AND FINE WEATHER         264

    XXIV. OF ODDS AND ENDS                       274

     XXV. IVIZA--A FORGOTTEN ISLE                289

    XXVI. AN IVIZAN SABBATH                      301

   XXVII. AT SAN ANTONIO                         311

  XXVIII. WELCOME AND FAREWELL                   320

    XXIX. LAST DAYS                              328

          INDEX                                  335




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                IN COLOUR

  CALLE DEL CALVARIO, POLLENSA                _Frontispiece_

                                                FACING PAGE

  PALMA DE MALLORCA, FROM THE TERRENO                    26

  VALLDEMOSA                                             70

  SOLLER                                                 94

  AFTER THE FEAST OF THE CONQUISTADOR, PALMA CATHEDRAL  143

  THE ROMAN GATEWAY, ALCUDIA                            168

  MAHON, MINORCA                                        193

  SUNDAY MORNING AT IVIZA                               289




                              PEN DRAWINGS
                                                       PAGE

  THE CATHEDRAL AND THE LONJA, PALMA                      1

  A PALMA _PATIO_                                         9

  THE SERENO                                             13

  THE CASA TRANQUILA                                     14

  THE GATE OF SANTA CATALINA, PALMA                      19

  OUR SUBURBAN STREET                                    24

  CALLE DE LA ALMUDAINA, PALMA                           29

  A SUPPER PARTY                                         37

  THE SATURDAY MARKET, PALMA                             39

  A CONSUMOS STATION                                     47

  THE CASTLE OF BELLVER                                  51

  PALMA, FROM THE WOODS OF BELLVER                       57

  SECOND CLASS                                           60

  A CORNER OF THE FAIR AT INCA                           64

  WHERE THE HILLS MEET THE PLAIN, ESGLAYETA              66

  CARABINEROS IN THE KITCHEN                             77

  LA TRINIDAD, MIRAMAR                                   79

  A TIGHT FIT                                            91

  THE MANDOLINE PLAYER                                  101

  AT FORNALUTX                                          104

  SON MAS, ANDRAITX                                     107

  IN THE PORT OF ANDRAITX                               117

  ABOVE ANDRAITX                                        123

  CHRISTMAS TURKEYS                                     128

  A SCENE OF SLAUGHTER                                  135

  THE COFFIN OF JAIME II IN PALMA CATHEDRAL             150

  MARKET DAY AT POLLENSA                                152

  THE MAIN STREET OF POLLENSA                           161

  A _NORIA_ NEAR ALCUDIA                                175

  CIUDADELA SEEN FROM THE SEA                           179

  CALLE SAN ROQUE, MAHON                                187

  _COMERCIANTES_ IN THE FONDA AT MAHON                  201

  AN INTERIOR IN ALARO                                  203

  ALARO                                                 210

  IN THE DRAGON'S CAVE                                  215

  MANACOR                                               221

  ARTA                                                  225

  TOWARDS THE PARISH CHURCH, ARTA                       229

  ENTERING THE CAVES OF ARTA                            234

  PALM-SUNDAY AT SOLLER                                 242

  DEYA                                                  253

  PROCESSIONISTS OF HOLY THURSDAY                       262

  DURING THE CARNIVAL AT PALMA                          264

  THE WOOER                                             269

  THE NATIONAL SPORT                                    274

  CALLE DE LA PORTELLA, PALMA                           279

  THANKSGIVING                                          296

  A TRIO AND A QUARTETTE                                301

  THE GATES OF THE _FEIXAS_, IVIZA                      309

  THE CHURCH OF SAN ANTONIO, IVIZA                      311

  THE CHURCH OF JESUS, IVIZA                            320

  MOORISH TOWER AT THE PORT OF ALCUDIA                  328




[Illustration: The Cathedral and the Lonja, Palma]

THE FORTUNATE ISLES


I

SOUTHWARDS


We had left London on a tempestuous mid-October Saturday morning,
and Sunday night found us walking on the Rambla at Barcelona, a
purple velvet star-spangled sky overhead, and crowds of gay
promenaders all about us.

When the Boy and I had planned our journey to the Balearic Isles
(the Man never plans), our imaginings always began as we embarked at
Barcelona harbour on the Majorcan steamer that was to carry us to
the islands of our desire. So when we had strolled to where the
Rambla ends amid the palm-trees of the port, it seemed like the
materializing of a dream to see the steamer _Balear_ lying there,
right under the great column of Columbus, with her bow pointing
seawards, as though waiting for us to step on board.

When at sunset next day the hotel omnibus deposited us at the port,
the _Balear_ appeared to be the centre of attraction. It still
lacked half an hour of sailing time, yet her decks, which were
ablaze with electric light, were covered with people. Ingress was a
matter of so much difficulty that our inexperience of the ways of
Spanish ports anticipated an uncomfortably crowded passage.

There was scarcely room on board to move, yet up the species of
hen-ladder that acted as gangway people were still streaming--ladies
in mantillas, ladies with fans, ladies with babies, and men of every
age, the men all smoking cigarettes.

Fortunately a recognized etiquette made those whose visits to the
ship were of a purely complimentary nature confine themselves to the
deck. When we descended to inspect our sleeping accommodation it was
to find an individual cabin reserved for each of us; and to learn
that, in spite of the mob on board, there were but four other saloon
passengers. These, as we afterwards discovered, were a French
honeymoon couple and a young Majorcan lady who was accompanied by
her _duena_.

Rain had been predicted, and was eagerly looked for, as none had
fallen for many weeks. Yet it was a perfect evening. There was
hardly a ripple on the water, and the air was soft and balmy. Behind
the brilliant city with its myriads of lights rose the dark
Catalonian mountains. Clustered near us in the harbour the crews of
the fishing boats made wonderfully picturesque groups as they supped
by the light of hanging lamps. And over all, high above the tall
palms of the Paseo de Colon, the statue of Columbus pointed ever
westwards.

Looking at the sparkling scene, it was difficult to credit that
Barcelona, with its surface aspect of light-hearted gaiety, was
under martial law, even though we had seen that alert-eyed armed
soldiers guarded every street and alley, and knew that but a day or
two earlier bombs had exploded with deadly effect where the crowds
were now promenading. It was hard, too, to believe that at that
moment the interest of all Europe was centred upon that sombre
fortress to the south-west of the town, within whose walls, only
five days earlier, Ferrer had, rightly or wrongly, met the death of
a traitor.

The warning siren sounded. The visitors reluctantly scuttled down
the ridiculous hen-ladder. The moorings were cast away, the screw
revolved, and we were off--bound for the Fortunate Isles.

Out of many wondrous nights passed on strange waters I remember none
more beautiful. We were almost alone on deck. So far as solitude
went the _Balear_ might have been chartered for our exclusive use.
The second-cabin passengers had all disappeared forward. The French
bride and bridegroom had found a secluded nook in which to coo; and
the vigilant _duena_ had led her charge into retirement.

We three sat late into the night watching the lights of the
beautiful city of unrest fade away into the distance, while over the
sinister fortress of Montjuich the golden sickle of the new moon
hung like a note of interrogation.

The Spanish coast had vanished. The ship's bow was pointing towards
Africa, and wild-fire was flashing about the horizon when at last we
descended to our cabins. The lightning was still flashing, but it
was far in our wake, when we awoke about four in the morning to find
the _Balear_ sailing along on an even keel, close by a mountainous
coast whose highest promontory was crowned by a lighthouse.

Having dressed and refreshed ourselves with biscuits, and chocolate
made over a spirit-lamp, we went on deck while it was yet dark, and
watched the land gradually become more and more distinct with the
broadening dawn. The Boy, who had early recognised something British
in the build of our steamer, made the interesting discovery from the
unobliterated lettering on her bell that, though now known as the
_Balear_, the vessel had begun her career as the _Princess Maud_,
one of a line of steamers coasting between Glasgow and Liverpool.

As the steamer skirted the picturesque coast we tried, not very
effectively, it must be admitted, to pick out the bays and
headlands history connects with Jaime, the valorous young King of
Aragon, who, accompanied by a great fleet, set sail from Barcelona
one September day early in the thirteenth century, determined to
wrest Majorca from the tyranny of the Moors, who for hundreds of
years had dominated it. But when we had decided that it must
have been round _that_ point that his ships, with all lights
extinguished, had crept at midnight to anchor in _this_ bay, the
appearance of yet another point and another bay made us waver.
Still, there could be no mistaking Porto Pi, with its beacon tower
on the point where the Moors, warned of the approach of the enemy,
gathered in force to resist his landing.

The sun was illumining the wooded slopes about the ancient castle of
Bellver, and shining radiantly upon Palma, lighting up the spires of
the noble Cathedral and the encompassing city walls, and shining
upon the mountains beyond, as about half-past six we entered the
harbour, to find the wharf already busy with people.

We had left grey gloom in London and in Paris. Here all was vivid
and sparkling. The air was exhilarating, the port, with its
nondescript craft, was a feast of colour. Voices speaking the island
tongue sounded strangely in our unaccustomed ears. Our first
impression of Palma was one of brightness: an impression conveyed
partly by the warm amber and golden tints of the stone of which the
charming city is built.

On the previous night we had thought the _Balear_ half empty; but
with the morning many unguessed passengers made their appearance
forward. The _guardia civil_, who was travelling with his little
boy, producing a pocket-handkerchief, dipped it in a bucket of water
and scrubbed his son's face till it shone, the child keeping up an
excited chatter the while.

The honeymoon couple were early on deck looking out for the Grand
Hotel omnibus. But we were nearly alongside the wharf before the
young Majorcan lady, closely shadowed by her _duena_, left her
cabin.

After the manner of Spanish aristocrats when travelling, she was
dressed in black, and carried a fan that seemed to go oddly with her
smart hat. She had a beautiful figure, and the graceful carriage of
her race. But an expression of discontent, as though she were
already weary looking for something that might have been expected to
happen but did not, lent an unbecoming droop to her well cut lips.

Her companion was a shrivelled little woman, whose gums were
toothless and whose cheeks bore the pallor of enforced seclusion,
but whose alert expression betokened generations of watchful
patience. He would be an ingenious as well as an ardent lover whose
attentions could escape the glint of those quiet eyes. A black
mantilla covered her scant hair, a long semi-transparent shawl
draped her narrow shoulders. In addition to her fan she held two
parcels, one wrapped in green, the other in orange tissue-paper--a
flimsy covering, surely, for a sea-passage.

We put ourselves in the care of the first porter who mounted the
gangway--a handsome brigand with a slouch hat, curled moustaches,
and yellow boots. Gathering up a mountain of light luggage in either
hand, he tripped airily on shore, we meekly following.

A Spanish friend in London had recommended the _Fonda de Mallorca_
(locally known as "Barnils'") as the best specimen of a typical
Majorcan hotel, and there we had decided to stay until our plans for
the next few months were matured.

As we left the harbour the hotel omnibus drew up in front of the
Customs Office, and for the third and last time on the journey the
solemn farce of the examination of our luggage was gone through.
This time it was altogether perfunctory. Not an article was opened.
The trunks, which followed on a cart, must have been treated with
like trustful generosity, for their keys never left our possession.

As our baggage included a double supply of artist's materials
requisite for a six months' stay, it turned the scale at three
hundred pounds. Between Charing Cross and Paris the overweight was
charged 15s. 6d. From Paris to Barcelona we paid 35 francs. From
there to Palma it travelled free. But though we saw fellow-travellers
in variant stages of exasperation over vexatious claims, we paid no
duty anywhere. Even the China tea that, unknown to my men-folk, I had
smuggled, travelled unsuspected. And as tea in Majorca is a ransom,
and Indian at the best, I had, while my small store lasted, an
unfailing sense of satisfaction in my contraband possession.

The Hotel Barnils gave us a cordial welcome. The grateful fragrance
of hot coffee was in the air as we were taken upstairs and delivered
into the care of Pedro, the chamber-man, who was smoking a cigarette
as he cleaned the tiled corridors with a basin of damp sawdust and
an ineffectual-looking broom.

Our suite of rooms on the second floor consisted of a tiny _salon_,
from which on either side opened a bedroom. The smaller had a window
to the Calle del Conquistador, the larger overlooked the inner
courtyard with its potted palms and ginger-plants. All three rooms
were papered alike in a pattern of large black and brown leaves on a
yellow ground. The effect was decidedly bizarre. To those of a
melancholy temperament it would assuredly have proved trying, even
though there was a certain relief in the collection of French
coloured lithographs that further adorned the walls.

Our sitting-room, which, like the bedrooms, was paved with tiles,
had a tall window that opened to the floor and was guarded by an
iron railing. It had two red-covered easy-chairs, four fawn brocade
small chairs, and a round table with a yellow and drab tablecloth.

In an amazingly brief space we were seated round that table drinking
coffee out of tall glasses, and making acquaintance with the
_enciamada_, a local breakfast dainty which is neither pastry,
bread, nor bun, yet appears to enjoy something of the good qualities
of all three. In form it somewhat resembles the fossil known to our
nursery days as an ammonite. To picture a nicely baked and browned
ammonite that has been well dusted with icing-sugar is to see an
_enciamada_.

The little breakfast over, we went out to explore the city. Up the
street of the Conquistador people were hurrying: men bearing on
their heads flat baskets filled with pink or silver fish that were
still dripping from the Mediterranean, and women carrying empty
baskets. Following the stream, we found ourselves in the market,
which is surrounded by tall, many-storied buildings.

It was an animated scene. Everybody was busy--all the people who were
not buying were selling. And round about were commodities that were
strange to us. The fish-stalls, which were clustered in a corner by
themselves, displayed odd fish, many of them repulsive-looking, and
all, in our eyes, undersized. The meat stalls revealed joints of
puzzling cut, and were garlanded with gamboge and vermilion sausages,
as though the Majorcans' love of bright colours manifested itself
even in the food they ate.

The more attractive aspect of the fruit and vegetables drew us up
the alleys where the salesfolk sat placidly surrounded by huge
gourds, radishes eighteen inches long, strange and unappetizing
fungi. They had a varied assortment of goods, but the vegetable that
appeared to dominate the market was the sweet pepper, or _pimiento_;
everywhere it lay in heaps whose colour shaded from a vivid green to
glowing scarlets and orange.

One or two ladies in mantillas were marketing, attended by maids
whose hair, dressed in a single pleat, showed beneath the
_rebozillo_ that is the national head-covering of the country-women.

One piece of buying, and one only, did I venture on. The Man's
favourite fruit is the green fig, a commodity that in London costs
on an average eighteenpence a dozen. Seeing a woman with a hamper of
choice fresh figs, I proceeded to try how Majorcan prices compared
with those of Britain. Taking warning by the experience of a friend
who, having asked for half-a-crown's worth of grapes in a foreign
market, found himself confronted with the impossibility of carrying
away his purchase, I discreetly held out the local equivalent of a
penny and pointed to the figs.

The vendor, seeing that I had no basket, held a brief colloquy with
a neighbouring salesman, which resulted in the production of a piece
of crumpled newspaper. Signing to me to open my hands, she spread it
over them and began counting the figs into it, carefully selecting
the finest specimens from her stock. Having heard that food was
cheap in these fortunate isles, I confidently expected that my penny
might purchase four green figs: but instead of stopping at a
reasonable number, the woman went on piling them up until I felt
inclined to say "Hold, enough!" When she desisted, the paper held a
dozen juicy purple figs, and half a dozen of the golden green ones
that are considered the more delicate in flavour.

A Spanish proverb declares that to reach perfection a ripe fig must
have three qualifications: "A neck for the hangman, a robe for the
beggar, a tear for the penitent." These had all the required
attributes: the slender neck, the rent in the skin, the oozing drop
of juice. Better figs, we imagined, were never eaten than the
experimental pennyworth we bought that October day in Palma market.

The mind easily adjusts itself to existing conditions. A few minutes
later it scarcely surprised us to see an old woman buy ten fine
tomatoes for a halfpenny--or to hear her demand an eleventh as just
value for her coin.

Leaving the market square, we wandered about the narrow streets,
which, with their tall old houses and quaint _patios_--the spacious
central courtyards--are full of picturesque scenes. Palma is densely
populated, and the moving crowds gave us the impression of a people
good-looking and well dressed as well as healthy and happy. Few of
the ladies we met wore hats, and to me it appeared odd to see a lady
in a well-cut tailor suit wearing a mantilla as, accompanied by
her maid, she did her shopping.

[Illustration: A Palma _Patio_]

Many of the native women had their hair in a long pigtail, and wore
either the _rebozillo_--a neat white muslin headdress, in form like
a diminutive hood with a collarette attached--or a coloured silk
handkerchief, or both. A small fringed shawl usually covered their
shoulders. But it was in the matter of footgear that the Majorcan
fancy appeared to run riot. Yellow boots, green boots, cream-hued
boots, elastic-sided orange boots were displayed on the feet of
otherwise sedately-garbed people of both sexes; and the children
wore slippers of lively shades embroidered with gay flowers.

When a sudden shower, descending with tropical force made us seek
shelter in a doorway whence we watched the passers-by, we had the
opportunity of noting that, though all marketing dames wore smart
boots, many of them had dispensed with stockings.

A sharp distinction seemed to be drawn in the dress of the classes.
As we passed the church of San Miguel, troops of ladies who had been
attending morning service were leaving it. With almost the
uniformity of a livery, they wore black gowns of brocaded satin.
Black mantillas covered their beautifully-dressed hair, and in
addition to their rosaries, each carried a fan.

Our temporary shelter chanced to be close to the gate of Santa
Margarita, and when the rain cloud had passed over, we went near to
read the inscription graven in Spanish on the stone on one side of
the gateway:--

    _By this gate entered into the city on the 31st day of
    December, 1229, the hosts of King Don Jaime I. of
    Aragon, Conquistador of Majorca. As a remembrance of
    that memorable occasion, on which Majorca was restored
    to the faith and civilization of Christianity, this
    gate, called "Bab-al-Kofol" in the time of the Islamite
    dominion, since then "Esuchidor" and "Pintador," and in
    modern times "Santa Margarita," was declared a national
    monument on the 28th of July, 1908, and restored at the
    expense of the State._

The records of the more ancient races who inhabited the island seem
to have almost vanished. The Gymnesias, known as the people whose
gracious climate rendered the wearing of clothes a superfluity; the
Phoenicians, the Romans, even the Balearic slingers, are well-nigh
forgotten, while memorials of the valiant young King of Aragon meet
one at every turn.

Hunger sent us back to the hotel to have our first experience of the
Majorcan cookery for which it is justly noted.

The cheerful dining-room opened into the square courtyard, whose
walls were striped in broad lines of blue and white like the bandbox
of a French milliner. On each of the six tables was a large decanter
of red wine.

The first dish set before us required a certain amount of courage to
tackle. It was a mound of amber-tinted rice in which was visible a
weird conglomeration of fish, flesh, fowl, and chopped vegetables.
The queer part was the preponderance of empty seashells, for while
their contents had doubtless become incorporated with the other
ingredients, the empty shells remained insistent and uninviting.

But hunger had made us reckless, and on venturing, we found the _arroz
con mariscos_ worthy the national esteem in which it is held. Highly
seasoned meat of some sort followed. Then came delicately-cooked
little fish; then something that defied us to discover whether it
belonged to the animal or the vegetable kingdom. There were no sweets,
but the dessert was abundant and delicious. Apricots, curiously
exotic-looking apples that were streaked with crimson on a pink
ground, great clusters of little yellow grapes that seemed as though
the sunshine were imprisoned in their skins, and the tempting little
baked almonds that are a speciality of Barnils'.

The rain, that in a few minutes had turned the narrow streets into
rivers, had ceased as suddenly as it began. The sky was again a deep
glowing blue, and the pure soft air was a pleasure to breathe, when
ascending a stair we found ourselves on the flat roof of the hotel,
which commanded an extensive view over the city. About us were many
flat Moorish roofs, some used as gardens, others bearing great cages
full of pigeons. To the south was the port with its gay display of
shipping and the sparkling waters of the Mediterranean. To north,
east, and west, the towers and domes and city walls encircled us.
Beyond were the fruitful plains, and farther still the blue
mountains.

Around us rose the softened murmur of the town, the chiming of
bells, the whisper of the sea, the sound of voices speaking in
strange tongues. All was charming, novel, and wholly delightful.

Chopin's description of Palma, written seventy years ago when, with
George Sand, he spent a winter in Majorca, needs no correction
to-day:--

"Here I am at Palma," he wrote to his friend Fontana, "in the midst
of palms, and cedars and cactuses, and olives and oranges, and
lemons and figs and pomegranates.... The sky is like a turquoise,
the sea is like lazuli, and the mountains are like emeralds. The air
is pure like the air of Paradise. All day long the sun shines and it
is warm, and everybody walks about in summer clothes. At night one
hears guitars and serenades. Vines are festooned on immense
balconies. Moorish walls rise all about us. The town, like
everything here, looks towards Africa. In a word, it is an enchanted
life that we are living."

Soon after midnight a deep sonorous cry awoke me from the sleep of
the pleasantly fatigued:--

    _Alabado sea Dios....
     Las doce y media....
     Sereno...._

it rang out in the stillness.

Jumping out of bed, I reached the open window in time to see the
passing of a black figure wrapped in a great cloak, the rays from
the lantern he carried throwing a wavering circle of light on the
pavement beside him. It was the _sereno_, the guardian of the
sleeping city.

Pausing before one of the closed doors, he smote on it three times
with his staff. Then he turned, and passed out of sight, his long
wailing cry again rising into the night.

[Illustration: The Sereno]




[Illustration: The Casa Tranquila]

II

OUR CASA IN SPAIN


Palma was gay with bunting in honour of the birthday of the young
Queen of Spain, when on the afternoon of our second day in Majorca
we set out to deliver a letter of introduction that was fated to
have an important influence on our future arrangements.

Much might be, and probably much has been written on the uses and
abuses of letters of introduction. Sometimes the given letter proves
a boon both to him who carries and him who receives it. Was not one
of our best friends made known to us through the medium of a
perfunctory note from a man we had not seen for many years, and whom
the presenter of the note had never even met? When we left London we
bore a letter of introduction to an Englishman resident in
Barcelona, and he in turn gave us a letter to an American friend of
his at Palma, who was Consul for certain of the Southern Republics.

The home of the Consul was at Son Espanolet, an attractive little
residential suburb about a mile beyond the city walls. The busy
district of Santa Catalina lies between it and the sea. Undulating
groves of almond and olive separate it from the hills.

Taking the mule-drawn tram-car that plies between Palma and Porto
Pi, we alighted at Santa Catalina; and, after making various
inquiries, found ourselves ringing the gate-bell of the house, over
whose tower fluttered the gay banner of the Consulate.

Had the Consul and his wife guessed that these three British
invaders were going to trespass on their endurance for a period of
six months, I doubt if they would have received us with such
courteous geniality. As it was, their reception was so cordial that
within half an hour of our meeting I felt emboldened to reveal what
had been my secret desire--that we might rent a furnished house near
Palma for the winter. Not a fine house--merely a roof under which we
could stow our belongings, a centre from which our wanderings about
the islands might radiate.

Could they advise us? Did they think such an idea was feasible?

The Consul shook his head.

"Not near Palma," he said. "At Porto Pi or the Terreno you might
chance on one. But these are summer seaside places. Most of the
houses there are shut up now. You'd find it dull and inconvenient in
winter."

"This district seems delightful, and near town. Would there be a
chance of our getting a house here?"

"Unfurnished, yes--furnished, no. But why not take a vacant house
and hire what you need? There's only three of you. You don't want
much."

"Say, Luis!" said pretty Mrs. Consul, "what about the house the
Major left last week? That's empty now. Would that suit?"

For a moment the Consul looked meditative.

"I'm thinking," he said. "You're right. That's the very place. Nice
little house. Got a garden. Stable too. And a fine view from the
veranda."

"Is the house near? Could we see it?" we asked.

"It's close by, in the Calle de Mas. We'll see about it, right away,
now."

The Consul, happily for us, was a man of action. Ringing the bell,
he summoned Isidoro, his man-servant, who summoned Margarita, his
cook. And Margarita, having received instructions to search the wide
world till she found the caretaker of the empty house and to bring
her hither, departed at once on her quest. In an incredibly brief
space of time she returned in company with a little old woman and
two large door-keys.

Following her guidance we walked in procession round the corners of
several secluded roads, whose yellow stone walls, flat roofs, and
almost tropical foliage looked Oriental under the evening glow.

Viewed from the street, the house we sought, with its green shutters
and tiled roof, resembled a hundred others. But when the big keys
had performed their task, and we had passed through the two centre
rooms and found ourselves on a wide stone-pillared veranda looking
across the orange and lemon trees of the gardens to where the
Mediterranean lay azure under the setting sun, our minds held no
further hesitation. We knew that it was our own house.

Merely to assure ourselves that the house had no equal, we
investigated the claims of two other vacant dwellings before
returning to the Consulate. One had a basement in which a native
family lived--apparently wholly upon garlic. The other attempted to
make up in stucco images what it lacked in view.

It was too late that night to take any steps towards securing the
house. The Consul, himself a versatile linguist, knowing that our
meagre Spanish could hardly be expected to prove equal to the
subtleties of house-hiring, arranged to accompany the Man and the
Boy next day to interview the owner, and if possible to see the
negotiations completed.

I think we were all secretly uneasy until we learned that, on the
personal recommendation of the Consul, the landlord had
unhesitatingly accepted us as tenants, and that he had agreed to
have the garden put in order, to mend any broken panes of glass in
the doors or windows, to see that the well was clean, and to permit
us to enter upon our tenancy at once.

And then, the house being secured, the important subject of
furniture had to be considered. Knowing that with hired goods we
would feel conscious of certain restrictions, we had resolved to buy
what was absolutely necessary. And the question was--how much or how
little furniture would three unexacting people require during six
months of a picnicking existence in a gracious climate?

Already there were several indispensable articles in the house--two
tables, one large enough to serve as dining-table, a bench, and a
tall glass-doored corner cupboard. Beds would be needed, washstands,
two more tables of the plainest description, half-a-dozen
rush-seated chairs of local make for utility, lounge chairs for our
laziness, and looking-glasses for our vanity.

Still under the Consul's skilled guidance we visited an
upholsterer's, a dark and narrow shop where the closely packed stock
took up so much room that there was hardly space for a single
customer. The shopkeeper, a smiling little round man in a pink
shirt, and his daughter, a smiling big round girl in a white frock,
entered heartily into the spirit of our requirements; and with the
Consul's aid in the reduction of prices, we speedily acquired what
was necessary.

We had landed on Majorca on Tuesday morning. Before dusk fell on
Thursday our house was not only taken, but the furniture purchased.
Electric light is a cheap luxury in Palma, and for our comfort in
the winter nights we were having it put in. Knowing that the
installation of the light, the scrubbing out of the house, and the
raking up of the garden would occupy a day or two, we decided to
remain at Barnils' until Monday, on which morning we would journey
out to Son Espanolet and take possession. Meanwhile we roamed about
Palma with our eyes open to the necessities of our bare
establishment, picking up a broom here, a coffee-strainer there,
some wooden cooking-spoons yonder.

Matters moved with surprising briskness. Monday morning found the
electric light fixed, the tiled floors well scrubbed, the scant
provision of furniture in the rooms, and the garden dug. So, leaving
our heavier luggage to follow by cart, we packed ourselves and our
smaller baggage into a _carruaje_, and set out for our new home. The
progress thither was circuitous, as first we had to journey up and
down the narrow streets of the town collecting the smaller purchases
we had made.

First we called at a grocer's to pick up the supply of provisions
that were to form the nucleus of our housekeeping. Then we meant to
drive to the china shop where our store of crockery awaited us.
Unfortunately the china shop, being situated on a street so steep
that it ascended in a series of wide steps, was unapproachable by
our two-horse conveyance. Leaving the carriage at the foot of the
steps the Man and the Boy mounted to the shop, and by and by
reappeared accompanied by a man and a maiden, all four laden with
dishes.

Space in the conveyance had been limited before. Now, surrounded by
earthenware cooking-pots, and basins, and jugs, and plates, we were
jolted over the primitively paved streets, and out beyond the gate
of Santa Catalina to the little house in Son Espanolet.

Perhaps our sense of possession threw a glamour over the dwelling,
but already it seemed to wear a look of home. The scanty furniture
was in place, a few minutes sufficed to put the groceries on the
shelves, the dishes in the glass cupboard, the earthenware
cooking-pots and pans on the kitchen shelf. Then, when the table was
spread with our new tea-cups, and decorated with roses and scented
verbena from the garden, set in a jug, and the kettle was a-boil
over our trusty spirit-lamp, we sat down, in great contentment, to
enjoy the first meal in our _casa_ in Spain.

The lines even of a foreign householder in Majorca are cast in
pleasant places. From our point of view the Majorcan landlord has
the worse of the bargain, his tenant the better.

[Illustration: The Gate of Santa Catalina, Palma]

We took our little house for three months, paying in advance the
very moderate rent--it was twenty pesetas, about fifteen shillings,
a month--and agreeing to give, or take, a month's warning. This
done, our obligations appeared to cease. There were no taxes, at
least none that the tenant was expected to pay. There was no water
rate. The well in the garden afforded a supply of pure and wholesome
rain-water. If windows were broken the landlord sent, or promised to
send, a glazier to put in new panes. In the rare event of a chimney
requiring cleaning, the accommodating landlord was expected to
employ a mason to do the work. And with the arrival of the season
locally considered best for the annual pruning of the vines--which
is the period between the 15th and the 20th of January--a duly
qualified gardener, instructed by the owner of the house, appeared
and clipped those within our walls.

Our Majorcan home proved to be full of the most charming
informalities. Its architecture was the perfection of simplicity; a
child might have designed it. It was on one floor only, and measured
fifteen paces square. There were neither hall nor passages, and in a
short time we found ourselves wondering why we had ever considered
such things necessary. All the doors were glazed. The front door
opened directly into a sitting-room, whose wide glass door led to
another room that opened on to the veranda. To the right of the
front door was the Boy's bedroom, to the left an apartment that
served as studio. From the back sitting-room opened, on one side, a
bedroom that had a useful dress closet; and on the other a compact
little kitchen with a cool larder that was almost as big as itself.
The kitchen walls were lined breast-high with blue and white tiles;
and under the window that looked towards the sea was a neat range of
stoves, for the consumption of both coal and charcoal.

The two sitting-rooms boasted the distinction of wall papers, and
the ceiling of our favourite room--that which opened on to the
veranda--represented an azure sky among whose fluffy white clouds
flitted birds and butterflies. At one side of the house was a
stable, and an enclosure fitted with stone tubs and jars, meant to
be used in the washing of clothes.

The veranda, or _terras_, bade fair to become a perpetual joy to us.
It was roofed by a spreading vine, whose foliage even in November
was luxuriant. The former tenants had eaten all the grapes except
one bunch, of which the wasps had taken possession; and we were
either too generous or too timid to dispute their claim.

On the broad ledge of the veranda, on either side of the short
flight of steps leading down to the garden, were great green
flower-pots. Three held pink ivy-leaved geraniums, one contained a
cactus that had exactly the appearance of four prickly sea-urchins
set in mould, the others were empty.

The garden measured nineteen paces by twenty-two. Raised paths of
concrete divided it into eight beds. The four larger encircled the
quaint draw-well; the four smaller were in a row, two on either side
of the veranda steps. The beds held a number of fruit trees. There
was a sturdy lemon that bore both fruit and blossom, and three
orange-trees; one carrying about sixty mandarin oranges. And besides
a second vine there were seven almond-trees and two apricots. A
shrub in whose racemes of hawthorn-scented blossom bees were busy,
we had never before seen. Later we learned that it was the loquat.

Some rose bushes, which obligingly flowered all winter, a jasmine, a
tall scented verbena, a long row of sweet peppers, two clumps of
artichokes, and sundry tufts of herbs completed our vegetable
kingdom.

Majorca is a paradise for the gardener--or would be, were the
rainfall more assured--for the climate varies so little that almost
anything can be planted at any season.

The day we took possession of the house I sowed some rows of dwarf
peas. In a week they were above the ground and continued to flourish
exceedingly, until brought to a standstill by the long-continued
drought. The rain in January set them a-growing again, and from
early February till April we had dishes of green peas from our own
ground.

At the foot of the garden, separated from it by a high stone wall,
were two small dwellings. One was empty. In the other there resided
a cobbler named Pepe, his wife, and a lean red kitten.

The sudden arrival of us foreigners proved an event of extraordinary
interest in the circumscribed lives of the pair, and of the skinny
kitten, who developed into quite a handsome cat on our scraps. Mr.
and Mrs. Pepe had no veranda, but from their patch of garden a tiny
staircase led to a _mirador_--a species of roof watch-tower--from
which they had a capital view of the town, the port, and of their
neighbours.

As in these sunny November days we lived with the wide glass doors
open to the veranda, there was so much to observe in our doings that
for the first week at least of our stay Pepe's customers must have
been neglected; for morning, noon, and night he was at his post of
supervision. As we sat at table we got quite accustomed to seeing
his squat figure outlined against the sky as he undisguisedly
watched our movements. Sometimes he even carried his quaint spouted
wine-bottle and hunk of rye bread up to the _mirador_, and enjoyed
his breakfast with a vigilant eye on us.

Pepe had a taste for gardening, and grew chrysanthemums and
carnations in the few feet of soil attached to his dwelling.
Sometimes, with due ceremonial, he presented us with one of his
striped carnations. And one day, when I was in the garden, he
hastened down from his post of observation to reappear, smiling
broadly, at our side gate, bearing the gift of a sturdy root of
French marigold. We showed our appreciation of the compliment by
sending him a boot to mend; and, courteous preliminaries having been
thus exchanged, we continued to live on terms of distant amity. The
marigold I promptly planted in one of the empty green flower-pots,
where throughout the winter it bore a constant succession of its
brown and orange velvet flowers.

A family from Andalusia--a father, mother, and four children--occupied
the house adjoining ours. They seemed good-tempered, easy-going folks,
living a happy careless life in this land of sunshine. Their somewhat
extensive garden was well kept and fruitful.

The father, like so many of the residents in these islands, was a
bird-fancier. And when, on sunny mornings, assisted by his children,
he had carried out the dozens of cages containing his pets, and had
hung them on his pomegranate-trees, and on the pergola, where the
purple convolvulus twined about branches heavy with golden oranges,
our world was vocal with their song.

At the foot of their garden was a flourishing little poultry-yard,
in which, with laudable success, they reared chickens and ducks and
rabbits. They supplied us regularly with eggs, and when any of the
live stock was ripe for the pot we always had the first offer of
purchase.

The method of procedure was to catch the beast--plump rabbit, young
rooster, or whatever it chanced to be--and to carry it, suspended by
the legs and vigorously protesting, to the door of our _casa_ to
exhibit its proportions, and to inquire if we would like to
purchase. On the sale being effected, as it usually was, for the
quality of their live stock was unequalled, the victim would be
taken away, to reappear half an hour later stripped of fur or
feather, and with its members decorously dressed for cooking.

Early in the year the Andalusian family was increased by one--a fine
boy. A few weeks after, the mother paid me a state visit to receive
congratulations and exhibit the baby. Going into the studio, I said:

"Our neighbour has brought her new baby to show us."

The Man waved me away with a protesting paint-brush.

"No," he said. "Don't buy it. Send her away. I don't mind the ducks
and the chickens, but I absolutely refuse to eat the baby!"

Life in the Casa Tranquila, as we had christened our winter home,
was a pleasant irresponsible matter compared with existence in
ceremonial Britain. Social pleasures we undoubtedly had, but no
social duties. Housekeeping ran on the simplest of lines. Maria, the
woman who had been key-keeper of the house while it was empty, came
in to do the rough work. Apolonia, a smiling, rubicund old dame,
with a keen sense of humour, acted as laundress. It was all so easy
and unconventional and open-airy that we never quite got over the
impression that we were enjoying a prolonged camping-out, and that
it was by accident that our roof was of tiles and not of canvas.

[Illustration: Our Suburban Street]

Our morning began with the arrival of a baker who brought the bread,
rolls, and _enciamadas_ for the day's consumption. We did not use
the milk of goats, though, twice daily, a little flock, with
tinkling bells, their udders tied up in neat bags of check cotton
for protection against the unauthorised raids of their thirsty kids,
was driven past our door to be milked before the eyes of each
customer. A sprightly matron served us morning and evening with the
milk of a cow, which her husband spent his days herding on any stray
patches of herbage in the district.

Each day at noon, Mundo, the greengrocer, called with a donkey-cart
containing quite a comprehensive assortment of fruit and vegetables.
Three kinds of potatoes he always brought--new, old, and
sweet--pumpkins that were sold in slices, egg-plants, garlic strung
in long festoons, spinach, cauliflowers, sweet peppers, curious
fungi, purple carrots, sugar beans; all at astonishingly low prices.
I shall always remember the November day when, in a moment of
forgetfulness, I asked for a whole pennyworth of tomatoes, and was
afterwards confronted by the difficulty of disposing of so many.

A popular article of diet seemed to be the gigantic radishes, in
which not only Mundo but all the little shops appeared to do a big
trade. We puzzled long over the way in which they could be used
before making the chance discovery that they are cut in round slices
and eaten raw with soup or meat, as one would eat bread.




III

PALMA, THE PEARL OF THE MEDITERRANEAN


As a place of winter residence for those who like sunshine, and are
not enamoured of society, Palma could hardly be excelled.

For one thing, the town is just the right size. It is not so small
as to allow the visitor to feel dull, or so large as to permit him
to become conscious of his own insignificance.

While Palma is bright and full of movement and of cheerful sounds,
it is an adorable place to be lazy in. The sunshine and soft air
foster indolence; and though there is no stagnation, everybody takes
life easily in this walled city by the southern sea. There is no
bustle, no need to hurry. What is not accomplished to-day can be
done to-morrow. And if to-morrow finds it still undone--why, what is
the future made up of, if not of an illimitable succession of
to-morrows?

When the ancients christened Palma "the Pearl of the Mediterranean,"
they gave it a title that to this day it deserves.

Something of the resplendence of the town is due to the
warm-coloured stone of which it is built--a stone that shades from
the palest cream to warm amber. Every stroll we took through its
mediaeval streets, every walk along its antique ramparts, every
saunter down the mole, made us more and more in love with its
beauty, which we seemed always to be viewing under some new
condition of light or atmosphere.

[Illustration: Palma de Mallorca, from the Terreno]

The Man never wearied of the crooked secret-looking streets and fine
buildings of the old, old city. By day or night they held for him
an inexplicable charm. He was always discovering some new "bit"--a
quaint _patio_, a Moorish arch, an antique gateway, a curious
interior, a sculptured window.

And the streets were always full of life. A cluster of officers in
full dress chattering on the Borne; a company of soldiers marching
to the strains of an inspiriting band; a priest, under a great
rose-coloured silk umbrella, on the way to administer extreme
unction to someone sick unto death--all the spectators falling on
their knees as the solemn little procession passed by; or a party of
queerly attired natives of Iviza, just arrived by the thrice-a-week
boat, and curiously foreign both in speech and appearance, though
their island home was only sixty or seventy miles distant; or a
string of carriages whose occupants were on the way to a morning
reception at the Almudaina, the old Moorish palace, now the
residence of the Captain-General.

Everything in the place was new to us, and the feeling of novelty
never waned.

As for the Boy, from the moment of our arrival his interest centred
in the port. Its constantly changing array of shipping, and the fine
sun-tanned buccaneers who did business on its blue waters, supplied
him with endless congenial subjects for pictures.

The port of Palma nestles, one might almost say, right into the
heart of the city. The chief promenade, the Borne, ends on its
brink. The Cathedral and the Lonja dignify its banks.

The gay life of the harbour lies open to the casual observer. Under
the ramparts, by the side of the public road, old men in red caps
and suits of velveteen that the sun has faded to marvellous hues sit
at their placid occupation of net-mending. There, too, when the
_falucas_ are moored at the edge of the wharf, come the families of
the fishermen to join them at lunch--the women bringing down wine
and bread and the men supplying a tasty hot dish from the less
saleable items of their catch. Sometimes a cloth is spread, and
then the _al fresco_ repast assumes quite a ceremonious air.

Stern on to the _muelle_, the long breakwater that partitions off
the water of the harbour from the open bay, lie the larger craft:
the most important of which are the white-painted steamers of the
_Islena Maritima_, the fleet of boats belonging to a Majorcan
Company that carry mails and passengers between the island and Spain
or Algeria.

Once Palma was a great maritime centre. Now little foreign shipping
does business in her port. But though the bulk of the traffic is
local, an open port always holds the element of the unexpected.

Sometimes a leviathan-like liner, making a holiday tour of
Mediterranean ports, anchors by the wharf, and her tourists, eager
to make the most of the hours at their disposal, hasten on shore to
pack themselves into every available form of conveyance and drive
off, enclosed in a pillar of dust of their own raising, to enjoy a
hasty glance at Valldemosa, Miramar and Soller. When at sunset they
steam out of the harbour it is with the pleasantly erroneous
conviction that they have exhausted the attractions of the island.

Once a fine ship that sharp eyes recognized as the private yacht of
the Czar of Russia quietly entered the bay, and after a brief stay,
during which her voyagers held no intercourse with land, as quietly
departed. And after a spring gale a Greek sailing ship, her
main-mast gone, was towed in by a French tug. Sometimes it was the
capture of a smuggler's _faluca_ caught in the act of trying to run
a cargo of contraband tobacco that furnished the excitement.

On the frequent feast days Palma was gay with flags. Every Consulate
in the town--and they were many--mounted its special banner. The
gun-boats sported strings of bunting out of all proportion to their
size, the merchantmen flew their ensigns, and though the business of
the town was transacted with its customary air of casual
lightheartedness, the never-lacking holiday feeling was
intensified.

[Illustration: Calle de la Almudaina, Palma]

One November feast day the Boy, who was painting at the port,
discovered among the decorated craft a ship flying the British flag;
a closer inspection revealed her to be the _Ancona_ of Leith, just
arrived with a cargo of coal. Nearer home I doubt if the proximity
of a Leith collier would have appealed strongly to our patriotism.
In that southern latitude things were different. A sudden and
fervent desire to hear our own northern accent awoke within us, and,
incited by our adventurous son, we determined to board the _Ancona_
and pay our respects to her captain.

It was a glorious morning, one of those wonderful mornings when the
world seems newly born, that we three went down the mole. Lying
beyond the schooner from Soller, and the _pailebot_ from Valencia
that was shipping a cargo of empty wicker-cased wine flasks, we came
to the _Ancona_.

Three railless plank gangways connected her with the wharf, and down
two of the planks Majorcans in their elaborately bepatched blue
linen suits were carrying straw baskets of coal. We ventured up the
third. Our gangway ended on a six-feet-high platform situated on the
verge of a hold still brimful of coal. As we hesitated on our perch,
wondering what to do next, a bronzed man in slippers appeared. It
was the first mate.

"It's a fine day," the Man gave colloquial greeting. "Is the skipper
on board?"

"Ay. It's a real bonnie day," the mate made truthful reply. "No.
He's just gone up the quay to see the ship's agents."

The homely words, the familiar accent, fell like music on our ears.
A few words of explanation brought the mate to our elevated
platform, where he spoke with the inherent appreciation of the Scot
of the beauty of the town.

"Ay. It's a bonnie place this. I think it's as pretty a place as
I've seen. No. We've been busy on board and I haven't had time to
see the town yet. But I'm enjoyin' the view fine from here. The
captain? Oh, you couldn't miss him. You're sure to come across him.
He's just up on the front."

So, in quest of a compatriot whom we couldn't miss, we set off up
the street. And sure enough, before we had proceeded very far we met
the captain face to face.

If the captain of the _Ancona_ was surprised at being accosted by a
trio of complete strangers, he was too much a Highland gentleman and
a man of the world to reveal any astonishment. In five minutes we
were all on a friendly footing, our nationality the firm basis of
good-fellowship; a little later we were all seated outside the
Lirico, over tall glasses of vermouth and seltzer, recalling
familiar scenes and discovering mutual acquaintances.

The captain was at a loose end. We were going to the fruit market,
to the bookseller's, to the Cathedral. So he came too.

In the market, as he saw me buy big bunches of yellow grapes at
twopence-halfpenny a kilo (nearly two and a quarter pounds) his face
lit up--"I'll be for sending the steward up here," he said.

Chance favoured us. We turned into the Borne just in time to see an
infantry battalion march past to the strains of a good military
band. A general had died and the soldiers were on their way to
escort his body to the cemetery. The music, which was appropriately
solemn, was played with great feeling. And as the procession moved
slowly up the street the closed window shutters were thrown open and
fair senoras in light dresses thronged the balconies.

It was as though Palma had determined to reveal herself at her best
to our companion. Even the interior of the Cathedral, lit by the
brilliant sunshine that filtered through the stained-glass windows,
seemed grander than ever.

"I've had a splendid time," the captain said when we parted. "Though
I've been here two or three times, I never saw so much of the town
before."

We were leaving next morning for Miramar, and before our return the
_Ancona_ would have sailed. But we said good-bye with the promise
of meeting again--a promise that was fulfilled, for on two
subsequent voyages the captain was a welcome guest at the Casa
Tranquila.

"The captain is a gentleman," the Boy said half-a-dozen hours later
when he returned from the ship, where, by special invitation, he had
been having a smoke and a chat with her master. "See what he
insisted on giving me. I refused, of course, but he made me take
_that_ and _this_."

"That" was a batch of thrice precious literature in the shape of
sixpenny editions of novels and magazines. "This" was a tin of
tobacco marked "full strength," that class of dark-complexioned
rum-odorous tobacco that the Boy specially affects, and whose lack
in Majorca had formed the theme of his only regret.

Life on the native craft in the port is entertaining to watch. The
dark-skinned rovers of the deep contrast so oddly with the mildly
domestic aspect given by the presence on board of the _patron's_
wife, and by her way of keeping hens loose on deck, and of hanging
feminine garments to dry on the poop.

One Sunday morning we had been scrutinizing their doings with the
open stare that life in Spain teaches one both to give and to take
composedly, when we discovered that luncheon-time had stolen
unawares upon us. As we walked back down the pier we glanced
inquiringly at the cafes that lined the lower part of the way; they
were all crowded with jovial seamen and uninviting. We had resolved
to eat at the Lirico, and were leaving the pier, when something in
the situation of a little open-air eating-place just on the brink of
the sea, almost in the shadow of the city wall, attracted us; and
advancing to the awning, under which little groups of people were
seated, we demanded food.

The proprietress, a plump, smiling woman with a purple silk kerchief
on her head and a green apron, welcomed us in fluent but,
unfortunately, unintelligible Majorcan. She knew no Spanish. All we
could gather was that if we seated ourselves she would give us to
eat. And nothing loth, we sat down at an unoccupied table whose
bare boards were scrubbed as clean as hands could make them.

Beyond the shade of the roof-awning the sun was shining; the pure
air filtered through its matting sides, and in our full view the
waves were dashing against the rocky shore. At a table close by,
three old cronies were dining. Scorning the use of tumblers, they
passed the quaint wine-flask from hand to hand, each in turn
throwing back his head and letting the red wine fall in a stream,
from what to us seemed an unbridgeable distance, between his parted
lips. Four soldiers were eating macaroni. Two men who had been
fishing off the breakwater were supping thick soup.

A pretty little girl, her hair caught up in a business-like "bun,"
darted in and out amongst her mother's customers, her dark eyes
quick to discern their wants. From inside the shanty that served as
kitchen came an appetizing sound of frizzling.

Turning her attention to us, the little girl put the inevitable dish
of olives and a flask of red wine on the table; then she placed a
wooden fork and spoon, a plate, a tumbler, and a roll, before each
of us. Then, with the suggestion of an air of ceremony, she
carefully laid at the Man's right hand something resembling a folded
piece of clean canvas. It was not until the meal was nearing a
conclusion that we discovered it was intended to be used as a
napkin.

The table thus spread, she darted into the kitchen and returned
bearing a huge flat earthen dish, which held as inviting a mess as
we had ever tasted. The main portion of its contents consisted of
small thin slices of beef-steak, mushrooms, and strips of potatoes
that had all been fried together, after the native fashion, in
boiling oil. Daintily chopped green herbs lent a savoury garnish to
the whole. After a momentary hesitation, due solely to lack of the
customary cutlery, we helped each other with our wooden spoons, and
fell to work with good will.

Perhaps there was some charm in the oddity of our surroundings, in
the fresh breath of the sea air, in the sparkle of the blue water;
perhaps it may have lain in the discovery that if meat is tender and
well-cooked, a fork--and wooden at that--is all the implement
required. Certain it is that as we cleared the last chip of potato
from the earthen dish we all agreed that we had enjoyed the simple
meal more than anything we had eaten in Palma.

When we asked for the bill our little waitress received the sign of
departure with dismay; and the mother, running out, added her
protest. Something else was evidently in active preparation.

Fully convinced that to eat anything more would be an insult to the
dish we had just finished, we waited.

A moment later she triumphantly carried out and set before us a
plate containing a slab of fish, thickly covered with minced garlic
and floating in a pool of rich red oil. It may have been a delicacy
for which the establishment was famed. Our fellow guests were
devouring it with evident enjoyment, zealously sopping up the oil
with their rolls, and leaving their plates polished clean. But to us
it came as an anti-climax.

Carefully inculcated politeness, combined with the knowledge that
from the doorway the cook was eagerly watching us for sign of
appreciation, induced us to choke it down with an outward
affectation of gusto. But we left the garlic and the red oil. Even
an exaggerated idea of the obligations of courtesy could not have
prevailed upon us to swallow them.

We paid the modest bill and fled, lest worse should follow.

A few days later we returned to the quaint open-air cafe. It was a
lovely evening early in November. All day out of a cloudless sky the
sun had beat warmly upon Palma, and the sea had glowed a soft misty
azure. We had been busy indoors letter-writing, for it was a mail
day. It was only after dusk that we were free and, leaving the Casa
Tranquila, set off port-wards to post our letters.

The _Miramar_, the crack ship of the _Islena Maritima_, was on the
point of starting for Barcelona, and all the world of Palma was
hastening towards the harbour to post letters on board; and then,
while promenading the mole, to watch her departure.

After the _Miramar_ had vanished into the darkness and the
spectators had streamed towards the land, we still lingered on the
breakwater. There was no moon, the stars were bright, the wavelets
softly lapped the stones, and we felt placid and restful until quite
suddenly we became aware that we were hungry.

Our proximity suggested the little shanty under the city wall by the
sea, and thither we went.

It was the quiet hour there too. Except for three of the hussars we
had seen before, the well-scrubbed tables were vacant. The soldiers,
recognizing us, gave us friendly greeting, accompanied with the
offer of their tobacco packets. Bright-eyed little Catalina ran to
fetch the napkin, surely the sole emblem of gentility belonging to
the establishment, and the senora herself appeared at the door of
the shed, where she presided over the cooking-pots, to give us "Bona
nit tengan" and to consult with us as to what we would like her to
prepare.

She shook her head when we suggested beef-steaks and mushrooms. At
that hour, apparently, beef was "off."

"Would we have soup?--Majorcan soup," she asked.

We shook our heads. No. We did not fancy soup.

Promising us fresh fish, and something with an untranslatable name,
she disappeared into the shed. And, content to leave the selection
to her, we awaited events.

The comrades in arms had gone, and a pale slender girl, beautiful in
the small-featured, refined type so common in Palma, had taken her
place at the next table. With her was a friend of the same style,
but doubly attractive in that she was overflowing with vivacity. The
younger girl sat silent, her hands folded, her head drooping, while
the elder--who was knitting a petticoat gay with coloured
stripes--chatted briskly. They did not eat, and we guessed they were
waiting for some one to join them.

Sitting near them was a handsome taciturn man with a slouch hat,
long curled moustaches, and a gaudy kerchief twisted about his neck.
That the girls knew him was evident, for though he did not join in
their conversation he seemed to listen to all that was said.

Just as we were served with crisp little fried fish, a figure,
coming from the darkness where the waves were washing the stones,
entered the circle of light. It was the expected man. Hanging up his
rod and fishing basket, he took his place at the table beside the
girls.

His skin was deeply bronzed, his garments were of blue cotton that
sun and sea air had faded to a delicate hue. A scarlet sash was
wound about his waist. His naked brown feet were thrust into
string-soled green shoes.

Catalina, who had been watching for his arrival, ran out with a
slender-spouted bottle of wine and three wooden spoons. Her mother
followed close with an earthenware pipkin of the thick Majorcan soup
that we had declined.

Grouped in an amicable trio, they ate from the same dish, and in
turn drank from the slender spout of the green glass bottle. The
pale girl remained pensively silent, but the other continued to
talk, punctuating her conversation with dramatic movements of her
hands. How we wished we could have understood what she was saying!

When the combined efforts of the three wooden spoons had searched
the red earthenware vessel to its depths, the man who came from the
sea rose and, lifting it in his hand without a word, walked to the
edge of the water and threw the pipkin far into the Mediterranean.
Then returning, he resumed his seat.

No one made any comment upon this inexplicable proceeding. Had the
inoffending pipkin not been empty it might have seemed as though he
were offering a libation to some unseen spirit of the water. But the
actively plied spoons had succeeded in scooping out the last vestige
of the soup.

In the meantime we had been occupied with our second course, which
consisted of lengths of orange-coloured sausage, served hot with
fried potatoes. And a new-comer, an old man, was eating a big plate
of macaroni.

The nimble Catalina, flashing out, set a flat dish, heaped with some
sort of stew, before the trio. What its contents were we could only
guess. The lively maiden and the man were already poking among them
with their wooden forks. The pensive girl had produced a silver fork
and was delicately helping herself, fastidiously turning over the
ingredients. The handsome reticent man sat motionless but observant.

[Illustration: A Supper Party]

They ate in leisurely fashion--nobody hurries in Palma. The gay girl
rattled on in her musical voice, gesticulating with her pretty hands
the while, only occasionally dropping the thread of her dramatic
recital to send her fork foraging with the others, or to throw back
her head and let the red wine trickle down her throat.

"Will he throw that dish away when it is empty?" we were wondering,
when the senora, who was making a special effort on our behalf,
appeared in person carrying a tempting combination of sweet peppers
and young pork.

The question answered itself. When they had finished, the dish stood
empty and ignored. The wine flask was refilled, and when we had paid
our score--wine included, it came to about sevenpence each--we left
the quartette still sitting under the flickering light by the edge
of the unseen waves: the charming girl still lively, the pretty one
distraite, the fisherman amiable, and the handsome listener still
silently attentive.

It had been an odd little interlude--nothing to relate, indeed, but
one of those petty excursions beyond one's own stereotyped world
that make the observers feel, for the moment, as though they were
living in somebody else's life, not in their own.

We finished the evening at what chanced to be the popular
entertainment. If I remember correctly, it combined the attractions
of a cinematograph and a variety show.

We were again out in the starlight, and walking briskly westwards
towards Son Espanolet, when the Boy said abruptly:--

"I wish I knew why that man threw the pipkin into the sea!"




[Illustration: The Saturday Market, Palma]

IV

HOUSEKEEPING


Although, at Son Espanolet, we were subject to no police or other
rate, a small weekly tax was levied with extreme punctuality, on
behalf of himself, by a functionary called the _vigilante_.

The most onerous labour of this alleged guardian of the public would
appear to have been the collection, on Sunday mornings, of a penny
from each householder. I trust I do not malign a worthy citizen,
when I hint that these periodic visits were the only occasions on
which most of his supporters were made conscious of the
_vigilante's_ existence.

His professed duties were to protect the interests of the residents
in the district by prowling about at night, to escort timid
wayfarers home by the light of his lantern, and, like the _sereno_,
to call those who wished to be roused at an early hour. But what
manner of need a community already rich in police, _serenos_,
_carabineros_, and _consumeros_, had of a _vigilante_, was hard to
imagine.

Nobody seemed to know who appointed the _vigilantes_. The Boy had a
theory that our _vigilante_ had assigned himself to the post, and
that his sole exertion lay in calling to collect the fees.

On the morning of our first Sunday at the Casa Tranquila an
imperative knock sounded at the front door. It was the _vigilante_,
a good-looking white-bearded man clad in blue cotton. His
designation was inscribed in bold letters on his cap-band. Having
been forewarned of the custom, I handed over the expected ten
centimos, which he accepted with the dignified courtesy of one who
receives a right, and departed.

Two hours later the Boy, who had been out at the time of the visit,
answered a second summons.

"It's the _vigilante_," he said, returning to the veranda where we
were sitting. "Has anybody got a copper?"

"But I gave the _vigilante_ his penny this morning," I said,
hastening to the door.

At my approach the applicant, recognizing me, waved the matter
aside, as though the mistake had been mine, and he was graciously
pleased to ignore it.

"The houses are so many--one forgets," he said, and strutted off
without loss of dignity.

On Christmas Day he paid us an extra visit, and, sending in a card
with his best wishes, awaited, not in vain, a monetary expression of
our good-will.

The card, which was resplendent in rainbow tints, and richly
emblazoned in gold, bore a representation of a young, dapper, and
exquisitely dressed _vigilante_ who was smoking a cigar. At his feet
were portrayed a noble turkey, several bottles of champagne, and
other seasonable dainties. A side tableau showed the _vigilante_,
armed with his staff of office and a huge bunch of keys, opening a
street door to a belated couple who, presumably, had been locked
out.

On the reverse side of the card was a long poem, which, on behalf of
its presenter, claimed many good offices; notably, that he captured
the evil-doer, and that, filled with fervent zeal, he watched over
our repose. It concluded by stating:--

    "_I try to be in all
      A perfect Vigilante._"

Apart from similar curious and amusing conventions, with which one
has to become acquainted, the early days of housekeeping in Majorca
find the foreign resident grappling with a succession of petty
difficulties. Besides the differences of language, of coinage, of
weights and measures, the dissimilarity of climate renders
advisable, even necessary, a mode of living that would be quite
unsuited to dwellers in Britain.

To begin with the morning--the customary Majorcan breakfast, which
even at the best hotels consists of a glass of coffee, or a tiny cup
of very thick chocolate, and tumbler of water taken with a single
roll, or an _enciamada_, is a meal from which the ordinary Briton
rises hungry. And one wonders why the Spanish landlord, whose table
is so lavishly spread at other meals, should practise a false
economy in the matter of breakfast. For, after all, a roll costs
only a halfpenny. Dinner is invariably an early function, and an
extensive one, for at their two later meals Spaniards make up for
their abstinence at breakfast. Between the two o'clock dinner and
supper, which is served at any time between eight and ten o'clock,
there is a long blank, which the English visitor usually bridges
with a cup of tea.

To return to the question of breakfast. At the Casa Tranquila we
compromised the matter, and broke our fast on an unstinted quantity
of coffee or chocolate and milk, taken with fruit, rolls and butter,
and _enciamadas_. Majorcan breakfast rolls are of two kinds--the
ordinary crisp ones, and, what we liked better, a soft species
called _panecillos de aceite_.

Bacon is unknown in Majorca, though ham, of strong flavour and
repellent aspect, may be had. It sells at twopence an ounce; and if
you wish to astonish the vendor, you can do so by ordering more
than a quarter of a pound.

We had been warned that we would be forced to do without butter
while in the islands. But matters have progressed--in Palma at
least--since the old butterless days. Now the better class grocers
sell a peculiarly white butter that is made at Son Servera, near
Arta; and almost every provision shop stocks a tinned salt butter
that comes from Copenhagen. By the way, the purchaser must not be
surprised when asked if it is "pig's butter" he wants. The salesman
only means lard.

Cow's milk, another article of diet that used to be scarce in the
islands, can easily be obtained. The price charged is almost the
same as in London and the milk is much richer.

With the aid of a Spanish dictionary it had been a comparatively
simple matter to make out a list of groceries with which to furnish
the shelves of our empty larder. But I must confess that a first
visit to a butcher's shop made me wonder if Majorcan sheep and oxen
differed in construction from British animals, such odd forms did
their dead flesh present.

Cold storage is unknown in Palma. The beasts are killed, cut up, and
sold almost before they have had time to cool. And, if they were not
invariably killed young, their flesh could hardly be so good as it
is, the lamb especially being sweet and tender.

A fact that forcibly strikes anyone from a meat-eating country is
the small quantities of animal food consumed. Where the wife of a
British working-man might spend a shilling on beef, a Majorcan would
spend twopence. Naturally the meat is sold in small pieces, and
inspection is courted. The east-end butcher's printed command to his
customers--"Keep your hands off the beef," would be scorned in the
Balearic Isles. If you shop in native fashion, you walk about the
shop, turning over and critically examining the pieces exposed
within easy reach. When your selection is made you need not invest
in any great quantity. If you fancy calf's head, custom does not
compel you to buy a half head. You can have a pound, a half-pound,
or even a slice.

If your taste turns to fowl, at your request the bird suspended by
its heels is halved, quartered, or wholly dismembered. Its limbs may
lack the noble proportions of a Surrey capon, but they will be well
flavoured and succulent, and you can acquire a wing and slice of the
breast, or a leg, or a yet smaller portion, as your fancy inclines.

We had heard that Majorcans were apt to tax foreigners by making
them pay more than was customary for anything purchased, but such
occurrences were quite outside our experience; though I did come
across an example of Majorcan reasoning that was so amusingly
illogical that I am tempted to repeat it here.

Finding in our picnicking style of housekeeping that a cold tongue
was a useful thing to have in the larder, I frequently ordered one
from the estimable butcher who served us. For a time the price
charged was moderate. One day without warning it was increased by a
half.

My Spanish unaided did not enable me to argue the matter, but Mrs.
Consul chancing to be with me next time I called at the shop, I got
her to inquire the reason of this sudden and unexplained change of
rate.

"Yes. The tongue was a small one, and the price high," admitted the
plump wife of the butcher, who acted as his accountant. "But then I
had charged the senora too little for those we had supplied her with
at first. And though we have many customers, each ox we kill has
only one tongue. And, as I had charged the senora too little for the
others, to be just to myself I was obliged to ask more than the true
price for the last one!"

The method of reasoning was so delightfully irrational and absurd
that I cheerfully paid the confessed overcharge, and we left the
shop laughing. Probably the worthy dame wonders to this day what we
found entertaining in the situation.

Many good and cheap eatables are to be had in Palma if one knows
where to look for them. By degrees we found out the best place to
buy the tasty little pies filled with fish, or meat, and herbs,
raisins and pine-seeds, or the funny turn-overs stuffed with spinach,
that all the bakers make; and discovered the confectioner who sold
the nicest cakes and sweets, and where to buy freshly-baked almonds,
and who had the best quince preserve.

A little investigation introduced us to articles of food that we
would never have met had we continued to live in a hotel--to the
_cocas_ that so closely resemble the Scottish "cookies"; and the
_bizcochos_, that are just crisp freshly toasted slices of the
largest sized _cocas_.

When we arrived in October, fruit was plentiful. Delicious grapes
were selling at twopence-halfpenny a kilo (about a penny a pound),
and ripe purple or golden figs were eighteen a penny. As the winter
advanced the price of grapes gradually rose. And though one day in
early December I bought for fivepence in the market four pounds of
well-flavoured yellow grapes, by the end of January the finest were
a peseta (about ninepence) a kilo.

Fresh figs gradually declined in flavour as they rose in price. And
towards Christmas the country folks, who come in on Saturday
mornings to the smaller market that is held in the Plaza de Mercado,
began to bring in rush baskets of the home-dried figs that have been
ripened in the sun and packed between fig leaves.

The continued drought raised the price of vegetables, though small
cauliflowers were still only a halfpenny each, and a good sized
bunch of carrots could be bought for the coin that is rather less in
value than a farthing. Most Majorcan carrots are purple in hue, so
deep a purple as to be almost black. They have to be partially
cooked alone, before being added to anything else, as their colour
dyes the water black. It is their only fault. Their flavour is
excellent.

Early in February we began to use the green peas and turnips that in
November I had sown in our garden; but for the lack of rain they
would have been ready a month earlier. And an occasional sowing of
spinach yielded a quick and unfailing supply throughout the winter.

The question of firing in so genial a climate is an easy one to
answer.

For cleanliness, coolness, convenience and economy in cooking there
is no fuel that compares with charcoal. As a charcoal stove has no
flue, the lighting is attended with a certain amount of smoke from
the resinous sticks that are sold specially for the purpose of
kindling. But once the charcoal is lit it gives no further trouble.
It will cook slowly or quickly, as desired, scarcely soiling the
outside of the vessels used in the process: and will stay alight,
without much attention, as long as the cook requires. Further, it
has the exceptional merit of keeping its heat concentrated within a
small area, so that the temperatures of both the kitchen and the
cook remain normal.

Our favourite sitting-room--the one that opened directly to the
veranda--had the unusual advantage of an open hearth, and a few
chilly days that occurred in November made us hasten in search of
logs for burning.

Inquiry in the neighbourhood directed us to a large saw mill in the
Calle de la Fabrica, where we ordered what to us was an unknown
quantity of firewood. The price paid was less than five shillings.
When the wood was delivered we were amazed to find that it half
filled a cart; and that, in addition to an abundant supply of both
logs and rough wood all cut into convenient sizes, the kindly
saw-miller had included four little slabs of the resinous wood used
for kindling.

The wood was built up on the floor under the lower shelves of our
roomy larder, and there, all through November, December, and the
first half of January, it lay untouched.

We had got to the point of discussing what we would do with it on
our leaving for England, when the weather turned chilly enough to
afford us excuse for indulging in the luxury of a log fire. But
though we had a fire on every occasion when artificial heat was
necessary, there were still logs remaining when at the end of April
we quitted the Casa.

A prominent feature of our district, which lay just without the
walls of Palma, was the elaborate system employed to guard against
the smuggling of contraband goods into the city.

The boundary of Son Espanolet, which joined the country, was heavily
guarded. In addition to high walls and much intricate zigzagging of
barbed wire, wherever two roads met there was a little station-house,
or, to be more exact, a shanty, for the shelter of _consumeros_, both
male and female, whose duty it was to examine all goods entering the
city limits. And at frequent intervals all along the boundary roads
was a species of sentry-box, usually containing a chair and a
water-jar, in which for sixteen hours a day a _consumero_ was supposed
to keep watch over his own bit of boundary, and to be ready, if
anything suspicious attracted his notice, to warn the others, by a
series of shrill whistles, to be on the alert.

During the long hours passed in enforced idleness at their posts,
many of the men had contrived to give their surroundings quite a
home-like appearance. A pleasant man, whose location was at the end
of our road, always seemed to have his children playing about him;
and often his wife used to take her knitting and the newest baby,
and the family goat and a big earthenware pan of amber-tinted rice,
and make quite a picnic under the trees near his watch-box.

Another _consumero_ had a stripling vine that he was carefully
training up the trellis over his shed. We sometimes saw him watering
it. And one, a tall silent man, whose station abutted on a piece of
vacant ground, had gradually erected quite a long range of hen-coops
along the base of a warm wall; and there he would stroll in the
sunshine attended by a flock of flourishing poultry, chiefly of the
Plymouth Rock breed.

But these were exceptions. The majority of the _consumeros_ seemed
content to lazy away their days and doze away their nights as
comfortably as possible. When the early winter darkness had fallen,
it was picturesque to see them lighting a brazier, or sitting
huddled up in their warm brown blankets beside its glowing embers
fast asleep.

When we had been spending the evening in town and were coming home
late, we sometimes enjoyed waiting until we were close upon one of
these muffled figures, and then, in chorus, saying politely "Buenas
noches."

[Illustration: A Consumos Station]

Then we would see the comatose form galvanize into a semblance of
life, and hear a drowsy voice from the midst of the enwrappings
reply "Buenas noches tengan."

The discovery that the monetary recompense for the sixteen hours
that the _consumero_ worked or played was only two pesetas--or about
eighteenpence of English money--showed that if he was not
overwrought neither was he overpaid.

At nightfall these guardians of our district were reinforced by the
addition of two active young _carabineros_ who carried loaded
rifles. So between the police, the armed soldiers, the sleepy
_consumeros_, the elusive _sereno_ and the ornamental _vigilante_,
the residents of Son Espanolet ought to have gone to bed with a
feeling of security.

The question of language is a somewhat grave one in Majorca, where
the inhabitants naturally, but inconsiderately from our point of
view, insist upon speaking their native tongue, which is neither
Spanish nor French, but sounds like a corruption of both.

Majorcan, which is said to be much older than _Castellano_, the
official language of Spain, is closely allied to _Catalan_. And
though many words suggest French, Spanish, and even Italian
influence, the islanders seem, by an ingenious chipping of
terminations and the addition of weird sounds entirely their own, to
have evolved a tongue which goes far towards outdoing all others in
unmelodious sounds. A peacefully animated conversation in Majorcan
suggests impending bloodshed. To overhear a quarrel would be
horrific. Happily discord is rare in Majorca. As far as our six
months of experience showed, a better natured or more harmonious
people never existed.

The dialect in use in Minorca and Iviza, though practically the same
as that of Majorca, varies in each island. So it is not surprising
that the visitor to the Balearic Islands is strongly advised to
confine his efforts to the acquirement of Spanish, not even to
attempt to learn Majorcan. And indeed the facilities for doing so
are few. We could find no Majorcan dictionary, though a weekly paper
in the language, _Pu-Put_, is published in Palma.

All the educated classes speak Spanish fluently. Yet in most of the
shops, even in Palma, and in the country districts, the native
language prevails.

Very few of the working women understand Spanish. Their lives having
been passed on the islands, they remain ignorant of any but their
mother tongue; though it is common to find their menfolk speaking
Spanish well, owing to their having been in the army, or to their
having passed the period of voluntary exile that most of them serve
almost as they do the demands of the State.

Those who know, say that Majorca is a bad place to learn Spanish in;
that in order to have a good accent the intending traveller is best
to acquire it elsewhere. And as Borrow says, you must open your
mouth and take your hands out of your pockets to speak Spanish.

Before leaving London we tried, after a very desultory fashion, to
pick up a little Spanish. The Boy, who took Berlitz lessons, got on
famously and was our mainstay from the moment we crossed the Spanish
frontier at Port Bou. But he declares that he had not been long in
Palma before he found himself speaking Spanish with a Majorcan
accent.

For my part, in point of language I found the direction of even so
small an establishment as the Casa Tranquila very puzzling,
especially at first. After carefully gleaning a knowledge of the
Spanish coinage that enabled me to count up to say ten, in pesetas
and centimos, it was bewildering to find sums calculated in _reals_
and in _perros grandes_ and _perros pequenas_.

I shall never forget the first time Apolonia, the laundress,
appeared to deliver up our clean linen and to receive her just
recompense. When I inquired how much we owed her, Apolonia told me
the sum, but she did it in Majorcan.

"Onza reals, cuatro centims, dos centims."

"Que vale en pesetas?" I asked, but Apolonia could not reckon in
pesetas. Raising her stubby fingers, she proceeded to make
cabalistic signs in the air, repeating the whole "Onza reals, cuatro
centims, dos centims," in a voice that grew louder and louder, as
though the more noise she made the more likely was she to pierce my
thick understanding.

Maria, hearing the discussion, left her dusting, and running swiftly
on her string-soled _alpargatas_, came to the rescue.

If matters had been bad before, they were now worse. Four hands were
in the air. Two voices in Majorcan, that became momentarily more
strident, kept repeating the tale of reals and centims until,
feeling undecided whether to laugh or to cry, I cut the matter short
by emptying the contents of my housekeeping purse on the table and
imploring Apolonia to help herself.

After many protestations she agreed to do so. And with much
reluctant and timorous hovering of her fingers over the coins, at
last selected the exact sum; which, before taking possession of, she
carefully spread before my eyes, calling upon Maria to witness that
she had not abused my trust.

The calculations of Mundo, the vegetable man, were--if
possible--more distracting; for having inherited the national
characteristic of honesty to an almost unnatural degree, the worthy
Mundo, in his desire to be strictly just in his dealings, had a way
of splitting farthings that sometimes proved inexplicable, not only
to his customers but also to himself.

How often, when he stood puzzling over some fraction of a penny,
have I felt impelled to say rashly: "Bother the expense, Mundo. I'll
make you a present of the half farthing!"

Fortunately for Mundo's opinion of my sanity, the spirit of economy
that tinctures the balmy air of these Fortunate Isles prevented any
such extravagant proceeding.




[Illustration: The Castle of Bellver]

V

TWO HISTORIC BUILDINGS


After we were fairly settled in our house our first excursion
naturally was to the Castle of Bellver, the ancient fortress that,
from the veranda, we saw clearly silhouetted against the western
sky.

The afternoon was glorious. The sky was a cloudless blue, the
sunlight cast deep shadows; to drive there in one of the quaint,
open-sided tramcars would have been a treat. But there had been
thunder in the night, and the apprehensive authorities had decided
that it was a day for bringing out the closed vehicles. So we sat in
the stuffy little car, and drove out through crowded Santa Catalina
and across the bridge that spanned the dry _torrente_ of San Magin,
and past the _consumos_ sheds towards the Terreno, the favourite
summer resort of Palma folks, whose charming villas clothe the
slope leading to the steep hill on whose summit stands the old
castle.

The sun was hot, the air exhilarating. Flowers--roses, zinnias,
plumbago, chrysanthemums, geraniums--still bloomed in the villa
gardens. To us it was a glorious summer day. To the Majorcans it was
already winter. The pretty houses were nearly all empty. Their
owners had returned to town.

The old road to the Castle is a stiff climb up a rocky slope. The
new road is an excellent carriage drive that winds round the hill.
We chose the steep way, and found ourselves frequently pausing and
turning to look back across the sparkling waters of the bay to
Palma, which at that moment was looking, as it so often does, like
some celestial city.

The air was fragrant with the essence of the pines that clothed the
slopes--at their feet tall pink heath and wild lavender were in
bloom.

When Jaime the First built Bellver for a summer palace, he made it
an invincible fortress. One thing only could one imagine as more
difficult than getting into the Castle, and that would be getting
out of it. Yet, had we so willed, on this balmy afternoon the
hitherto impregnable stronghold with its deep moat, its implacable
walls, might have been ours without even a show of resistance; for
when we reached the gateway we found it open and unguarded.

But fortunately for the reputation of Bellver our mood was pacific;
and we were content to linger without until an old woman, who had
espied us as she was leaving the Castle with what was presumably the
washing of the custodian in a chequered handkerchief under her arm,
ran back calling loudly for "Bordoi."

Bordoi appeared in the person of the custodian of the Castle. He was
an old soldier, gaunt, lean, courteous, and evidently possessing a
genuine pride in his charge.

The first thing to which he called our attention was the grating set
high over the entrance, through which, after the endearing fashion
of their time, the occupants of the Castle were accustomed to shower
a gentle hint to depart, in the form of arrows or boiling water,
upon the heads of any visitors whose appearance they did not fancy.

The Castle, which is in the form of a circle, is built round a
courtyard containing a great draw-well. Looking down, it was
interesting to me to see that the moist sides of the interior were
thickly coated with luxuriant maidenhair fern, such as we had years
before noticed growing inside the mouth of the well in the house of
the maker of amphorae in Pompeii.

Reaching down his long arm, the custodian picked me a frond,
explaining that it made a wholesome medicinal drink--"quite as good
as sarsaparilla."

And here an odd query occurs to me. Does the office of caretaker
conduce to dyspepsia, or does the enforced leisure of the occupation
dispose to hypochondria? During a little journey through the
Shakespeare country, for instance, it was impossible--even for such
very polite people as ourselves--to avoid noticing the boxes of
patent pills or of much-vaunted lotions that figured prominently
amongst the private possessions of the people who showed us the
places of interest.

The stern face of the old keep has frowned on many tragic sights. It
was up these rocky slopes that the headless body of the third Jaime
was borne, after his luckless attempt, at the battle of Lluchmayor,
to wrest his kingdom from a usurper. And it was there, too, that the
boy son who had fought so bravely by his father's side was carried,
desperately wounded.

In more recent times Bellver has acted the part of a State prison.
Political prisoners, numbering as many as three or four hundred at a
time, have been immured within its massive walls. It was easy to
picture them clustering in the spacious courtyard about the well, or
pacing the open-sided gallery overlooking it, or lingering on the
flat roof, from which such an amazingly comprehensive view may be
had.

Seen from beneath, the height of the Castle is dwarfed by its
encircling walls. It is only on looking down from the battlements
and seeing the immense depths of the surrounding moats that one
realizes the strength of the inflexible grip in which captives would
be held.

In these days a rescue by means of airship might be feasible. For an
aviator to alight on the vast flat circle of the Castle roof, to
pick up a prisoner, and fly off again, would presumably be an easy
matter. But in those days airships were unknown, and it must have
been maddening to be pent so near Palma that every building might be
distinguished, to be able to note the coming and going of the ships,
to view the fair fertile country in every direction, and yet know
that the deep encompassing moat rendered any attempt at escape a
futility.

In one of the rooms a memorial tablet had been inserted in the wall
in remembrance of a deposed Minister of State, who endured six years
of incarceration before dying there in 1808.

In his chamber a window, reached by steps and stone-seated, afforded
a lovely prospect across the blue waters of the harbour to the
stately Cathedral and the town. It was pitiful to see that the gaudy
tiles that paved the embrasure were worn bare, and to note that, by
some curious coincidence, the face in the bas-relief looked
longingly towards the window.

In the immense kitchen the most remarkable feature was the
chimney--a space like a large room--of which the smoke-blackened
sides narrowed up and up, until far overhead its orifice appeared a
mere eyelet of light against the sky. But this ancient fireplace had
been superseded by a long range of charcoal stoves, and the savour
of roasting oxen will never again ascend that giant chimney.

The Castle of Bellver is full of interest, but it is the roof that
holds the visitor fascinated. On its surface one can walk round and
round in perfect security, meeting a fresh and glorious picture at
every turn. To the north the high velvet hills bar the view.
Southwards, beyond the clustered roofs of the Terreno, the
Mediterranean ripples away towards the African coast. Towards the
west amid the hills lies Ben Dinat, where, after the historic
battle, the Conquistador dined well off bread and garlic; and east
is the lovely plain of Palma, with Santa Catalina and Son Espanolet
(and the quite inconspicuous Casa Tranquila) in the middle distance.

Round the battlements many names, both of the bond and of the free,
were carven. Our guide proudly pointed out three that, coming
amongst the Spanish designations, we read with a curious sense of
familiarity:--

    "JOHN SUTHERLAND BLACK.
     JAMES HUNTER.
     JAMES HUNTER, JUNR."

The date was August, 1905. And the owners of the British names, our
guide told us, were scientific men who had journeyed to Palma to
witness the total eclipse of the sun. And in so doing they assuredly
showed wisdom, for it would have been difficult to find a better
place from which to observe the phenomenon than this wide roof that
seemed so near the sky.

When the men essayed to climb the high tower I waited below on the
roof, and was idly leaning over the battlements when a stonecrop
fast-rooted in the interstices of the wall attracted me. Wondering
what manner of plant would choose to live in that arid situation, I
was examining it closely when I discovered that, even in that
seemingly inaccessible spot, a caterpillar had found it out, and was
busily feeding on its succulent foliage.

The caterpillar might be a common one--I have little knowledge of
entomology--but it was new to me; and its appearance was so
unusually gay as to appear to merit description. The body, which
showed alternate stripes of light and dark grey, was girdled by
black bands, which were further decorated by spots of vivid scarlet;
while the head--or was it the tail?--flaunted a double scarlet
plume.

When the men again joined me, I drew the attention of the custodian
to the gaudy insect, and asked if he knew the species.

He shook his head dubiously, confessing that he had never noticed
one like it before. Then his eyes caught sight of the plant on which
it fed, and he instantly brightened up.

"I know that plant," he said. "It is valuable, senora, very
valuable. It makes a good medicine."

Our next visit was to the Lonja. In the good old days when Palma was
a great mercantile centre--the days when thirty thousand sailors
found employment from its port--a Majorcan architect designed the
Lonja to serve as an exchange.

This old-time architect and his builders must have been past masters
of their art, for though hundreds of years have slipped by since
then, and the Lonja no more serves any active purpose, it still
survives to delight by the simple grandeur of its design. Seen as it
stands with only a wide thoroughfare separating it from the
sparkling waters of the port, with its palm-trees in front and a
cloudless blue sky overhead, the antique building is one of the most
beautiful sights in a city that abounds in beautiful things.

We had been told that the Lonja was open to the public on the
afternoons of Thursdays and Sundays. So one Sunday evening, early in
our stay, the Man and I stopped in front of the great door, and
tried to push it open. It did not yield a hair's-breadth. Indeed, it
seemed to wear an expression of stolid immobility, as though
secretly defying our puny efforts to induce it to reveal the
treasures it guarded.

Sitting in a chair in the shadow of the building an old policeman
was dozing. Him the Man roused and interrogated.

He shook his head over the idea of the Lonja being on view on stated
days. But the Lonja was at the _disposicion_ of the senor. The
senor could see it on any day. He would fetch the keeper of the
keys.

[Illustration: Palma, from the Woods of Bellver]

Toddling off across the square of the palm-trees, he disappeared,
and in a few minutes returned, followed by that official, bearing
the emblem of his office in the form of a massive key.

The great door opened and closed behind us, and we found ourselves
in a vast square hall, from whose dark marble floor six noble
pillars rose to meet the high vaulted roof.

Like the Cathedral, the Lonja was built of the warm, buff-hued
native stone, and the marble flooring was also of Majorcan origin,
for it was quarried in the mountains of the island. The materials
used in the construction were the same; but while the Cathedral
impresses by its solemn majesty of conception, the Lonja charms with
its beautiful simplicity of design, its inspiriting sense of light
and air. The four wide windows were partly boarded up, the light
entering only through the open carving at the tops. Yet the hall was
so well illuminated that it was easy to see every detail of the
pictures that covered a great portion of the walls.

The collection of pictures, though of no great importance, one
imagines might be better hung, better framed, and in some way
catalogued. Certain of the canvasses lacked frames. A soiled card
inscribed with the name of the artist was stuck in the frames of
others. One portion of the wall-space was covered by interesting old
paintings that had been removed from the antique church of San
Domingo. And a large modern picture by a well-known Spanish painter
attracted us both by the excellence of its workmanship and by the
peculiarity of its subject: a bride and bridegroom--the man old,
uninviting, and with strangely deformed feet; the woman young,
attractive, and evidently of a lower social position--were standing
before a brilliantly lit altar joining hands in marriage. On the
bride's left stood her peasant mother, proud almost to arrogance at
the wealthy marriage her pretty daughter was making. Behind were two
workmen brothers, whispering and giggling.

The satire of the artist's intention was revealed in the title, _En
el nombre del Padre, y del Higo, y del Espiritu Santo_, which was
conspicuously painted on the frame.

High on the wall over the door that opens on to the garden two
grotesque gargoyles look down on a finely sculptured bas-relief of
the Virgin and Child. Across the little enclosure with its
fruit-laden palm-tree, its tired-looking olive--how is it that
olives always seem to pine for mountain slopes?--and its aloes, is a
strikingly antique gate.

As the keeper of the keys pointed out, it was the original gate of
the mole of the ancient port, and when in the seventeenth century
the harbour was reconstructed, it was wisely deemed worthy of
preservation. Behind it is the antique Concilio del Mar, which is
now the Escuela Superior de Comercio.

Showing us a door leading to a staircase, the custodian suggested
that the view to be obtained from the roof of the Lonja was fine.

He did not attempt to join our climb, and when we had mounted the
eighty-two steps of the spiral stair we did not wonder that he had
refrained. But the sight from the path which extended round the four
sides of the square roof was wonderful. Each point of view held
fresh interest--whether it was the harbour with the shipping and the
shining sea beyond, or the grand Cathedral seen across the lively
Marina, or the eight-storey-high houses, whose upper-floor dwellings
opened to roof terraces or blossomed out in poultry-houses and
dove-cots. But best of all, I think, was the vista of the road
leading towards Santa Catalina, and the Terreno, and the Castle of
Bellver, behind which the sun was setting.




[Illustration: Second Class]

VI

THE FAIR AT INCA


Our first experience of the Majorcan railway system was a curious
and unexpected one.

Having a fancy to see Inca, a thriving town situated in the very
heart of the island, we called at Palma station one November day and
asked for a time-table. The one handed us--it was the latest
issued--bore the date of July, 1907. But even although it was well
over two years old there appeared to have been no alteration either
in the hours of departure or of arrival.

Learning that Thursday was the market-day at Inca, we got up before
sunrise on a Thursday morning and reached the station in good time
for the train that was timed to leave at 7.40. The _other_ train,
for only two trains a day leave Palma, was out of the question, as
it did not start until two o'clock.

We had imagined that the paucity of trains argued a corresponding
scarcity of travellers, but to our surprise the station was already
crowded with a pleasantly excited mob of people, all in gala dress.

The women had their mantillas or lace-embroidered _rebozillos_
fastened to the hair with little gold pins, and many wore long white
gloves reaching to the sleeves, which were decorated at the elbows
with a row of gold or silver buttons. The little shawls that are
always a feature of native full dress were of all colours and
materials, from silk with long fringes to richly-hued plush or
delicate light brocades.

The trains of Majorca resemble those of most other civilized
countries in providing first, second, and third-class carriages. The
first are cramped and stuffy. The second are inferior to some
old-fashioned uncushioned English third-class. The third closely
resemble cattle-trucks with benches running along the sides and down
the middle. They have no windows; leather curtains protect their
open sides.

We went second-class, as did the majority of our fellow-travellers.
Long before the hour of starting, every carriage, with the exception
of the firsts, which were almost empty, was packed full of
passengers, all talking at the pitch of their voices. But nothing
happened until quite forty minutes after the time fixed for
departure, when the engine gave a violent jerk, as though putting
all its strength into a superhuman effort, the women crossed
themselves devoutly, and the train moved slowly out of the station.
So slowly indeed, that three late-comers, arriving on the platform
after the train was in motion, not only succeeded in entering the
train but were able, by running forward, to secure places in the
front carriages.

Inca is separated from the capital by twenty miles of fertile
orchard land. The single line of rail cuts through great tracts of
country planted with fig-trees, with almonds, and with olives. In
many cases the ground underneath the trees was red and golden with
autumn tinted leaves of grape vines, or verdant with the green of
shooting corn.

As the moments passed, and the sun rose higher, the mist wreaths
that had lain about the plain dispersed; and the blue hills to the
north made noble background for the spreading plantations. Within
our crowded carriage all was good humour. Nobody seemed to find
anything to grumble at in the slow rate of progress.

An early stopping-place was Santa Maria. We had only come a few
miles, yet girls were waiting to sell nuts, and biscuits put up in
neat paper cylinders, to those of the travellers--and they were
many--who had already had time to be hungry; while an old woman
carrying a water-jar and tumbler attended, ready for the smallest
coin to supply the thirsty with water.

The little journey was hardly begun, and there seemed but small reason
to tarry at Santa Maria, yet the delay became so extended that the
passengers, still maintaining their perfect good humour, began
exchanging visits from one portion of the train to another. An old
gentleman clad in a complete suit of striped mustard-colour plush and
yellow elastic-sided boots called at our compartment to exchange
compliments with a comely elderly dame, who in conjunction with
handsome jewellery had her hair--which was in a pigtail--covered with
a gaily striped silk handkerchief.

So the minutes wore on. At intervals a warning bell rang, but nobody
accorded it the slightest attention, and wisely so, for nothing
happened. At length, with a joint-dislocating jerk, we again got
under-way, only to come to a dead stop a hundred yards further on.

The train, it was at length admitted, was too heavy for the motive
power. The empty first-class carriages were detached; that
accomplished, we actually progressed. The twenty miles were
ultimately covered, and we succeeded in reaching Inca, with its
picturesque row of windmills and grand setting of purple mountains,
only two hours late.

Joining the stream of people, we entered the town, to discover what
spectators less accustomed to crowds would long ago have
discovered--that by some lucky chance we had come to Inca on the
great day of its year--the annual _feria_. All the ways leading
towards the centre of the town were lined with empty vehicles and
up-tilted carts, and in the narrow streets the owners were
promenading.

The fair was largely a business matter. It presented few of the
elements of entertainment common to that of an English country town.
The only thing in the way of amusement that we saw was a
merry-go-round, and that was being quietly ignored.

One interesting feature was that each street held its own species of
merchandise. In one, clothing and brightly-hued foot-gear were sold.
Another was wholly given up to sweet stalls, whose principal article
was a species of white confection composed apparently of chopped
almonds and sugar. That it was good the myriads of bees that were
tasting its sweetness bore testimony. In yet another street we had
to walk between a long double row of women seated on rush-bottomed
chairs, each bearing in her lap an earthenware cooking-pot full of a
puzzling commodity that had something of the appearance of crimson
threads. It appeared to be the only commodity they had to offer, and
I own we never succeeded in discovering what it was.

The square in front of the principal church was the centre of
attraction for us. On one side the ground was covered with a fine
display of native ware. Jars, and plates, and pots, and vases, in
the greens and yellows and browns that look so tempting and are so
cheap. The touch of vermilion, artistically so valuable to the busy
scene, was given by the huge sacks bulging with scarlet and orange
sweet peppers that form such an important part of Majorcan food.

Two maimed beggars, the first we had seen in the island, were
hobbling about reaping a harvest; and, raised on a little platform,
a travelling dentist was extracting juvenile teeth free; to the
satisfaction of certain thrifty parents, and to the visible distress
of their offspring.

Just below the square was the cattle-market; and on its outskirts we
saw, for the first time, a peasant clad in the native male dress
that unfortunately has become so rare. The jolly old fellow wore the
extremely baggy blue cotton pantaloons, the short black jacket, and
wide-brimmed hat that make up so distinctive a costume. He even wore
the quaint black shoes that suit the costume, and that seemed a
blessed relief from the green and orange elastic-sided boots in
vogue.

[Illustration: A Corner of the Fair at Inca]

A threatened shower and an actual thirst gave excuse for seeking
refuge in a cafe. Most of those we glanced into were crowded with
peasants, and we hesitated about forcing our way in. Finding at last
one that looked more exclusive than the others, we entered and
seated ourselves at one of the little tables set under the
overhanging tissue-paper decorations.

The Boy and I wanted wine, the Man chose cognac. The active waiter
quickly served us with huge tumblers of red wine set in saucers; and
placing before the Man a bottle of brandy in which were immersed
spiky herbs, left him to help himself. The wine was rich and
fruity, the liqueur the Man declared delicious; and while the rain,
which was now falling in earnest, pattered down, we sipped and
watched the passing life of the street.

Just across the way, at the side entrance to a flourishing baker's
shop, two women were frying dough-nuts in a big pan of boiling oil.
The elder woman, scraping a segment of batter from the full basin at
her elbow, deftly twisted it round her finger, then threw it into
the oil, from which a minute later her assistant lifted it out with
a long-handled spoon, transformed into a crisp golden ring.

The shower had ceased, the sun was again shining out, and there was
much to see; so we paid for our drinks and departed.

"Fourpence!" said the Man, as he pocketed his change. "A penny each
for the wine and twopence for the liqueur! It's enough to drive one
to drink!"

The one drawback to the complete enjoyment of the fair was the mud.
The previous night had been wet, and the streets were inches deep in
it. It was a buff-coloured slime of persistently adhesive nature,
and not content with thickly coating one's shoes, it tried to drag
them off. To walk about in mud three inches deep is fatiguing, so we
decided to take the train that was due to leave Inca at one o'clock,
instead of waiting for that leaving at four.

It was a merciful fortune that guided us, for the one o'clock train
took three hours to cover its twenty miles. Yet the scenery, with
its grey-green olive plantations set against a background of
beautiful mountains and enlivened with quaintly attired
olive-gatherers, was so fine that we did not tire of feasting our
eyes upon it.

Our companions on the return journey were mainly men--Palma
merchants probably, who had visited the fair as buyers and were
anxious to return with the greatest possible expedition. When those
who were so adventurous as to wait until the later train would get
back to town, or whether they ever reached it at all, history does
not relate.




[Illustration: Where the Hills Meet the Plain, Esglayeta]

VII

VALLDEMOSA


The fertile plain that occupies the greater portion of the island of
Majorca is sheltered from cold winds by the range of mountains that
runs along the northern coast. The scenery on the farther side of
the mountains is of unusual grandeur, the tracts of precipitous
country bordering the sea between Valldemosa and Soller being
exceptionally lovely.

The district, which is almost entirely devoted to olive plantations,
is a scantily populated one. And as there are no _fondas_ for a
considerable distance, the Austrian Archduke Luis Salvador, who owns
much land on the northern coast, has turned a large farm-house on
his estate of Miramar into an _hospederia_, or free lodging-house,
for the use of travellers.

There are many _hospederias_ in Spain, but they are generally
attached to monasteries and intended for the use of pilgrims to some
shrine. That at Miramar is the only instance I know of one supported
by a private individual, and many sojourners from far lands like
ourselves must have felt grateful to the royal owner for the kindly
provision he has made for them.

Within the friendly walls of the Hospederia any sojourner can for
three nights find free accommodation, the Archduke providing
house-room, linen, service, and fuel. The apartments are always
ready, the guest need send no warning of his intended arrival. All
he requires to do is to supply himself with food sufficient for the
sustenance of his party throughout the visit, as there are no shops
within several miles of Miramar, and the servants at the Hospederia
are forbidden to sell to the guests.

Very early during our stay at Palma we had purposed journeying
northwards to see the places of whose wonders we had heard; but we
were so pleasantly interested in our new home and strange
environment that it was nearing the close of November before we felt
disposed to take the journey.

At stated times diligences run the twelve miles between Palma and
Valldemosa, and the charge is only sevenpence-halfpenny. But the
diligence goes no farther than Valldemosa, and that is three miles
distant from the Hospederia. So, when we had decided to go on the
Tuesday morning, we engaged Bartolome, a good-looking bachelor
charioteer, who stabled his carriage and pair of horses in Son
Espanolet, to drive us thither.

But Tuesday morning, when it came, brought a sudden change of
weather. A strong easterly wind was blowing, and the temperature,
for the first time since our arrival on these favoured isles, nearly
approached cold. Bartolome was warned that the journey was postponed
for a day at least, and we spent the hours of uncertainty in
grumbling at the weather, and in consuming the most perishable of
the stock of provisions we had laid in for the expedition.

Judging the Majorcan climate by our knowledge of that of other
countries, we were all secretly convinced that we had delayed too
long, that the weather had probably changed for the winter, and that
our little excursion might require to be postponed until spring.

But to our surprise and relief the succeeding morning proved calm
and sunny. Having been duly instructed, Bartolome drove up at ten
o'clock precisely, with a jingling of bells that I am convinced set
every feminine head in the Calle de Mas a-peer behind its discreetly
closed venetian shutters. In appearance Bartolome was the embodiment
of buoyant geniality. His black hair curled in rings about his
smiling face, and he had dressed for the occasion in a white suit, a
pink shirt, and a pair of bright yellow elastic-sided boots.

Bartolome's carriage, the sides of whose interior were decorated
with four antimacassars on each of which was embroidered a
flamboyant representation of a rampant steed, proved both roomy and
comfortable, and we were only three in number. Yet when we had got
packed in with our luggage, which included sketching materials as
well as comestibles, there was scarcely room to stir. Never before
had we realized what a cumbersome article food was: or calculated
the bulk of--say--the bread even so small a family will consume in
three days. And when you add to the loaves the meat and groceries,
the vegetables and fruit, necessary for three days' moderate
consumption, they will be found to occupy a surprisingly large
amount of space.

The first portion of the journey led through the broad, fertile
plain north of Palma, where plantations of almond, fig, and olive
succeed each other with scarcely a break--that wide expanse whose
fruitfulness has gained Majorca the title of the orchard of the
Mediterranean. Near where the hills meet the plain we passed the
village of Esglayeta, an attractive hamlet consisting of little more
than a church and a wayside _fonda_.

The noses of the horses had been pointing directly towards a
precipitous cleft in the range of mountains, and almost unexpectedly
we entered the valley that divided two great hills. As we drove on,
the winding road gradually ascended, until we found ourselves in the
midst of the mountains and within sight of the outlying portion of
lovely Valldemosa.

In his _Byways of Europe_ Bayard Taylor said: "Verily there is
nothing in all Europe so beautiful as Valldemosa." And indeed the
ancient town, rising on its heights amid still higher heights above
the valley that runs seawards, is strikingly beautiful.

It is only when taking Valldemosa in detail that one notices that
its people are not quite so handsome, that they lack the gracious
and light-hearted bearing of the inhabitants of Palma, that their
dress is poorer, and the streets more squalid. Perhaps the
difference in climate may account for the difference in appearance,
for Valldemosa stands high among the mountains, and its climate is
both colder and damper than that of Palma. The situation is supposed
to be extremely healthy. It was at Valldemosa, on the site
afterwards occupied by the Carthusian monastery, that in 1311 King
Sancho, who was afflicted with asthma, built a palace to which he
removed his Court, and from which he gave his hawking parties.

At the suggestion of Bartolome, we paused to visit the church
attached to the old monastery, which was shown us by an elderly
woman, who, unlike most of the country people, spoke excellent
Spanish and understood our efforts in that language.

Under her guidance we visited the chapel, a fine old treasure-house
of carved effigies of saints, of paintings, and of relics in glass
cases all carefully wrapped up and labelled. The colours of the
paintings that adorn the walls and ceiling, the work of two
Carthusian monks, are as vivid as though still wet from the brush.
And the remarkable altar-piece, with its life-size figures in wax,
is worth a special visit.

Walking through the cloisters of the Carthusian monastery, we passed
the doors of the cells, which are now used as dwelling-houses, and
it occurred to us to ask if our old woman knew in which of the
cells George Sand had passed her memorable winter in company with
her children and with Chopin, and if it would be possible for us to
see it.

Our guide appeared to be familiar with both questions. She had no
hesitation in answering them in the affirmative; and preceding us
briskly down the long, ascetic-looking corridor (that accorded so
ill with our notion of Madame Dudevant), knocked at the door
numbered 1.

"But if people are living in the house, will they not object? We
must not disturb them," we demurred.

Our guardian thrust aside our protest as trivial, and in truth it
was offered in a perfunctory spirit.

"No, no," she assured us. "The senor will be pleased. He is a nice
gentleman. He was the doctor of Valldemosa for thirty years, till he
retired. He will show you the house himself."

And indeed the senor, when he appeared, was graciousness itself.
Welcoming us after the Spanish fashion, he put his house and what it
contained at our disposal. In this case the courtesy proved more
than a form of words, for he personally conducted us over all his
domain.

First he showed us the terrace garden, from whose low boundary-wall,
as from a balcony, one could look over the scattered houses that
nestled among their laden orange-trees, towards the distant sea. The
sun was shining; the air was heavy with the perfume of the loquat
blossoms; a delicious languor lay over all. It was easy to imagine
George Sand leaning on that wall, whose base was so thickly fringed
with luxuriant maidenhair fern, revelling in the beauty of her
surroundings. But my thoughts and sympathy were most with the monks
who, on the suppression of the convents in 1835, were obliged to
leave their quiet cells and the gardens that must have been a
perpetual delight to them, and go elsewhere to subsist on the scant
pension of a franc a day.

[Illustration: Valldemosa]

Taking us indoors, the doctor showed us the living-rooms, five of
which looked out to the terrace-garden. The name of "cell"
suggests accommodation that is cramped and austere, but nothing
could have been more cheerful than these sunlit chambers.

In the large, airy _salon_, with its domed ceiling, one could easily
imagine both musician and novelist finding abundant space to work,
he with his "velvet fingers," as his companion christened them, she
with her facile pen. And in the quaint kitchen, with its range of
charcoal stoves and big, open fireplace, one could picture them
gathering on the nights of that cold winter.

It would have been impossible to find a more idyllic setting for a
romantic episode. Still, I must confess that doubts assailed me; for
in November, 1838, when writing to a friend, George Sand had said:--

    "I have a cell, that is to say, three rooms and a
    garden full of oranges and lemons, for thirty-five
    francs a year, in the large monastery of Valldemosa."

And this house of the doctor's, with its spacious _salon_, its large
dining-room, its many sleeping-apartments? No, much though we
desired it, the descriptions hardly tallied. Then in her account of
the unusually severe winter Madame Dudevant wrote of the "eagles and
vultures that came down to feast on the poor sparrows that sheltered
in their pomegranate trees from the snow."

Now in the garden there was a _kake_ tree laden with ripe rose-red
fruit, and other trees, but no pomegranate. But then that was many
years past, and the trunk of the pomegranate-tree might long ago
have been burnt on that wide hearth in the kitchen.

Speaking of the matter to the good doctor, we found our uncertainty
shared. Throwing out his hands he said humorously:--

"Who knows? There is no record. It was _one_ of the cells. That much
is certain. And this was the house of the Superior. If not this
house, it was another. That is enough."

But as we descended the slope from the monastery we agreed that,
whether or not the great French _artistes_ ever lived within the
walls of that particular cell, there could be no question that they
had breathed the sweet air of these terrace-gardens, and had known
the enchantment of that wonderful panoramic view. And that made
their personalities very real to us.

Bartolome awaited us smiling, and, insinuating ourselves among our
medley of belongings, off we set along the three miles of road that
led to Miramar.

On the outskirts of Valldemosa we saw, for the first time in
Majorca, vines climbing over tall trees by the wayside, their grapes
in purple bunches suspended in profusion from the branches. The
effect was so beautiful that we almost regretted the more prosaic
vineyards near Palma, with the carefully trained vines that
resembled well-pruned blackberry bushes.

As we advanced, passing through a succession of olive plantations
that rose above us towards the grand craggy mountains and fell
beneath us to the blue sea, glimpses of which we caught over the
foliage, the beauty of the scene that gradually unfolded surpassed
all that we had yet seen.

The Man groaned a little, as during the next three days he was fated
to groan often, and for the same reason.

"This is _too_ grand," he said. "It's hopeless. One could never
paint it!"

Turning a bend of the road, Bartolome drew rein with a flourish
before a quaint dwelling by the wayside; and we realized that we had
reached the Hospederia.

"I say! We ought to have sent word we were coming. I hope the house
isn't full. I hope they'll have room for us," said the Boy, voicing
the sudden apprehension of us all. But so far from being crowded
with visitors, the Hospederia seemed totally deserted. The great
door was shut and, except for a vagrant cat and a clucking hen,
there was no sign of life about the place.

Shouting lustily for "Fernando," Bartolome jumped down and, running
to the door, knocked loudly. Receiving no reply, he did not stand
upon ceremony but, pushing open the door, went in, beckoning us to
follow.

Entering, we found ourselves in a large outer hall with a cobbled
floor and a long well-scrubbed table and benches. Following our
charioteer, who had opened an inner door, we went into a large
dimly-lit room which, when the window-shutters had been opened,
revealed itself as a long narrow dining-room of severely ascetic
appearance. Tables extended down its length, chairs with seats of
interwoven string stood round the walls.

"Look, senora!"

Running to a cupboard, Bartolome had thrown open the door,
disclosing shelves laden with china and crystal.

Again--"Look! senora."

Hastening to the opposite side of the room, he had opened the doors
of a big _armario_, and was pointing to piles of clean table-linen.

It was as though we had strayed into some enchanted castle where all
had been prepared for our coming by invisible hands. Going off to
explore further, we found our way into a snug kitchen. The whole of
one side was occupied by a brown-tiled charcoal stove, on which many
dinners could have been cooked simultaneously. The shelves were
laden with cooking-pots and pans, of every description; the walls
shone with an array of well-polished utensils. Over charcoal embers
a huge earthenware pot, that for its better preservation had been
encased in a strait-waistcoat of wire-netting, was slowly bubbling.

Essaying to mount the stair leading from the hall, we peeped into
closely shuttered apartments in which we could see the dim outlines
of beds. And what we saw assured us of one thing--that there were no
other guests at the Hospederia.

From the perfect order of the house, and the fact that the fire was
burning, it was clear that someone must be close at hand. But we
had come a long way, and in the meantime we were famishing.

Hastening to our aid, the ubiquitous Bartolome spread the table,
putting out plates and glasses, and finding wooden spoons and forks
in the drawer of a side-table. Opening our packets of sandwiches and
fruit, we invited him to join us.

We were all seated at table, busily eating, when a swift clatter of
feet sounded on the cobble stones of the outer hall; and a brisk
little brown woman ran into the room, voluble with apology for the
temporary absence of the keepers of the Hospederia. Netta, she
explained, was away. Fernando was working at the farm. In their
absence could she be of any service to our excellencies?

Reassured on that point, the lady--Catalina was her name--remained
to enliven our picnic lunch by rallying Bartolome, who was an old
acquaintance of hers, on his unparalleled effrontery in sitting down
to table with us.

"You have no right to eat with their excellencies," she said. "You
are only a coachman."

"But if he is a good coachman?" asked the Man.

"Ah, no, senor. He is not a good coachman. He is a bad coachman.
And, besides, he cannot spread a table. See! he has given you no
table-cloth, no napkins, when he knows the cupboard is full of them.
No, he is a very bad coachman indeed!"

When our scrap meal was finished, Catalina proceeded to show us our
sleeping accommodation. Unlocking a door that we had not tried, she
led us through a pleasant room with two beds, to one with two
windows--one facing the highroad, where Bartolome's carriage still
waited, the other affording a beautiful view of the rugged coast.

Catalina explained that these rooms were usually allotted to
foreigners such as ourselves, the less attractively situated being
reserved for natives of the island, who were at liberty to share the
Archduke's hospitality, although the Hospederia was originally
intended for the use of other travellers. A handsome new
dining-room in process of construction, though during our stay no
one was actually working at it, was also planned for the
accommodation of those from far countries, but to us the
appointments of the older building seemed peculiarly in keeping with
the quaint idea of the Hospederia.

The bedrooms were simply but sufficiently furnished. Each had two
single beds, half-a-dozen chairs, a plain wooden table, and a tripod
washstand holding the smallest basin and ewer we had seen outside
France. The roofs were raftered. All was the perfection of austere
cleanliness.

Before our inspection was ended Fernando, the host, a good-looking
man with the gracious deportment of an operatic tenor, had returned.
His grandmother had been the original housekeeper of the Hospederia.
On her death, at the age of ninety-nine, her office had descended
upon Fernando and his young wife Netta.

We spent the all too short November afternoon and evening in
exploring the slopes about Miramar, looking at the glorious views
that perpetually presented some yet more glorious aspect. The
Hospederia was over a thousand feet above the sea, to which the
ground fell precipitously. Above the house the land rose up and up
until it ended in towering crags. Northward stretched the
Mediterranean. Elsewhere the eye met nothing but range upon range of
mountains.

The extensive grounds of Miramar are well shaded with olive and
carob trees, but at every point that affords a specially good view
of some part of the exquisite scenery the Archduke has caused to be
erected a _mirador_, or walled enclosure, where one can sit in
safety and glory in the beauty of the surroundings.

From one of these we watched the after-glow of the setting sun
illumine distant peaks, bringing into prominence heights whose
existence we had scarcely realized.

The darkness, falling swiftly, surprised us while a good distance
from the Hospederia, and we had to find our way back by untried
paths. But the fascination of the place held us captive, and when
the moon began to peep out from among the clouds we could not remain
indoors, as more sensible folks would have done. Wrapping up a
little, for it was colder on the northern coast of the island than
at Palma, we went out, determined to reach a headland by the sea, on
which from above we had caught tantalizing glimpses of a shining
white temple.

Except from a _mirador_ the temple was not visible, and we wandered
by many devious ways before we again came in sight of it, perched
above the sea on a high rock that is reached by a stone bridge
thrown over a deep gully.

As we felt our way along, for the elusive moon was again behind a
cloud, all was silent, mysterious. Surely Miramar at nightfall in
winter is one of the most silent places on the earth. We felt as
though there was not a human being alive but ourselves.

Crossing the bridge timorously, we found ourselves confronting the
ghostly white chapel. When we had told Catalina of our desire to
visit it, she had given us keys, but they did not fit. And as we
proceeded to fumble with the lock, the silence was so intense that I
could almost have imagined that someone within was holding his
breath to listen. Had we knocked upon that closed door I had an
eerie conviction that the spectre of some long-dead monk would have
opened it.

But we did not knock. And the moon favouring us with a glimpse of
her illumining power, we walked round the base of the temple, which
is securely railed in, and watched the moon outline with silver
finger-tips each point and pinnacle of the hills and shimmer softly
on the sea.

When we returned to the Hospederia, Fernando had gone to fetch his
wife; and Catalina, who had been left in charge, bustled into the
dining-room to tell us that two _carabineros_ had come, and were
resting in the kitchen.

"Have they come after us?" cried the Man; and Catalina, who enjoyed
even the mildest of humour, wrinkled her brown face in delight.

The dining-room where we sat was large and dimly lit by oil lamps.
After the silence of those wooded slopes the prospect of even the
company of two _carabineros_ was alluring. So when I went into the
kitchen to cook the lamb cutlets and tomatoes that comprised our
modest supper, my men followed me.

[Illustration: Carabineros in the Kitchen]

The kitchen, which was the most picturesque part of the Hospederia,
was looking particularly snug and cosy. A fire of logs burned on the
open hearth, below the shining tin pans and the strings of red
peppers, and lit up the fine bronzed faces of the _carabineros_, who
sat close to its warmth.

They rose when we entered, to offer us their seats. One, spreading
his striped blanket on the low settle, invited the Man to share it;
and while I grilled the cutlets and Catalina washed dishes at the
sink, the men chatted as freely as their difference of language
would allow, the _carabineros_ talking of their long hours of
duty--for their patrol begins at five or six o'clock in the evening
and does not end until seven next morning--and of the constant watch
that has to be kept for smugglers on that lonely and seemingly
scarce accessible coast.

Leaving them to resume their night watch, we supped and went to bed,
to be roused in the early morning by voices. Netta, the
house-mistress, had returned, and thenceforward the lively Catalina
would relapse into the position of merely an obliging neighbour.




[Illustration: La Trinidad, Miramar]

VIII

MIRAMAR


When we went downstairs to breakfast Netta was setting the table;
setting it, too, after a fashion of her own which never varied, were
the meal breakfast, luncheon or dinner.

First she spread the cloth, whose lack at luncheon on the previous
day had so offended Catalina's sense of what was neat and proper.
Then she put before each place a big tumbler, a little tumbler, two
soup-plates, and a wooden spoon and fork.

Netta proved to be tall and nice-looking, with tragic dark eyes, and
a gravity of manner that was in striking contrast to her husband's
smiling bonhomie. She was an admirable housewife. We never caught
her at work; yet, without the slightest appearance of fuss and
flurry, she managed to keep everything the pink of perfection.

The weather was hardly promising. Rain had fallen in the night;
veils of mist smothered the crests of the near hills and completely
obliterated the more distant. But we were resolved to let nothing
short of an actual downpour keep us indoors. And as the Man wished
to sketch at Valldemosa, which had captivated us all on the previous
day, the Boy and I accompanied him thither. Perhaps it is unwise to
attempt to renew first impressions. Possibly the charm of Miramar
clouded our eyes to the undoubted beauty of Valldemosa. More likely
the fact that the sun only peeped out fitfully, and that the wind
was damp and the sky sullen, influenced our view: but somehow
Valldemosa seemed to have lost the glamour it cast over us when we
first saw it basking in the warm sunlight. Everybody seemed chilly,
and all the children looked as if they had colds in their noses.

Leaving the Man working at a water-colour of the old Carthusian
monastery from rising ground above a covered well, we set off with
the intention of augmenting our little stock of provisions from the
shops of the town.

The store we chanced upon sold every likely and unlikely commodity,
from green and orange boots to radishes. When we inquired where we
might find a butcher, the shop-mistress, with a majestic wave of her
hand, signed to us to follow her. And, walking in her footsteps, we
threaded our way through an apartment, which was partly kitchen and
partly an overflow stock chamber, into an inner room, where hung
garlands of black and yellow sausages and the carcasses of two
lambs.

This was the butcher's shop, she announced, and there was no beef,
only lamb. So perforce we added yet more cutlets to our diet, and
humbly craved bread. But the only loaves she had were so large that,
rejecting them, we went in search of a baker.

In the less important Majorcan towns, shops are difficult to find.
The fact that a tax is levied upon signs keeps all but the most
prominent vendors from exhibiting one. The room of an ordinary
house that opens directly to the street usually acts as the place of
business; and a cabbage, or a basket of striped haricot beans, set
casually on the doorstep, often serves to indicate the existence of
a general shop.

After a little searching we succeeded in finding a _panaderia_, but
the loaves of the baker, in place of being smaller than those of the
grocer (which sounds Ollendorffian), were so huge that they
resembled cartwheels, or, to be more exact, perambulator wheels,
baked of rye.

For a moment the choice lay between possible starvation and the
prospect of trundling the mammoth rye loaf up and down the three
miles of highway that lay between us and the Hospederia.

While we hesitated, the baker lady, and the half dozen or so of her
intimate friends who had followed us into the shop to see what the
foreigners would buy, regarded us interestedly. Then a compromise
suggested itself.

"Would it be possible to ask the senora to divide the loaf?"

"Yes--without doubt."

The complacent senora already had the large knife in her hand. So,
clutching the half of the still steaming rye loaf, we returned to
the Man, with whom we had arranged to share an open-air luncheon.

Before we had reached him, the mist that had been threatening to
swoop down upon us resolved itself into a shower. Taking advantage
of the near vicinity of the covered well, we boiled our tea-kettle
under the archway, and drank tea, to the surprise of the people who
were constantly coming to fill their water-jars.

Then, the sun consenting, rather sulkily, to peep out again, the Man
returned to his work, while the Boy and I, feeling no further
temptation to linger at Valldemosa, took up our section of the
cartwheel and set off for Miramar.

On the way, not far beyond the outskirts of the town, we caught
sight of a notice-board, which stated that a Museum of Mallorquin
antiquities might be seen in a house on the side of the road
nearest to the mountains. Following the path indicated, we found
ourselves, after a few minutes walking, in the courtyard of what had
evidently been a fine old country seat.

The doors stood open to the world. Except for a beautiful flock of
cream-coloured turkeys, the place seemed utterly untenanted. There
was no sign of humanity until the Boy woke the echoes by smiting
lustily on a cow-bell that hung outside the kitchen door.

Then a little sun-dried old woman popped her head out, and with a
scared face fled up a broad flight of steps that led from the
courtyard to the floor above.

She had gone to warn the custodian of the Museum; and that dame,
quickly appearing, invited us upstairs to see the collection.

The house, Son Moragues, she told us, was one of the many owned by
the Archduke on the different estates he had bought. He had never
used it as a residence, and merely kept it as a receptacle for the
specimens of typical Mallorquin manufactures, such as pottery,
models of baskets, furniture, etc., he was collecting.

The object that interested us perhaps more than any other exhibit
was a jar that had been salved from the sea in Palma Harbour.
Although a genuine antique it was of the shape in use to-day; and
its unrecorded period of immersion had left it encrusted with a
marvellous decoration of barnacles and shells.

What really delighted us most in the Museum were the views from the
balconies; especially those obtained from a great old _terras_ with
a sloping floor, where we stood in the brilliant sunshine and
watched the showers sweeping along the mountain tops and up the
valley.

Down below us was a thick hedge of prickly pear, the edges of the
fleshy leaves ruched with scarlet fruit. And beside us, as we leant
on the edge of the balcony, was a wire tray on which a quantity of
figs, gathered presumably from the trees in the field beneath, were
drying in the sun.

The quaint old garden, which we saw on the way out, had tall box
hedges and a spreading magnolia, and crumbling stone seats
surrounded the fountain, whose waters have long run dry.

In the evening I had gone to bed early, leaving the others to follow
their own devices, and was sleeping the sleep of the woman who had
been all day in the open air, when an insistent calling of my name
aroused me back to semi-consciousness, and I gradually gathered that
I must descend to open the door. The men, who had gone out walking
in the moonlight, had returned to find that, inadvertently, the
house door had been locked and barred against them.

Had my room been less accessible, or my sleep more profound, they
might have knocked and called in vain, for although it was hardly
nine o'clock, Fernando and Netta were deep in the slumber of the
agriculturist in some unknown roof-chamber of the tall old house.

Although so isolated in position, Miramar is intimately connected
with the romantic life-history of Ramon Lull--rake, recluse,
scholar, fanatic, martyr, saint--what you will.

The father of Ramon Lull--the name is variously spelt: Raymund Lully
in the English; Ramundo Lulio in the Spanish; and Ramon Lull in the
Mallorquin, which has a bad habit of chipping the ends off
words--was one of those brave young knights of Aragon who fought
with their King during his invasion and conquest of Majorca. When
that war had ended happily for all but the Moors, the parent Lull,
in company with the other nobles who had supported King Jaime the
Conquistador, was rewarded with an estate in Majorca. And there,
about six years later, his son Ramon was born.

During his earlier manhood Ramon gave little hint of what he was
ultimately to become. His behaviour was by no means sedate. Nay,
more, it is on record that his love affairs were so numerous as to
become a public scandal, which reached a climax on his riding on
horseback into church in pursuit of a devout lady whom he madly
adored.

The fatal illness of this lady, by awakening his conscience and
rousing him to a sense of sin, changed the current of his thoughts,
and after a period of self-accusation and contrition, he decided not
only to lead a better life, but to spend that life in the
reformation of others.

King Jaime, on being applied to, supplied the funds necessary for
the carrying out of his project, and Lull erected a college at
Miramar, where close by the house of the Archduke a fragment of the
original chapel is still to be seen. His scheme was to teach
thirteen monks Arabic, so that they could go forth as missionaries
among the infidels. And Miramar, one of the most secluded spots on
earth, as well as one of the most beautiful, he deemed a suitable
place for study.

But the scheme failed. Why, the chroniclers do not say. Perhaps the
students, being merely human, wearied of the restrictions of
existence in that seminary perched on the hill-side between the
mountains and the sea, and pined for company.

The project was abandoned. A later record speaks of King Sancho,
grandson of the Conquistador, visiting Miramar in quest of relief
from the asthma with which he was afflicted, and residing at the
Arabic College.

Lull, nothing daunted by the defection of his pupils, alone put into
execution his plan of carrying the truth into other lands. We hear
of his preaching Christ in Africa and being rewarded with stripes.
Then we are told of his travelling in the Holy Land. Later he
appears in Paris, in Egypt, and even in England, writing books and
teaching.

In spite of besetting dangers, Lull's life of study and propagandism
lasted beyond the ordinary term of man. When he was an octogenarian,
and probably weary of the struggle, he desired to quit the world in
a blaze of glory; and, as the best means of attaining his end,
returned to Africa, where earlier he had been received with
contumely and severely beaten. There Lull met the fate he coveted:
for continuing to preach openly and persistently, he was stoned to
death at Bugia in June, 1315.

Some Genoese disciples who had begged for his bruised and broken
body brought it tenderly back to his birthplace. We had seen the
spot of its interment in the beautiful church of San Francisco, at
Palma, a Gothic temple of the thirteenth century, that vies in
antiquity with the Cathedral. One of the chapels in the transept to
the left of the high altar gives sepulture to the aged martyr. The
effigy shown is that of an old man lying on his side, as though to
signify that his unwavering and indomitable spirit had at last
gained rest.

We had spoken tentatively of Lull to Fernando, and Fernando had not
only admitted a knowledge of the old-world frequenter of his slopes,
but had volunteered to take us to visit his cave, a sanctuary high
on the mountain-side above Miramar, where Lull was wont to go when
he felt the need of seclusion. And at ten next morning we were
waiting, expectant.

But at ten Fernando, just returned from his morning's work on the
farm, was at breakfast. So we went to the _mirador_, below the
Hospederia, and spent the minutes of waiting enjoying the view that,
no matter how often we saw it, always wore a different aspect.

This morning, though the sun was shining on the sea and on the
olives that covered the lower slopes, the higher peaks were obscured
by filmy scarves of mist, and scarcely perceptible wisps were
floating about the mountain sides, giving an air of mystery and
grandeur to the lofty heights.

Then Fernando appeared wiping his moustached lips, which already
held the inevitable cigarette. Under his guidance we moved along the
highroad until we came to a gate where a cross fixed to the post
betokened monastery ground. A sandalled monk passing by gave us
grave greeting. There the ascent began at once, the path zigzagging
about on the terraced slopes that were thickly planted with olives.
The undergrowth was bright with the vivid green foliage and
brilliant scarlet berries of the winter cherry.

Up and up we mounted, Fernando and the Boy walking lightly in
advance, we others lagging a little behind, until we felt like birds
seeking some mountain aerie; till looking down we saw nothing but a
steeply shelving forest of tree tops, or looking up caught a glimpse
of mist-obscured crags.

The path wound about along narrow ledges and up crazy, almost
obliterated steps, until with the suddenness of a surprise the track
branched off to a ledge on the right, and we saw, set in the face of
the solid rock, a little wicket gate.

It was so long since the gate had been opened that it necessitated a
strong effort on the part of Fernando's broad shoulders before it
would consent to open.

Within, the unexpected awaited us. Set in the wall of the cave
facing the door was an old bas-relief carving that had evidently
marked the place of the altar before which the saint had been wont
to worship. The passing of the centuries has gradually blurred the
outlines of the carving: still we could see the form of the Virgin
and Child, and the worshipping figure of an angel. Behind the group
was a background of palms.

The wall still held a faint trace of fresco, and from the side hung
the socket--in the shape of a bird--for an antique lamp.

There was something so attractive, and even homely, in the cave,
that we required no great effort of imagination to fancy Lull
choosing it as his hermitage, and escaping thither when he yearned
for a space to be free from the society of the thirteen monks who so
soon had tired of their task.

That raised ledge might have served for a couch; this stone seemed
the right height for a seat; a small window hewn in the side
admitted sufficient light did the recluse wish to study. In the wall
was a natural basin, which to this day, except when long-continued
drought has dried up all the watercourses, holds a supply of fresh
water.

It seemed to us that Lull had chosen an ideal place of seclusion in
the rock-dwelling set far up in the pure air, where no sound save
the twitter of bird or the far-off murmur of the sea could break the
solemnity of his thoughts.

Everything about the cave bespoke its antiquity. The trees that
fronted the entrance were hoary with age and fringed with lichen.
And on the hill-side above, amidst moss-grown trees and blooming
heath, a tall cross had been erected in memory of the recluse whose
haven it once had been.

There was yet another cave that Fernando had promised to show us;
one of worldly, not of religious uses this time. It was the place
where in not very remote ages smugglers concealed the contraband
goods that they had succeeded in landing on the coast below. So,
leaving the cell of Ramon Lull, we followed our guide, clambering
higher and yet higher, and speedily getting into the dim twilight of
forests that might have existed since the beginning of the world, so
venerable were they, so thickly mossed and festooned with grey-green
lichen.

The signs of foliage were of the scantiest. Many trees revealed no
more than half a dozen leaves set at the extreme tips of the
lichen-furred branches. And all about was a huddled waste of
stones--the debris that collects at the base of great mountains. In
these gloomy recesses where daylight never enters there was no
indication of life--no flutter of startled bird, not even a
scurrying beetle. All was still and weird.

On hastened the light-footed Fernando, and on we followed more
ponderously, marvelling how he knew his way where we could see no
trace of a path. Suddenly branching off to the right, over the rough
rocks, he preceded us to where, low down amongst a tumbled heap of
boulders, a slight crevice showed. Smiling, he glanced back at us,
then bent down and disappeared. Close on his heels the Boy followed.
And both had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving us gaping
at the mouth of the exaggerated rabbit burrow that had seemingly
swallowed them up. We, wisely, did not attempt to enter. The
prospect of a rough scramble did not tempt us.

On his return to the surface the Boy described the interior of the
cave as both wide and lofty. But I must confess the idea of the
smugglers conveying their illicit cargoes from the beach all that
distance up the steep mountain-side to store it in a cavern that was
on the way to nowhere seemed absurd. It assuredly was inaccessible.
And it spoke well for the vigilance of the carbineers that the
_contrabandistas_ could find no more convenient place of
concealment.

But had Majorca not been free from the bandit plague, what a
glorious place that would have been for brigands in which to keep
prisoned the rich foreigners they were holding for ransom!

In some such unattainable holes and crannies of the heights must the
mountain Moors have existed during the two years that passed before
their chief surrendered to the Conquistador.

Just beyond the smugglers' cave were the fragmentary remains of a
monastery, so old and long deserted that the lichen-fringed trees
had rooted as deeply within the ruined walls of its chambers as
without in the forest.

Still further we went, keeping close on the heels of our untiring
leader, for the track sloped downwards now and the going was easier.
Once more we were in the region of trees that seemed alive, not
merely fossilized and moss-grown.

Like a born guide, Fernando had reserved the most charming part of
the excursion to the last. All unexpectedly he brought us to where,
on an outjutting pinnacle of rock, the Archduke had erected a
chapel. From the stone seats placed round its base we had an
enchanting and yet more comprehensive view than ever before of the
scene that, from whatever point we chanced to see it, never failed
to give us a fresh thrill of delight.

And wasn't I glad to sit down!

We had felt so much at home at the Hospederia and so enthralled with
this new world of steeps and silences that, when the last of our
three days had come, we felt sincerely sorry to leave it.

In torrid summer weather, when the southern plains of the island lie
baking in the sun, it would be impossible to imagine a more charming
way of escape from the heat than to rest under the shades of leafy
Miramar, or to sit at ease in one of the cunningly placed
_miradors_ "looking lazy at the sea" and the everlasting hills.

But the law is inexorable. When his three days' free lodging has
come to an end each guest must move on to make room for others. A
wise provision; for, had it not been so ruled, the first travellers
who filled these beds and ate at these tables would never have left
the Hospederia--they would have been there yet!

Our next stopping-place was to be Soller, a town that is envalleyed
amid the highest mountains in the island. Soller is ten miles
distant from Miramar, and the question was how we were to get
transported thither. At the Hospederia we were quite out of the way
of traffic. Not even a diligence lumbered by.

Fernando, coming to our rescue, offered to negotiate with a farmer
for the use of a cart. It was the ploughing season, the busiest time
of the year for both men and mules, but he succeeded in arranging
that we could have the loan of a conveyance of some kind at two
o'clock that afternoon for ten pesetas.

The morning had been wet. Happily not with the drenching, torrential
rain of these latitudes, but with an insinuating moisture
reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands. Disregarding it, we made the
most of the few hours at our disposal, seeking, and finding, fresh
walks and wonders in our surroundings.

One thing I remember that specially interested us in the terraced
olive plantations of Miramar, was the method of throwing a little
stone bridge from one walled terrace to another across the bed of
the river. There was no water in the channel, the bed was dry and
mossy. As we looked up at the succession of bridgelets, each flanked
on either side by short flights of stone steps, it seemed to typify
the extreme of the elaborate and painstaking system of culture that
prevails all over the island.

With appetites sharpened by the famed air of Miramar we had lunched
off goats' milk, the toasted remains of our half cartwheel of rye
bread, and something I had confidently expected would prove to be
an omelet, but which turned out to be something entirely different.
It was eatable, however, even delectable, and we devoured it to the
last yellow fragment, then waited the arrival of our carriage.

It came at last. And as it drew up in front of the Hospederia we
looked first at it, then at each other, in silent dismay.

In place of the roomy farm cart drawn by mules that we had expected
to see, the conveyance was one of the gaily painted, two-wheeled
cockleshells in which Majorcan farmers go a-junketing. It would have
been an admirable vehicle for two people. Viewed as a means of
carrying four with luggage, it at first sight seemed absolutely
impracticable.

"Oh, it's all right; I'll walk," said the Boy, regardless of the
fact that ten long miles of wet road lay between us and the Hotel
Marina at Soller.

Our luggage was as little as a party of three could be expected to
require during a week's expedition, comprising as it did only one
large portmanteau, a suit-case, some sketching materials, and a
couple of rugs. Yet compared with the size of the conveyance it
appeared of enormous dimensions.

Nothing daunted by the overwhelming bulk of his prospective load,
the driver put the suit-case under the seat, propped the big
portmanteau up on it, and invited me to get in. That done, allowing
a modicum of space for himself, the carriage was full.

Obviously that plan would not do. Again we looked at each other in
despair. Fortunately the driver was a man of resource. Hauling out
the big bag, he wrapped it in a sail-like canvas cover, and,
producing fragments of rope from all his pockets, proceeded to tie
it on at the back of the cart. Running into the house, Netta brought
more rope for its better security. With the load hanging behind, it
seemed as though the tiny vehicle were already overweighted; but its
capacity for endurance proved greater than we anticipated. The Man
got in, the Boy got in, the driver also mounted. All three were
jammed into a narrow seat for two. I was squeezed in somewhere at
the back, and at last our journey began.

As we drove on the feeling of insecurity lessened; we forgot to
expect the cart to tip up. Our mule proved himself a good goer, and
we early learned to adapt ourselves to conditions--to lean forwards
going uphill, to incline backwards when the way led downwards.

Though the mist still blurred the mountains the coast scenery was
magnificent. The road, which lay half-way between sea and
mountain-top, was bordered on either side by olive plantations.
About three miles from the Hospederia it curved inwards into the
most beautiful valley I had ever seen.

[Illustration: A Tight Fit]

Houses that looked like nests, so thickly were they surrounded by
luxuriant foliage, were scattered about the lower parts of the hills
that on three sides rose steeply; on the fourth the land declined
gently to the Mediterranean.

Here there were no jealous walls to hedge in the gardens. Oranges,
lemons, and figs in full fruitage overhung the highway. Tall palms
rose overhead, and down by a fountain women were washing. It was the
village of Deya, a sleepy nest seven miles from even a diligence,
but, even seen through a blur of rain, a place of exquisite beauty.

"We must come back here."

"Yes, we'll come back----"

"And stay a month," we agreed, as we had done about so many charming
spots that we had got just a glimpse of, and as we were fated to do
about so many more before our sojourn in these lovely isles came to
a close.

We would gladly have lingered to explore the beauties of Deya, but
the delay at starting had already encroached on the November
afternoon, and the greater portion of our journey was yet to come.
So the men, who had got down to walk through the village, remounted,
and once more, huddled up together, off we joggled, out of the
lovely valley and along a cliff-road where, among the grey-green
olive-trees, girls in skirts of vivid scarlet were gathering the
fallen fruit.

It was five o'clock and dusk was already falling when we descended
the zigzag road leading into Soller and, passing a picturesque old
cross, turned into a modern-looking street planted on either side
with trees.

"What I want to see now," I said, deliberately shutting my eyes to
the scenery, "is a hotel with electric light, and a good fire, and
German waiters, and French cookery."

"Don't be hateful," retorted the Boy. "But it doesn't matter; you
won't see it. My only fear is that they won't be able to take us
in."

The rain, which was now falling more heavily, had sent the townsfolk
indoors. The only wayfarer in sight was a venerable gentleman who,
as he sat astride a panniered donkey, protected himself from the
rain with a large umbrella.

Turning with a final jolt, we drew up in front of the Hotel Marina,
whose wide glass doors opened hospitably to receive us.

There was no question of lack of room, fortunately, but the
dinner-hour was yet two hours ahead, and even the satisfaction
derived from the omelet (which wasn't really an omelet) was already
a vague memory. But we are people of resource. While I boiled the
unfailing tea-kettle the men foraged, returning with provender in
the shape of crisply toasted _bizcochos_ and _cocas_, and we had a
cosy tea that enabled us to possess our bodies in patience until the
dinner-hour.

The waiter who served us was German, the cookery revealed more than
a suspicion of French influence, the electric light was brilliant,
and there was a cheery fire. But even the Boy did not complain.




IX

SOLLER


Though a longer acquaintance reveals many charming and wholly
Majorcan characteristics, at first sight Soller resembles a Swiss
town, so closely do the high mountains encircle it. The likeness is
emphasized when, as occasionally happens in winter, the double crest
of the Puig Major is tipped with snow.

With the exception of Palma, Soller was the only Balearic town in
which we had slept. Half unconsciously we found ourselves putting
them in comparison, to discover that while each is, after its own
fashion, delightful, they are entirely dissimilar.

Palma, "compactly built together," stands, crowded a little, within
its city walls, its feet lapped by the sea, a fertile plain behind
it, while Soller stretches itself at ease among its hills, with
abundant elbow-room, in a fruitful orange grove. Water is a precious
thing in Palma, where drinking-water in quaint Moorish stone jars is
hawked through the streets, while a striking and refreshing feature
of Soller is the abundance of running water. It flowed--a little
sluggishly perhaps, for the rains had not yet come--over the stony
bed of the _torrente_; it gushed unchecked from the street
fountains; it ran along cunningly contrived stone conduits and
turned mills.

[Illustration: Soller]

There are no rivers in Majorca. The beds of the _torrentes_ that
ought to be rivers are often so dry that they resemble rough
sun-baked roads. It was so many weeks since we had seen even a
thread of running water that the sound of its flow was music in our
ears. As a full and free supply of pure water is essential to the
well-being of a town, one easily understands how Soller has the
advantage of Palma in health conditions. The absorbent soil of
Soller ensures freedom from rheumatism, and the old people remain
hale and hearty to the close of lives that in many cases come within
nodding distance of a century.

Perhaps it was owing to the absence of the military, or the want of
a railway--though Soller has one in the making--or of the close
vicinity of a port, but to our cursory view Soller appeared less
gay, and its people seemed to lack the irresponsible smiling
light-heartedness of Palma folks.

There were architectural differences also. To enter one of the
better-class houses in the larger city one crosses a _patio_, or
open courtyard, and having ascended a stair, knocks at a door; while
in Soller one steps directly from the street into a large hall, on
either side of which, close to the wall, are set a long row of
chairs all of similar design. Here visitors are received, and, as
far as we could judge, penetrate no further.

Soller has few of the flat roof-tops or windows that are so
prominent a feature of the old Moorish capital, but Soller has more
chimneys; in the stillness of early morning the faint blue haze of
wood fires overhangs the town.

Our first day at Soller opened dull and grey. Much rain had fallen
in the night. The streets were damp, the mountains mist-shrouded.
The Boy and I felt depressed and cross. The Man, who had already
discerned picturesque possibilities in the unique situation of the
place, put a sketch-book in his pocket and went off in search of a
typical subject. The Boy and I prowled about the narrow streets,
allowing ourselves to be annoyed at everything--at the mud, at the
Sunday crowds, and at the way they stared at us.

In the square before the church was a busy little market. At the
corner of the square, near where one gets a lovely view of the
_torrente_ overhung by the balconies of crooked old houses, some of
the ramshackle vehicles that convey marketers to and from the port
of Soller were waiting.

"Let's go and have a look at the port," proposed the Boy. "Those
people look at us as if we were wild beasts. And it will be better
than hanging about here in the mud."

The shower that had been threatening all the morning was beginning
to fall, so I agreed. Selecting the coach that seemed on the point
of starting, we took our seats. A young couple, an old couple, and
half a dozen market baskets overflowing with greenstuff, shared the
interior with us. Three more people and several more baskets mounted
to the box, and, just as the rain began to patter heavily on the
canvas roof, we drove off, glad to have secured the temporary
shelter.

The way from Soller to its port seems to lie through an orange
grove, so closely is it flanked on either side with gardens full of
the shining leaves and golden fruit. It was sad to learn that a
blight had attacked the crop in the lower part of the valley, and to
see in one orchard a heap of trees, plucked up by the roots with the
fruit still thick on the branches, waiting to be burnt.

As we drove slowly along we met many country people townwards bent
to mass or market. Long usage in sunshine and shadow had streaked
the original hue of their great cotton umbrellas with broad lines of
lighter tint--lines that until one guessed the cause looked like
elaborately decorative stripes.

By the time we had reached the entrance to the landlocked harbour
the rain had ceased. Fitful gleams of sunshine broke through the
clouds, and the air was soft and pleasant.

Except from one point of view the natural harbour resembled a quiet
inland lake. There was no sign of the near proximity of the sea. To
the left rose a bold headland crowned by a lighthouse. To the right
was a long sweep of bay lined at the farther end by a row of houses,
before which small craft lay at anchor. Swart fishermen in red caps
and yellow boots lounged by the doors of the cafes.

Just beyond the houses the steamer _Villa de Soller_, that makes
periodical trips between the port, Barcelona and Cette, was loading
boxes of the oranges for which the district is famed. Farther on was
a second lighthouse.

Climbing the steps that rose steeply between the two rows of houses,
we reached the summit of the rocky promontory. Rusty cannon, their
work long over, lay at rest in front of the old chapel that crowns
the eminence. Before us lay the placid land-encircled sheet of
water, behind us was a wall. Glancing over, we discovered, to our
surprise and pleasure, that instead of the country landscape we had
somehow expected to see, the ground fell sheer down to where the
purple-blue Mediterranean ceaselessly surged beneath.

The unexpected transition from the peaceful inland lake surrounded
by mist-flecked mountains to a precipitous coast was curiously
interesting. A moment earlier, with the moisture-laden air blowing
softly in our faces, we could have imagined ourselves in the heart
of the Scots Highlands. Now, by the mere turning of a head, we were
gazing across a great tideless sea.

A capacious coach, in which we chanced to be the only passengers,
conveyed us back to Soller and deposited us at the door of the Hotel
Marina, where the Man, who had spent the morning sketching on a
mountain-slope, was waiting to join us at luncheon.

The town was busy when, later in the day, we made a tour of
inspection, finding fresh interest at every turn. A row of bananas
rich in pod, a group of quaint old-world houses, a great palm
rearing its stately head, its thick clusters of orange-red fruit
stems heavily beaded with shining yellow fruit.

There was leisure in the air. It was evidently the visiting hour. In
the entrance halls, in full view of the passing public, comely dames
sat chatting all in a row, like the pretty maids in the garden of
Mary-Mary-Quite-Contrary.

To us it always seemed odd to see the gossipers seated side by side
in a formal line--a position that one would imagine was not
conducive to the exchange of confidences.

The suggestion of French influence in the architecture of certain of
the newer houses was explained by the fact that when natives of
Soller leave the island to seek their fortune they rarely go further
than France--an easy journey with the _Villa de Soller_ sailing at
frequent intervals from the port to Cette. And when the exiles
return--as they invariably do, for the emigrant Majorcan's sole
desire is to make money that he may settle in his own country--they
naturally import some of the ideas and tastes of the nation with
which they have sojourned.

French influence, too, was noticeable in the way the women dressed
their hair. In many instances, particularly among the younger women,
the pigtail and the _rebozillo_, or head-handkerchief, had given
place to an elaborately dressed coiffure.

All night the full moon had illumined a sleepy world. When I looked
out at six o'clock it was still visible, though the light of the
hidden sun was already flushing with roseate tints the highest
mountain-tops. Over the valley the azure smoke of wood fires lay
softly, and the sweet, sickly fragrance of steaming chocolate was in
the air.

The valley was still partly in shadow when after breakfast the Man
went out to resume work. Leaving the Boy to his own devices, I went
with him.

The country immediately surrounding Soller is so full of roads all
beautiful, and paths all picturesque, that it is often difficult,
even for those who know the district well, to find the way they look
for. After a little winding in and out of the twisted streets we
came upon the expected road--a track leading upwards towards the
olive terraces.

From the steep slope where we sat it was curious to watch the
progress of the sun as it rose over the mountain-tops to note how,
as it climbed higher, the shadows shortened, the moist streets
dried, the chill vanished from the atmosphere, and new shadows crept
over the sunlit sides of the surrounding hills.

Beneath us ran the _torrente_, and from the roads on either side of
its banks came the sound of wayfarers entering or leaving the town.
The air was full of cheerful sounds, of the rattle of wheels, or the
tinkle of bells and the bleat of lambs as a flock was driven by. The
atmosphere was so clear that we caught the swift musical note of a
church clock, and the sound of a gunshot reverberated among the
hills like a peal of thunder.

The few passers-by gave us kindly greeting. Two old women returning
from market, a bevy of young girls on their way to gather the fallen
olives, an old couple trotting briskly beside their panniered
donkey--all had time to smile and wish us "Good-day."

As the sun became stronger I rose and wandered on, up the steep,
cobbled road, past the gardens where the oranges hung golden,
looking for wild flowers. Even in the days of late November one
rarely looks in vain for wild flowers in Majorca; and this morning,
strolling along by the runnels of water, where the delicate
maidenhair fern grew in profusion, I saw twining about the ivy
berries in the hedge a lovely creeper that was new to me.

Set at regular intervals on a slender brown stem, it bore clusters
of glossy green foliage and drooping florets and buds. The blossoms,
which had four petals, were cream-hued and flecked inside with
crimson. It was a dainty and distinctive trailer. Even in its
natural state it was difficult to imagine a more graceful wreath. A
passer-by of whom I asked its name called it _Sylvestris montana_,
and volunteered the information that, though it luxuriated on dry
walls, no one could succeed in inducing it to grow in gardens.

Following the path as it wound about the side of the hill, I found
myself by easy stages rising high amid the olive terraces. There
were silver-white olives beneath me, silver-white olives above me.
The voices of the invisible gatherers mingled harmoniously with the
music of the running water. A soothing sense of peace lay over all.

I think it was then that I fell in love with Soller.

There are places that at first sight you are entranced with, and in
two days find you have exhausted. Soller is decidedly not one of
these. At the close of the third day of our stay in the
hill-encradled town we felt as though we had hardly yet had more
than a glimpse of its beauties, so many and varied are they. It is
said that you can stay at Soller for two months and go for a
different walk every day--and I believe it.

From the first waking moments, when one could see the rising sun
illumine the hill-tops, until, with its sinking, the grand crest of
the Puig Mayor--the Greater Peak--was garbed in celestial glory, the
day was a succession of artistic delights.

Soller had for us an added charm in the companionship of congenial
fellow-visitors--an English lady who appreciates the beauty of the
place and the homely, good qualities of its people so highly that
she spends long periods there, and an enthusiastic young artist from
the Argentine who, with the world to choose from, elects to paint at
Soller.

Under their guidance we had driven to Biniaraix and, alighting,
mounted the _Barranco_--a wonderful path by which the peasant
proprietors reach the olive-trees that their untiring care in the
preparation of the stony soil and their skill in husbandry have
persuaded to grow on every possible--and, one might almost add,
impossible--ledge of the rocky steeps.

The Barranco, which was like a series of low, broad steps, zigzagged
between the mountains like some eccentric, never-ending staircase.
As we went up and up we paused often to look down to where, deep in
the valley, Soller lay embowered in its orange gardens. And while we
climbed we marvelled at the ceaseless industry of a race that is
willing to expend so much time and toil to reap so small a return.

On the following afternoon we drove to Fornalutx, a little antique
town three miles from Soller. Fornalutx is the point from which
expeditions start to climb the Puig Mayor.

The little town, which is built from the warm, amber-brown stone of
the hill-side on which it perches, is very old. There does not seem
to be a yard of straight street within its bounds. The houses are
set down pell-mell, anyhow and anywhere. A delightful lack of
uniformity reigns supreme. An orange orchard pokes itself in here, a
vine trellis projects there, a flight of steps interjects its
crooked way at every corner.

And it is all pictures!

The Painter, who knew the place, reflecting our pleasure, hurried us
on to see a good subject, and another good subject, and yet another.

As we passed up a quaint side street the tinkle of mandolines fell
gratefully on our ears, and we paused before the open doorway from
which the sound issued. Green branches and tissue-paper frills
decorated the entrance; within, some sort of merrymaking was in
progress.

[Illustration: The Mandoline Player]

A group of pinafored urchins who were hanging about outside told us
that it was the _fiesta_ of the master of the house.

It was rude, inquisitive, and wholly inexcusable, of course, but,
incited thereto by curiosity, we drew nearer and nearer until we
could see into the room which opened directly from the street, and
wherein a young girl and a grey-haired man were seated, mandolines
on knees, playing a duet. They performed without music but in
perfect harmony.

The girl, who was dark-eyed and pretty, was attired gaily in honour
of the festivity. She wore a red skirt, a pale-green bodice, and an
elaborately embroidered white apron. Blue ribbons adorned her
well-oiled hair, silver bracelets and rings decorated her slender
wrists and skilful fingers. The man was evidently her father. In the
background we got an impression of guests and of a presiding
matronly presence.

With a final flourish the melody ceased.

"Bravo!" we cried, and clapped our hands.

It was no longer possible to ignore the presence of the impertinent
foreigners. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the sociable
Majorcans welcomed the opportunity of recognizing our uninvited
appearance. For, as we turned to go, the mistress of the house
hurried out, a hastily vacated chair in either hand, to urge us to
enter, and would take no refusal.

Within, the guests had rearranged themselves. Retiring further into
the room, they had left space for us. It would have been
discourteous to reject the hospitality so unaffectedly offered.

Our little party was soon grouped inside the doorway, and the
father, whose _fiesta_ it was, laying aside his mandoline, seated
himself at an old piano, and the concert began afresh, the daughter
playing the mandoline to her father's accompaniment on the venerable
instrument. The company, which included two priests, smoked as it
listened appreciatively.

On the centre table was a liqueur-stand, two decanters of red wine,
and a large round dish holding a giant _enciamada_. When the music
ended and we rose to go, the hostess advanced carrying the
liqueur-stand, and, doing the honours with an ease of manner and
dignity of bearing that might have adorned any social rank, she
insisted on pouring out a little glass of _aniset_ for each of us.
Having drunk to the health of the hero of the _fiesta_, we made our
farewells and departed, delighted with this chance glimpse of placid
and happy home-life, and wondering what manner of reception a party
of curious intrusive foreigners who disturbed the peace of a family
gathering would have met in our own conservative country.

That afternoon at Fornalutx was fated to be one of those that stand
clearly out in the memory, not because of any special adventure or
of any great occurrence, but simply because it held a succession of
captivating little incidents, of happy chances.

Passing down a narrow street of steps we came upon an old house
whose wide outer court tempted us to enter. Exploring, we found
ourselves in an olive oil factory. In the inner chamber a patient
mule, his eyes blindfolded by having miniature straw baskets tied
over them, was walking sedately round, supplying the force that
crushed the olives, and from the press the oil was gushing in
streams that went to fill the vats underneath the floor.

On the outside wall of the post office a caged bird was singing
cheerily. Next door was the prison, but that cage was empty. The
barred window of its cell opened breast-high on the street, but
spiders had, undisturbed, woven webs across its bars, and the key
stood in the door. Evidently malefactors are scarce in the quaint
hill-town.

Leaving the crooked streets, we strolled up the side of the
_torrente_, which flowed amidst orange orchards and by the sides of
picturesque houses. Pomegranate-trees, their dainty foliage flecked
with autumnal gold, had rooted in the high banks by the water, and
the unplucked rose-red fruit had already supplied many a luxurious
meal for the birds. Were I a bird I would elect to build my nest at
Fornalutx, for there I would be sure to find an abundance of good
food. Figs bursting with ripeness hung on the trees, and all around
were oranges, and vines, and yet more oranges.

Far up the precipitous hill-path, at a point so high that it
afforded a glorious view of Soller, we came upon a farm-house known
to our friends.

The occupants, greeting us kindly, took us into the most curious
kitchen imaginable. Goatskins covered the ceiling, and in the centre
was a place where seats encircled a charcoal brazier--a Majorcan
"cosy corner," where the household could sit and snugly toast their
toes, when storms blew snell about the mountains and rain obscured
the valley.

The garden space in front of the farm-house had been turned into a
great bower by a huge vine that, trained along a trellis, cast over
it a pleasant shade.

[Illustration: At Fornalutx]

It was late in the season--the last day of November--yet a few
glorious clusters of grapes, the berries all golden and pink and
wearing a bloom unmarred by touch of hand, hung heavy from its
branches. Here another instance of native generosity awaited us, for
the housewife, resolutely refusing recompense, sent us away laden
with bunches. As we descended to where the carriage waited we must
have presented something of the appearance of the returning spies
that Moses had sent out to view the land of Canaan.

The sun had set when we reached Fornalutx. Looking up from the
crooked street towards the hills we saw the peak of the Puig Mayor
stand out against the darkening eastern sky, sublime, magnificent,
bathed in a flood of roseate light. It was a fitting climax to a day
of quiet delights.

We had entered Soller wet and weary on Saturday night, knowing no
one within many miles. When, on Wednesday afternoon, the diligence
bound for Palma called at the Marina to pick us up, people of four
different nationalities assembled round the coach door to bid us
"God-speed."

We would fain have lingered amid the oranges and palms of Soller,
but time was flying and we had much to see elsewhere.

The diligence was full--so full that there would hardly have been
space for an added thimble. It was our first experience of a
Majorcan diligence, and we were interested to see how pleasantly the
already closely packed passengers squeezed together to make room for
new-comers, and to note how quietly they all sat, without fidgeting,
with scarcely a change of position, during a drive that lasted over
four hours.

The window in front and those at the sides were shut, and remained
so throughout the journey. Fortunately our seats were by the door,
and through its big window, which we kept open, we had a splendid
view.

The highroad from Soller to Palma is, I verily believe, one of the
most curious ever made. Immediately after leaving the town it has to
ascend 1,500 feet, which exploit it accomplishes by zigzagging at
acute angles to the summit. That done, it zigzags down the other
side.

The progress uphill was necessarily slow, so slow indeed, that the
driver, who had traversed that road daily for thirty years, left his
sure-footed mules to guide themselves, and trotted along behind the
coach smoking the eternal cigarette. And, while we revelled in the
ever-varying views afforded by the constant change of direction, our
fellow travellers gently dozed, with the exception of a round-eyed
little girl, who, oppressed by the glory of her first hat and the
excitement of her first journey, kept wide-awake.

Up we went, every moment revealing some fresh effect of light and
shadow in the enchanting mountains, past where the embryonic
workings of the new light railway scarred the hillside. Up we went
and up, catching little glimpses of the town nestling far beneath in
its cradle of mountains, and seeing the last flash of sunset
illumine their crests. As we mounted slowly the somnolence of our
fellow passengers became more profound, and a portly father who was
seated beside the little girl, to her evident alarm, lurched farther
and farther in her direction, threatening altogether to efface her.
The Man was on the point of going to the rescue, but the coach
having reached the old carven cross that marks the summit, a sudden
and vivifying change came over our manner of progress. The driver
remounted the box beside the two motionless old women, whose
black-shrouded figures we had seen silhouetted against the light,
and off we set, at a pace that atoned for our crawl uphill.

The more rapid motion wrought a transformation on our companions.
All the slumberers awoke. The portly gentleman, simultaneously
opening eyes and mouth, gazed down in astonishment at the child, as
though during his doze she had materialized out of nothing. Lively
expressions lit up the blank faces. The little old man in the corner
began softly chanting one of the quaint native songs, that to me
always sound like improvisations.

It was already dusk when we stopped to change our three hardy mules
at a wayside _fonda_: and the lights of Palma were sparkling through
the December darkness when we drew up at the city gate for the
_consumero's_ inspection.

During our days of absence the gay little city seemed to have
decided that winter had come. The soldiers had donned their heavy
coats, and men were going about muffled in great cloaks: but leaves
were still thick on the plane-trees in the Borne, and to us the air
seemed still soft and pleasant.

A few minutes later we were entering the Casa Tranquila with that
feeling of absolute contentment that return to one's own home alone
can afford.




[Illustration: Son Mas, Andraitx]

X

ANDRAITX


A happy fortune more than good guiding led us to Andraitx. The Boy,
painting at the port of Palma had seen the diligence, stuffed within
with country folks and top-heavy without with their bundles, start
with a gay jingle of bells for that little-known town, and was
seized with a desire to visit it.

Somewhat precipitately we engaged our seats in the following day's
coach, and then proceeded to make inquiries about the place. Nobody,
it seemed, had a good word to say of it, perhaps because no one went
there. Baedeker scorned even to mention its name. There was only an
inferior _fonda_, one informant said. There was no _fonda_ at all,
amended another.

The diligence left Palma at two o'clock, and the fee for the 30
kilometros--over 20 miles--was two pesetas. Taking only a light
suit-case, we locked the doors of the Casa Tranquila that glorious
December afternoon, and walking down, reached in good time the
little back-street cafe whence the coach started.

Several passengers were already in waiting--a pleasant-faced old man
and his comely wife in native dress, sundry peasant women muffled in
shawls, one or two men whom the mistress of the cafe was serving
with lunch. A little pile of luggage--bundles tied in brilliant
kerchiefs, and market baskets--littered the floor. As we waited,
more passengers arrived and more. We were glad our places had been
secured.

At five minutes before two the mail-bag appeared; and at ten minutes
past, the diligence rattled down the narrow cobbled street and
pulled up at the door of the cafe. It was a cumbrous and yet cramped
vehicle lined with clean striped cotton.

The slender mail-bag having been deposited in a hollow seat, the Man
and I hopped briskly in and secured the places on either side of the
door, which had a wide window, arguing away our consciences'
accusation of selfishness by the excuse that we were probably the
only passengers to whom the scenery would be new. Then the nice old
country couple came in, followed by a huge matron with a little son;
and a pretty young girl took the seat next to me. An old dame, who,
in spite of the heat, was muffled into a living mummy, mounted
beside the Boy on the box. The country women were packed into a
hooded cart that was waiting to receive the overflow, the driver got
up in front, and we were ready to start. It was already half an hour
after starting-time, but we delayed until a nice little boy,
attended by two juvenile shop-lads clad in overalls of check cotton,
appeared to join us. As fitting preparation for his four-hour
journey in the stuffy interior of the coach, careful relatives had
enveloped the urchin in a heavy top-coat and wound a thick muffler
round his neck. He was hauled into the coach, his luggage, which
consisted of two large round bundles neatly tied in gaily striped
handkerchiefs, went to swell the mound on the top, and off we set at
last, only to halt at the bottom of the street to admit a woman of
such appalling dimensions that she seemed to prove what the Boy
declares is the Majorcan rule with regard to diligences--that they
first fill them quite full, and then add a couple of the fattest
people procurable.

Clambering ponderously in she subsided with a flop between the other
massive matron and the pretty girl. "Caramba!" exclaimed the pretty
girl, and the journey began in earnest.

Palma was brilliant in sunshine. Looking back as we crawled up the
heights towards the Terreno, it glowed like a jewel in the strong
sunlight. The sea was a vivid azure. Beyond the opposite shores of
the bay the distant isle of Cabrera showed distinctly.

As the road wound onwards in and out, we got glimpses of fairy-like
inlets of the sea, of beautiful caves and tiny bays all sparkling in
the sunshine. As we passed the hotel at Cas Catala a German waiter
appeared to get the newspaper from our driver, and we felt glad that
our journey ended in a place where German waiters were unknown.

Turning from the sea, the road passed among rocky slopes crowned
with pines and olives. Amid the stones we caught sight of rosy heath
and of great clumps of lavender rich in purple blossom. It was on
this beautiful sloping country-side that the first great battle was
fought between the troops of King Jaime and the hosts of the Moorish
Amir. The fighting was severe; and, though the victory was his, the
chroniclers of the period tell how the brave young King of Aragon
wept when he learned of the loss of two nobles, brothers, who had
been boon companions of his own. A tapestry in one of the chambers
of the Casa Consistorial at Palma gives a pictorial rendering of the
scene. And under a large pine by the wayside, nearly half-way
between the capital and Andraitx, is a monument--a simple iron
cross set on a stone pedestal--commemorating the valour of the
Spaniards who lost their lives to help to free the Christians.

When the way was uphill, and the coach lumbered slowly along,
slumber crept over the passengers. When we again reached the level
and the pace quickened, everybody awoke, and conversation became
general; at least, as far as the native element was concerned. The
Man and I yearned for a knowledge of Majorcan when the two plump
ladies, whose tongues were their only active members, took turn
about in relating what were evidently incidents of dramatic
interest.

Once or twice, when the road ascended some specially steep slope in
zigzags, the coach stopped, and most of us got out and, crossing the
hill by a short cut--we followed those who knew the way--rejoined it
on the farther side. Needless to mention, the only two dames whose
absence would have made any appreciable lessening in the weight
remained fixtures.

The two points of difference between Majorcan and British travellers
that we had noticed on the drive from Soller again impressed us. One
was their quiet demeanour. They were not restless, they never
fidgeted. They sat quite still, their hands placidly folded--except
when a little gesticulation was necessary to adorn a tale. The
second, which was even more unlike the British of the same class,
was that though the journey was one of about four hours' duration
they had made no provision for it. Even the small boy, or the little
child, had not so much as a sweet or a biscuit to break the
monotony.

When, half-way, we stopped to change horses, the old man, who had
been pleasantly interested in the feminine gossip, stepped lightly
out, and returning with a large tin mug of water, handed it round.
It was the pretty girl who, when it came to her turn to drink,
gracefully declined the privilege in favour of me, saying, with a
wave of her hand, "Ah, no! The senora first."

The way was wild and romantic. Only at long intervals was there a
house even by the road-side. Just at dusk we passed several open
carts crowded with young olive-gatherers returning from work--a gay
band, shouting and singing. After that the night appeared to fall
suddenly upon the earth, and the new moon, a bright star poised
above her, shone in the sky.

A second diligence, starting from some other point, had joined us;
and as we moved slowly along in company, the two lumbering
heavily-laden coaches and the covered van, the little procession had
something of the aspect of a party of emigrants travelling in quest
of a new home.

When the mysterious beauty of the half-lights had vanished, and the
night gathered, we began to wonder why we had left the Casa
Tranquila, where we had been so comfortable. We had no special
reason for coming to Andraitx; there was no attraction to draw us
thither. And even now we did not know if there was any place where
we might sleep.

Just before we entered the town the coach stopped a moment and the
Boy came round to the door.

"I've been consulting the driver," he said. "He recommends a place
where he says we'll get the best cooking in Andraitx."

"Is it an inn?" we asked.

"No, I don't think it's exactly an _inn_, but the man has been a
cook. His house is at this end of the town. The driver says he'll
stop there if we like. Will that do?"

It was quite dark now. We were cramped and tired, and the refuge
that wasn't exactly an inn was at least near. We agreed that it
would do.

Three minutes later the diligence drew up in front of an open door,
through which the light from a good oil lamp streamed into the
blackness of the street.

"This seems to be the place," said the Boy. "But it's a shop!"

There was no opportunity for hesitation. Our luggage was already on
the pavement. Turning to a tall, bearded man in a white apron who
appeared in the doorway, we asked if he had accommodation.

Yes, he had room, he replied; would we enter?--and, following him,
we found ourselves in a wide, airy shop. On one side were shelves
filled with delicacies. On the other were three great wine barrels.
And on the floor stood the usual assortment of hampers and open
baskets containing fruits and vegetables.

At the back of the shop, sandwiched between it and the kitchen, was
a neat little dining-room. And when we had been ushered in there the
Boy, as our spokesman, proceeded, after the custom of the country,
to ask terms--"What would be the charge for board and lodging, wine
included, a day?"

Our host hesitated. He was an exceptionally nice-looking man and
spoke beautiful Spanish.

"The terms? That would depend upon what one had. He could make any
terms that suited, from one peseta and a half a day. But for four
pesetas--_then_ he could do us really well."

A bargain was quickly struck. We were to pay three pesetas and a
half a day, wine and the little breakfast included; and our first
meal was to be served as soon as it could be prepared.

After a short stroll through the dark streets, and not a little
conjecture concerning immediate happenings, we returned to our
lodging. The glass doors of the little dining-room opened on to the
shop, its window looked to the kitchen, where our host was already
busy over the stove. The sound of quick footsteps overhead suggested
that rooms were being prepared for our reception. Her parents being
engaged, the shop had been left in charge of the daughter of the
house, a pretty, dark-eyed child of seven years old.

She made a charming little picture, as she sat amongst the scarlet
_pimientos_ and the yellow lemons waiting for custom. And when a
younger child, carrying a quart bottle, entered to buy a pennyworth
of wine, the business-like way in which she placed the funnel in the
bottle, and filling the measure from the barrel poured it in without
spilling a drop, delighted us. As also did the accustomed way in
which she dropped the penny into the table-drawer that served as
till.

Before we had time to grow impatient our hostess, looking like an
adult copy of her child, appearing, spread the table neatly with
clean linen and shining crystal, then set before us a dish of rolls,
one of olives, and small plates of spiced sausage and ham. Then the
host entered carrying a bottle of a good brand of imported claret
that he had taken from his shelves, and a syphon of seltzer.

We were nibbling at the appetizers, trying to restrain ourselves
from making a meal of them, when an excellent soup was served.

"If I could choose, I know what I'd have next--a big fat omelet,"
the Boy said, as he finished his plate of soup. And on the thought,
as though in answer to his wish, the landlord entered bearing a fine
opulent omelet stuffed with green peas. When we had eaten that, he
was waiting to replace it with a dish of delicately browned veal
cutlets, savoury potatoes fried in butter, and more green peas. A
sweet course is so rarely served in Majorca that it was a pleasant
surprise to find the cutlets followed by a mould of the native
preserve, _membrillo_ (quince) jelly, and pastry turn-overs. The
dessert consisted of a pyramid of mandarin oranges cut with stems
and leaves. It was a surprisingly complete meal to be served on an
hour's notice in the back shop of a little unknown out-of-the-world
town.

The rooms allotted to us comprised the whole floor above. The _salon_,
which was to the front, had two handsome wardrobes--wardrobes would
seem to be as often placed in sitting-rooms as in bedrooms in
Majorca--a chest of drawers, several comfortable chairs. The beds,
with their lace-trimmed and monogrammed linen, were perfection. As we
fell asleep we blessed the happy chance that had led us to so much
more comfortable quarters than we had anticipated finding.

Breakfast, of French chocolate and hot buttered rolls, served to
confirm the good impression of the previous night.

The ambition of my infancy--to keep a little shop--threatened to
return as, from the stronghold of our neat little dining-room, we
watched the life of the shop, a portion of whose trade appeared to
consist of barter. First a woman entered with a basket of glowing
sun-kissed pomegranates which she exchanged for macaroni and other
groceries. She was quickly followed by a man who had a hamper of
lemons and a bag of the scarlet waxen pods of the sweet pepper to
dispose of.

While the chocolate was still in process of consumption our host,
courteously solicitous respecting our comfort of the night, waited
on us, his tall, slender form begirt with an apron of spotless
purity, on which was also embroidered the family monogram.

From our concerns the conversation naturally passed to his, and with
the simple friendliness of the Majorcan he told us his life-story.
Told how, like most of the Andraitx lads, he had early left home to
seek his fortune, but while most of his companions had become
sailors, he had chosen to make cooking his profession. A course of
years passed as a _chef_ in Havanna and other places had gained him
the nest-egg he desired. Returning to his native town while still a
comparatively young man, he had taken this shop, married to his
liking, and settled down in comfort.

There was neither sun nor wind. The air was calm and cool. It was a
splendid day for exploring a new locality. But Andraitx was still a
sealed letter to us. We did not even know what to look for.

When we arrived on the previous night the town had been shrouded in
darkness. So it was a charming surprise after we had mounted the
commonplace street to find that in situation Andraitx resembled a
miniature Soller. Hills, some crowned by windmills, enclosed it on
every side. Passing through the market square we climbed the
eminence on which perched the quaint old church, and looking back,
saw the town lying in the hollow beneath us; and to the north-west,
its mouth guarded by sentinel hills, the wide inlet of the sea that
marked the port.

Within the church, gloom and silence held possession. A little
distance off was the walled cemetery. Leaving an environment that
threatened to depress us, we scrambled down the farther side of the
rocky incline, and, finding a path, followed it.

The path, chosen at random, passed in front of Son Mas, a quaint old
building whose tower bore signs of great antiquity. The place was
evidently now in use as a farm-house, and the tenant, seeing us
pause to look in through the wide gateway, came out and cordially
invited us to enter.

He was a fine specimen of the handsome, robust sons of that gracious
soil. His sun-tanned skin and workaday garb seemed at variance with
his courteous dignity of manner, which admirably became the resident
of so ancient a mansion. He appeared to feel a special pride in his
surroundings and did not scamp the showing. Through the wide
courtyard, and up the central staircase that led to the balconies,
and through the deserted rooms he escorted us.

The tall square tower that now formed part of the house, he told us,
had in older times been used as a place of refuge by the Christians
during the attacks of the piratical Moors who infested the coast--a
stronghold to which they fled when news reached them that the
heathen marauders had entered the port and were advancing towards
the town. Would we like to see it?

Would we not! Following our leader, we passed along more corridors
and over floors aslant with age, till he stopped before the entrance
to what was probably the smallest winding stair ever devised for the
passage of human beings.

Up that very stair, our guide assured us, had the Christians fled to
seek safety in the tower. And as we timorously mounted the narrow
steps we agreed that the Andraitx early Christians must have been
the leanest of mankind. For one plump Christian in a hurry would
assuredly have brought destruction on all the rest by sticking in
the first bend of that pitch-dark winding staircase.

We emerged, dusty and breathless, into a square room whose window
framed a magnificent view over the town and the wide fruitful valley
to the shining waters of the port beyond.

In one of the walls was a groined cavity that had been a shrine. And
close beside it was the now walled-up doorway that, when the tower
stood apart, had been connected by a drawbridge with the main
building.

On the dusty floor in a corner lay some curious earthenware retorts
of a primitive date. The vessels had been found in an old cabinet in
company with a quantity of unknown drugs--presumably the stock of
some long-dead alchemist. Scientific men, hearing of the discovery,
had hastened to carry off the chemicals, the farmer told us, leaving
the earthenware behind.

All the acquisitive Briton in us yearned to possess one of the
quaint retorts. It was only the thought of their bulky brittleness
that conquered the covetous feeling.

From the room more pigmy steps wound upwards to a roofed _mirador_,
but, as the inner walls of the staircase were broken away in great
gaps, only the Boy was daring enough to ascend.

Returning, he reported a low roof that sloped down to battlemented
walls pierced with loop-holes through which arrows and boiling water
were wont to shower down on the besiegers. On one occasion the
captain of the Moors was killed with scalding water thrown from the
tower. To the present day the incident affords matter for intense
satisfaction at Andraitx.




[Illustration: In the Port of Andraitx]

XI

UP AMONG THE WINDMILLS


When at noon we returned to the shop our host had a delightful
little luncheon awaiting us. And it was in high good-humour with
him, with ourselves, and with all the world, that we set off to walk
the three miles of level road that lie between the town of Andraitx
and its port.

Every foot of the way was full of interest. At first it led past
rustic dwellings set in their orange and lemon gardens. In one
orchard a life-size, and life-like, male scarecrow was perched high
up in the branches of a pomegranate-tree. Then the road ran for a
long way close by the dry bed of a _torrente_, that in the rainy
season would be a river, and through groves of almond and
olive-trees before it reached the wide stretch of fruitful plain
devoted to the culture of vegetables.

Our path was cheerful with wayfarers. As we strolled along, a
succession of old vehicles and picturesque folk passed us. Old men
in suits of faded blue cotton, bright-hued handkerchiefs bound about
their heads under their wide hats, trotted by beside their panniered
donkeys. And dotted over the rich, red earth people were busy. In
one field a man was ploughing, while close on his heels a handsome
dark-eyed woman in a scarlet petticoat followed, dropping yellow
peas into the newly turned furrows.

Everybody within hailing distance gave us kindly greeting. Even an
infant, whose age might have been reckoned in months, from where he
was snugly seated in a basket, clearly echoed his parents' "Bon di
tenga," much to our amusement and to the frankly evident delight of
his father and mother.

In the rich, moist soil of that sheltered valley we thought we had
discovered the mould in which the gross eighteen-inch radishes are
grown. Perhaps it is the nature of that alluvial plain that accounts
also for so plentiful a harvest of mosquitoes. Certain it was that
they positively swarmed, and that being quick to detect a new and, I
trust, delectable flavour in foreigners, they paid us particularly
insistent attention, escorting us even to the port, and out on the
breakwater that cuts across the inlet, and makes snug haven for the
fishing craft and for the few cargo _pailebots_ that anchor in the
port. It was fortunate that, unlike those of the Palma mosquitoes,
their stings proved harmless.

We had brought tea-things with us, and leaving the Man sketching,
seated on a mast that lay under the sea-wall, the Boy and I took the
empty kettle, and set off in search of water, and of the men's
constant need--tobacco.

The sign over the door of the only shop in the place showed that it
was authorized to sell the tobacco that is a Government monopoly of
Spain. Going in, we found ourselves in a long, low-ceilinged
apartment that might have served for a type of a smugglers' den.

Several people of both sexes were within. From without we had heard
the gay clamour of voices, but with our unexpected entrance all
seemed stricken dumb. The woman who had been sweeping out the brood
of adventurous chickens stopped short, broom in hand, as though
turned to stone. The girl mixing something in a bowl paused to
stare. The men ceased their loud discussion and gathered in a silent
band to learn our business.

We were not altogether unaccustomed to pointed attention. That very
day in Andraitx our appearance had aroused something of the interest
accorded in an English country town to a circus procession. But the
silent scrutiny was distinctly embarrassing. The Boy is rarely
abashed, yet his voice faltered a little as, in Spanish, he asked
for cigarettes, naming a good brand. On learning that they were not
in stock he asked for others, and yet others, lessening the monetary
value of his demands until he reached those cigarettes that retail
at seven for a halfpenny. But even these were not to be had. "Then
what was for sale? Any brand would do."

Hard pressed, the authorized vendor of Government tobacco confessed
that he had none in stock.

"But this is the Government tobacco shop, and you are all
smoking--what on earth do you smoke, then?" demanded the Boy.

There was a momentary hesitation; then--"We all smoke contraband
tobacco, senor," he made reluctant admission.

"That's good enough for me," said the Boy, and with a relieved
expression the shopkeeper disappeared to return with a three-ounce
packet of smuggled tobacco, for which he charged sevenpence-halfpenny.
And vile though it undoubtedly was, the buyer declared that it was
vastly superior to that usually sold with the sanction of the Spanish
powers.

When, bearing the full kettle and the contraband tobacco, we
sauntered back to the breakwater, it was to find the Man the centre
of an interested crowd of boys. And all the time we waited an
engrossed audience surrounded us. Even the appearance of a longboat,
rowed by what to our eyes seemed a crew of pirates, so picturesque
was their garb, failed to divert a tithe of the attention.

Apart from its beauty, the port of Andraitx impressed us as being
the least prosperous place we had seen in Majorca. The houses were
poor and huddled together. And the population seemed large in
proportion to the probable increment. As one of the natives put it,
"the fishermen are many and the fish few." The village lads, fine
stalwart fellows all of them, were woefully patched as to attire.
Majorcan women are marvellously dexterous with the needle. Their
patches are so neatly inserted as to be works of art; but until that
afternoon at the port of Andraitx we had never encountered patches
that threatened to usurp the entire groundwork of a garment.

We had heard of the existence of an official known as the "Captain
of the Port," yet, one man being as dexterously mended as another,
failed to distinguish him among the loiterers about the pier. At
length a gentleman with side whiskers, taking up his stand behind
the Man, bowed ceremoniously to me, silently raising his time-worn
hat.

"Buenos dias," I said; in my desire to be affable forgetting that it
was already afternoon.

There was a momentary pause. Then, "Buenas _tardes_, senora. Buenas
_tardes_," he corrected, in a tone of gentle reproof.

And I decided that in spite of his plenitude of patches, his total
lack of waistcoat, and his dilapidated buff slippers, the gentleman
who revealed so refined a desire for exactitude of speech must be
the Captain of the Port.

It was on the morning of our second day at Andraitx that we decided
to go to Arraco, a little town about half an hour's walk farther
north.

When we spoke of going our host suggested our branching off from the
road and climbing the hill of the windmills to see the view.
Antonia, his little daughter, would accompany us to show the way.
And in a trice Antonia was pronounced ready for the excursion. Her
head was bare, her feet were encased in smart yellow boots, and in
the pocket of her red frock there were stowed away, as provision for
the journey, a roll and a diminutive black-pudding.

It was a lovely day--sweet and peaceful. Even after two months'
experience we never seemed to become accustomed to the consistent
urbanity of the Majorcan weather, and each successive perfect day
brought a fresh surprise.

The road was a beautiful one. Once beyond the outskirts of the town
it passed between slopes luxuriant in almonds and olives. Here and
there the falling golden leaves of a pomegranate made an aureate
glow on the red-brown earth. Perched high in an olive-tree by the
wayside a man was pruning its branches.

For the first ten minutes Antonia was demurely silent. Then, as her
shyness wore off, her horns appeared. She was a charming imp of
seven, the adored of her parents, who knew her variously as Anton,
Antonia, and Antonetta. Anton, in a tone of reproof when she was
caught pulling the hair of a friend, Antonia when she was ordinarily
good, and Antonetta on the many occasions that they found her
particularly adorable.

She went, apparently only when she had got nothing more interesting
to do, to a convent school, where she was, with exceeding
reluctance, beginning to learn Spanish--a tongue against which she
naturally cherished a grievance.

"What is the use of learning Spanish?" she demanded of the Boy, who
was urging her to speak it. "Majorcan--that is a useful language.
Spanish? No. Spanish is no use."

By the wayside the curious wild arums known as _frares_ (monks) were
growing. Picking a handful, Antonia began with great enjoyment
repeating a native rhyme, the point of which lay in knocking off the
heads of one of the flowers at the conclusion of each repetition:--

    "_Frare lleig, frare lleig,
      Si no dius se Misa, le tomere es bech!_"

--of which this is an easy translation:--

    "_Lazy friar, lazy friar,
      If your Mass is not said I will chop off your head._"

Antonia had a knowledge of vegetables too. Or is it some inherent
faculty that teaches children the edible fruits? When we chanced to
pass a big algarroba-tree she darted under it, and, after a little
rummaging amid the dry leaves, returned triumphantly bearing some
long dark-brown pods, in which the Man was amused to recognise a
fruit known to his experimentive boyhood as "locusts." The pods,
which are sweet and succulent, are used in Majorca as food for
cattle.

Just where the road came almost within sight of Arraco the path to
the hills crowned by the windmills branched off. Deciding to get the
climbing over first, we left the highway, and mounted amongst most
beautiful and varied vegetation. All about us tall pink and crimson
heaths were blooming. Small clumps of palms that we had not before
seen out of a conservatory grew among the rocks, and great cactus
rioted in picturesque masses.

The base of the windmills reached, we enjoyed a view that extended
in every direction. Beneath to one side was Arraco, its houses, save
where near the church they were huddled closer together, scattered
widely over the surface of a cup-like valley, that was so closely
encircled by hills that we could discover no way leading out. Above
the hills to the north the heights of the island of Dragonera rose
from the sea. From another point we looked down on Andraitx, and
marked the wide plain that ended in the placid waters of the port.

We had not meant to stay long on the heights, but the varied
prospects were so beautiful and the air so placid that we felt
tempted to linger. Then the Man took out his sketching block, and
the matter was settled. Arraco would remain unvisited. Like the
lotus-eaters, we were content and would roam no farther.

We were now so accustomed to Majorcan skilled and thrifty husbandry
that it was no surprise to find that even the summit of the height
was planted with fruit trees. On a rocky ledge, close under the
spreading sails of the windmill, nestled a tiny house, and every
handful of soil supported its fig-, almond-, pomegranate- or
apple-tree.

The air was soft and gentle. Even at that altitude there was
scarcely a breath of wind. Butterflies were hovering about. All the
world seemed at peace. From Arraco arose the faint chime of a bell,
from beyond the rock-bound coast came the murmur of the sea.

[Illustration: Above Andraitx]

I think it was the discovery that just outside the little hut a man
was eating his dinner that aroused us to the fact that we also were
hungry. Breakfast had been light, and early dinner, a good way off,
was not due till two o'clock. Antonia's sharp little white teeth had
long ago devoured Antonia's roll and black-pudding. We had started
out with the intention of foraging at Arraco; but Arraco, a
scattered handful of pigmy dwellings, lay far down in the hollow.

Then an idea occurred to us. The husbandman, who had finished his
meal, and was now lighting a cigarette, would be sure to have food.
We would ask him to sell us some bread.

The peasant, who proved to be a kindly soul, had a beard and the
most dilapidated hat ever worn by mortal man. But he had no bread.
The hut under the windmill was only a shelter. His home was in the
valley, and it was evidently his provisions for the day that he had
just consumed. He did what he thought was next best, and drawing a
great jar of clean water from his well, brought it to us.

The Boy and Antonia, who had gone off to try their luck at the other
windmill, returned bringing two shapeless lumps of the stalest rye
bread ever eaten, and the kindly dilapidated man who, in genuine
concern for our welfare, had been hovering near, disappeared into
his shanty, and reappearing with a plate of olives, presented them
to us. So off olives, water from an antique jar, and mouldy rye
bread that vied with it in antiquity, we took the edge off our
appetites.

I must not forget the prickly pears--or cactus figs--that we had
picked on the way up. A certain fearful joy attends the gathering of
this fruit, which requires the exercise of some ingenuity in dodging
its insidious prickles. But there the pleasure ends; for the fruit
is both seedy and insipid. To appreciate the prickly pear one would
require to meet it in an arid desert.

The sun was sinking when we set out for a final stroll at Andraitx.
We were to leave early next morning, and we knew that there were
countless walks we must leave unexplored.

A glory of grey and gold and orange was flushing the sky when we
turned into the road that wound up the valley. The mountains that
rose on either side were glowing roseate from the sunset; but under
any conditions the way would have been very beautiful. It led by a
_torrente_ in whose bed there was actually a trickle of water, and
just beyond a picturesque bridge was a village--of no social
importance probably, but assuredly of great artistic charm. The
village straggling up the side of the valley was such a place as
nobody ever tells one of--one of those unexpectedly picturesque
spots that, with a thrill of delight, one discovers for oneself, and
feels a proprietorial interest in ever after, almost as though one
had invented it. We learned later that the name of the hamlet was
Secoma, and that it was divided into two portions, which were known
respectively as Secoma Hot and Secoma Cold.

The narrow, winding street was busy. The olive-gatherers were
returning from work, and those who had remained at home came out to
gape at us. The barber who was shaving a customer, catching sight of
our passing reflection in the mirror, abandoned his task and ran to
the door to stare, with his customer, lathered and pinafored, close
on his heels.

Already were we beginning to recognize, and to be recognized, in the
district. An amazingly stately old lady, who appeared to spend her
days perched sideways on her panniered donkey, bowed with great
dignity from her perch. A handsome fisher-lad, who had formed one of
the Man's audience when he was sketching at the port, beamed when we
encountered him delivering fish in back-of-the-world Secoma.

We had entered Andraitx expecting little, and had found so much that
was interesting and pleasant that we were reluctant to leave it. But
an engagement for Sunday afternoon at Palma had to be kept. So
perforce we bespoke seats in the diligence leaving at the
extraordinary hour of four in the morning.

An hour earlier three great knocks sounded on the closed door of the
shop. It was the _vigilante_, who had been warned to arouse us. When
we went downstairs it was to find our attentive landlord with a
comforting meal of chocolate and hot buttered rolls ready to serve.
And concerning this most excellent host it is only just to say that
during our stay we found his efforts on our behalf increase rather
than diminish. In case any of my readers may ever chance to visit
this out-of-the-way town, I mention that his name is Gabriel
Calafill, and his address is Calle Cerda, which, being interpreted,
means Pig Street.

All the cocks in Andraitx seemed to be awakened when a jingle of
harness-bells drew us to the door of the lamp-lit shop. It was the
darkest hour. A single dim lamp was all we saw of the diligence. As
it drew up an invisible hand opened the coach door, and mounting the
invisible steps I peered into the solid darkness of the interior. If
there were any passengers inside, they were dumb and motionless.

Hazarding a greeting, I interjected "Buenos dias" into the darkness.

An instant reply from half a dozen throats showed that the coach was
already well filled. A minute later we had insinuated ourselves into
the places kept for us by the door, and the coach rolled off into
the gloom.

It was the hush before the dawn. The moon had long set. A few pale
stars sprinkled the sky. Beyond the town the gloom was less
impenetrable, and the road became a dim, grey ribbon slowly
unwinding behind us. The trees and mountains were black,
undistinguishable masses. The air was soft and very still. Within
the coach all was silent. No one moved. Then, as the miles gradually
slipped away, the sky began to lighten, and even the deep gloom of
the interior became less tangible. In the farther corner dull white
lines proclaimed a collar and shirt-cuffs while the sun-tanned flesh
they encircled was yet unseen.

As the daylight crept in, our fellow-travellers gradually became
visible. Two men, vague entities, had left the coach when half-way
we changed horses. There now remained a couple of quiet, respectable
market women, a lovely little girl, and a strapping young man.

At the foot of a steep ascent the conveyance stopped, and following
the custom of able-bodied passengers the men got out to take the
short cut, and rejoined the lightened diligence on the farther side.
Glancing from the back window, as they passed up the heath slope, I
noticed that the owner of the brown hands and the white cuffs had
already entered into conversation with my men-folk. And when, a
quarter of an hour later, they re-entered the coach, all three were
on terms of unexpected intimacy.

"This senor," the Boy explained, with an introductory wave of the
hand, "is the father of that clever baby. You remember, mother. The
one we saw yesterday on the way to the port. He sat in a basket and
said 'Bon di tenga.'"

The father, a strapping, clean-limbed Majorcan, fairly beamed with
parental pride as he acknowledged the imputation. The boy, he told
us, was now nearly three years old, but he had spoken as well ever
since he was two. His own excellent Spanish he accounted for by
saying that, like so many Andraitx young men, he had been a sailor,
and had voyaged for several years to and from Cuba. Then, having
saved some money, he had returned to his native town, had married,
and was now farming his own bit of land. This morning he was
journeying to Palma to collect the rent of a house he owned there.

The sun was up when the diligence stopped before the _consumos_
station at the entrance to Santa Catalina, and we alighted. It was
only as we returned to more sophisticated surroundings that I
realized that since leaving Palma on Thursday I had not seen a
single hat upon a feminine head. No wonder we were stared at in
Secoma!

Half an hour later we were sitting at breakfast in the sunshine at
the Casa Tranquila. We had arrived at Andraitx in the dusk, and had
quitted it in the dusk, so it seemed as though all that had happened
during our stay there had been but a pleasant dream.




[Illustration: Christmas Turkeys]

XII

NAVIDAD


We returned from Andraitx to find that Christmas had stolen a march
upon us, taking us unawares.

Our first intimation of it was a communication that reached us from
the postal authorities. It announced that a parcel awaited us at the
head post office, and stated that if we called between the hours of
twelve and thirteen on the following day, and paid the sum of eight
pesetas seventy-six centimos charged as duty, we would be entitled
to carry it away.

The slip of green paper containing this laconic intimation
fluttering into our uneventful lives, interested us hugely. To what
could the notice refer? We expected nothing, and yet the amount of
the duty--eight pesetas seventy-six centimos--argued it a
possession of notable value. We would not have lost a moment before
hastening off to pay the impost and claim our property had not the
notice expressly mentioned the one hour of the morrow on which it
might be procured.

What could it be? Thinking ourselves discreet people, we professed
to build no castles on the subject, but we all enjoyed the feeling
of mystery.

It was with a pleasant sense of expectancy that next day, shortly
after noon, we entered the post office in the Calle San Felio, and
after some inquiry discovered the department for the distribution of
parcels. Two people were in advance of us. A young workman was
getting a small package, a servant-maid was receiving a couple of
round, flat boxes so large that a side door in the counter had to be
opened for their egress.

Watching, we wondered secretly if ours would be as big, or if it
would be small and precious.

After a preliminary signing of a book and the paying of the money,
the parcel was produced and solemnly handed over to us. Its
dimensions exceeded even our most sanguine expectations, and it was
weighty in proportion. The address on the label showed that it had
come from the best confectioner in London. This, taken in
conjunction with its opulent proportions, seemed to presage a
prolonged period of riotous living.

"It must be cake," the Man said.

"It must be a tremendous lot of cake," opined the Boy, who was
carrying the bulky parcel. "Let's get home and open it."

Owing, I think, to the cost of sugar, confections of every kind in
Majorca are expensive and limited in variety. And although in
England a plethora of good things had made us inclined to be blase,
two months of residence in this land where sweets are matters for
consumption on high-days and holy-days had revealed in each of us
the possession of an unexpected sweet tooth. And the sight of the
ample proportions of that confectioner's parcel set them aching
furiously.

"If it's sweets, we must not begin eating them until luncheon is
over," I said, more by way of counsel to myself than to the others.

"We'll see," said the Boy, who was determined not to commit himself.

When we had entered the Casa Tranquila the carefully packed box was
lifted on to the table and the exciting task of opening it began.
The seals had already been broken, but there seemed several miles of
carefully knotted string to unwind. Beneath the enveloping brown
paper was an encasing of the corrugated cardboard in which
breakables are packed. Within that was a thick layer of fine
shavings. The dimensions of the package had been considerably
lessened when, all the outer wrappings thrown aside, there was
revealed a large square tin box. The side presented to us bore no
sign of an opening. It really seemed as though the elusive gift was
determined to baffle us.

"The box has been carefully soldered," said the Man. "I can't
understand how the Customs could fix the amount of the duty without
knowing what was inside. How are we going to open it, I wonder?"

But when he turned the box over a wide gash in the bottom revealed
that the task had already been performed. Pressing aside the jagged
edges of the tin, we saw within yet more shavings. When they had
been carefully removed, fragments of china, and something tied in a
rent white cloth met our gaze.

"It's been a plum-pudding, and they've smashed it to atoms," the Man
said bitterly.

"Oh, what a _shame_! The mean wretches!" I lamented.

The Boy said nothing, but felt for his pipe.

Having succeeded in widening the gash considerably, the Man drew out
the remaining enclosures. The pudding--a particularly fine one--was
intact, but the bowl that had encased it was shattered. Splinters of
the china were adhering to its dark richness. The Spanish Customs
at the frontier, in their zeal to discover the nature of the
contents and their fear of permitting a concealed bomb to escape
their vigilance, had not only cut open the box and smashed the bowl,
they had also ripped across the cloth that tied up the pudding.

"Perhaps they were right to charge eight pesetas seventy-six
centimos, but they needn't have made mincemeat of that nice china
bowl, and rags of the pudding-cloth," I said indignantly.

"Probably they thought that as mincemeat was also seasonable fare it
would be a proper accompaniment to the pudding," the Man said.

But the proof of the pudding is ever the eating of it. Its
misadventures over, ours turned out to be a prince of plum-puddings.
The flavour was perfection, and the size was such that we had to
call in the aid of our friends to eat it. Formal entertainments were
outside the scheme of life at the Casa Tranquila, but the Consul and
his wife came to supper--menu, hot plum-pudding and flaming brandy.
And some native friends came to tea--menu, plum-pudding toasted in
slices, and coffee.

Should future generations of Majorcans grow up in the quite
erroneous belief that the British serve rich black plum-pudding hot
at all meals, I'm afraid the blame must rest with us.

Palma is always bright, but at Christmas-tide an increase of
liveliness seemed to pervade the town. The shop windows displayed
new wares, and the streets were full of country folk pricing,
bargaining, and purchasing. The confectioners' windows were full of
large round cardboard boxes, each containing a sugar travesty of a
serpent, a weird reptile, reposing on a bed of sweets.

The market square at night, when it is usually deserted, displayed a
new and popular species of merchandise. Its outer sides were lined
with rows of stalls laden with slabs of native sweetmeats all made
in long blocks, and piles of tempting crystallized fruits. Other
stalls held nothing but the curious little figures of native
ware--men, women, animals, poultry, all very small--that the
Majorcan children use when, with the aid of cork, they build little
models of the Nativity in imitation of those seen at Christmastide
in the churches.

During the days preceding Christmas Day great preparations for the
feast were made. In the market the price of choice fruits and
vegetables rose a little. And the wide open space just without the
gate of San Antonio--the patron saint of swine--became a busy fair
devoted to the sale of pigs, turkeys, sheep and fowls.

The part whose colour and movement rejoiced the artistic soul of the
Man was that given over to the display of turkeys. The portion whose
comic element delighted the Boy and me was that devoted to the wards
of San Antonio, who, to judge by the shrillness and insistence of
their cries, was proving himself but an irresponsible and callous
guardian.

The peasant-women, neat in the native costume, gaily coloured
kerchiefs over their heads, their hair in pigtails, armed with long
rods, stood beside their flocks of turkeys. At intervals they
scattered handfuls of grain amongst them; but to do the birds
justice, they showed little inclination to stray.

On one side a long wall was formed of hooded carts filled with
turkeys. And round each brood was a little group of townsfolk,
making critical survey of the birds and, after a good deal of wordy
chaffering, purchasing. The other side was occupied by a long row of
fowl-sellers, who treated their wares with less respect; for
splendid cocks, their burnished plumage gleaming with a thousand
prismatic hues, lay helpless, their feet tied together, their bills
in the dust.

Sucking-pig being the favourite Christmas dinner in this land of
sunshine, by far the larger space was allotted to the swine. And
swine there were to satisfy all demands, from litters of tiny
sucking-pigs surrounding their mothers to pigs of quite
considerable bulk. As the pigs were sold by weight, it is safe to
say that there wasn't a thirsty pig in the market that day. And
while we saw few pigs being fed, we saw many being encouraged to
drink. Some of the salesmen stood by their laden carts ready, on the
approach of a likely customer, to thrust a hand into the mass of
swart animalism and extract a protesting squeaker. Others sat lazily
on chairs by their flocks, content to wait to be approached. While
some of the older herdsmen wore slung over the shoulders the
distinctive goatskin of their calling, most of the younger were
attired in suits of corduroy, sun-faded into glorious harmonies of
golds and browns and blues. We noticed that whilst certain of the
men dealt in turkeys, none of the women sold pigs.

And out of the city streamed the townsfolk, money in hand for the
purchase of their Christmas dinner. Ladies in mantillas, attended by
neat maids, bought turkeys; prosperous-looking tradesmen,
accompanied by pinafored shop-lads provided with bits of rope,
walked about pricing pigs; and lean operatives, with a hungry eye
for the yearly tit-bit.

It was after a pig had changed owners that the fun began. The market
being held outside the city walls, the purchase had first to be
taken to the _consumos_ shed to be weighed and have the duty paid on
it. And the pigs, although comparatively placid while yet in company
with their old comrades, when severed from them protested with full
strength of lung and limb. Then woe betide the luckless being whose
task it was to carry the agitator home. One man only did we see who
had had the forethought to bring a sack in which to carry home his
rebellious purchase.

Everybody appeared to have evolved a different method of conveyance.
Some men wore them as a collar round the neck, grasping the fore
feet in one hand, the hind in the other. Some tried to lead them,
with dire results. One flustered woman we saw had a child in her
arms and was dragging at the end of a string a plump young porker
that refused to walk. The majority, relinquishing any attempt at
suasion, simply clutched the furiously objecting quadrupeds
desperately in their arms and made the best of their way through the
streets.

Just as we were leaving the market we encountered a trio of elderly
ladies, attended by a demure little maid in pigtail and _rebozillo_,
whom we had noticed making a careful scrutiny before deciding. Their
choice seemed at last to have been made, for the young servant
carried in her arms, as tenderly as though it were a baby, a tiny
sucking-pig. So far it had uttered no complaint, but just as the
group turned into the street it awoke to the knowledge that
something untoward was happening, and with the energy of one thrice
its fighting weight, began squealing and squirming. In a moment
consternation fell upon the sedately pacing quartette. When we last
saw them a man had been hired to carry home the pigling, whose
lamentations still rent the air.

During the day or two that would elapse before the creatures were
sacrificed for consumption they appeared to reside in the bosom of
the family circles and to be treated as honoured guests. The fact
that a home was in a flat three floors up did not deter its
occupants from housing a four-footed edible guest. Turkeys strutted
in doorways and upon high balconies. Proud children escorted pigs
out for an airing.

Two days before the feast we noticed on a piece of waste ground just
inside the gate of Santa Catalina an enclosure roughly constructed
of planks and sacking. From a post fluttered a banner of brown paper
inscribed with the legend, _Se matan lechonas_ (Little pigs kill
themselves). And thither, the right moment having arrived, people
brought their pets. Within the enclosure, but in full view of the
public, the piglings were killed, soused with the boiling water that
was kept bubbling over a fire, scraped and made ready for the pot in
the twinkling of an eye.

On Christmas Eve we attended the midnight service in the Cathedral.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the streets of Palma were
unusually busy. Groups of people, the women and children all
carrying folding stools, or in some cases rush-seated chairs, were
walking sedately in the direction of the churches.

In the silver light there was something mysterious about the
succession of black-robed figures--the women's heads muffled in
black mantillas or black silk kerchiefs--that moved steadfastly
along the narrow mediaeval streets.

[Illustration: A Scene of Slaughter]

When we reached the Cathedral many people had already gathered. When
we would have taken our usual seats under the organ, one of the
canons in a robe of lace and rose-coloured silk approached and
whispered to me in French that that portion of the church was
reserved for men, but that I was free to take any place I liked on
the opposite side. Crossing the foot-high wooden barrier that had
been erected down the centre of the nave, under his escort, I set up
the sketching stool I had brought at the base of one of the great
pillars, and watched the edifice gradually fill with a reverent
throng of worshippers.

And now the necessity for the folding stools became evident, for
while the portion of the building allotted to men was well provided
with seats, only a great square of matting covered that half of the
floor-space that had been set apart for the women.

The Cathedral was brilliantly lit with electricity; and although
there was something inexpressibly affecting in the sight of the
kneeling multitude, to us the Cathedral lost much of the sombre
magnificence it had in the daytime, when, except for the candles
burning on the altar, the only light was that which stole in through
the stained-glass windows, and the greater part of the grand temple
was rendered impressive by obscurity.

Later, when we spoke of this to our friend the padre he agreed with
us. But, as he said in his irreproachable English, "What can we do?
The Cathedral is very large, and the people are not all good."

There was no respect of persons. Wrinkled old peasant-women and
lovely young members of the ancient Majorcan nobility knelt side by
side. The pew my men-folk occupied was shared by a gentleman in a
fur-lined coat, and two little ragamuffins who, oblivious of their
sacred surroundings, slumbered peacefully throughout the
proceedings, curled up snugly together like a pair of monkeys
nesting in a tree-top.

At a pause in the service a white-robed youth, supposed to represent
the Angel Gabriel, who was attended by two others carrying lighted
candles, appeared in a pulpit. He wore a scarlet cap and bore a
naked sword, and in a melodious voice chanted in Spanish _Sibila_--a
hymn that foretells the varied fates awaiting the evil and the good
at the end of the world.

At one o'clock, when we slipped out of the Cathedral, leaving the
multitude still at worship, and walked homewards through the
brilliant moonlight, all was hushed and peaceful. The signs of
carnage had vanished. The banner with the suicidal legend, _Se matan
lechonas_, no longer fluttered by the gate of Santa Catalina; and
only a few vagrant turkey feathers, blown about the roads, remained
to tell of the innocents who had been butchered to make a Christian
holiday.

Christmas, we had been warned, would be a quiet day in Palma: a day
of family greetings, of indoor festivities, when the streets would
be deserted. Any feasts we might have shared were far away in
fog-bound Britain, and neither turkey nor sucking-pig graced the
larder of the Casa Tranquila. The weather was idyllic, like the most
perfect of perfect summer days at home--even after more than two
months' experience of Balearic Island weather we had not ceased to
be surprised by its consistent beauty. So we decided to have a
picnic.

We had heard vaguely of a famous cave in the country behind our own
district of Son Espanolet--a cave important enough to afford shelter
to the people of Palma who, in thousands, had fled thither to escape
from a plague of cholera that sixty or seventy years before had
devastated the town. But while everybody seemed to know of the
existence of the cave, no amount of inquiry elicited information as
to its exact whereabouts. So on this lovely Christmas morning we
resolved to take luncheon with us and spend the day hunting for it.

I think it was the Rudder Grangers who wished to live in the last
house of a village, as by doing so they could be in touch with
humanity on the one side and with Nature on the other. Our own road,
the Calle de Mas, came very near answering these requirements, for,
being the last road in the little suburb, it met both town and
country. By walking to the end of the houses, over whose garden
walls oranges gleamed golden, and turning to the left by the
brand-new Villa Dolores, and past the old farm-house that stood
hedged in with tall cactus by the wayside, we were at once on the
verge of the beautiful rural scenery.

Our informant had been right. The street was empty. As we passed
along, a smell as of roast sucking-pig greeted us; but everybody was
indoors behind their closely shuttered windows.

The road that leads through the undulating almond and olive groves
towards Son Puigdorfila and the hills had never been so deserted.
And never had the air been softer or the mountains more mistily
blue. The leaves of the gnarled olives shone silver-grey beside the
dark, rich foliage of the carob-trees, and the white blossoms of a
honey-scented weed thickly flecked the green of the six-inch high
grain.

The village of Son Rapina, perched on its eminence, gleamed like a
jewel in the strong sunlight; but the path leading towards it showed
not a single traveller. For once, farm-work had ceased; the only
sound that reached us was a far-off musical tinkle from the bells of
a flock of goats as they moved about, seeking for fallen pods under
the great algarroba-trees.

The cave, we had gathered, was somewhere near Son Puigdorfila, but
when we had passed that country-house, and had wandered down the
valley towards the empty bed of the _torrente_, we found nothing
that in the most remote way suggested the presence of a cave.

We had almost abandoned the quest when a sound of bells warned us of
the approach of a herd of plump brindled asses, which appeared under
the guidance of an old man.

In his suit of faded blue cotton, with a goatskin slung over his
shoulders and a gaily striped kerchief bound round his brow and
knotted at the back, the long ends falling beneath his wide-brimmed
hat, and a tall staff in his wrinkled brown hands, he was a fine
specimen of the hale Majorcan peasant whose declining years hold no
greater physical discomfort than a gradual lessening of the full
strength of manhood.

He knew of the cave--_Cueva Fuente Santa_ he called it. Nay more, he
knew its history from the making to the present day. And while the
brindled asses browsed around us he told us the story of the Cave of
the Holy Well.

The Conquistador, it appeared, on setting out on his perilous
mission, had vowed to the Virgin that if through her aid he
succeeded in ousting the heathen from Majorca, he would signalize
his victory by building a noble Cathedral in her honour; and it was
in quarrying the stone from the steep ground by the side of the
_torrente_ that the great cave had been formed. He told us of the
refugees who, fleeing before the cholera, had camped there in
safety; and brought the record up to date by mentioning that to the
present day on the Sunday after Easter great crowds of the townsfolk
made a little pilgrimage to the Holy Well, to drink its waters and
to eat their _empanadas_--pies made specially of lamb for the
occasion.

The cave was near--only a little way, he added, as he hurried to
overtake his now straying herd. If we would proceed farther down the
side of the _torrente_ we would discover it, close by the old well.

So in the sunshine, which was warm without a trace of oppression,
for the sea air agreeably tempered the heat, we wandered on until,
in the side of a fir-topped bank, we found the cave.

And it was quite unlike anything we had imagined. To enter by the
wide square portal was to find oneself in a vast, many-chambered
hall. In quarrying out the interior the long-forgotten workmen had
left at intervals great rudely sculptured blocks that served as
supporting pillars to the roof. Four square holes, open to the sky,
afforded ventilation. Round the walls, and about the bases of the
pillars, had been hewn ledges which might have served for seats or
for beds.

At one point the roof had been blackened by smoke from the
fugitives' fires. But the whole interior was dry and airy. There was
not a trace of damp anywhere, and the sandy floor was one that
could easily have been kept clean and wholesome. It would have been
hard to imagine a more secure or a more sanitary place of refuge.

Down below, nearer the river-bed, was the quaint Moorish
well--square in form, with a domed roof. And looking down the valley
of the _torrente_ from the brow of the hill in front of the cave
where the fig-trees grew, we had a grand prospect of Palma
Cathedral, that from each variant point of view seems to gain a new
beauty.

An unwonted silence lay over the sunlit land. For once there was no
sound of human voice uplifted in song, and that aided the sense of
peace. The Balearic islander is the most skilful market-gardener in
the world. He makes roads that enable one to drive up one side of a
mountain and down the other with perfect ease. He builds walls that
look as though they would last throughout the ages and successfully
resist a shock of earthquake at the end of time. But as a vocalist
he is not attractive.

I must write this heresy in a whisper, for the information would
surprise him. He is unconscious of his lack of melody, and rather
fancies himself as a songster. The merry Majorcan plough-boy does
not "whistle o'er the lea." He sings, or rather chants, in a loud,
discordant voice, an artless recitative, apparently improvising both
words and music and weaving the little incidents of the day, the
trivial happenings of his surroundings, into his interminable lay.

When the Boy was painting in the beautiful undulating country that
lay between Son Espanolet and the mountains, he sometimes discovered
a reference to himself in the _pastorale_.

    "_It is the painter English.
      He is making a picture.
      He has put Gabriel into it.
      Perhaps he will put me also,
      And my fine pigs._"

But though the voice of the herdsman might be unmelodious, it
mingled harmoniously with the jangle of bells as his flock of pigs,
goats, sheep, or asses moved slowly over the uplands under the
fragrant almond-trees.

The air was sweet with perfume of the wild lavender that grew in
profusion about the entrance to the caves. Not a soul was in sight.
It was with a quiet scorn of flesh-pots--even of those that
contained sucking-pig--that, sitting in the sunshine, we lunched
frugally off sandwiches, claret, and big yellow Muscat grapes.

We had left the Casa Tranquila with the understanding that the day
was to be observed as a complete holiday. Yet when the cave revealed
picturesque possibilities it would have surprised one unaccustomed
to the devious ways of the Man and the Boy to have seen how well
provided they chanced to be with working materials.

Leaving them busily sketching, I wandered about gathering the heads
of sweet lavender. I had a newly born ambition to fill a cushion
with the dried blossoms--an ambition that in England would have been
extravagant, but one that in this gracious land was to be gained by
a little charming labour. So with that feeling of absolute mental
content and of physical well-being that seemed to characterize our
Balearic days, I picked and picked and picked until the
luncheon-basket was full to overflowing with the purple-grey
flowers, and the subtle odour of sweet lavender encompassed me with
a cloud of fragrance.

Even in these days of late December I had never taken a country walk
without finding a fresh wild flower. To-day it was a rose-coloured
cornflower, _cyanus_; and in addition, growing close to the caves, I
came upon a fruit, or vegetable, that was quite new to me. The
latter was splendidly decorative. Imagine a giant tomato plant erect
and armed with aggressive prickles, that bore a profusion of apples
whose colour varied from green mottled with white in the unripe, to
brilliant yellow in the mature. I found afterwards that it is known
as the "Devil's tomato." Tufts of the pale pink heath flourished
under the pines, and on the slopes about the fig-trees my favourite
Japanese-like dwarf asphodel, whose white, starry blossoms were
striped with chocolate, were out in profusion.

The far-off tinkle of bells that, to our now accustomed ears, ranked
almost as a necessary accompaniment to the scenery, had gradually
been drawing nearer; and soon the troop of donkeys again appeared,
followed by their patient, kindly-faced herd. They were the only
living things in sight, and as they moved slowly along they
harmonized delightfully with the rustic surroundings.

Approaching nightfall drove us homewards, reluctant to end a day
that had been full of intangible charm. The record of its doings,
baldly set forth on paper, reveals a total lack of incident. The
preceding Christmas Day, spent at a seaside hotel in laboriously
enjoying the festivities of the season, we had almost forgotten.
These placid hours passed quietly in this country of sweet smells,
of gentle noises, of pure, soft air, we would always remember.

As we strolled towards Son Espanolet the setting sun seemed
determined, in honour of the day, to give an extra glorious display
of fireworks. And when the glow had faded from the mountains,
leaving them purple velvet, a vivid rose flush that melted into the
blue haze of the distance lingered long in the eastern sky. And just
above was the nearly full moon, a globe of shining silver. There was
no actual dusk, hardly any gloaming; for before the sun had sunk to
rest the moon, her lamp brilliantly burning, was ready to do duty.





[Illustration: After the Feast of the Conquistador, Palma
Cathedral]

XIII

THE FEAST OF THE CONQUISTADOR


It was the 31st of December, and the day was one of a long
succession of calm summer-like days. The sky was a cloudless blue,
and the air so warm that in the plantations beyond Son Espanolet
sundry over-zealous almond-trees, deceived by the brilliance of the
weather, were already bursting into premature bloom.

It was too fine to waste indoors the remaining hours of the year,
and the gay little town was always interesting. So we walked towards
Palma, and, after strolling down the mole and revelling in the
colour and movement of the harbour, we ascended the long flight of
steps leading to the ramparts, and, passing the Almudaina, reached
the Cathedral, whose grandeur and sacred beauty ever held a fresh
fascination for us.

Entering by a side door, we judged from the presence of certain
extra decorative trappings in front of the high altar that some
special service was in prospect. People were already seated in the
pews that filled the front portion of the nave. Finding places at a
side, we waited, listening to the joyous strains of the grand organ.

Just before eleven o'clock the great doors of the Cathedral were
thrown open, and the warm sunlight streamed into the sombre
interior. Then, through the hush of expectancy that had fallen over
the congregation, we heard the far-off beating of drums. Something
was, looked for--was even now on its way--we knew not what; but we
also waited, expectant.

Nearer the sound came, and nearer. From our side seats we could see
the guard in front of the Almudaina saluting, then from the brilliant
sunlight into the mysterious half-gloom of the Cathedral there passed
a quaint little procession, led by a drum-major gorgeous in scarlet
and gold. Behind him, three and three, came the drummers, still--even
within the sacred walls of the Cathedral--keeping up the _rat-a-plan_
with a vigour that seemed almost profane.

Half-way up the nave they turned aside and stood, rapidly plying
their drum-sticks; while, preceded by two mace-bearers in robes of
scarlet, their symbols of office over their shoulders, came in
evening dress the Civil Governor and the Alcalde, followed by
members of the Council. Behind, in uniform, came the Chiefs of
Police.

When they were seated--the Civil Governor, as representing the King,
being placed in a chair under an embroidered canopy, the others in a
specially draped pew alongside--the service began. At one portion of
the ceremony a priest with attendants mounted the pulpit, and in an
eloquent address related the whole story of the conquest of Majorca
by Jaime, the young King of Aragon, who on that very day six hundred
and eighty years before had entered the city.

In picturesque language and in fine declamatory style he told how
for many hundreds of years the lovely island had suffered under the
oppression of the wicked and tyrannical Moors. How prosperity had
rendered them only the more piratical and cruel, so that no
Christian ship was safe from their assaults. How, rendered yet
bolder by success, they even raided the Catalan coast, sacking
Barcelona, and killing its Count. How at length the indignation of
the Spaniards roused them to take action; and the heads of the
ecclesiastical, the military, and the royal sections meeting
together, resolved to fit out a fleet, and to dispatch an expedition
to wrest the island from the heathen. Under the handsome and daring
young King of Aragon the fleet of over a hundred and forty vessels,
containing an army thirty thousand strong, set sail. They left the
Spanish coast on the 1st of September, 1229, but the Moors made so
determined a resistance that it was the last day of the year before
the hosts of King Jaime succeeded in entering the town.

As in duty bound, the orator ascribed mainly to the influence of the
Church over the Catholic hearts of the people the success of the
expedition that had freed the Christians from their oppressors.

The oration ended, service at the high altar proceeded, while at
intervals gay, almost jocund, music burst forth from the grand
organ. The lightsome strains were infectious. The Alcalde
unconsciously beat time with his staff, and the fingers of the
youngest representative of the municipal government played an
imaginary instrument in time to the music.

There was such a decidedly Gilbert-and-Sullivan suggestion about the
sprightly air that one might be pardoned for expecting the chief
ecclesiastical dignitary to advance singing--

    "I am the Bishop of this Diocese"

or for anticipating the attendant priests making hearty response--

    "And a right good Bishop, too!"

Later in the proceedings the clergy formed into a procession, led by
white-robed acolytes and choristers carrying crucifixes and lighted
candles, and walked slowly round the Cathedral, chanting as they
went; the Civil Governor, the Alcalde, and the other representatives
of the Government bringing up the rear.

The impressive religious service ended, the drummers again fell into
line, and the civic dignitaries, with the mace-bearers, marching to
the sound of the drums, passed out into the sunlit streets.
Following in their footsteps, we sped towards the Town Hall, in
front of which, as we now gathered, the annual ceremony of saluting
the flagstaff of King Jaime the Conquistador was to take place.

There a gay scene awaited us. Detachments of soldiers, their bands
playing, lined the laurel-strewn space before the building. All the
balconies were full of spectators and the street was thronged with
what appeared to be the entire juvenile population of Palma.

With the arrival of the Governor and his escort the ceremony was
speedily completed. The flagstaff, which was heavily wreathed in
laurel, was carried round. Arms having been presented, the historic
trophy retired into carefully tended seclusion until another
anniversary would again bring it into prominence. The military
formed up, and to the sound of inspiriting music marched cheerily
off. The feast of the Conquistador was over.

The origin of the custom we found reached back into bygone ages. For
many centuries after King Jaime's death the people of Palma had an
annual procession on the anniversary of the taking of the city, and
walked through the streets with the banner under which their
deliverer had fought so valiantly carried before them, while the
entire populace prayed for the safety of his soul. The banner has
long since rotted into dust. Now the staff alone is borne, and apart
from the promenade inside the Cathedral there is no procession.

The inner chambers of the Cathedral guard a wealth of treasure, the
collection of centuries, and an inestimable array of relics, which,
through the courtesy of the church dignitaries, we had the privilege
of seeing.

One morning about ten o'clock, when we entered the Cathedral from
the sunlit streets, the faint blue mist of incense hung about the
high altar, and the sound of chanting echoed through the aisles. At
first sight the vast building appeared to be empty; but as our eyes
became accustomed to the perpetual twilight that reigns under the
great roof we became conscious of kneeling worshippers, dimly seen
through the obscurity--a young lady, her mantilla-framed face bent
over her rosary, an old man praying before one of the side chapels
where a faint light was burning.

We were expected. Our friend the padre, a dignified figure clad in
vestments of lace and fur, welcoming us with a silent shake of the
hand, led us noiselessly along a side aisle.

As, passing through a door that led behind the high altar, we caught
a glimpse of the officiating clergy, it almost seemed as though we
were behind the scenes at a theatre where some great life-drama was
being enacted. There were the stately and imposing performers, the
engrossed and scarcely visible audience.

Leaving us in charge of the brother priest who acts as custodian of
the treasure, our sponsor returned to resume his part in the
service. Preceding us through the sacristy, our new guide escorted
us to an inner chamber where, in an impregnable safe built in the
wall, the venerated sacred relics of the Cathedral are kept.

Carefully unlocking and throwing open the guardian doors, he
revealed a cabinet draped with a crimson curtain. Slipping behind
the drapery, he busied himself lighting candles. Then, reappearing,
he drew aside the curtain, revealing the almost startling
magnificence of the precious metal and rare pearls in which the
relics are enshrined.

One object--that occupying the place of honour--was carefully
enswathed. Bending low before it, the padre, with reverent hands,
withdrew the covering, showing an exquisite cross of gold, inset
with priceless gems and hung with strings of costly pearls. In the
centre of the cross--faintly perceptible through its encasement of
crystal--were some fragments of the true Cross. On certain
occasions, such as the service on Good Friday afternoon, this relic
is borne in procession round the Cathedral.

The custodian, who was an enthusiast happy in his appreciation of
and delight in his mission, proceeded to show us more of the
wondrous treasures of the old Cathedral. Among the things almost
too sacred to mention were three thorns from Christ's crown of
thorns, a piece of the purple cloth of His robe, a fragment of His
swaddling band, and a portion of a garment worn by the Virgin Mary.

A bone, black and shrivelled with age, was from the finger of St.
Peter. And an extremely interesting relic--one so veritably antique
that it is mentioned in the first inventory of the sacred trophies
belonging to the Cathedral--is the tip of one of the arrows with
which St. Sebastian, who is the patron saint of Palma, was killed.
Like all the other relics, this is carefully enclosed. Another relic
of the saint is the bone of his fore-arm, which is enclosed in a
case surmounted by a hand, on whose outstretched fingers are many
costly rings, votive offerings presented in gratitude by those who
believe they have benefited by his intercession on their behalf.

Two magnificent crowns, those that on special occasions are worn by
the effigies of the Virgin and the Holy Child, were also in that
safe in company with other valuables too many to catalogue.

The Mass was still in progress. While we gazed from the face of the
priest, which glowed with fervour, to the wondrous things he showed
us with such tender veneration, came a sound of chanting, the music
of boys' voices rising sweet and clear. There was still the first
impression of having been admitted behind the scenes--an impression
which the entrance of certain of the officiating clergy who came
into the sacristy to change their vestments served to deepen.

Leaving an attendant to extinguish the lights and re-lock the great
iron doors, the padre opened other cupboards and showed us a
plethora of riches, valuable not only for the material but for the
beauty and artistic skill of the workmanship. A crucifix bore an
exquisitely carven ivory figure of the dead Christ, and in the
hollow of the slender stem of a gold cup a craftsman of surprising
ingenuity had contrived to mould a representation of the Last
Supper, so minute in detail that it portrayed not only the table
with the company seated around it but also the food that was placed
before them. On the inner base of the vase, the executant of this
triumph of the goldsmith's art had graven his name, which I forget,
and his age, which at the date of the completion of this intricate
and original piece of work was sixty-nine.

Our guide did not scamp his task. He appeared to take both pride and
pleasure in it, and showed us everything, from the vestments, which
were rigid with gold and embroidery, to the massive silver
candelabra worth nearly seven thousand pounds, that are so heavy
that when they are moved into the body of the Cathedral for use
during special services, it takes four men to carry the top, and six
men the base, of each.

At three different dates, when long-continued drought had induced
privation, this silver has been sold for the relief of the poor; and
three times has it been bought back again, and restored to its place
in the Cathedral.

Until recently the embalmed body of King Jaime II. (who died in his
palace of the Almudaina just across the road from the principal
entrance to the Cathedral), which rested in a marble sarcophagus in
front of the high altar, was shown to the public on the 31st of
December, the anniversary of the day on which his father, the
Conquistador, freed Palma from the Moors.

The mummified corpse is no longer publicly exhibited, and the coffin
containing the remains has been removed to a recess behind and above
the high altar, where it rests awaiting burial.

By special permission we were allowed to see the body of the
monarch. The coffin, taken from the sarcophagus, had been placed on
a stone bracket. An attendant, mounting a ladder that leant against
the wall at the head of the coffin, slid back the lid. And in turn
we climbed up and, bending over, peeped into the open coffin to see,
through intervening glass--what? A royal robe of velvet and gold and
ermine, the lace-trimmed sleeves crossed at the empty wrists, and
above the neck of the garment a dark fleshless skull, with the brown
skin tightened over it, closed eyes deep sunk in the sockets, and
toothless jaws wide agape. A rose-pink velvet nightcap encased the
shrunken head of the monarch who, six hundred years ago, reigned
over Majorca.


[Illustration: The Coffin of Jaime II in Palma Cathedral]


The reign of this second Jaime, which extended over a period of more
than thirty years, would appear to have been an exceptionally placid
one for these warlike days. We know that he brought from Spain
cunning workmen who converted for his use the castle of the Moorish
Amir, the Almudaina, into a royal palace, and there a code of Court
etiquette was formulated and put into practice by the new monarch.

The wife of the Captain-General, who now occupies the old Moorish
palace, a few nights before we saw the remains of the former tenant
of the Almudaina, gave a reception in the form of a "tea-party"--the
guests to arrive at ten o'clock, the tea to be served at midnight.
One wonders what the nature of King Jaime's Court functions were--at
what hour his guests assembled, what the entertainment was, and when
they dispersed.

The imposing marble sarcophagus in which in times past these
remnants of royalty were entombed has been removed to a corner of
the cloisters, where we saw it standing forlorn and forgotten.




[Illustration: Market Day at Pollensa]

XIV

POLLENSA


We had intended deferring our expedition to the neighbouring isle of
Minorca till later in the season; until after the week or two of
cold weather that we had been warned to expect in January had
passed. But as the opening days of the year went by in brilliant
sunshine, and the temperature continued ideal, we felt tempted to
delay no longer.

It was the Man's suggestion that we should make a roundabout tour of
it, visiting first the old-world towns of Pollensa and Alcudia, then
sailing from the port of Alcudia to Minorca and returning from Mahon
direct to Palma.

So at daybreak on the 8th of January Bartolome appeared to drive us
to the station.

The sun had risen, Bartolome was smiling, and the hills beyond Son
Espanolet shone pink and heliotrope in the morning light as we drove
along; yet there was a sharp little nip in the air, and the
_consumeros_ were still shivering in their blankets, covered up to
their noses and cowering over their braziers. Without these
reminders we would have forgotten that it was the depth of winter in
the Fortunate Isles.

At Palma station the customary small bustle heralded the departure
of the morning train. The porter of the Grand Hotel was seeing off a
French couple who were going to Manacor to visit the Dragon Caves.
Among the little company of natives with their fringed shawls and
white muslin _rebozillos_ the French lady, who wore a smart
flower-trimmed toque on her golden hair and costly furs on her
shoulders, looked oddly out of place.

On this occasion the 7.40 train left with extreme punctuality, and
its rate of progress, though slow, was steady. The only other
passenger in our second-class compartment was a swarthy man who wore
a yachting cap, white shoes, and a striped blanket. He evidently
felt cold, and as he sat curled up on the seat his appearance was a
ludicrous combination of a member of the Royal Yacht Club and an
Asiatic hospital patient who had risen to have his bed made.

He was journeying to Inca, apparently for the first time, and when
he asked for information regarding the number of stations to be
passed before his destination was reached, it seemed reversing the
natural order of things that we foreigners should be able to give
it.

Nearly two months had passed since we travelled over the line, and
it was interesting to note the difference in the appearance of
things. Then the rich red earth had been furrowed by the plough, or
was in process of sowing. Now it was covered with long lines of
sturdy beans, or with springing grain level and green as a tennis
lawn.

The fig-trees and grape-vines were leafless now; but the evergreen
carobs showed the tender shades of the new leaves at the tips of the
well-covered branches. The olives wore their accustomed silver-grey,
but the first pale blossoms of the year flecked the almond-trees
with white.

We had taken _combinados_ tickets, and the second-class fare--two
pesetas thirty-five centimos--included the ten-mile coach drive from
La Puebla to Pollensa.

When we alighted at the station two diligences were waiting, one for
Pollensa, the other for Alcudia. Choosing the right one the Man and
I got inside with six other folk--three young men, two young women,
one old man, and a baby too young to count. The Boy went on the box,
luggage was piled on the roof, and the horses set to work to drag
their heavy load over the dry, newly mended road.

The Majorcan way of repairing a road is to put a layer of roughly
broken stones over the worn bits, then to block the smooth places
with chunks of rock, so that the unhappy travellers are perforce
obliged to do the work of levelling by driving over the loose
stones.

But though the way was rough and jolty there was no dust, and there
were no mosquitoes; and our company, including the brand-new baby,
was the soul of good nature. The young men and women chatted gaily
together in the harsh Majorcan dialect; the old man evincing a
friendly interest in the conversation, which difference of
nationality unfortunately rendered unintelligible to us. Once or
twice, when the subject under discussion appeared more than usually
entertaining, the Man and I whispered to each other, as we had done
before in similar circumstances, "If we could only understand what
they are saying!"

Our progress was slow, owing partly to the roughness of the road,
and partly, as the Boy later explained, to the fact that the driver,
who was a very old man, fell asleep at intervals, and only awoke
when the horses stopped.

Half-way to Pollensa we exchanged drivers with the coach that was on
its way to La Puebla; and our new man being wide-awake, matters
progressed more briskly. The Boy told us afterwards that, seen from
his place on the box, the scenery had been glorious; but from the
interior of the diligence it was impossible to gain more than a
general impression of lovely wooded slopes, and of distant hills
that seemed to draw nearer and nearer until, suddenly, while
Pollensa seemed still a long way off, we found ourselves in a narrow
lane lined with tall houses. In and out of the most tortuous streets
imaginable the diligence twisted, then abruptly came to a standstill
at no place in particular, and we realized that we had penetrated to
the heart of Pollensa.

We had no idea where to go. All the information we had been able to
gather about the Pollensa _fondas_--there were no so-called
hotels--was that they were reputed to be bad. But when the coach
stopped, and we had alighted, and were standing with our luggage on
the cobble-stones, wondering in what direction to turn for a
lodging, a young man, plump, clean-shaven, bare-headed, appearing
from nowhere, begged breathlessly to recommend his _fonda_.

Following him through crooked ways we reached the hostelry, which
was in a little square near the market-place. Mounting a steep
stair, we entered a large lavishly windowed room furnished with many
round tables and chairs. It had a little bar and looked to the
square; behind it was a dining-room.

The Boy, who was our spokesman, following the expected procedure,
inquired the terms per day.

"Six pesetas." Our host, following an equally expected procedure
when arranging with foreigners, had quoted his top price.

"No," said the Boy, whom experience had taught wisdom. "Three
pesetas; that is enough. Can you not do it for that?"

The landlord waved his hands. "That depends on what you have," he
replied, quite reasonably. "Three pesetas--yes, if you will be
content with soup and one other dish at dinner and at supper."

"And is the little breakfast included?"

"Yes, senor. Coffee and milk."

So it was decided. Three pesetas a day was to be the price. And it
was with a feeling of keen curiosity as to what our host would
provide for the money that we awaited the appearance of the first
meal, which was to be served immediately. Senor Calafill at Andraitx
had given us the perfection of French cookery, the best of wines, at
three and a half pesetas. But his house was less pretentious, being
a shop only and not a _fonda_.

Our hostess, a nice, bright little woman who wore her hair in a
pigtail and the _rebozillo_, bustled in and began laying the
marble-topped table with fresh napkins, good cutlery, rolls, a
bottle of wine, and a syphon of soda-water. Then she added a dish of
fruit, and running off to the kitchen returned with the soup--a good
thick Majorcan soup, full of rice and sweet peppers and chopped
meat. The second course was a large dish of fish served with fried
potatoes. Then we had, as a fruit course, apples and mandarin
oranges. The fare might not be lavish, but it was assuredly all we
required.

Our rooms, which were the best the house afforded, were small but
clean, and during our stay proved quite free from mosquitoes.

When we discussed how we would spend the afternoon, the Boy and I
hotly advocated walking to the port of Pollensa. A traveller from an
inland town who had shared the box-seat of the diligence with the
Boy had spoken enthusiastically of its beauty. His family was
accustomed to spend the hot months there. The fishing, he said, was
splendid, the fish being of much finer quality than those taken in
the neighbouring bay of Alcudia.

"A salmonetta caught in the bay of Pollensa _is_ a salmonetta," he
had declared emphatically.

The Man wisely objected to the expedition. The port, he reminded us,
was seven kilometros (nearly five miles) away, and that was too far
to go and return comfortably in the short winter afternoon. Besides,
when we had come to see a curious old town, why not stay to look at
it?

But from my bedroom window I had caught an enchanting glimpse of the
port--a segment of blue water hemmed in by steep rocky mountains. It
seemed so near that I flouted the idea of the five miles, and the
afternoon being a glorious one we finally agreed to go.

As we passed along an outlying street an old man, who stood outside
his house superintending the drying of a great tray of macaroni,
wished us "Good day."

In returning his greeting the Man added a remark on the beauty of
the weather, which indeed to us seemed perfect.

"No. This weather is not good. It is bad," the old man said
severely. "It is rain that is needed. The country suffers. No,
senor. This weather is bad, not good."

The way was a relic of the Roman occupation: a splendid wide level
road that, except for a curve where it left the town, stretched like
a broad ruled line between us and the blue sea. It could not really
be so far as seven kilometros, I assured my vigilant conscience,
which was inclined to remonstrate. It looked no distance at all.

So we went on our wilful way, journeying gaily between the thorny
hedges of aloes--one up among the rocks on the hill-side was in
bloom--and beside the little farms that bordered either side of the
road.

The road was long--quite five miles--but there was always something
interesting at hand, and the enticing strip of blue water drew us
onward. The hills on the opposite side of the bay had already caught
the rays of the setting sun, and looked like a bit of some
dream-world.

The port of Pollensa had a quaint semicircle of houses, divided in
the middle by the road we had come, which ended only on the bit of
wharf that ran out into the spacious well-sheltered bay, where the
British fleet had often found commodious anchorage. Save for a few
local _falucas_ it was now empty.

In the little enclosed yards in front of the fisher-houses men and
girls were at work weaving from bright yellow strips of bamboo the
tall, beehive-looking lobster-traps in local use. Behind the houses,
on the left side of the bay, rose a precipitous hill. In front,
between the houses and the water, was a line of fig-trees. Along
towards the seaward point were some small charmingly situated
summer residences.

When we turned our faces townwards the sun had already set; and
though we walked smartly, the way that in the going had seemed short
appeared to lengthen as the shadows crept over the hills and
darkness encircled us.

Pollensa lies, a close huddle of old sun-dried houses, in a narrow
curved valley between high mountains. Until you are close upon it,
it is almost entirely hidden, and that was probably the intention
with which it was originally planned. During the last mile or two of
the return journey, when the shades had fallen and we went on and on
without apparently getting any nearer our habitation, my opinion of
the distance that divided the port from the town became considerably
modified. Still, we were only pleasantly tired when the first of the
town lights appeared, and we found our way to the _fonda_ through
the twisted streets, past many well-lit barbers' shops where, in
full view of the public gaze, men were being shaved or sitting in
patient rows resignedly awaiting turns that, to judge from the large
number of customers and the paucity of barbers, would necessarily be
a long time in coming.

Supper was ready to serve, and the moment the meal was over I went
upstairs to bed--to sleep soon and sweetly, in spite of the fact
that conversation in the bar-room beneath sounded surprisingly
distinct--about as loud, indeed, as though the owners of the voices
were talking at my ear. Morning brought explanation of the
phenomenon--one of the flooring tiles just at the head of the bed
was missing, and through the gap thus left the noise of the unseen
talkers entered the room as through a speaking-tube.

On the following morning, which was Sunday, the weekly market was
held at Pollensa. Very early, while it was yet hardly light, the
little bustle of street traffic awoke me, and, looking from the
window, I got a misty view of panniered donkeys and of rustic
conveyances which vague shadowy figures were unloading.

When we had breakfasted we went out and, within a few steps of our
inn, found ourselves in the most picturesque market-place we had
ever seen.

I do not know what may be the leading article of Pollensa market at
other seasons, but on this January day the outstanding feature was
cabbages--of tremendous proportions. Piled in heaps and hillocks on
the ground, they fairly dominated the market. Other wares there were
no doubt, but the things that impressed us were the number and size
of these giant vegetables and a feeling of wonder as to where the
people would come from to buy them. As the morning wore on, the
mounds sensibly diminished in height; but at that early hour the
stacks of cabbages towered so high that sometimes only the heads of
the vendors were visible above them.

In the raised portion of the market-square women occupied the stone
benches, their stock of home-grown fruits and of the finer
vegetables exhibited in baskets before them.

It was the scarce time for grapes. The field-produce was long over,
and only garden bunches were still to be had. But without any
attempt at bargaining we bought two pounds of delicious grapes for
sixpence-farthing, and large golden oranges were offered us at
twopence a dozen.

The town was so full of strange and picturesque figures that every
moment brought fresh entertainment. At the _feria_ into which we
strayed at Inca we had thought ourselves lucky in seeing one old man
attired in the curious _colsons en bufer_, as the voluminous
zouave-like pantaloons of bright blue cotton are called. Here in
Pollensa wearers of the delightfully odd old-world dress abounded.
And it seemed as though they took a special pride in the quaintness
of their garb, so particular were they about the set of their
neckties, so trim about the ankles, so careful as to the fit of the
low black shoes that went so well with the costume.

The women of Pollensa, though less extraordinary of aspect, were
also a pleasure to behold, for with scarcely an exception they wore
the becoming native dress, and their heads were neatly covered with
either the pretty white muslin head-dress or with handkerchiefs of
gaily coloured silk.

It was somewhat disconcerting to realize, as we did quite suddenly,
that it was really we who were the oddities, and that in the eyes of
the crowd, at whom we were gazing so curiously, I was a ludicrous
object because I wore a hat!

It was really quite an ordinary travelling-hat, but finding that the
fact of a woman wearing a hat at all attracted undue attention from
these unsophisticated folks, I hastened back to the _fonda_ and
changed it for a chiffon scarf worn mantilla-fashion. That done, I
found I could pass almost unnoticed.

Majorca boasts many picturesque old towns, but probably Pollensa is
the most picturesque of all. It is a beautiful antique: a town made
for the painter. Its warm golden-brown houses have baked in the hot
southern sunshine until they seem ready to crumble to pieces. It is
by no means a rich town. Most of the dwellings appeared to belong to
the poorer classes. As the Man said--"It is a city of slums--but
what adorable slums!"

The streets were all turnings, and every turn brought a subject
ready for the brush. Here was a grand old cross, there a curious
fountain, yonder an ancient stone washing-trough. And round every
corner, that market-morning, came the quaint old men in their
broad-brimmed felt hats and baggy breeches, unconsciously adding the
note of human interest that completed the pictures.

Pollensa is essentially a town of hills. Mountains closely girdle it
round. To the Calvario, which is perched on a height in the midst of
the town, one ascends by countless wide, low steps, the town
ascending also. For on one side houses struggle half-way up the
steep incline, while cactus plants, the edges of their thick, fleshy
leaves heavily ruched by blood-red fruit, hedge the other. On the
rocky slope beyond is a thick growth of _palmettos_, the dwarf palms
whose inner stems the natives eat and from whose dried fronds
baskets are made.

[Illustration: The Main Street of Pollensa]

To the dwellers in these sky-parlours the broad steps play the part
of an extra sitting-room. As we climbed slowly up that hot morning,
we trod closely upon many domestic scenes, but none of the actors
therein objected to the intrusion. Fathers were happily employing
their Sunday leisure in nursing their babies; and mothers, with the
requisites placed for all the world to see, were washing their
children's faces, tying up their locks with ribbon, and performing
other niceties of the toilet that usually take place in the sanctity
of the home. One old woman, sitting full in the sun, was reciting
her prayers in a loud voice. Her occupation, however, did not appear
in the slightest to detract from her interest in the passing of us
_forasteros_.

The open doors of the little chapel that perched amidst its guardian
cypresses on the summit spoke a wordless welcome; and we entered, to
find ourselves in a beautiful sanctuary.

Above the altar was a very old carved tableau which represented
Christ suspended on a heavy wooden cross, with Mary, kneeling,
caressing His wounded feet. On the ceiling were various curious and
evidently antique emblems of the Redemption.

On either side of the altar was a recess devoted to the display of
votive offerings. Many of them were akin to those exhibited in other
churches, though one case was filled with tiny flat silver
figures--miniature men in trousers and tiny women in petticoats. But
on the wall of the chamber to the right was an offering that aroused
both our interest and our curiosity.

Suspended in a tall, narrow glass case, hung a pleat of dark brown
hair, tied simply after the local fashion with a knot and ends of
black ribbon. It was a pigtail such as was worn by most of the women
in the town; but a pigtail of such unusual length and thickness that
it might quite laudably have been the pride of its owner's heart.

Beneath was a card bearing the following inscription, written large
in a fair, round hand:--

    _Promesa de Francisca 30 Noviembre 1902 Pollensa._

Now who was Francisca? And why did she promise to cut off her
beautiful hair? Was it to avert the fatal issue of some illness of
her own? Or was it because her lover was ill, or in danger by land
or sea? Or was Francisca merely afraid that he might prove
faithless?

Whatever the nature of the terror Francisca dreaded, it was happily
averted. The presence of the severed tresses assured us of that. But
it was a particularly fine pigtail, and the sight of it tempted one
to wonder what the feeling of Juan, or Pedro, or Miguel was when he
first saw his sweetheart with closely cropped locks, and found that
she had shorn off her glory for his sake. It is to be trusted that
Francisca's hair was not her only beauty.

From the terraced slope of the Calvario one gets a magnificent view of
the town. Looking down on the tiled roofs, all tawny-brown with the
passing of centuries, it is easy to realize the great age of Pollensa.
The city itself occupies but a circumscribed area, so narrow are the
streets, so huddled together the houses. There is scarcely room for a
green leaf to sprout between them. But where the town ends abruptly
the real country begins, and in the parts that are not closely flanked
by hills the ancient town is girdled by a belt of almond-trees. And
all about it the fertile ground is cut up into small holdings, each
with its little yellow-brown dwelling-house.

On every side, as far as the eye can reach, rise mountains, a
glimpse of blue sea showing here and there between their rocky
crags. Above one side of the town towers an isolated peak, from
whose crest a magnificent panoramic view of half of the island of
Majorca, and even a distant glimpse of Minorca, can be obtained.

A superbly situated building that was once the Convent of Nuestra
Senora del Puig (Our Lady of the Peak) crowns the top of the
height. It was so named because of a marvellous image of the Virgin
discovered by the nuns who were in residence there. In olden days,
when the building was in the possession of the Church, the Convent
of Our Lady of the Peak supported an _hospederia_ for the shelter of
pilgrims; and now that the holy sisterhood has removed to Palma, the
authorities of Pollensa continue to uphold their hospitable custom,
and every traveller who mounts the steep--rather a stiff climb, by
the way--is welcome to free lodging with fire, oil, olives, and
goat's cheese for three nights and days at the expense of the town.

As we looked from the Calvario where we were standing across the
valley to the noble pile of the old convent, and thought how sublime
the sunrises and sunsets would be, viewed from Our Lady of the Peak,
I registered a vow to make a pilgrimage thither some day. The Man
chose to be pleasantly sarcastic regarding the fulfilment of the
intention. He cherishes a perhaps not altogether unfounded belief
that I wish to revisit every place I have seen in Majorca. But we
shall see....

As we passed back through the market-square, the business of buying
and selling was still in progress. In every quarter of the town,
down back alleys, mounting up the steps towards the Calvario, in the
farthest-out streets, we had met women carrying home the
Brobdingnagian cabbages. Dinners were already cooking over the
little fires of almond shells, and the odour of boiling cabbage came
from many earthenware cooking-pots, yet the piles seemed scarcely
diminished.

The cattle-market--a matter of a score or two of piglings, half a
dozen sheep, a few horses--was held in the square before our
_fonda_, and while it lasted the interest of the wearers of the
_colsons en bufer_ centred there, though, as far as we could judge
from our balcony, they took no active part in the trafficking. They
had all brown, weather-beaten, shrewd old faces, and all gave the
impression of leading lives of extreme respectability. It was
impossible to imagine any one of them falling foul of the law.

As the Boy said, "It would be a comic sight to see the old beggars
flying from Justice in bags like these!"

Since our arrival on the previous noon, the personality of our
landlord had greatly puzzled us. At first sight he had appeared
youngish, stout, clean-shaven, and slightly surly in manner, and at
intervals he still presented the same characteristics. But there
were other times when he surprised us by seeming rather older,
slightly greyer, and decidedly more gracious of bearing. The simple
solution of the little mystery came when we chanced to see him in
both aspects at once; and learned that we had two hosts--father and
son--who, even when seen in company, so strongly resembled each
other that we christened them the two Dromios.

In the afternoon we set off on the prowl, with the Town Hall--in
which a native guide-book declared there was a collection of antique
armour--as our objective.

The Town Hall, which in common with so many important Balearic
buildings was originally a convent, occupies a commanding position
at the head of a steep street. Reaching it, we found an open
doorway, but no sign of any custodian.

We entered and wandered along empty passages and up a great
staircase so old that the stone steps were worn down, and the lower
balustrades had fallen quite away.

Still in quest of the collection of ancient armour, we had strayed
as far as an upper and seemingly deserted corridor, our footsteps
echoing loudly on the tiled floors. We were about to retrace our
steps when a door at the end of the passage opened, and a gentleman
appeared.

To our gratification he accepted our explanation of the intrusion,
and courteously invited us to enter his house to see the views from
his windows; for as official telegraphist to the town, he occupied a
handsome suite of rooms in the old building.

His wife, too, showed no surprise at having three outlandish
foreigners thus rudely disturb her Sabbath peace. She received us
most graciously, and, having invited us to be seated, entered into
conversation with the Man.

"We were from England, then?"

"Yes, but for the winter we were resident at Palma."

"Palma. So we lived in Palma?" Before her husband's translation to
Pollensa a few months earlier, the senora explained, they also had
lived in Palma. "In what part of Palma did we reside?"

"Well, not exactly in the town--just beyond the walls, at Son
Espanolet."

"At Son Espanolet!" The senora confessed to having had a summer
residence in Son Espanolet.

"Our house is in the Calle de Mas--Number 23."

"In the Calle de Mas! Caramba! What a coincidence!" The senora's
summer home had also been in the Calle de Mas--Number 26.

With this unexpected interest between us, we were soon all chatting
away volubly, though, I fear, not always intelligibly. And when we
bade the senora "Adios" to resume our quest, the senor kindly
accompanied us.

With his aid we succeeded in unearthing an old woman who kept the
keys that opened the treasures of the town.

One most interesting chamber held the records of Pollensa for many
hundreds of years--from the earliest archives that were inscribed on
parchment now brown with age, to the smart morocco-bound chronicles
of the day before yesterday. The arms of the city--the three
cypresses, the silver star, and the cock with a claw in the air,
that had already become familiar to us--were there also.

Among the old cross-bows and halberds were the huge blunderbusses
that, in accordance with an old custom, are still fired off yearly.
And with them were specimens of a much older form of offensive
weapon in the shape of huge rounded stones that in olden times had
been hurled from the battlements of the Castillo del Rey, aimed at
the skulls of attacking enemies.

Articles that were specially interesting, because in use to the
present day, were the big earthenware water-jugs from which are
drawn by lot the young men whom Pollensa annually contributes to
the Majorcan army. There must be anxious hearts, both inside and
outside of the old building, on that morning in early February when
the lads whose turn has come go up to draw from the narrow mouths of
the Moorish jars the numbers that are to decide their manner of life
for the next three years.

In the Council Chamber was a large painting by a native artist of
Juan Mas, the townsman to whom belongs the honour of having first
delivered Pollensa from the Moors.

Juan must either have been a _malade imaginaire_, or one whose
spirit was stronger than his body; for, as the story goes, he was
sick abed when the Moors reached the town, and leaping from his
couch, without taking time to change his night-garb, he led the
people on to victory. The artist shows the hero in what was
presumably the sleeping-suit of the period--loose white breeches and
a shirt.

We were back at the _fonda_ taking tea when a sound of chanting
voices in the street beneath drew us to the windows in time to see a
religious procession passing slowly beneath. Priests in rich
vestments, carrying banners, walked in front; behind in a double
line came a long succession of females of all classes--women with
_rebozillos_ and pigtails, ladies with mantillas. A band of little
girls and nuns brought up the rear; and, still singing, the company
passed on, and entered the adjacent church.




XV

THE PORT OF ALCUDIA


On being consulted respecting a conveyance that would take us to
Alcudia, the younger Dromio had suggested the possibility of hiring
one from a friend of his own. The distance was twelve kilometros,
the cost would be about six or seven pesetas. So next morning, when
we were ready to start, quite a smart trap awaited us.

It was after the fashion of the penitential gig in which we had
journeyed from the Hospederia at Miramar to Soller, but it was twice
as large. The owner, who drove, had dressed for the occasion. He
wore a sportive cap of green and gold tartan plush, a well-starched
white shirt that was lavishly sprinkled with black spots as big as
sixpences (no collar, of course), and he was smoking a cigar.

Bidding farewell to the two Dromios, who shook us by the hands with
seeming regret and craved the favour of a recommendation to our
friends, we drove away through the sweet morning air. The lovely road
curved about the foot of the hill crowned by the old Convent of Our
Lady of the Peak, and past many little holdings--one-acre-and-a-goat
sort of places--towards the sea. The road was dry, but there was no
dust, and the January sun shone warmly from a cloudless sky.

[Illustration: The Roman Gateway, Alcudia]

When we had reached the broad Roman road that led directly to the
old walled city of Alcudia, our way led between countless ranks of
great fig-trees--their spreading branches now bare and grey. So many
were they, and so wide an area did they cover, that, if we had
not seen figs growing in profusion at other parts of the island, we
could almost have believed that all the figs in Palma came from
Alcudia.

Our driver was a genial man who had emigrated and made his money in
Buenos Ayres, and while still young had been able to follow the
worthy native custom and return with his savings to his native
district, where he was now comfortably settled, farming his own bit
of land and driving his own pony-trap.

When we asked his advice as to where we might stay at Alcudia, he
said there were two hotels at the port, which is a mile beyond the
old city. The Hotel Miramar was the larger. But the proprietors of
the Fonda Marina were friends of his own. They were very nice
people. He could heartily recommend them. And here I may say that
one of the many nice features of the Majorcans is that they are
almost invariably on friendly terms with each other. If a shopkeeper
happens to be out of the commodity a buyer wants, he will put
himself out of his way to direct the customer to a brother vendor.

Alcudia is a curiously old city--far older even than Palma, they
claim. It has a distinct inner wall--Moorish--and many substantial
traces of an outer one--Roman. Entering by the gate of San
Sebastian--near which a much-chipped wooden figure of the saint is
sheltered in a netting-protected niche in the wall--we drove through
the corkscrewy streets and out by a gate on the farther side.

Before coming we had decided not to stay in the ancient city. Its
sanitary condition was supposed to be doubtful, and we had failed to
hear of an inn there. But when we had driven through the picturesque
Roman gateway and past the antique cross beyond, we looked back, and
the place seemed so enticingly old-world, so like a habitation out
of another century than ours, that we felt sorry we had made no real
endeavour to find a lodging within its walls. However, the
recollection that we would have to start about 3 a.m. in a small
boat to get on board the Minorca steamer reconciled us to the
prospect of living as close as possible to the harbour.

The Fonda Marina was an attractive-looking new house built at the
very edge of the bay. As we drove up, the host and hostess,
recognizing our driver, hastened out to welcome him. Before marrying
and settling down as hotel-keepers, the husband had been a steward
on South American steamers, and the wife had been cook to the former
proprietors of the _fonda_. Both were pleasant, frank country folk,
and terms were quickly arranged.

"We would like to stay here till the boat for Minorca calls
to-morrow night. Can you take us for three pesetas a day?" we asked.

"For three pesetas _each_?" the host inquired dubiously, as though
he thought we had suggested his accepting that sum for the trio. "If
for three pesetas _each_--yes, surely."

So, to the evident satisfaction of everybody concerned, the easy
bargain was concluded.

The Fonda Marina was particularly bright and airy. Its windows
overlooked the great Bay of Alcudia, from which, in olden times,
expeditions were wont to sail for Africa and the Levant. These were
the days when the kings of Spain built whole fleets from wood grown
in Majorcan forests.

There was a drawing-room whose three windows each commanded a
totally different point of view. It had a good balcony, and was lit
by home-made acetylene gas. Our rooms, which were clean and
comfortable, faced seawards. With a very long rod one might almost
have fished from their windows. A more enticing summer residence
could hardly be imagined.

Our hostess had promised that in a few minutes luncheon would be
ready. And it was with lively curiosity that we awaited its
appearance. The two Dromios had entertained us for the same sum; and
we were interested to see how the catering of the Fonda Marina would
compare with that of their caravansary.

Seating ourselves in one of the large halls downstairs, we waited
the turn of events. The mistress of the house had disappeared into
the kitchen, whence frizzling sounds expressive of hurried cooking
smote cheerily upon our expectant ears.

Presently a slim, dark-eyed young maid, Consuelo by name, hastened
out bearing an armful of plates which she proceeded to set at
intervals round a large baize-covered table near us. Then she added
thick glass tumblers, a tall jug of water, and a large rye loaf.

"I say," said the Boy, "there are _six_ plates. We're evidently
expected to dine with the family. That'll be fun."

But his hopes of a treat were disappointed by Consuelo reappearing
to invite us into a neat little dining-room whose existence we had
not suspected. There we found a table nicely spread for three, with
the elaborately monogrammed linen one sees in every Majorcan home,
good cutlery, a bottle of red wine, and a siphon of soda-water.

When we had taken our places our host himself placed before us a
large dish of _arroz_--the excellent native stew of rice mixed with
anything savoury in the form of fish, flesh, fowl, or vegetable that
happens to be at hand.

Fried fish followed--fresh out of the sea, and so delicious of
flavour that we were inclined to question whether those caught in
the bay of Pollensa could possibly be better.

While we were eating it, the hostess came in to ask what we would
have next--whether we would prefer an omelet or cutlets. We
unanimously chose omelet, and in a hand-clap one, hot and buoyant,
was on the table. Oranges and apples and black coffee completed the
menu.

During the meal, the solicitude of the family to see that we lacked
nothing that would conduce to our comfort was almost embarrassing.
The door of our dining-room stood open, and although the host and
Consuelo, who served us, did not actually remain in the room they
were continually passing the door with anxious eyes turned on our
proceedings. And when a dish was removed the senora would come in
person to inquire if it had been to our liking.

The climax came when the only child of the house--Cristobal, a dear
brat of five--in his desire to see the eccentric strangers eat,
crept stealthily up the staircase and stationed himself on his knees
just opposite the open door of the dining-room, gazing down through
the banisters at us.

This ingenious little manoeuvre was discovered by his father.
There ensued a sound resembling applause, and young hopeful was
borne off, howling, to be comforted in the kitchen.

Immediately after luncheon the Man walked back towards Alcudia to
sketch the view of the sea-gate of the old city, that had struck him
when we drove through. And, left to our devices, the Boy and I went
boating.

A jolly, flat-bottomed punt belonging to the _fonda_ was moored
close at hand, and just across the blue and silver water lay an
enticing stretch of lovely white sand. Behind it rose a bank of low
shrubs overtopped by tall pines whose foliage had been so cropped
that at a little distance they bore a striking resemblance to
cocoanut palms. Beyond the flat expanse of land rose a line of
mountains that glowed warm heliotrope and pink in the strong
sunshine.

The still water was so clear that we could see every grain of the
sand, every spray of seaweed, beneath. And as we drifted over the
lagoon we felt as though the intervening decade had slipped back and
that we were once again on the coral strand of the Pacific Islands.

I had heard that beautiful and, sometimes, very rare shells were to
be found in the Bay of Alcudia. So, getting the Boy to put me on
shore, I wandered along by the edge of the water looking for them.
But my quest proved of little avail. Shells there were, it is true,
but they were very small, very fragile, and almost colourless; most,
indeed, were pure white and nearly transparent. I have gathered
shells in many parts of the world, and I confess I was disappointed.
Still, it was the only point on which Alcudia did not far exceed any
expectations I had formed of it. The comparative failure of my
search must have been owing to the long continuance of calm
weather. As the Mediterranean is almost tideless, it is only after a
storm that wave-borne treasures are usually to be found washed up on
her beaches.

Perhaps I may not have looked in the right spot, though I did wander
a long way round the shore in the direction of the Albufera--the
tract of marshy land where rice is cultivated. So far, that I was
glad when the Boy, by skilful navigation, succeeded in avoiding the
many sandbanks and could run the punt in and, picking me up, row me
over to the _fonda_.

The Man was awaiting our return, and after taking a cup of tea we
walked eastwards along the coast towards an old Moorish tower that
we had seen from the distance.

The sun had set. It was in the mysterious half-light of the gloaming
that we mounted the steps leading to the door and found it open at a
touch. Within all was darkness. The flame of a match revealed
chambers showing that the tower had evidently been a home as well as
a place of defence. One had evidently been the living-room of the
Moorish tenants, for almost half the floor-space was occupied by the
wide chimney-corner, where a host might have gathered round the
blazing logs. I never see an ancient dwelling without experiencing a
keen desire to know what manner of folks were the first to kindle a
fire on the deserted hearth.

Feeling our way up the worn stairway, we reached a floor with more
empty and silent apartments. Two or three broken steps led to a
cunning opening placed exactly over the front entrance. Besiegers
essaying to storm the door must have fallen easy victims to the
alert watchers above; and that wide hearth had room to heat an
amazing lot of water. At either side of the opening were embrasures
into which the defender of the fortress might dart after he had
aimed his missile--scalding water, arrows, heavy stones, or whatever
the fashion of his time in projectiles chanced to be.

Mounting yet higher, we found ourselves standing in the open air, on
a flat circular roof overlooking the wide bay. On one side of the
roof were two chambers and a draw-well.

The view from the top of this ancient Moorish tower was grand. The
sun had long set, but the sky still held a thousand glorious hues
that were reflected in the sea. No craft moved on the surface of the
water, and not a living being was in sight on land. The whole lovely
world seemed to belong to us. Allured by the romantic beauty of the
spot, we lingered until the colour had faded and the sky had become
so dark that we had to stumble our way _fonda_-wards over the rough
field-track, vowing to return on the morrow to see the place by
daylight.

Supper was waiting when we got indoors--half-a-dozen fried eggs
served with fried potatoes, cutlets, cauliflower and cheese. A
home-made sausage, a mould of _membrillo_ jelly, fruit and
coffee--an _outre_ combination perhaps, but it was all very tempting
and nicely cooked, and we enjoyed it.

Another of our charming Balearic days had ended. And so, as Pepys
would say, to bed.

Our wonderful luck in weather continued. We awoke to yet another
perfect morning. Immediately after breakfast the Man set off to
sketch one of the countless curious antique Moorish wells--known as
_norias_--used for the irrigation of the crops: wells whose chains
of earthenware jars are worked by the motive power supplied by mules
that, yoked to a long shaft, keep walking in a circle. The mule
needs no guide, as the rein, which is tied to the beam overhead, at
intervals gives a gentle tug in the required direction.

It was oddly pathetic to see the patient brutes, their eyes
blindfolded by having straw saucers fastened over them plodding
steadfastly round and round, while from the ceaseless filling and
emptying of the chain of jars the water gushed in a miniature
waterfall into the trenches dug between the long lines of growing
vegetables. In this fertile plain near the sea, the crop at this
mid-winter season appeared to consist mainly of cabbages and
cauliflowers. And when we saw those grown at Alcudia we knew where
the mammoth cabbages that had dominated Pollensa market had been
reared.

[Illustration: A _Noria_ Near Alcudia]

The Boy had gone alone to do a sketch on the roof of the Moorish
tower that had interested us on the previous night. As he sat
working, there came a sound of steps ascending the crumbling stairs;
and to his pleasure three pretty Majorcan girls appeared, come to
fill their earthen water-jars at the old draw-well on the roof, a
well that even after the lapse of hundreds of years still continued
to yield an abundant supply of pure water. The girls were exactly
the figures required to complete the sketch. So to their
gratification and his own benefit the Boy put them in.

In the afternoon, the Man and I walked the easy mile to Alcudia, and
wandered about the quaint old town, climbing both the inner and the
outer walls, wishing we knew more of its history, and lamenting that
our limitations of language kept us ignorant of the meaning of these
extensive and variant lines of fortifications. So we made no
exhaustive inquiries, but prowled about and drew our own rough
conclusions as to the relative values of the Roman and Moorish
manner of building and defence.

Coming upon a handsome and imposing church, we went in. It was dark
and silent. Straying through the outer building, which had a vast
Moorish dome, we entered a curious and beautiful inner church, whose
sides were lined with the nearest approach to private boxes that we
had ever seen in a sacred edifice.

Returning to the outer church, we were looking at the decorations in
the dimness of the side chapels. The Man had struck a match to
enable us to see a grotto that was rendered still more obscure by
half-drawn curtains. The sound echoing through the silence brought a
lad, who was evidently intensely interested in the church and its
possessions. Lighting a tall candle, he drew aside the curtains, and
with something of the pride of ownership in his manner revealed to
us the Christmas tableau of the scene in the stable at Bethlehem.

His glory in the display was so evident that we did not remark on
the contempt for perspective that had represented the Virgin and
Child as giants, and the worshipping kings and shepherds as merely
pigmies; nor did we venture to hint that anything in the nature of
an anachronism marked the presence of a gay satin cushion at Mary's
feet.

The lad's soul was evidently in the work of the church. When we
thanked him, and the Man offered him a coin in recognition of the
willing services he had rendered us, he at first refused to take it;
then, when we insisted, accepted and immediately put it into the
collection-box marked "For the High Altar."

Our landlord had spoken of the remains of a Roman amphitheatre that
was in the district; and finding that we were interested, he
volunteered to pilot us thither. And, indeed, without his escort we
would never have found the place, for it lies in the heart of a
farm, the way to which leaves the main road half-way between the old
city and her port.

A commonplace path between stone walls led to the farm-house, whose
quite ordinary exterior gave no suggestion of the strange tracks of
bygone races that lay hid in the ground all about. Having asked and
obtained the permission that enabled us to trespass, we passed on
and reached a rocky slope which bore signs of having at some time
been used as a quarry.

To our unskilled eyes nothing seemed to promise that our
surroundings would prove other than the usual Majorcan farm placed
on a particularly rocky bit of country.

Our guide, who had been walking in advance, stopping suddenly,
pointed to the ground at his feet.

"There!" he said.

And looking, we saw that we were standing on the top step of a
barely distinguishable semicircle that had been roughly hewn in the
rock. With a beautiful disrespect for age, a stone dike had been
built right across the seats. I think we counted six rows above and
five below the wall. And in the arena flourishing almond-trees had
rooted deep in the once blood-stained soil. A hole in the ground
allowed a peep into a cavern where the wild beasts used in the
combats had been housed.

But the ground held other secrets. In the solid rock that rose above
the sides of the amphitheatre there were many graves--once sealed;
now, having been desecrated by bygone generations of Moors, merely
slits gaping to the skies.

About four years earlier a strange finding had taken place within a
few paces of the farm-house. An untouched Roman grave had been
discovered; and our guide, who had been present at the opening,
described the scene in language so graphic, and accompanied by such
dramatic gesture, that we had not the smallest difficulty in
following the most minute detail.

He told us how, when the hermetically sealed top stone had been
lifted away, the complete body of a woman, apparently young, lay
before them, as she had been placed two thousand years before, with
a necklace of gold round her throat, earrings in her ears, rings on
her fingers. And how, as they looked in awed silence, the body that
throughout these ages had maintained a semblance of humanity, had
before their eyes slowly crumbled into undistinguishable dust.




[Illustration: Ciudadela Seen from the Sea]

XVI

MINORCA


The weekly steamer from Barcelona to Minorca was due to call at the
port of Alcudia at 3.30 a.m. We went to bed, but not to sleep, for
half a dozen intending passengers, five of them commercial
travellers, had arrived by diligence from La Puebla, and the _fonda_
echoed with unwonted noise.

When, about three o'clock, we went downstairs, the large hall was
brilliantly lit, and men muffled in big cloaks and scarves were
gulping glasses of hot coffee before leaving the shelter of a roof.
In the public room beyond, some harbourmen and one of the
never-absent carbineers sat smoking.

A nondescript being--faded red cap on head, bare feet thrust into
hempen sandals--summoned by the landlord, appeared from the outer
darkness and, shouldering our baggage, passed out into the night. We
followed, and walking by faith, at length found ourselves standing
on the pier, the unseen water lap-lapping at our feet, an increasing
group of fellow-voyagers gathering about us.

Out of the dense blackness a boat with a lantern burning dimly at
her prow crept beneath us and paused. Some one lit a match,
revealing a short flight of steps leading to the water. Descending
with fumbling feet, we reached the elusive craft below.

A curious company we were, vague, indefinable, all closely packed
together, and all silent. A priest, a party of commercial
travellers, and a gaunt Moorish-looking being, who was wrapped from
his head--on which, as we afterwards saw, he wore, probably to save
bother in packing, a wide felt sombrero with a jaunty yachting cap
set a-top--to his naked ankles, in a great white blanket.

There was no moon, and the paling stars gave but little light as the
two boatmen, standing up facing the bow, moved the heavily laden
boat across the smooth swart water. Urged on with strong, unswerving
strokes, the boat moved away from the invisible land, the while we
sat dumb, motionless.

I was just thinking that in something of these attitudes of utter
and hopeless despair might the unwilling passengers of Charon endure
the last dread journey across the Styx, when the Boy, who was
sitting next to me, whispered, "Don't we look exactly as though we
were shipwrecked people adrift on the ocean?"

Then the bulk of the _Monte Toro_ loomed vaguely ahead, and as our
bow neared the accommodation ladder the elder boatman, abandoning
his oar, began collecting his fees of fivepence each (_dos reales_)
for piloting us over the bay.

The illusion had vanished. We were everyday human beings once more.

Before we left London a Spanish friend had strongly advised us to
travel second-class in Balearic Island steamers. He said the second
saloon accommodation was justly popular with those who knew,
because, first-class passengers being few, it was better placed and
more commodious.

The Man has cherished a lifelong theory that when journeying by sea
the best accommodation is not too good. But on this occasion of our
crossing from Majorca to Minorca, as the weather was still tranquil,
he allowed himself to be persuaded to put our friend's advice to the
test. And the experience of that night was so eminently
satisfactory that it not only added to our immediate comfort but
saved us much money in the future.

When crossing from Barcelona our first-class cabins, which were
small and had thwart-ship berths, had been situated in the stern.
The second-class cabin on the _Monte Toro_, which I shared with the
only other lady passenger, was large, airy, and as gay as ivory
paint, brass rods, and scarlet draperies could make it. It was right
amidships too, had two port-holes, and berths that for comfort could
scarcely have been improved upon.

The lighter with a load of pigs being still on the way, the decks of
the smart little steamer were quiet. A pet donkey, covered with a
scarlet blanket, was tethered under the sheltering boat deck; a
glint of gold lace in the galley revealed the captain warming
himself by the cook's fire.

When I entered the cabin labelled "Senoras," a pretty girl in a pink
petticoat was standing before the mirror engaged in exaggerating the
bulk of her abundant dark hair by padding it out with quite
unnecessary "rats" and cushions into twice its natural proportions.

Lying down, I fell asleep to the lullaby grunting of the pigs that
were being hauled on board. When I awoke it was daylight, and a
glance through a port-hole showed that we were nearing a flat coast.

The pretty pink petticoat had already gone on deck, and putting on a
cloak and hood, I followed to join my people in a sheltered corner
of the promenade deck, from where we surveyed the coast that we were
approaching with the deliberate rate of speed that characterizes
Balearic Island steamers.

The general aspect of Minorca, the flat country, the white houses,
the windmills, vividly recalled our first glimpse of Guernsey as we
had approached it early one winter morning many years ago.

Ciudadela, which is the oldest city in the island, was the capital
in the time of the Moors. It was to the rulers of Ciudadela that
King Jaime sent his demand for the submission of Minorca. From our
place on deck we could see Cape Pera, the eastern point of Majorca,
twenty miles distant, where the young King and his knights kindled
the huge bonfires that, by alarming the Moors into the belief that a
hostile army lay encamped there ready to invade them, gained him a
bloodless subjection. Ciudadela, which was the seat of a bishop in
423, is still the ecclesiastical capital of Minorca, though Mahon
has long superseded her in all else.

The sea is rarely smooth on the Minorcan coast. It was within a
short distance of Ciudadela that, not many days later, the _General
Chanzy_, bound from Marseilles to Algiers, was wrecked with the loss
of every soul on board with the solitary exception of one young man,
whose escape was surely the most marvellous on record.

As we lay to outside the very narrow entrance to the harbour, the
five _comerciantes_, who were preparing to go on shore, eyed askance
the tossing cockleshells of boats that were advancing ready to
convey them to land. By taking the motor-car that ran the
twenty-eight miles connecting Ciudadela with Mahon, which is on the
opposite extreme of the island, they would save three precious
hours. With the prospect of a charming sail along the coast before
us we did not envy them.

After a protracted delay the boats succeeded in approaching near
enough to the accommodation ladder to enable the commercial men to
embark. And they were off, clutching at the sides of the little
boats, as with rueful faces they joggled shorewards over the choppy
waves.

Our chilly friend of the enveloping blanket and the naked ankles,
who was a deck passenger, had, as the Man reported, spent the night
perched on a grating over the engine-room--a situation where he
would surely be warm enough. Where he performed his toilet no one
knows, but as we neared Port Mahon he appeared transformed from a
shivering bundle into a dandy. Neat black socks covered his ankles,
and his brown coat, orange shirt, and green velveteen trousers
revealed a nice taste for colour. His yellow-white blanket had
disappeared, but he still wore his two hats.

Meanwhile the pigs, whose lamentations had rent the silence of the
night, were being hauled, pulled, jerked, pushed, and dumped along
the deck, over the side, and into the lighter that was to take them
ashore, as they went raising their voices in shrill protest. As the
Boy remarked, quoting Uncle Remus, "These pigs know whar dey come
from, but dey don' know whar they gwine!"

As the _Monte Toro_ steamed slowly round the low cliffs that seemed
to descend sheer into deep water, so little sign of broken beach or
of outlying reef was there, we could see how through the ages the
restless sea had nibbled and gnawed at the edges of the cliffs,
which in many places were deeply honeycombed, and even hollowed into
caves.

There were no first-class passengers. The accommodation reserved for
them just over the screw was vacant. Third-class included an
interesting quartette of stubby Spanish soldiers, and one slim naval
stoker, whose flexible movements and sportive bonhomie were in
striking contrast to the stolid immobility of his companions.
Possibly the stoker felt more at home on shipboard. Certainly he had
all the life of the party; for while the others muffled their heads
in shawls, and squatted on their carefully spread cotton
pocket-handkerchiefs, he was never still, helping an overburdened
young mother by shouldering her small boy and taking him round to
visit the pet donkey, making friends with the ship's dog, or playing
good-humoured tricks upon the others.

The sky was flecked with white clouds--the first we had seen for
many days--and the houses scattered over the flat and almost
treeless table-land were all white--gleamingly white, after the old
russet towns of Pollensa and Alcudia. Here and there we could see
one of the great beehive-like heaps of stones that the sailors have
christened "watch-towers." Though Majorca was only twenty miles
distant, we already felt in a new world.

There was something oddly familiar in the nip of the air. And while
we breakfasted on a satisfying "home" meal of omelet, ham, hot
buttered toast, and coffee, we recalled what we had heard of the
lingering effects of British rule in Minorca, and felt inclined to
give it the credit of the breakfast, even though the ham was served
raw, and decanters of wine and jars of wooden toothpicks jostled our
coffee-cups.

When we again went on deck there were signs that the short voyage
was approaching its end. The bearded mate of the _Monte Toro_, who
had made the trip in a red nightcap, had, with a toothpick behind
his ear, appeared in a uniform cap, though he retained his velveteen
coat. And the most stolid-looking of the soldiers, producing a comb
and a tube of pomade, proceeded to make quite an elaborate toilet on
deck. Still seated on his outspread handkerchief, he combed and
recombed his hair, and greased it with extreme thoroughness; though
it must be admitted that when it came to washing he contented
himself with a cursory dipping of his hands in the water-bucket. His
face he left to Nature.

The pride of Port Mahon is its three-mile-long harbour. As we
steamed up its length the trim fortifications recalled certain of
our own naval and military stations, notably Portsmouth. But never
did Portsmouth show such a glory of scarlet-blossomed aloes as
burned on the face of these fortified rocks.

Our first impression of Mahon was one of unexpected brilliance.
Until we were well up the harbour the town was invisible. Then, as
it came in sight with its dazzlingly white red-roofed buildings
perched high on the crest of the brown serrated rock, the unexpected
picturesque beauty of the scene filled us with surprise and delight.

Already the military influence that is so noticeable a feature of
Mahon coloured the scene. Boats manned by soldiers were rowing to
and from the forts on the opposite shore. Soldiers were standing on
the quay as we stepped down the gangway--for, happily, there is no
need to land by small boats in a harbour of such accommodating
depth. And as we followed the porter bearing our luggage up the
rough twisted slope of the Calle Vieja--that old street whose
haphazard construction is so different from the carefully planned
new ones--we passed a group of officers going down. Throughout our
stay in Mahon I do not believe we ever glanced up or down a street
that was not enlivened by the glamour of a uniform.

There isn't a river or even a stream on the entire island, yet, in
spite of the apparently limited supply of fresh water, the whole
effect of the town, with its green shutters, red-tiled roofs, its
pavements and carefully whitened houses, is that of extreme
cleanliness. To judge by results, the pail of whitewash must be
almost an equal factor in a Minorcan housewife's daily task with a
broom or a duster. During our few days in Mahon we became quite
accustomed to seeing women touching up the street fronts of their
dwellings with a whitewash brush.

Minorca is said to be rarely visited by tourists, consequently it
offers but small choice of hotels. The one we had been recommended
to try--the Fonda Central--was a favourite stopping-place with
commercial travellers. There could be no doubt of that. Their
iron-clamped chests of samples lumbered the passages and stairway.
Their sprightly presence filled the large principal table in the
dining-room.

At a hotel that is popular with these gentlemen of the road the
cooking is said to be certain to be good. At the Fonda Central it
could scarcely have been excelled. The proprietor, a reverend-looking
senor, superintended it in person. And his efforts on their behalf
were heartily appreciated by his guests, the summons to a meal at the
Fonda Central invariably falling on eagerly expectant ears.

"_Arroz_ to-day?" I overheard one guest inquire as he entered the
dining-room for luncheon. And having received an affirmative reply,
he sat down, adjusted his napkin, grasped his spoon, and awaited
its appearance with an expression of anticipatory satisfaction.

The rooms were scrupulously clean, the table service brisk and
punctual. Yet the house was hardly one that could be recommended to
ladies. Owing to the popularity of the hotel, all the available
space had been turned into sleeping accommodation; there was no
sitting-room proper. One of our bedrooms that faced the street and
had two good writing-tables made us partly independent, and we had a
side table to ourselves at meals, but I was the only woman in a
company that numbered over two dozen.

The beds were comfortable, but there were no bells in the rooms.
When our chamber-man wanted to attract our attention, he did it by
clapping his hands loudly in the corridor outside our doors. And
when we wanted anything the Boy went downstairs and demanded it.

Going out to explore the town, we could not help noticing certain of
the lingering effects of the British occupations which came to an
end early in the last century. The windows almost invariably had the
regulation English window sashes, and many of them showed white lace
curtains or little muslin window blinds; and the front doors opened
into passages, not into either _patios_ or sitting-rooms, as in
Majorca.

The British craving for sweets seemed to have proved infectious. At
the hotel luncheon we had been agreeably surprised by the appearance
of a sweet course, and the shop windows revealed a tempting array of
bon-bons and of jams and pickles, commodities in which Majorca is
sadly deficient. And one grocer had quite a number of tins of Crosse
& Blackwell's Scotch oatmeal. Tobacco pipes, which are seldom seen
in Majorca, were both in use and displayed for sale.

Wandering up and down in the short January afternoon we came upon
many odd nooks and steep streets that had a picturesque character
all their own. From the top of the quaint Calle de San Roque we got
an extensive view inland, with Monte Toro, some eleven hundred
feet, the higher of the two Minorcan hills, in the distance.

[Illustration: Calle San Roque, Mahon]

Down by the curve of the bay we found the Alameda, a charming little
Italian-garden-like promenade, where on summer evenings Mahon society
assembles. It must be pleasant and shady there under the trees by the
cool water. Even in winter it was attractive, with its close-cropped
low hedges and great clumps of the vivid scarlet-blossomed aloes.

Just beyond the Alameda is a great cistern, from which is drawn much
of the water for supplying the town. And from that point mules toil
patiently up the rock-sided slopes, laden with barrels of water for
the solace of thirsty folks.

Next morning, while breakfasting, we arranged our plans for the day.
The Man was bent upon going at once to sketch the town as we had
first seen it from the harbour. The Boy and I agreed to ramble about
during the morning; and after luncheon we all arranged to go in
search of some of the famous stone monuments, respecting whose
origin nobody appears to have been able to arrive at any
satisfactory conclusion.

But before breakfast was ended the sky had become darkly overcast.
We reached our rooms to find hail tapping with ice-tipped fingers at
the window panes, to see lightning flashing, and to hear the rattle
of thunder.

Our plans perforce being modified, we waited indoors until the storm
had abated a little, then sought the _Ateneo Cientifico Literario y
Artistico_, of whose existence the landlord had told us. The town,
which has many cultured inhabitants, boasts three Athenaeums. Two are
for the use of the general public. The third, which we visited, is
said to be the centre of literary and artistic Mahon, and is
something of the nature of a club.

The Museum is open to the townsfolk only on stated days. This did
not happen to be one of those days. It was to the fact that we were
foreigners that we owed our instant admission. And while the storm
raged without, we enjoyed a private view of the many interesting
things in the _Ateneo_, notably the old ware and natural history
specimens.

A very fine private collection of marine flora is housed in the
Museum, but it is shown only when specially inquired for, and we
were unfortunate in calling at a time when the custodian of the keys
chanced to be absent.

Among the pictures and drawings was a merciless but irresistibly
amusing caricature of what had presumably been the English Governor
of the date, riding upon a donkey. The nice young lad who was
showing us round blushed a little when he saw us examine it. Though
he did not say so, we felt that he would have liked to apologize to
us for its intrusion in the show; but our withers were unwrung.

The members of the _Ateneo_ were delightfully cosmopolitan in their
interests. Besides the current Spanish papers the snug reading-room
showed a comprehensive array of contemporary literature, from the
_Graphic_, the _Studio_, _Review of Reviews_, and _Harper's Weekly_,
to French, German, Belgian, Italian, and South American journals.

When we left the _Ateneo_ the hail had ceased; and though the wind
was still high, the Man hurried off to see what he could make of his
subject, while the Boy and I strolled into the vegetable market.

The big open enclosure in the middle was empty. Round the covered
sides women were sitting beside their little heaps of fruit and
vegetables. After the prolonged drought from which the island was
suffering, it was perhaps only natural that the supply of fresh
vegetables should be limited. But with the recollection still vivid
in our memory of the mountains of green cabbages that we had seen at
Pollensa market, the stock appeared especially meagre.

The cactus, a shrub whose existence is almost independent of
moisture, flourishes on the dry rocky soil, and the specimens of its
fruit that, prepared in some way, were served at dinner on the
previous night, seemed larger and much finer than any we had seen in
Majorca. But even at its finest the prickly pear is hardly a thing
to pine for.

One thing that struck us as a particularly charming survival of
English tastes was the discovery of cut flowers--chiefly little
clusters of roses--for sale on several of the stalls. And one woman
offered us sturdy pansy roots for planting. Up to this period of our
stay in Palma I had never seen either cut flowers or flower-plants
offered for sale in the market, though, indeed, we saw them later.

The wind had been steadily increasing. It would have been decidedly
more comfortable to pass the afternoon indoors, but we were
determined to seek some of the countless prehistoric remains with
which Minorca is lavishly sprinkled. And after an unavoidable delay
we started. The delay, be it explained, was caused by waiting for
the cleaning of the Boy's boots. The service in the Fonda Central
had certain limitations. It did not brush boots. The night before,
the Boy had put his outside his bedroom door, and had taken them in
in the morning untouched. Before lunch he sent them downstairs with
special instructions that he wanted them cleaned at once. But when
luncheon was over and we were ready to go out there was no sign of
the boots.

Inquiries brought plausible promises of their return in ten
minutes--in five minutes--at once. But still they failed to put in
an appearance. At length a peremptory demand for their return clean
or dirty sent Pedro flying down the street, to hasten back
triumphantly bearing the cleaned boots. They had been sent to a
shoemaker's to be brushed!

From the deck of the steamer as we rounded the coast we had caught
many passing glimpses of the great stone heaps called _talayots_,
and imagining that they would be easily found, we rashly set off,
without either guide or direction, in search of them.

After walking a little way along the San Luis road, which we had
taken partly by chance, and partly, I think, because there the wind
would be at our backs, we saw in the distance a large _talayot_, and
rejoiced at having so quickly come within easy reach of what we were
looking for. Our rejoicing was premature, for when we sought a path
that would lead us there we failed utterly to find it. On either
side of the long straight road were high walls a yard thick,
enclosing small stony fields. Beyond these were walls, and yet again
walls. It was our first near view of Minorcan country, and the
impression was one of stones, stones, and yet more stones--stones
absolutely without limit.

The attitude of the few olive-trees within sight showed the
prevalence of the north wind. They bent away from that direction,
their foliage twisted awry, looking exactly like people cowering
before a blast that has blown their cloaks over their heads.

The gale was waxing stronger. _Our_ cloaks were blown over our
heads, but still we struggled on. A peasant boy, on being
interrogated, directed us to proceed farther, then take a road to
the left. Hopefully following his instructions, we "gaed and we
gaed," like the classic Henny-penny, until we ultimately found
ourselves entangled in a maze of these same thick walls of stone.

And a maddeningly ingenious maze it proved. For as we wound about,
the _talayot_ appeared to dodge us, sometimes popping up before us,
sometimes lurking behind; often seeming comparatively near, more
often looming at a wholly unexpected distance away, and always
encircled by these impenetrable gateless walls of stone.

Finally, leaving me on the lee-side of a wall--it wasn't really the
lee-side: in such a wind there is no lee side; but they thought it
was the lee-side--the men departed, determined to scale the
offending obstacles and to get there somehow. After a time the Boy
returned to free me from the brambles round which the tempest had
twisted my veil and chiffon scarf, holding me prisoner; and to
report that, after some climbing, the Man and he had succeeded in
reaching the _talayot_, and that they thought if I didn't mind some
rough scrambling I _might_ manage to get there.

So ten minutes later, breathless, wind-tossed and earth-stained,
with torn gloves and scratched boots, I too reached the goal of our
desires, to find it nothing but an immense heap of stones, with no
trace of opening or any apparent reason for existence.

The Man, who, in spite of the decided opposition offered by the
elements, had succeeded in scaling the top of the _talayot_,
declared it to be merely a greatly magnified cairn, and there and
then announced his adoption of Dr. Guillemand's theory that the
primary reason for the origin of these much-disputed heaps was
simply the need for clearing the fields of stones. I must confess
that to me the really interesting thing regarding these vast
memorials of a vanished race is the fact that, while everybody is
free to conjecture, no one, not even the wisest, can boast the
smallest knowledge of their meaning.

Just behind the _talayot_, separated from it by certain thick walls,
stands another relic of prehistoric times in the shape of a _taula_,
or table stone--one huge slab placed horizontally on the top of a
massive upright stone. And while the Man held on to something with
one hand and tried to sketch with the other, I sheltered from the
blast on the farther side.

It was curious to see flowers blooming even in these conditions.
Amongst the loose stones at the base of the _taula_ the periwinkle
was in bloom. On the patch of stone-littered soil we had crossed we
noticed some small lilac daisies, their heads bent close to the
ground. And all about the broad tops of the maze of stone dykes
clambered the curious and beautiful clematis-like creeper that
delights to luxuriate in the most arid position it can secure, and
is said to pine away and die when transplanted to a garden.

The sole incident of our return journey was the sudden appearance of
a cap, which, floating high in air, advanced towards us round a
corner towards which we were battling.




[Illustration: Mahon, Minorca]

XVII

STORM-BOUND


The Man had declared his fixed intention of taking ship for Palma
that night, no matter what weather conditions should prevail. So it
was with unfeigned relief I learned at breakfast that, owing to the
violence of the tempest, the mail steamer we expected to travel in
had been unable to leave Barcelona.

The wind still continuing high, there was some doubt as to how long
we would be held prisoners. But even if the steamer direct to Palma
was not able to run, we might return by the shorter sea route by
which we had come, landing at the Port of Alcudia, and, after a
night passed at our comfortable _fonda_ there, taking diligence and
train back to Palma.

A return trip in the steady little _Monte Toro_ would have been a
pleasure, but when we made inquiry at the shipping-office in the
harbour we learned that the _Monte Toro_ had already been laid aside
for cleaning and that the _Vicente Sanz_ had been deputed to take up
her running.

The young clerk of the shipping company, who was muffled over the
ears by the upturned collar of his astrakhan-trimmed top-coat and had
his cap's chin-string in active service, shook a dubious head over
the prospect of the _Isla de Menorca_ being able to cross from
Spain, not only on that night but for many nights to come. The
prevalent wind, according to him, often raged for considerable
periods. Once for two months, he solemnly declared, no mails had
been able to reach Minorca.

We devoutly hoped he lied. Still, in case a grain of truth might
lurk at the bottom of his gloomy prognostications, we decided to
have a look at the cabin accommodation of the _Vicente Sanz_, which
was lying a few yards away.

The black and grimy _Vicente Sanz_ looked what she was--a cargo-boat
that had been hastily adapted to the passenger service. One glance
at her build was enough to convince even a tyro that as a roller she
would be unequalled. Right aft over the screw a few cramped
four-berth cabins formed the first-class accommodation, while the
sailors' bunks in the forecastle head had been fitted up as
second-class.

We fled the _Vicente Sanz_, convinced that only dire necessity would
compel us to voyage in her.

The few people we encountered in the streets were huddled in cloaks
and shawls, and the custom of muffling the lower part of the face
gave the women something of an Eastern appearance. Perhaps it was
due to the chilling effect of the weather, but to us foreigners the
Minorcans appeared to lack the gracious charm of the Majorcans.
Though we saw plenty of pretty faces, the girls of Mahon did not
appear so universally attractive as those of Palma. The conditions
of life are harder, the climate more severe, and the hard water used
may have a bad effect on the complexions. There was no distinctive
native dress either, and we missed it.

The blood of many nations mingles in Minorcan veins--Vandal,
Carthaginian, Moorish, Spanish, British and French. Port Mahon was
originally called after Mago, the youngest son of Hamilcar, brother
of Hannibal. The passage of time is responsible for the corruption
of _Portus Magonis_ into Port Mahon.

The island, which is about the size of the Isle of Wight, has known
many rulers. For several hundred years the Romans held it. About the
ninth century it lapsed into the hands of the Moors, who possessed
it until in the thirteenth century King Jaime, the Conquistador of
Majorca, demanded and received its capitulation. Two hundred years
later, Barbarossa, the pirate chief, having entered the harbour by
stratagem, besieged Mahon and captured it. Early in the eighteenth
century the British took Minorca and held it for fifty years, until
Admiral Byng allowed the French to capture it--a "misconduct" for
which, after eight months of close arrest, he was shot.

To her social and commercial advantage Minorca was restored to
Britain at the peace of 1763, only to be seized by France and Spain
while Britain was engrossed by the American War. Watching the
opportunity, Britain retaliated at the time of the French Revolution
by retaking Minorca, which remained hers until, by the conditions of
the peace of Amiens, the island was ceded to Spain.

"Well," said the Man, as a fierce gust blew us into the portal of
the Fonda Central, "when I saw this place I felt grieved that the
British had ever given it up to Spain, but I must confess that at
this moment I'd gladly hand it over to any nation that would take a
gift of it!"

In the afternoon the wind, though still turbulent, had moderated a
little. We let it blow us out to San Luis, along a fine level and
absolutely straight road that in summer, when the trees are in leaf,
must be charming.

San Luis has all the outward semblance of a French village. Even the
church looked French, and was light and airy, in striking contrast
to the sombre church interiors of Majorca. The streets of the
village were broad, and the roads leading to it were planted on
either side with trees.

The whole atmosphere was so reminiscent of Northern France that it
was no surprise on entering the general shop to be greeted in French
by the young man in charge. He, as he confessed, had secretly been
studying the language for some months, and he was evidently spoiling
to try his new acquirement upon foreigners of any nationality. The
French, which he spoke very fairly, but which speedily lapsed into
Spanish, naturally recalled our first impression of the place, and
we remarked upon it.

A bright small boy, who with his father was in the shop, explained
matters. San Luis _was_ a French village, he said. It was named
after the French king and had been built during the French
occupation of the island. The site had been laid out and the church
designed by French architects.

For the moment we had forgotten that the French flag had flown over
Minorca, but the boy's words brought back something we had read of
the fete Madame de Pompadour gave at the Hermitage of Compiegne,
where the Court happened to be when the news arrived of the taking
of Port Mahon. A royal fete, when fountains flowed wine, and ribbons
and sword-knots _a la Mahon_ were distributed to the guests.

While buying sweets in the shop, we noticed a glass jar of the black
sticks of Spanish liquorice beloved of our childhood. And on a shelf
was a row of genuine English cottage-loaves.

The wind had obligingly blown us on our feet out the three miles to
San Luis, but we wisely drove back. Sitting snugly inside the closed
carriage, watching the storm-harried crops and shrubs bend before
the wind, while the sun beat warmly upon us, we agreed that, if one
could only travel about in a glass-sided box during gales, life in
Minorca would be fine. We fully realized the necessity for the
houses being built of slabs of stone nearly twice as thick as those
used in the sister island.

In Minorca, somehow, we did not feel quite so much aliens as we did
at first in Majorca. The greatest prosperity the island had known
had been under British government, and the native mind seemed to
cherish a kindly feeling towards our nation. It was curious that
while in Palma we were always supposed to be French, in Mahon we
were at once recognized as English.

A few English words have been absorbed into the Minorcan language,
as people seemed proud to tell us. But the only examples we gathered
were "stop," "please," and "nuncle."

In the harbour, over the door of a small tavern that bore no other
sign, we saw suspended a bit of a shrub. Remembering the white wand
at the door of the change-house in the clachan of Aberfoyle, we
wondered if that symbol also had drifted across the seas.

It was with something of the sensation of marooned sailors that on
Friday night we fell asleep, to awake to changed conditions. The sun
shone from a clear blue sky. The sting had disappeared from the
wind, and the air was comparatively mild and calm.

When we descended to breakfast, the young man upon whose fragmentary
accomplishment the Hotel Central founded its claim to put "English
Spoken" on its cards hastened to greet us with the welcome news:
"The sheep 'as arrive."

Going down to the harbour, we found ocular evidence that the report
was true. The _Isla de Menorca_ had arrived and would sail for Palma
at 7 o'clock that evening. Our friend of the shipping office was
silent and despondent. The weather had disappointed him by declining
to act up to his gloomy anticipations.

Going, under his escort, to look over the ship, we found her a
great, broad, tubby boat. At small tables placed on trestles on deck
the crew were seated at breakfast, tall bottles of wine before them.

The first saloon accommodation was gay in red plush. That was its
only recommendation, for it was woefully cramped in point of space,
and the cabins were placed directly over the screw. The second
saloon, which was amidships, occupied far more room. The steward
suggested the probability of my having the large and cheerful
ladies' cabin to myself. On the previous night's journey from
Barcelona there had been only one lady passenger. Greatly daring, we
hinted that in the event of no other senora arriving, we three might
share it.

When we had parted from our escort, leaving him, we felt assured,
inwardly deploring the comparative calm, and ghoulishly hoping for a
sudden change of weather, the Man went off to finish his much
interrupted sketch; while the Boy and I walked up to the
market-square, from which--Minorca having no railways--a constant
succession of more or less ramshackle vehicles acting as diligences
left for the towns and villages round about.

Accosting the driver of the nearest, we asked its destination.

"Villa Carlos."

"And the charge?"

"Fifteen centimos each."

"When will the carriage start?"

The driver made the motion of the hands that takes the place of the
Frenchman's shrug of the shoulders.

"When it is full," he replied, and we got in. A polite Spaniard
joined us. A little delay, and he was followed by a girl with a
market basket. The driver, after gazing to east and west, and north
and south, without discovering sign of any additional passengers,
mounted the box-seat, which he shared with two big sacks of
potatoes, and at last we started.

Having jolted up a long long street of white houses, several of
whose owners were busy with brush and whitewash pail effacing any
traces of the storm, we rattled out over two miles of glaringly
white road. Villa Carlos is a white town of small houses grouped
about a big square of barracks on the top of a cliff, near the mouth
of the harbour.

The situation is exposed, and as the wind, though childlike and
bland compared to the icy blasts of the preceding days, was by no
means asleep, we found our way down to sea-level, and rested on a
stone bench in the shelter of a great wall close by where the water
curves into the little bay of Cala Fonts.

The sea was purring at our feet. Between the fortress above us and
that on the opposite shore, sail-boats, like winged things, skimmed
past. Producing an unexpected box of pastels, the Boy began to make
a rapid sketch of the pigmy harbour with its blue water and the half
circle of houses that outlined its rocky coast.

It was amusing to sit there and try to picture the appearance of the
various fleets that must have sailed by on victory bent. When
Barbarossa, the pirate chief, flying Christian banners to deceive
the guardians of the forts, steered his eleven galleys up the
harbour, he must have passed the very spot where we sat.

Although the scene was tranquil, there was a constant movement of
life. Two women carrying sacks and small picks came and foraged
among the rocks for tufts of grass or other green stuff. A military
water-cart drawn by a white mule, whose harness was resplendent with
scarlet tassels, moved by, attended by a party of soldiers in white
fatigue uniforms, their bare feet thrust into sandals.

During a temporary stillness I caught the sound of a soft little
crooning voice that harmonized sweetly with the murmur of the sea.
It seemed to come from quite near, but there was no one in sight.
Advancing to the edge of the bank, I looked down. On a ledge of the
rock a few feet beneath, a little boy attired in sketchy garments
sat fishing, and as he fished he crooned softly to himself, after
the habit of contented children all the world over.

His piscatorial implements were even more rudimentary than was his
clothing. They consisted of a few inches of rod and a shred of
string. His bait was a skinny hermit crab that he had scraped out of
some crevice of the rock. A poor bait doubtless, but I can assure
you the catch was even poorer. Still, perched on his ledge in the
warm sunshine, Enrique fished hopefully and was happy.

It was so delightful to be out of the wind that we would gladly have
lingered. But the hour when the Man and luncheon would be awaiting
us was near. Returning to the barrack square, which was melodious
with the strains of a waltz played by an unseen military band, we
got into a conveyance that was on the point of starting.

A young corporal of Engineers quickly followed us, saluting as he
entered. He was a good-looking, reddish-fair man, a native of the
island, and an admirable example of the educated conscript. Hearing
that we were British, he called to another corporal of the corps who
was playing with a dog near, and who, on being introduced by his
friend, spoke to us in surprisingly good English. Not only so, but
he understood perfectly when spoken to, a much rarer accomplishment
in a foreign language. He said he had been learning our language for
ten months only, and without leaving Minorca.

I don't know who his instructor had been; there are said to be no
English residents in Mahon, yet the soldier certainly spoke good
colloquial English. As we parted he amused us by saluting and saying
"Well, so-long!"

Another corporal having got into the conveyance--whose only flooring
seemed to be a sagging mat--we started for Mahon. He, like the
first, was a specialist in signalling and telegraphy. Both of these
men struck us as taking their soldiering really seriously. They had
each served two years in Madrid to learn their business thoroughly,
and now had charge of telegraph stations on opposite sides of the
harbour from each other.

On one happy possession Minorca must be most heartily congratulated.
She has a most excellent British Vice-Consul. When we called on him
at his house in the Calle Rosario (just off the picturesque Calle de
San Roque), which was not until the last afternoon of our stay at
Mahon, his reception of us was so cordial that we sincerely
regretted not having called sooner.

Senor Bartolome Escudero has many qualifications for the post he
holds, and not least among them is a perfect knowledge of the
language of the country he represents. Not only does the senor speak
English, but it is his hobby to teach it to others who show a desire
to learn.

It was no surprise to hear that on his visit to Minorca the late
King Edward had made his Consul a Member of the Victorian Order.

From the bustle of departure in the hotel we judged that some of the
_comerciantes_ might be our fellow-travellers on the _Isla de
Menorca_. But when we went on board and, having taken up a position
on the promenade deck, were watching the passengers arrive, it was
something of a surprise to see all of them appear. The little man
with the long trousers; the bald man who performed surprising feats
with wine-flasks, drinking with the slender spout held far from his
lips in a way that held us fascinated spectators until he chose to
set it down; the beautiful being who, we were convinced, could
travel in nothing less refined than perfumery; the man who always,
even at table, wore the latest thing in smart caps, and whom we had
seen coming out of a _sombrero_ shop--all were there. Not even the
gentleman who, during our voyage together on the _Monte Toro_, had
used a dust-coat as a dressing-gown was awanting.

[Illustration: _Comerciantes_ in the Fonda at Mahon]

There was little stir on the quay. The departure of a mail boat from
Mahon does not cause so much commotion as does a like event at
Palma, where the long breakwater is a favourite promenade, and where
everybody who has a letter to post seems to delight in rushing on
board with it at the last possible moment.

Many young men have to leave Minorca to seek their fortune
elsewhere. I wonder if they return to that rocky island as they love
to do to fertile Majorca.

Just as the siren blew the first warning, a fine well-built young
Minorcan hastened up the long gangway. A male friend helped him to
carry his substantial trunk, and three girls followed closely. They
had barely time to bid him farewell--one with a lingering embrace,
the others with a warm handshake, before the gangway was withdrawn
and water was widening between the exile and his native land.

For a little space he allowed his feelings to govern him, and with
quivering shoulders wept unrestrainedly into his handkerchief in the
intervals of waving it. Then, when the boat had rounded the horn of
the bay and the beautiful city was out of sight, he put away his
handkerchief, lit a cigarette, and resolutely turned his face
towards the land of promise.

There were no first-class passengers at all. Our commercial friends,
taking possession of the after-deck, formed themselves into an
impromptu concert party, the little man acting as conductor, as with
admirable voices they sang popular choruses.

Two ladies had come on board; but the steward, taking our hint of
the morning, had given them a small cabin to themselves, as
doubtless they preferred, and had reserved the whole of the large
ladies' cabin for us. So once again we knew the luxury of travelling
second-class on a Balearic Island steamer!

The voyage was pleasantly uneventful, and not rough enough to
disturb us. We awoke to find ourselves entering Palma harbour, and
to see the lovely land bathed in the warm glow of sunrise.

Soon we were in a _carruaje_, waving farewell to the _comerciantes_
as in a band they walked towards their hotel. A few minutes later we
had reached Son Espanolet, had passed the house of our friend the
Consul with its flagstaff and gaily painted shields, and were back
again under the homely roof of the Casa Tranquila.




[Illustration: An Interior in Alaro]

XVIII

ALARO


The shutters of the Casa windows had been left open that the growing
light might awaken us in time to catch the morning train to Alaro,
where we had planned to spend the day with two friends from England.

Looking out while it was yet dark, we were conscious of a lowering
sky. The pocket barometer had fallen two points, and for the first
time in many weeks we felt that the downpour which appeared to be
threatening would be unwelcome.

While we dressed, the rain began to fall sulkily. It had been agreed
that if the morning opened wet the expedition would be deferred, and
having had experience of the thoroughness of Majorcan rain, I was
half inclined to take a gloomy view of the situation and stay at
home. But the others pooh-poohed my fears and off we set.

The optimists proved to be right. When we entered the station at
Palma the rain had ceased, and the sun shone out on the Squire and
the Lady, who were in the act of alighting from the Grand Hotel
omnibus.

The town of Alaro, which lies close to the base of the northern
range of mountains, is connected by a light railway with the main
line at Consell. Horses drag the single carriage up the slight
gradient to Alaro; it returns by the force of its own impetus. At
Consell the funny conveyance with its tandem horses was waiting to
receive the passengers. It had probably begun its career of
usefulness by being a tram-car in some other part of the world. Now
a partition divided the interior into first and second classes.

Disregarding the suggestion of the driver, who followed to remind us
that first-class was inside, we mounted to the top, where two long
lines of seats were set back to back.

Our progress towards the still invisible town was slow. The efforts
of the driver to induce the leading horse to put on speed by
throwing stones at him happily proved unavailing. With something of
the smooth motion of a boat on a canal we glided on through fields
of lush grain in whose midst olives grew luxuriantly. The
threatening clouds had vanished, the sun was warm, the play of light
and shade on the mountains was glorious, and there was not a soul in
sight. The deliberate mode of progress through the lovely country
was so delightful that when the line ended abruptly where the town
began we all felt sorry. We agreed that we would have been content
to glide thus slowly onwards for hours.

But on alighting we found our interest in the surroundings for the
time being subdued by a stronger and more insistent interest in
food. Our seven o'clock breakfast had been necessarily scrappy and
hurried, and our first concern was to find an inn.

The civil guard who had been awaiting the arrival of our car was at
hand. Applied to for direction, he not only recommended a _fonda_,
but in person escorted us there.

The _fonda_, which was close at hand, looked clean and inviting; but
its mistress, overwhelmed by this sudden intrusion of five ravenous
and unintelligible foreigners, eyed us dubiously. She did not know a
word of Spanish, and her husband--who was evidently the linguist of
the family--was at Inca market. As she gazed blankly at us her
children, from the eldest--a pretty girl in a red frock--to the
baby, clustered about her, their faces reflecting the bewilderment
expressed in hers.

The fact that the youngsters looked round and rosy and that they all
held little branches of mandarin oranges hinted that we had come to
the right place for food. Hunger has a universal language. The
landlady's blank expression gradually gave place to one of
intelligence. Before we left her she had promised to have a meal
ready at ten o'clock; and comforting ourselves with that assurance,
we went out to stroll about until the half hour of waiting had
passed.

Wandering through the streets of the little town and peeping in at
the open doors with the unblushing effrontery peculiar to the Briton
abroad, we were rewarded by glimpses of many quaint interiors. In
one, beside an unclassable machine, a heap of the thick fleshy
leaves of the _chumbera_ (cactus) was lying.

The owner of the house, a man toothless and shrivelled, but endowed
with that aspect and air of juvenility that seems the heritage of
age in Majorca, cordially invited us in. He had no knowledge of
Spanish, but he had what was far more valuable--a keen intelligence.

Indulging our curiosity as to the nature of the odd machine, he ran
off to return with a handful of macaroni; then darting into the
machine house, he reappeared with a perforated bowl of burnished
copper, and by signs proceeded to explain the process of pressing
the paste through.

"But the _chumberas_?" somebody asked. "Were they the food of the
mule who drove the machine?"

The old man shook his head. Evidently the motive power was not
supplied by a member of the ass tribe. Returning to pantomime, he
raised his hands to his head and protruded his fore-fingers after
the manner of horns; then indicating to us to follow, ran out into
the street, where we found him pointing down into an adjacent
cellar, in whose depths two sleek grey oxen were placidly chewing
the cud. So it was the oxen who turned the machine that made the
macaroni, and it was the prickly foliage of the _chumberas_ that
their jaws were patiently munching.

The little town that nestles out of sight at the foot of the great
range of hills is an enterprising one. Through the open front of a
building in another street we caught sight of a fine dynamo; and
being invited to enter, found ourselves in the presence of the
electric plant of the town. As the grey-bearded superintendent told
us, Alaro was the first town on the island to have electric light
installed. Manacor was the second.

"And Palma?" we asked.

The superintendent shrugged his shoulders. Evidently the capital
city had been a bad third.

The half hour of waiting had passed quickly, and even in the passing
were we conscious that the landlady of the _fonda_ was exerting
herself on our behalf. For while we were gazing at the oxen the
red-frocked eldest girl had hastened by carrying a big dish of fish.

On the marble-topped table of the dining-room was a huge black
sausage, a pyramid of rolls, a decanter of red wine, siphons of
soda-water, and a plate of a pickled plant that was new to us all,
even to the Squire and the Lady, who had a wide experience of many
countries.

We were in danger of making a meal of the sausage, when the little
girl brought in a dish of the omelets that every Majorcan housewife
makes to perfection.

The pickle had proved delicious, but all our little waitress could
tell us was that it came from the sea. And we had almost reconciled
ourselves to the idea that we were eating seaweed when the
explanation (which proved to be correct) that we might be eating
samphire occurred to us. In England in Shakespeare's time, and on
the Continent to this day, the tender young shoots of samphire,
which grows on rocks by the ocean, are gathered, sprinkled with
salt, and then preserved in vinegar.

A dish of crisp fried fish followed the omelets. Then came a second
dish of fish, then an abundance of very sweet mandarin oranges,
freshly cut, with long stems and plenty of their green leaves.

The moment of repletion having arrived, the men lit their pipes, and
for a space we lazed. But a few minutes of indolence sufficed.
Calling for our hostess, we asked for the bill. She was prepared for
the question, and had the amount at the tip of her tongue--eight
pesetas.

Leaving our wraps in her care, we separated: the Squire and the Boy
to climb the mountain called the Castle of Alaro, the Man to find a
subject for his brush, and the Lady and I to prowl about and enjoy
ourselves in a feminine way.

Our prowl first led through a part of the town where at the open
doors women, and little boys with aprons tied about their thin
waists, were busy making boots. I wonder how it is that the sight of
a small boy at work always makes me sad. I think it is the thought
of the immensity of the task he has to accomplish before his labour
ends.

Once clear of the town, we sauntered along a path that crossed a
field, and ended at a fine old mansion overlooking an orange grove.
The trees were heavy with fruit, and the air was perfumed with the
fragrance of the blossoms that starred the glossy foliage. A giant
bougainvillea draped a complete wall with a mantle of royal purple.

The front windows were closely shuttered. Except for three dogs
the place might have been deserted. But on making our way round to
the back we found ourselves in the midst of the bevy of
people--caretakers, gardeners, labourers, and their families--who
live about and in a big country house.

The wife of the caretaker, supported by her half-dozen children and
an old dame who was presumably their grandmother, advanced to the
wide doorway of the kitchen to greet us. From the vicinity of the
stables and outhouses men and lads gathered, and stood a silent
group, attentive to our attempts at Spanish conversation, which
attempts, it must be admitted, were puerile.

We were merely asking if we might have the privilege of seeing over
the house, but we failed to make our meaning clear. Calling her
little dark-eyed _chica_, who was evidently the educated member of
the family, the mother conjured her to translate; but the _chica_,
for the first time removing her eyes from the Lady's hat and flowing
veil, only blushed and hung her pretty head.

At our wits' end, we were reduced to helpless laughter, when
comprehension suddenly flashed upon the mother.

"Si, si, senoras," she said, and trotted briskly off, with us close
upon her heels and the children and the grandmother bringing up the
rear, across the spacious kitchen, along a passage, and up a stair
so dark that we had to grope our way.

Passing quickly from one room to another, she threw open the
jealously closed shutters of the windows, admitting the light. The
house was one of the many delightfully unpretentious country seats
to which Majorcan aristocrats migrate during the hot weather.
Everything was arranged for the sake of coolness. There were no
carpets or curtains. The tiled floors and lofty raftered ceilings of
the large airy rooms made it an ideal summer residence. The windows
and balconies afforded beautiful and varied views towards the
romantic mountains, across the fragrant orange groves, or over the
far-stretching fertile plains.

The noble family, we gathered, had other homes: one at Palma, and
yet another at Madrid, but still they liked to return to the house
that nestled so close to the great frowning mountains.

When we left she sent the pretty dark-eyed _chica_ to show us the
path through the orange groves, and dispatched the eldest son
hotfoot after to pick us a gift of oranges from the trees whose
fruit was sweetest.

Neither the Lady nor I was inclined for much exertion. Climbing a
little way up the hill, we sat down in the shade of an olive-tree
and ate oranges and gossiped.

At our feet the ground slipped down into the valley, to rise on the
farther side in the mountains, on whose crest we could see the
remains of the towered battlements above which, in the seventeenth
century, the two heroes Cabritt and Bassa kept the Majorcan flag
flying, after the remainder of the island had surrendered to the
usurper Alphonso IV of Aragon.

We scanned the hill-side in vain for any trace of the climbers. And
while we lingered the clouds began again to gather, and scarves of
mist hid the summit. The air had turned a little chilly, and we were
passing the mansion on our way back to the town when we noticed a
charming loggia that was built over a barn in which men seemed to be
crushing olives.

Climbing the few steps that led to the open-sided loggia, we found
it furnished with a couple of rush-bottomed chairs. Carrying them to
the front of the balcony over which the gorgeous bougainvillea ran
riot, we sat, under the row of bottle gourds that hung up to dry,
looking across the wealth of rich purple blossom in which the bees
were busy, and over the orange grove towards the luxuriant plain.

A shower at length drove us back to the shelter of the dining-room
at the _fonda_, where the big logs that burned on the open hearth
glowed a welcome. There the Squire and the Boy joined us, wet from
the rain that had caught them when half-way down the mountain, but
by no means weary. They described the path as having been a zigzag
mule-track all the way. It was rough walking, but presented no
difficulty whatever.

[Illustration: Alaro]

Near the foot of the precipitous part of the climb they had passed
the first of the fourteen stations of the Cross, the final one being
at the Chapel of Our Lady of the Refuge on the summit of the
mountain. Each station was marked with an iron cross set in a rough
cairn of stones, and each exhibited a pictorial tile representing
the incident commemorated.

The rough mule-track had ended at the towered gateway, which was in
fine preservation. Just within was a piece of smooth turf shaded by
trees. The remainder of the narrow crest of the mountain was rocky
and tumbled. Round the less precipitous sides were the remains of
battlements and watch-towers. The side farthest from the plain was
naturally so steep and impossible of assault as to need no
artificial defence.

The views from the mountain-top they had found magnificent, and
worthy of a much harder climb. To the north the great mountainous
range that culminates in the double peaks of the Puig Mayor had
barred the prospect; otherwise most of the island had lain open
before them. Inca, Binisalem, Muro, and other cities of the plain
were visible, and the bays of Pollensa, Alcudia, and Palma. The
hills beyond Arta, the hill behind Lluchmayor, Cabo Blanco, and the
outlying island of Cabrera were all distinctly seen.

The point that struck the climbers as curious was that, though all
lay so clearly before them, the height prevented their being able to
distinguish any sign of life or to hear any sound from below. The
effect was almost as though the lovely land on which they looked had
been deserted.

When they turned their attention to their immediate surroundings,
the only sentient creatures they discovered were a small boy who was
in charge of the chapel, a great eagle that soared overhead, and a
few hens that clucked and scraped the barren ground outside the
building that had once been the abode of some hermit monks, but
which was now an _hospederia_ in the care of the boy's parents.

In the little chapel was a beautiful statue of the Virgin, while the
sacristy held a sad relic in the form of two rib-bones of the brave
defenders of the Castle of Alaro, who, after having been starved
into surrender, were cruelly burned to death.

The chapel, perched up among the mist-wreaths and mountain eagles,
was very small; so small that a large covered veranda had been added
to the front for the shelter of the pilgrims who flock thither in
order to obtain the forty days' absolution gained by the attainment
of its summit. Just beyond the veranda is a sheer drop down. The
prospect to be obtained from the out-jutting rock our climbers
described as awesome.

They were half-way down on the return journey before the mist that
had been floating about caught them in its clammy embrace. The
ascent had occupied about two hours, the descent nearly one.

Bidding our hostess farewell, we went up the street to a cafe for
afternoon coffee.

It was an unlucky hour. The schools had just closed for the day, and
though the cafe was only a dozen paces from the _fonda_, we reached
it with a train of children in close attendance.

Our demands for coffee with milk and cakes and _enciamadas_ caused a
flutter in the breast of the comely mistress of the cafe. Summoning
her daughter Catalina--who was just seventeen and even more than
usually attractive--from the corner where she was making
pillow-lace, the mother thrust a large decanter into one hand, a big
basket into the other, and dispatched her for supplies. Then she
fanned the charcoal stove, placed a tall wine-glass, in which were
two pieces of sugar and a spoon, before each of us, and retired
behind the little bar to await the return of Catalina.

As we too waited, our attention was attracted to the window nearest
our table, to find a row of small girls' heads, the eyes gazing
fixedly on us, lining the bottom of the lower panes. As the moments
passed the numbers increased. Girls with babies in their arms
augmented the back row. Taller girls peeped furtively from the
sides, and when caught affected to be engaged in reprimanding the
curiosity of their juniors. Two little girls, who had arrived too
late to secure any place, in desperation opened the cafe door and
peeped in. Needless to say, their boldness was rewarded with
ignominious expulsion.

It was with something of the sensation of menagerie animals when
awaiting the meal that people have paid extra to see them consume
that we looked for the return of Catalina.

It came at last, and in the twinkling of an eye the milk was emptied
from the decanter into a tin pannikin and set on the fire; and the
contents of her basket--which proved to be neither _enciamadas_ nor
cakes but rather limp _bizcochos_--were heaped on a dish on the
table before us.

The children who had been so lucky as to secure front places to see
the lions fed got good value. We were all thirsty; the coffee-pot
was kept busy, the pile of _bizcochos_ steadily diminished. When we
had finished and went over to where Catalina had modestly resumed
her lace weaving, the spectators changed their window the better to
accommodate their desires to the altered conditions. When we said
good-bye and left they accompanied us--babies and all. One
gipsy-looking child ran in front, glancing back at us. The rest
trotted in our wake, making occasional momentary delays to call
round corners and into doorways for their friends to come and see
the wild beasts.

When the circus, as the Squire called it, had reached the outskirts
of the town, many of our adherents fell away. But a staunch band of
eight or ten remained faithful, and not only escorted us on our walk
and back to the car station, but whiled away the time by chanting
and performing dances for our better entertainment, one male infant,
known phonetically as _Tomeow_, gravely turning a succession of
somersaults before us, and we wondered if the religious dances that
are annually performed in the church on the feast of San Roch, the
patron saint of the town, which occurs on the 16th of August,
accounted for their rudimentary knowledge of the art.

Constant to the last, they formed a semicircle about us while we
awaited the departure of the train, which took the place of the
tram-car in which we had arrived, and listened wide-eared as we
chatted with a corporal of the Civil Guard.

"The children of Alaro seem good," remarked the Lady, who has the
gift of saying graceful things.

"Good--perhaps," allowed the corporal, frowning disapprovingly at
our satellites, "but curious!"

There was no possible repetition of our delightful canalboat cruise
of the morning. Night had fallen when we began the return journey in
one of the smallest railway carriages in existence.

When we reached Palma rain was falling, and the view from the
carriage window, of a wet platform with the lamplight falling on
dripping umbrellas, vividly recalled the moist far-off land of our
birth.

But a few hours later, when we left the Grand Hotel, where we had
dined, the stars were shining above the dimly lit mediaeval streets.
Palma was herself again.




[Illustration: In the Dragon's Cave]

XIX

THE DRAGON CAVES AND MANACOR


Majorca has two groups of stalactite caves that are reputed to rank
among the finest in Europe--the Dragon Caves at Manacor, and the
Caves of Arta which are near the most easterly point of the island
and far from a railway.

Life at the Casa Tranquila was so pleasant that none of us really
wished to leave it; yet a sense of duty urged that these sights must
not be ignored. At first we thought of visiting one or other of the
series of subterranean wonders, but opinion seemed so equally
divided as to which was the finer that, in perplexity, we finally
decided to see both and judge for ourselves.

The weather favoured our reluctant departure. The sun had just risen
into a cloudless blue sky when the bells of Bartolome's chariot
jingled at the door, and with the crumbs of a hasty breakfast still
clinging to our lips we hurried stationwards to catch the morning
train for Manacor.

We had spoken of going first to Arta, and a day or two later
returning to Manacor and the Dragon Caves; but on the journey we
made a chance acquaintance that had the effect of changing our
plans. Two Englishmen, arrived that morning from Barcelona and
giving five days to a rapid survey of the island, were going to the
Dragon Caves. It was quickly arranged that we should view them in
their congenial company.

As a place to stay at in Manacor our Majorcan friends had
recommended the Fonda Feminias, and there we went on arrival, to eat
an early lunch and secure rooms for our return.

The _fonda_, which has an architecture peculiarly its own, is
situated right in the centre of the town. The large loggia, off
which most of the sleeping apartments open directly, overlooks the
fine church that is the pride of Manacor. My room, which was on the
floor beneath, had a nice little sitting-room attached. I mention
this specially because a lack of sitting-rooms is usually the weak
point of Balearic _fondas_. The charge, arranged on arrival, was
four pesetas a day, including the little breakfast.

Lunch was quickly served in a large dining-room that was as quaintly
original as the rest of the house. It had ten doors, four corner
cupboards, and no windows. Light was admitted through two small
cupolas in the roof.

No time was lost. When we had eaten, a carriage was waiting to
convey us to the caves. Just at the moment of starting a man,
appearing from nowhere, silently seated himself on the box. He
turned out to be the guide for the caves, an indispensable
individual.

The road to the coast, for one that was neither particularly steep
nor crooked, was amazingly uncomfortable to drive over. Cruel
patches of the sharp stones with which the roads are mended scarred
the way. We bounced here, and bounced there; now surmounting an
acclivity and catching a glimpse of the blue sea, now dipping into
a hollow. It was a gratuitously bad road; evil alike for driving,
walking, or cycling over.

When we reached Puerto Cristo the carriage drew up beside two empty
vehicles at the back door of a little _fonda_ that is said to be
famed for its omelets and its pretty girls.

Passing through a room where a table was set for lunch, we reached a
trellised enclosure overlooking a charming little cove on whose
waters a boat was sailing.

The silent guide, who had lingered indoors to prepare his acetylene
lamps, appeared with them already lit; and, following in his wake,
we set off, past a few fisher houses in whose doorways sun-tanned
boys were baiting lines, across a bridgelet that spanned a slender
arm of the sea, and up a rough track over a moor so brown and bare
that it might have been in Devon. Judging by outward appearance, it
was the last place where one would have anticipated finding a cave
of even the smallest dimensions.

As we went we met two parties of Spaniards who had been seeing the
caves and were now returning. It was for them that the carriages
waited and the omelets were being prepared at the _fonda_ of the
three pretty girls.

Just as we were wondering if our taciturn guide would ever consent
to humour us by producing a cave, he headed for an opening in a
stone wall. Entering, we were confronted with a barred window and a
locked door set in the side of a slope.

Producing a key, the guide unlocked the door, then when we were all
inside he carefully re-locked it. A breath of warm exhausted air met
our faces. The guide, still preserving his impenetrable reserve,
removed his coat, and the Boy, fortunately remembering the advice of
an experienced friend, counselled us to follow his example. An hour
and a half of hard going was before us. The temperature, which was
high even in the entrance hall, was likely to increase as we got
farther underground. So the men in shirt-sleeves and myself in a
thin net blouse meekly pursued our dumb conductor down a flight of
roughly cut steps that seemed to lead right into the bowels of the
earth.

Walking in advance, the guide flashed his light upon all sorts of
varied wonders, from caverns so hideous and grimy that they looked
as though coated with the refuse of a coal mine, to banks of
glittering crystals or stalactites of glistening semi-transparent
amber.

At one point he drew aside, and stood mutely pointing in advance.
Thinking he meant us to move on, I was walking forward, when he drew
me back just in time to prevent my stepping into a lake so clear and
pellucid as to be absolutely imperceptible.

That was the beginning of the water effects that lend enchantment to
the Caves of the Dragon. The Dragon himself is but a poor thing,
diminutive and wholly unworthy his surroundings. We saw him. He was
pointed out, sneaking up a pillar, a truly undignified position for
any creature owning the romantic and awe-inspiring cognomen of
dragon. And, speaking confidentially, the humble name of lizard
would suit him better.

The lakes and pools are indisputably lovely, and the charm of the
Cave of Delights quite roused our enthusiasm. Imagine an azure lake
overhung by myriads of glistening pendants. Near the centre a low
pile of stalagmites suggestive of a fortress rose out of the water;
from the miniature fortress extended a reef in the form of a cross.
Stepping thereon, the guide set fire to a piece of ribbon which
illumined the farthest recess of the cave, revealing new and
unguessed beauties, and rendering the scene one of almost
supernatural loveliness.

Then came more caves and yet more. Up steps we went or down steps,
getting hotter and hotter in these airless depths as in single file
we "ducky-daidled" after our laconic conductor. Once, deep in some
gruesome cavern, he announced that the name of the place was the
Cave of the Catalans, and in reply to our question explained, with
something of animation in the recital, that some years ago, before
the entrance to the caves was guarded by lock and key, two young
visitors from Spain had conceived the idea of exploring the caves
without the aid of a guide. Twenty-seven hours later they were
discovered in that repellent spot, deep in a dismal subterranean
passage.

It must have been soon after hearing this suggestive story that some
one asked the guide if he could find his way out without a light.
And when he confessed that he could not, we all secretly wondered
how long the gas in the lamps we carried was calculated to burn; but
we were all too considerate of the feelings of each other to express
our thoughts.

It was distinctly reassuring to remember that if the worst had
befallen, if the man on whose guidance we trusted had been seized
with illness or had met with an accident and the lamps had gradually
flickered out, all we need do would be to sit down and wait; for the
driver of our carriage, finding we did not return, would have routed
out another guide, and we would soon have seen the lights of the
search party gleaming among the pendants and pillars.

At one point we were refreshed with water from a cleft in the rocks,
served in a tumbler that was kept inverted over a conveniently
placed stalagmite. Then we resumed the tramp. The sights seemed to
be endless, and one of the best--the Lake of Miramar--was reserved
for the last. About fourteen years ago this extensive waterway was
made the subject of special exploration by M. Martel, the French
expert. With the aid of a collapsible boat he spent a week in
investigation, and at its close was obliged to leave the farthest
reaches of the caves yet unexploited.

Hot, clammy and tired, we had returned to the cooler air, and,
resting upon the stone benches within the doorway, were refreshing
ourselves with tea hot from a Thermos bottle, when the guide,
suddenly dropping the mantle of reserve that had cloaked his
pilotage, told us the story of the discovery of the Dragon's Caves.

As he sat, a _coca_ in one hand, a square of chocolate in the other,
he became almost loquacious for so taciturn a being. The history
proved curiously limited for such remarkably extensive caverns.

It began one wet day about thirty years earlier, when his father,
who had been out shooting, took shelter in a cleft of the rocks to
eat his breakfast. Happening to drop a loose pebble through a chink
in the ground, he was surprised to hear by the sound that it had
fallen into a cavity of unexpected dimensions. That accidental
observation led to the research that opened the Dragon's Caves to
the admiration of a curious world.

Clothed and cool, though dusty and soil-stained, we regained the
open air, where a group of small orchid plants growing beside the
path attracted us. They were the fly orchis, and unusually perfect
specimens. The neatest, most insect-like little flies I have ever
seen poised amid the green leaflets on the slender stems.

A glorious sunset was flooding the sky with colour as we lurched
towards Manacor over the brutal road. The tall towers of the church
of this city of the plain stood out sombre and imposing against
glowing roseate banks of cloud.

We had been discussing the puzzling appearance of the building,
which had a faint resemblance to the Russian style of ecclesiastical
architecture, and none at all to any other known school. Scaffolding
still encircled the high steeple, and as we drew near the church it
appeared as though exciting operations were in process. A constant
stream of people entering the edifice was jostled in the passing by
a rush of men, lads and boys, who were hurrying out propelling or
dragging hand-carts and trolleys laden with blocks of stone, of
which heaps were already piled about the exterior of the church.

A useful rule in travelling, if you want to see what is going on, is
to follow the crowd. Moving with the throng into the church, we
stood astounded at the scene of destruction before us.

The interior of the lofty building was a riot of wild commotion. The
air was full of fine dust. By the light of the lanterns which showed
dimly through the obscurity, we saw the great white dome rising to
the sky; and on the floor beneath, two huge pyramids of broken stone
and mortar.

On the crest of the mounds vague figures were visible, working with
almost feverish energy to remove the vast heap of _debris_. The air
was vocal with the noise indispensable to violent and concerted
action. And the raucous sound of the wheels grinding on the stone
floor as a willing band seized each laden truck to propel it out of
the church added to the unholy din.

[Illustration: Manacor]

The whole scene was so unexpected, so foreign to the manners of the
twentieth century, that to our bewildered minds it almost appeared
as though history had slipped back and we had become spectators of
some iconoclastic mob engaged in the sacking of the church.

It was a relief to find the labour sanctioned by the presence of
priests, who looked with benign approval at the frenzied efforts of
the workers.

One of the number, seeing that we were strangers, and probably
guessing at our bewilderment, kindly approached, and, with quiet
pride illumining his fine old face, volunteered an explanation of
the exciting scene before us.

The clergy of Manacor, seeing the need of enlarging their already
important church, had appealed to the people. The people promptly
agreed to help, and the work of extension was quickly proceeded
with, the labour being entirely local, even the statues that adorned
the niches having been carved by one of the priests.

The walls of the new church, gradually rising, enclosed the ancient
building, in which service continued without intermission to be
conducted. When the new walls were complete, the floor of the
edifice was thickly covered with pine branches; and after Mass had
been celebrated on the very morning of our arrival at Manacor, the
ancient walls that had so well served their purpose were pulled
down.

After the inevitable blinding dust had settled a little, the labour
of clearing away the _debris_ began. And we had returned from the
Dragon Caves just in time to witness the multitude of helpers
exerting their utmost strength to restore by lamplight the interior
of the church from chaos to order.

When we first viewed the scene of demolition the labour required
appeared so herculean that it seemed as though toil that was merely
human could make but little impression. But four hundred willing
hands can accomplish marvels, and when we returned two hours later
one great mound had been mostly cleared away, and the other was
visibly diminished.

With unabated enthusiasm the work was proceeding. When roused to
their utmost effort there is no lassitude about these sturdy
Majorcans. Strapping lads, shouting the while, seized each laden
barrow and dashed off to empty it outside. Small boys imagined they
were helping by pushing behind with an admirable assumption of
strength, and adding their shrill voices to the clamour. Some of
the smallest, with an air of importance, carried out single stones.

Near where we stood a hole had been opened in the floor, and into
the vacuum beneath a band of youthful assistants was emptying
baskets of small stones and dust.

Most of the labourers were of the thick-set Majorcan type, but at
regular intervals a tall handsome young man--a veritable son of
Anak--clad in a pink shirt, light blue trousers, and a wide felt
hat, appearing out of the mist, advanced to the edge of the gaping
hole and discharged into it the contents of a large basket of
rubbish. He seemed to work alone, speaking to no one, and moving
with the silent precision of a machine.

The women kept strictly aside, taking no part in the work. In dark
corners of the ancient chapels that had been left untouched, a few
black-robed old women knelt in prayer. And near us a group of pretty
girls stood tittering and whispering. At one moment human nature
proved too much for some of the youths who had been passing us in
relays, bearing on their heads great bundles of the pine branches
that had been laid down for the preservation of the flooring. Making
a species of organized sortie, they rushed towards the girls,
brushing their faces with the ends of the dusty greenery. The girls,
giggling and squeaking, fled before the onslaught, but soon stole
back to resume their position as spectators.

When work ceased for the night an incredible change had taken place
in the interior of the church. And next morning, as we dressed, the
sound of boys' voices chanting came in through our open windows. The
people were already worshipping in their new church. For one evening
only had service been suspended.

During the labours of the previous night the women had perforce
remained quiescent. It was now their turn to help. Active females
carrying brooms were to be seen hastening through the sacred
portals, to emerge later vigorously sweeping clouds of dust before
them. One small girl had a baby tucked under one arm, while she
industriously plied a broom with the other.

When we took a final peep into the church before seeking the
afternoon diligence for Arta, the yawning fissure in the floor had
been cemented over, and rows of benches stood ready placed for
evening service. An inconsiderable heap of rubbish in a side aisle
was all that remained of the apparent desolation of the day before.




[Illustration: Arta]

XX

ARTA AND ITS CAVES


We met the diligence for Arta at Manacor station, where the
single-line railway ends on a track so grass-grown as to suggest
that it had, inadvertently, strayed into a field. Were the engine to
diverge a yard or two from the rails it would wreck the
stationmaster's goat, make havoc of his family washing, and
devastate his prickly-pear patch.

The Arta diligence, a spacious vehicle, supplied with good horses
and a capital driver, leaves the station yard immediately after the
arrival of the afternoon train from Palma. Should a sufficiency of
passengers arrive by the morning train, a diligence would start then
also; but the afternoon coach is a certainty. The distance is 20
kilometros, and the fare is three reales (sevenpence-halfpenny).

The Man and I had secured the front seats. The Boy was inside with a
typical set of travellers by diligence--a priest, a soldier, one of
the very new recruits who had a six days' leave to visit his home; a
specimen of the pleasant elderly countryman who is the inevitable
accessory of such a journey, and two commercial travellers that we
stopped to pick up as we passed a draper's shop in town.

Our driver was a man of decision. Little time was lost over
starting. Five minutes after the train had entered the station we
dashed out of it at a pace that threatened to make the distance
between us and Arta seem far too short.

It was a perfect evening for driving. There was no wind, and the
rain of the previous night had laid the dust. The road was a good
one, broad and level--very different from that over which we had
bumped and joggled on the previous day. The sinking sun cast a
glamour over a land that was at any time beautiful. The swift motion
was gloriously exhilarating. Perched up on the box seat, the Man and
I felt radiant with the sheer joy of being alive as we drank in the
sweet bean-scented air, and watched the approach of the picturesque
groups of farm folk who were returning townwards from their day's
work in the fields. Our driver, Canet by name, seemed to be popular.
Sunburnt faces looked up to smile him a greeting. Laughing girls
crowded into ramshackle carts exchanged gay repartee in the passing.

As we drove onwards the surroundings became less flat, and in the
distance a range of sugar-loaf hills--the mountains of Arta--appeared.
About half-way on the journey we jingled through a nice little town,
San Lorenzo, where grape-vines grew on the walls of the houses that
lined the narrow streets, and old, old wives sat on the doorsteps
taking their ease.

Beyond San Lorenzo hills rose about us, and the road ran between
tracts of uncultivated ground. Here, too, the road was busy with
returning labourers in delightfully quaint groups. Many of the men
wore their blue cotton shirts outside, like blouses, and all wore
wide-brimmed hats of straw or felt.

Each family party was accompanied by an animal--an ass or an ox, a
goat or a black pig. What struck us as being funniest of all was to
see the understanding way in which, in every instance, the pigs
trotted sedately beside their owners, exactly like well-bred dogs.

Then the road rose high between pine woods whose undergrowth was
thick with the withered blossoms of heath, and we traversed a
mountain pass up which the men walked, before rattling inspiritingly
down the farther side.

We were still some distance from the town, and the wayfarers we
overtook had their faces turned towards it, when it became quite
dark--too dark to distinguish anything except vague outlines of
mountains.

Leaving the smooth white road along which we had sped so bravely, we
entered a narrow street thickly strewn with a misery of sharp jagged
stones that made advance a penitential progress for both man and
beast. And Canet, turning towards us, said impressively:--

"We are in Arta!"

Our destination in Arta was the Fonda de Rande, which had been
warmly recommended by our friend the padre at Palma, but when the
coach drew up in front of the Cafe Mangol we alighted, to find
ourselves literally in the embrace of its voluble landlord. By
pledging our word to hire a carriage from him on the morrow we
obtained our release, and with Canet acting the dual part of guide
and porter, we retraced our steps for a few yards along the dark,
stony streets.

In speaking of the Fonda de Rande the padre had described the Senora
Rande's cooking as being excellent, her charges moderate, and her
house the cleanest in Arta. After two nights' experience we not only
endorse his statements, but go further, and say that her house is
the cleanest in all Majorca, and that is saying a very great deal.

Within half an hour a meal was before us--a dish of pickled fish,
another of fresh fish, hot lamb cutlets and fried potatoes, sweet
oranges, and plums of the senora's own drying.

Our rest that night was luxurious. The beds were soft, the blankets
light and downy. We slept until the hour when a man promenaded the
town blowing blasts on a seashell to call the people to their work.

Before we had left our rooms ponderous steps resounded in the
passage outside our doors. It was the proprietor of the diligence,
brother to the host of the Cafe Mangol, come in person to ask at
what time we would require a carriage for our visit to the caves.

Having promised to be ready an hour later, we descended to the
dining-room, where, after we had drunk our glasses of coffee, the
senora insisted on refilling them: an attention without precedent in
our experience of Spanish hostelries.

Breakfast over, we sallied out in quest of provisions for our little
expedition, a somewhat difficult matter, for the shops at Arta are
even more independent of signs than those of the other Balearic
towns.

A little questioning revealed a quite unexpected house to be a
baker's. The apartment next to the street was fitted up with a
counter; but its window was closely shuttered, its shelves empty. To
all appearance the entire business of the establishment was carried
on in the bakehouse at the back, where, in full view of a pile of
egg-shells and other evidences that proclaimed the genuineness of
the ingredients employed, we bought little square sponge-cakes hot
from the oven.

Boldly entering another shop, which we knew to be a greengrocer's by
the orange-hued gourd and basin of parsley on the doorstep, we found
it half shop, half weaver's workroom. In one part the mistress and
her daughter sold vegetables, boots, and many other requirements of
both outer and inner man. In the other the portly father wrought at
his hand-loom, weaving the strong dark-blue cotton material so much
in use locally.

Having bought a supply of sweet little mandarin oranges at twopence
a dozen--just half the Palma price--we returned to the _fonda_ to
find the carriage, with Canet and the two horses that had made such
light work of the diligence, waiting in readiness to take us to the
caves.

[Illustration: Towards the Parish Church, Arta]

It had been so dark when we entered Arta that it was not until we
left the town and looked back that we realized how picturesquely it
was situated. The blue mountains form a wide circle round it, and in
the centre of the clustered houses a hill crowned with church towers
rises grandly.

Arta is a district of rural occupations. The fresh butter of the
island is made at Son Servera, a village close by. On our way
coastwards we met many interesting and paintable figures. Here an
old man with a scarlet and yellow handkerchief tied under his hat,
and a shaggy goatskin bag slung over his shoulder, herding a flock
of kids; there a handsome girl, whose petticoat had faded to an
adorable shade of crimson, and whose fingers were busy plaiting the
strands of the palm-leaves as she watched by a cow that looked, as
so many of the island cattle do, like an Alderney.

The fields on either side of the road were planted with flourishing
trees of almond and olive and fig. Assuredly in their season no
traveller need go hungry in any Majorcan road. He has only to help
himself. They say that if a native sees a stranger taking his fruit,
in place of upbraiding he will volunteer with sincere good-will to
show him the tree the flavour of whose fruit is finest.

At a lonely bit of the way a contented-looking little group,
consisting of a fine, stalwart lad in light-blue cotton, a smiling
matron in workaday dress, and a plump black pig, stood at the corner
of a field by the road to watch us go past.

As we neared them the radiance that illumined their faces found
reflection in those of the Boy and Canet.

"It's the soldier who travelled in the diligence last night," the
Boy explained. "That must be his home. He is one of the new
recruits, and had six days' leave to spend with his mother. Don't
they seem to be enjoying it?"

And they did. Even the black pig radiated supreme contentment.

High up on the left as we journeyed we saw a little ancient-looking
town grouped about the lower slopes of an eminence whose height
seemed to be crowned by a castle surrounded by defences. It was
Capdepera, a relic of antiquity of which we knew but little, and
instantly resolved to learn more.

The way to the Dragon Caves had been across a bald moorland. That
leading towards the Caves of Arta was down a fertile valley, that
through the efforts of skilled husbandmen had been brought to a high
state of cultivation. In a field by the wayside clumps of narcissus
were blooming unappreciated, and as we came near the cliffs we saw
that their rocky sides were yellow with a species of gorse which
grew in cushioning clumps.

When we were within easy distance of a fine, sandy bay, flanked on
the east by a towering cliff, a man left the solitary house which
stood in the middle of the valley and came towards us.

"That is the guide," Canet said, pointing his whip-handle in his
direction.

The guide to the Caves of Arta was a lean, middle-aged man, whose
well-cut face suggested an innate appreciation of humour. When we
stopped he mounted to the box, and we went on slowly, for the sandy
road was heavy.

A little farther on we drew up again. A woman, supporting with both
hands a tray containing something edible, had left the house and was
hurrying towards us across the field. When she got near we saw that
the tray contained three of the large pastry turnovers that, in
outward appearance, at least, so strongly resemble Cornish pasties.

"I could do with one of these turnovers. I wonder if she sells
them?" said the Boy, as she climbed to the box beside her husband
and the genial Canet.

"A turnover wouldn't come amiss," agreed the Man. "I suppose she
sells them."

But the woman did not offer her provender to us. The guide got one.
I suspect Canet of getting another. The third was probably the
cook's own dinner.

Leaving the carriage, we turned to the left of the lovely bay, on
whose sands rollers were breaking, and walked along the mile of
delightful path that runs along the side of a precipitous
pine-covered cliff. Beneath us roared the sea; from above came the
murmur of wind-tossed pines, with whose perfume the air was
fragrant, but the way was warm and sheltered.

Our guide, who accompanied us, kept modestly in the rear. It was
only when we waited for him, and discovered that he was engaged
lunching on one of the hot pasties, that we understood his
reluctance to join us. To judge by eyesight, the pasty was stuffed
with spinach and prunes. To judge by another sense it was stuffed
with garlic.

We were naturally eager to compare the attractions of the Caves of
Arta with their rivals of Manacor. A striking contrast was evident
from the first sight. The approach to the Dragon Caves had offered
no suggestion of the glories within. The exterior of the Caves of
Arta, viewed when, turning away from the sun, one mounted the big
flight of steps leading to the vast opening in the face of the
cliff, was sublime.

When we had climbed the steps and were standing in the entrance-hall
under the great overhanging roof, where maidenhair-fern grows green,
the guide, kneeling on the ground before a lot of tin vessels, made
a stock of acetylene gas to light our journey through the darkness.
He had removed his hat, and as, with his mind intent on his work, he
carefully mixed the ingredients, he suggested some magician
preparing for some uncanny rite.

While he was occupied with his incantations we surveyed our
surroundings, and for the first time were able to understand how the
Moorish refugees, who at the capture of Palma fled in vast numbers
to the caves, were able, for so protracted a period, to defy the
army of the Conquistador that had followed them thither.

Beneath the wide opening the cliff falls precipitously to the sea.
High above it the overhanging roof forms a protective hood.

The rocky sides and floor of the caves afforded an endless supply of
the rough-and-ready missiles popular in those days. A more perfect
natural stronghold could hardly be imagined. And but for a clever
stratagem on the part of two brothers, members of that band of
intrepid young nobles who so ardently supported their valiant
leader, the Moors might have held out interminably. These two
brothers scaled the cliff, and, having reached the point directly
above the mouth of the cave, threw lighted firebrands down upon the
huts and defences that were clustered on the rocky shelf beneath,
with the object of setting the huts on fire and filling the caves
with suffocating smoke. But the caves were so extensive that even
this ruse did not quickly prevail. And it was not until Palm Sunday,
1230, three months after the taking of Palma, that the fugitives
surrendered.

Shouldering an iron rod, from which were suspended two lamps, the
guide announced that he was ready to start. There was no need to
take off coats. The caves were so spacious and lofty that the
temperature was pleasant, and although the distance to be traversed
was considerable, the work of seeing them was not fatiguing.

The attitude of our present guide was different from that of the
former. The guide who showed us the Dragon Caves trotted us through
them in the business-like fashion of a man who is paid a fixed sum
for performing a stated task. He wasted few words, and was, we
thought, a trifle stingy in the matter of magnesium wire. The moment
of his expansion came only after unexpected tips had been added to
the amount of the regulation fees. But Amoras, guide to these Caves
of Arta, showed them as though, after even thirty-five years of
performance, he still joyed to reveal their glories. His interest
also was a hereditary one; his father, who had held the post before
him, had been killed by falling from the cliff path to the rocks
beneath. Half-way between the bay and the caves, a cross set in the
side of the cliff marks the place of the tragedy.

[Illustration: Entering the Caves of Arta]

Amoras took the pace slowly, and after lighting us through a
succession of vast caverns, paused to remark, with a quiet smile of
enjoyment at our surprise, "We are only now at the end of the
entrance-hall."

The drought that prevailed without appeared to have had a malign
influence even on the water supply of the Caves of Arta. Pointing to
a hollow enclosed by stones, Amoras told us that was the well,
which, for the first time in his thirty-five years of experience, he
now saw dry.

Before we had traversed a tithe of the extent of these capacious
caverns we understood how the fifteen hundred Moorish refugees, men,
women, and children, with their flocks and herds, an immense
quantity of grain, and many precious belongings, had found
hiding-place within.

The Manacor Caves are fantastic and wonderful. Those of Arta are
stupendous, overwhelming in their gloom and grandeur. Any conception
I had ever formed of cavernous magnificence was far exceeded; and to
me the Caves of Arta were infinitely more impressive than the Caves
of Manacor. When I tried to express this, Amoras said devoutly:--

"The Cave of the Dragon is an oratory chapel. This is a cathedral."

Countless glories are concealed in the vast caverns. Stalactites so
large that to try to calculate the length of time occupied in their
formation makes the brain reel. Statues as complete in detail as
though carven by the chisel of a sculptor. Cascades of glistening
crystal. The huge crouching figure of a winged Mephistopheles, and
in the Hall of the Banners flags--marvels of immobile drapery--that
stood out at right angles from the pillar whence they were
suspended.

It was in the Hall of the Banners that Amoras, warning us not to
follow, disappeared from sight, leaving us in the dark. Then from a
height came strange noises designed to strike terror into the
breasts of the timid. Then the light of a Roman candle threw into
weird effect the great maze of stalactite pillars, cones, and
festoons that rose about and above us to unimagined heights.

But perhaps the most beautiful if not the most amazing of the sights
was that contained in the Salon of the Queen of the Columns, where,
in a lofty hall, there stood alone, as though conscious of its
exquisite beauty and holding aloof, a stately pillar twenty-two
metros--over sixty feet--in height. About the base were grouped
curiously modelled clusters of flowers, and above, as far as the eye
could distinguish, the same delicate tracing was revealed.

"Under it we are as nothing," Amoras had said reverently, as he
stood beneath it, and one felt that had he worn a hat he would have
uncovered before the column.

There was a delightfully nerve-soothing effect in the absolute
stillness of the caves. Not a sound from the outer world could
penetrate these vast recesses.

"All the neighbours are asleep," Amoras replied drily when the Man
remarked on the silence.

Though the Caves of Arta are astonishing in their immensity, there
is nothing alarming or gruesome about them. It did not occur to
anybody to speculate secretly on what would happen if the guide were
seized with illness or anything happened to the lights.

Both sets of caves--the Dragon and the Arta--are well worthy a
special expedition. If it were possible to see only one I would give
the preference to the Caves of Arta. But that is a matter of mere
personal taste. I must confess that men seem more impressed by the
fantastic marvels concealed in the Dragon Caves.

I had promised to show Senora Rande the English way of serving
spinach as a vegetable course. So when we reached the _fonda_, only
a quarter of an hour late for lunch, the senora was waiting to hold
me to my word.

Fortunately the cooking of spinach is the simplest of culinary
devices, and while the fresh green leaves were sinking to a pulp in
the earthen pipkin, I had the privilege of watching the senora make
one of her excellent omelets--an invaluable lesson, and one that I
humbly trust will render impossible my again making such an
egregious failure as I did when attempting to cook an omelet at the
Hospederia at Miramar.

Being certain of a good driver and good horses, we had engaged Canet
to return for us at three o'clock. We were anxious to get a near
view of the quaint old town, Capdepera, whose distant appearance had
attracted us as we drove to the caves in the morning. And we wished
also to visit Cala Retjada, a little fishing village a mile or two
farther away, that we had heard was celebrated for its known fish
and for its suspected smugglers.

The short drive was full of the life and interest that characterize
an agricultural district. About the stone dikes, sloe blossom lay in
drifts, looking strangely home-like beside the giant clumps of
cactus.

Leaving the carriage when we had reached Capdepera, we walked about
briskly, for the wind was fresh, bent on exploration. A peep into
the church revealed nothing of special note. Turning away, we
climbed a steep street, and found ourselves outside the old gateway
leading to the fortified enclosure that in bygone days had evidently
been the place of refuge for the citizens when danger threatened.
And of a truth the space enclosed within these battlemented walls
would have afforded shelter to a great community.

To the well-preserved ramparts Nature had added an impregnable
defence in the form of a thick growth of cactus. Both without and
within the wall their prickly leaves luxuriated.

From the flat roofs of the watch-towers that surmounted the
battlements the watchers must have been able to see to a surprising
distance. A white line across the sea revealed the coast of Minorca,
twenty miles away. Close by was Cabo de Pera, the eastmost point of
the island. With a vigilant guard stationed in these watch-towers no
enemy, either from land or sea, could have reached Capdepera before
the inhabitants had timely warning to remove themselves and their
valuables within the safety of the stronghold.

The old parish church--Our Lady of the Hope--is within the
enclosure, close by a modern house that bore signs of occupation. In
pockets of hungry soil a little spindly grain grew about the roots
of hoary fig-trees. While all the fig-trees outside were still
naked, one in a sheltered corner already showed bursting leaves and
the diminutive knubbly warts that were to swell into fruit. Besides
tufts of wild mignonette, henbane reared its downy foliage and
evil-smelling creamy blossom.

Seated in the open doorways of the houses, the women of this remote
town were making baskets from the dried leaves of the palmetto
(garbayous), a dwarf palm-tree that abounds on the mountains of
Arta. Some were pleating the split fronds into long strips that
others were sewing into the baskets, which besides being largely
used in Majorca are exported by ship-loads to France.

The pleasant and cleanly little industry seemed the ruling influence
of the town. In the street we passed men carrying great numbers of
the baskets fitted snugly inside one another. A glimpse into the
open door of a warehouse revealed the place close packed from floor
to rafters with the baskets. On the way to Cala Retjada we drove
past a cart piled high with stock ready for shipment; and in a
sheltered cove beyond the fishing village we saw, lying at anchor,
the _pailebot_ that was waiting to convey the goods to an over-seas
market.

When we reached Cala Retjada the wind was blowing in fresh from the
sea, and the boats lay snugly drawn up on the beach of a tiny haven.
A number of small shut-up houses lining the semicircle of the bay
showed that the stone-washed shore was a favourite place of summer
residence. To the west is the imposing headland of Cape Vermay.
Westwards pine woods clothe the rocky slopes about the sea. Truly a
pleasant place to fly to when the interior of the island is hot and
relaxing.

The people of the eastern town struck us as being more Moorish in
type than those of the more northern or western parts of Majorca. In
Cala Retjada, in the person of the handsome bronzed captain of the
_pailebot_, we saw and instantly recognized our ideal of a pirate
chief--the heroic pirate who treats his enemies nobly. He wore a
scarlet nightcap with a grass-green band, a golden brown velvet
suit, an orange cummerbund, and yellow string-soled shoes. Truly he
was a joy to behold.

Daylight was fading when we turned our faces towards Arta; and as we
approached the romantically situated town, we passed many parties of
returning labourers, and many little bands of pretty girls, who had
presumably strolled out to meet them, though each sex kept
rigorously apart.

It is the rarest thing to see an unmarried man and a girl walking
alone in Majorca. The strict system of chaperonage that prevails in
the higher classes evidently has its prototype in the lower also,
for the maidens walked with twined arms--like some Maeterlinck
chorus--and the men, as far as we could judge, confined their
attentions to admiring glances.

We had heard that the remains of a Phoenician village still
existed in an ancient forest of ilex not far from Arta. When we
questioned the senora next morning, as she poured out the coffee,
regarding its whereabouts, she promptly suggested that her husband
would take us there. So when we sallied forth it was in company with
Senor Rande and the _perro de Rande_--a fine specimen of the ancient
hunting dogs that are still prevalent in the island. It amused us to
see him leap high into the air to sight his prey.

The way, though it covered a bare half mile, was devious, and
without assistance would have been difficult to find. But it ended
in something far more wonderful than we had been led to anticipate.

Near the summit of a gentle mound that was covered with ilex and
low-growing scrub we found ourselves confronted by a wall built of
vast, roughly hewn blocks of stone. Before us was an open portal,
formed of two huge blocks supporting a third stone, one end of which
was pierced by an orifice that had two openings towards the sky.

Within this gateway were the tumbled remains of a city that had been
encircled by walls constructed of great single blocks of stone--a
city so old that all tradition of its builders was lost. We had
thought the Roman remains at Alcudia and Pollensa as of surpassing
antiquity. Here was evidence of an occupation far older still.

An eminence in the centre of the enclosure revealed the site of the
inevitable, and at that date indispensable, watch-tower. From its
top, though now lowered by the passing of centuries and overgrown
with herbage, we saw through the gaps in the trees beyond how
comprehensive a view the watchers had commanded of the surrounding
country.

The top of the mound on which we stood had been hollowed out, and
Senor Rande remarked that children came up from Arta to dig for
treasures.

"Do they find any?" we asked innocently.

Raising his forefinger, the senor shook it before his face in the
gesture we had grown to think characteristically Majorcan.

"_Nada!_" he made laconic reply.

Devil's tomatoes, heavy with golden fruit, and beautiful
large-blossomed lavender periwinkle grew in great profusion about
the devastated homes of the vanished people. And it seemed a curious
coincidence to remember that the last periwinkles I had seen were
those growing about the base of the megalithic monuments in Minorca.
One wonders what connection this starry-eyed flower could have had
with these prehistoric races.

I had received the information that begonias grew wild in Majorca,
with the mental reservation natural to a native of a less gracious
climate. So it was a pleasant surprise to recognize a leaf or two of
their distinctive marled foliage thrust out from between the heaped
stones of the ruined Phoenician village.

Our return journey from Arta was not worthy to rank in our memories
with our triumphal progress thither. We had a special conveyance,
but as Canet was already in Manacor, having driven the diligence
that left Arta at three o'clock that morning, he could not act as
our charioteer, and his employer, who drove us, set the pace
sedately.

The wind was high, dust was more than a possibility, and the box
seat held no attractions. So we sat inside and yawned a little as
the kilometros crept slowly past.

In the little grass-grown station at Manacor the afternoon crowd was
beginning to gather. And in the station yard the diligences for
Arta, for Capdepera, for San Lorenzo, were drawn up prepared to
start as soon as the train had arrived and their passengers had
climbed into their seats.

We had taken our places in one of the empty carriages that were
standing ready to be attached to the train for Palma, when the
smiling sun-tanned face of Canet appeared at the window. He had come
to bid us good-speed, and remained to share our tea, and to puzzle
over the powers of the Thermos bottle. Though he politely praised
the tea, I am convinced that he secretly scorned the bad taste of
the "Ingleses" who chose to drink so uninteresting a decoction in a
land overflowing with good red wine.

Our little excursion, undertaken though it had been with something
of reluctance, had proved like others a charming one, and one whose
every moment had been full of new interests.




[Illustration: Palm-Sunday at Soller]

XXI

AMONG THE HILLS


March was more than half over; we had already reluctantly begun to
measure our stay in the Fortunate Isles by weeks instead of months
when we drove to Soller to spend a few days with an English friend,
who, with all the world to choose from, elects to make her home at
Soller.

When we left Soller on our previous visit in early December,
darkness had fallen long before we reached Palma, so the first half
of this return journey was new to us. And as the day was beautiful,
we sat luxuriously back in the open carriage and enjoyed it to the
full. The shower that had fallen had greatly refreshed the land, and
though more rain was eagerly hoped for, the almond-trees were heavy
in leafage and thickly ruched with the green-velvet casings of the
embryonic fruit.

During the winter we had noticed few wild birds. Now, amongst the
olive-trees that lined the highway as we approached the rising
ground, many were flying. A brightly plumaged bird with a crested
head crossed our path like a flash of gold, and disappeared among
the trees. It was the hoo-poo, the typical Balearic bird, known
locally as the _pu-put_.

The highway between Palma and Valldemosa passes through a
picturesque gulch. The road between Palma and Soller climbs a
considerable mountain, up whose steep sides the native makers of
roads--surely the most ingenious in the world--have carried the path
in a series of amazing zigzags, so that the view of the traveller
varies incessantly. As we mounted higher and massive crags rose
about us, we sometimes stopped the carriage to look down over the
vast orchard that covers the plain, to where the far distant spires
of Palma Cathedral showed against the sea.

As our altitude increased the air became colder. The wind that met
us at the top was almost keen, and we were glad to rattle down the
farther side of the hill up which we had climbed so slowly.

A few turns down the zigzag, a fine old cross, its carvings gnawed
by the corroding tooth of time, stands overlooking the valley and
the tawny-roofed houses of Soller, as they lie surrounded by their
orange gardens. A poor cottage was hard by, and while we paused to
let the Man make a rapid sketch, two children, a boy and girl, crept
nearer and nearer, until at last they grouped themselves in
conventional attitudes at the foot of the cross. It did not require
words to tell us that they must have posed in the foreground of many
photographs of the same subject.

At the Hotel Marina, where our friend was staying, three good things
awaited us--a gracious welcome, a glorious fire of almond shells,
and a daintily spread tea-table.

In the evening we went to Son Angelats, a beautiful "possession"
dating back to the Moorish occupation. Son Angelats nestles snugly
into the side of the mountain, and all the year round it is bowered
in roses of every shade and hue. The air was fragrant with the
mingled odours of flowers innumerable; and when we walked down to
Soller through the gloaming the sweet essence of the blossoms
accompanied us, for our hands were full of roses and violets.

As we strolled through the grounds I noticed what I thought was a
blue bead lying on the path. Picking it up, I discovered it to be
the seed of a small grassy-leaved plant new to me, but much used in
Majorca for covering the sides of banks where grass refuses to grow.
The seed, which was about the size of a pea, was of the pure deep
blue of the sapphire.

The name of the plant the gardener declared to be _convoladia_. I
spell the word phonetically. And when I asked what the appearance of
the flower was, he made the incredible statement--and stuck to
it--that the plant had none.

It is impossible to stay in Soller without feeling the magnetic
attraction of the Puig Mayor, which is higher than any mountain in
the British Isles. A dozen times in an hour we found ourselves
turning to see how it looked, for its aspect held the charm of
exhaustless variety. One might leave it a purple shadow amid
light-hued satellite hills and turn again a few minutes later to
discover it rose-tipped and the others in shadow.

Next morning I looked out on a lovely scene. In the growing light of
dawn the encompassing mountains showed clearly their outlines,
unblurred save by a wanton wisp of mist that seemed too trivial to
bear any meaning. But when my breakfast tray was brought in, rain
was falling with the quiet persistence of rain that has come to
stay. So we spent the morning indoors enjoying refreshing gossip,
and refreshing peeps into English books, and in watching from the
windows and balconies the ever-changing cloud effects on the
mountains.

There were moments when the crest of the Puig Mayor rose majestic
above a rolling fleece of vapour that blotted out all the lesser
heights; and times when, though the clouds hung heavy over the town,
and the few passers-by huddled beneath time-worn umbrellas, every
red rock and cleft of the mountain glowed under a sun that shone for
it alone. Or again the Puig Mayor itself might vanish, and some
nearer height stand out against the wall of mist in unexpected
beauty of contour--imposing only because of its temporary isolation.

In the afternoon the sky cleared a little and we ventured out. The
Good Fairy, our hostess, who abounds in individualities that are as
charming as they are original, possessed, by right of purchase, the
fruit of a tree of sweet oranges. Her tree grew in an orchard on the
outskirts of the town that is itself an orange garden. And hither we
went to listen to the sweet clamour of the nightingales while eating
the fruit we had plucked.

Among the glossy-green leaves Keats's "light-winged Dryads of the
trees" were singing "of summer in full-throated ease." We would
gladly have lingered long, but heavy rain again encompassed us; and
we returned to the comforts of the hotel, reluctant to leave the
melodious plot, but rejoicing for the sake of the islanders, in
whose expectant ears the sound of the rain falling on their thirsty
land must have been much more musical than the song of the immortal
bird.

Next day was Palm Sunday--the children's day. Yet when we left the
hotel in the morning and ventured out into the rain-washed streets,
there was not a child in sight. Old people--grandmothers, formless
figures muffled from forehead to ankle in black shawls, moved
decorously along carrying folding stools; grandfathers, protecting
their Sabbath garb with rose-coloured umbrellas of a silk so fine
and antique that one longed to implore them not to ruin it by
exposure to the weather, were hastening towards the church. But the
narrow streets of the quaint old town were curiously empty of
children.

To our uncomprehending eyes it appeared more the day of the
grandparents than of the children. I blush now to acknowledge that,
for the moment, we had forgotten that the day of the children is
always, and in almost greater measure, the day of the grandparents
also.

We entered the church to find both the outer absence of youth and
the presence of the aged explained. Above even the pungent odour of
incense, the savour of sweet flowers perfumed the air. The centre of
the church was a seething mass of greenery. Tall spikes of palm
arose like sword blades from out a forest of green branches--a
forest that looked as though ruffled by a strong wind, so restless
was its incessant motion.

Closer observance revealed the motive power to be a multitude of
small boys who sat, closely packed together, on benches, holding
aloft branches, many of which were wreathed with flowers. Most of
the trophies showed the grey-green of olive--a shapely bough chosen
with care from the family possession, with all the available
blossoms of the garden twined about the stem. And many revealed
ingenuity and artistic taste in the garlanding of the flowers.
Certain of the palm fronds had a piece fixed athwart the tip to
represent a cross. A proportion, happily but a small proportion, of
the trophies carried struck the blatant note of artificiality, for
in their case the palm frond was split and twisted into ornamental
shapes, and out of all semblance of that they were supposed to
represent. A few were travesties of Christmas-trees, for their
fictitious branches were laden with silvered and gilt sweets, toys
and trinkets, seemingly trivial, but doubtless owning a significance
of their own.

Beside the rows of close-cropped dark heads moved priests and
black-robed teachers. And on the outskirts of the throng hovered
bigger boys, torn betwixt two opinions--whether it were better to
continue to assert their claim to have reached an age exempt from
such childish matters, or to yield to their natural desire to join
the palm-bearers and have a place in the procession that was to
follow.

One urchin, but recently advanced to the dignity of his first long
trousers, held half-concealed a scrap of olive, to which he added by
furtive gleanings from the fallen blossoms that littered the floor,
garnering a battered, but still recognizable rose here, a gaudy
marigold there, until he had achieved a trophy that, if not one to
court careful examination, yet at a little distance presented quite
a respectable appearance.

When the rose-red umbrellas had dripped themselves almost dry, and
the branches supported by the hot hands of restless boys were waving
faster than ever, the black-robed teachers and a nun, moving
noiselessly amongst their pupils, began to marshal them into a
double line.

Standing at the side, in company with grandfathers whose fine old
weather-beaten faces gazed proudly intent at those who were to carry
their names to succeeding generations, we watched as the little
forest of branches, borne sedately, passed in front of the altar,
and then moved in procession round the church. The smallest boys
walked in front, and many of them were burdened with the care of
umbrellas in addition to the proud glory of the decorated branch
that wobbled in their tired hands; while boys of larger growth,
unable to resist, yielded to a natural desire to shoulder their
boughs as muskets.

Very few girls took an active part in the proceedings. The
half-dozen who did belonged to the class that have hats for Sunday
wear, and the palms they carried had cost money. Little girls whom
fortune had denied the envied possession of either ugly hats or
ornamental palms looked on with longing in their soft dark eyes as
the favoured ones marched by.

When the complete circuit of the edifice had been made the
palm-bearers moved to a side, and a band of clergy advancing paused
just within the great doors, through which certain of their number
had slipped outside.

Standing thus, their resplendent robes of purple and scarlet thrown
into strong relief against the old wood of the door, the group began
chanting. When they ceased there came from without the sound of
answering voices. Again were the voices within raised in recitative.
From outside came again the reply.

Then, reverberating solemnly through the deep silence that ensued,
came the sound of a thrice repeated knock on the closed door. At the
summons the wide doors were thrown open and the outside band
admitted. Then, the symbol of the release of repentant souls from
purgatory having been thus impressively enacted, the band, now
chanting in unison, moved towards the high altar.

The ceremony of the blessing of the palms is a beautiful one, and
one of which no child who has taken part can ever forget the
meaning.

The last we saw of it was a hale old grandfather, who carried in his
arms, under the shelter of his big rose-hued umbrella, a sleepy
little boy, whose weary hand still grasped his flower-wreathed
olive-branch as they took the path leading to the mountains.

The earnestly prayed for rain, when it did come, came in unstinted
quantity. It had rained all night, and on Monday rain was still
falling, but more softly--almost, one might say, reluctantly--on the
little white-robed first communicants who, sheltered by the
umbrellas of mothers or aunts, were threading their way delicately
among the pools of water that lay as traps for their white-shod
feet.

But the Majorcan climate is too beneficent to spoil the notable day
for the young communicants. Before noon the clouds had drifted away
from the mountains; and though the sun did not appear, the air was
mild and balmy, and through the wonderfully absorbent nature of the
Soller soil the streets speedily became dry enough to enable the
dainty white shoes to trip about almost without blemish.

And all day long, everywhere one looked, young girls, some in
expensive raiment, others in evidently home-made garments, but all
with long white veils flowing from their wreathed heads, moved
sedately from house to house, accompanied by an admiring train of
female relatives, as they paid visits of ceremony to all their
friends.

And as for the boys!--words fail to tell of the glories of their
harshly new suits, their shining patent leather boots, of their
spreading collars, of the elaborate bow of gold embroidered white
ribbon that decorated their left arms; or, greatest of all--of their
self-importance.

They, too, had their public promenade, and paid their visits. They,
too, had their attendant group of appreciative relatives. On meeting
any friends the little party would pause, and the graceful ceremony
of asking forgiveness for past misdeeds be gone through, when the
young communicant, bending and kissing the hand of the elder, would
say, "If I have ever done you any harm, forgive me now."

My men had gone off to see Biniaraix, a hamlet of brown houses
grouped about the white tower of a church on the mountain-side, and
to enjoy a reminiscent glance at Fornalutx, the quaint hill-town
where, on our previous visit to Soller, we had spent a well
remembered afternoon.

So the Good Fairy and I, left to our own devices, passed the
afternoon in rambling about this town of amazing contrasts. As I
said before, Soller is endowed with a curiously absorbent soil--a
soil that acts as a charm in cases of inflammatory rheumatism and is
prime factor in the remarkable longevity of the inhabitants. The
roads were already so dry and pleasant to walk on that, but for the
evidence of the _torrente_, which was a raging river, it would have
been hard to credit that for two days and nights thrice-blessed rain
had fallen without intermission. Snow covered the crest of the Puig
Mayor and lay heavy on its shoulders, yet down in the valley the
soft air was sweet with the fragrance of orange blossoms, and all
about the golden or copper-coloured fruit hung in profusion on the
trees. Truly Soller is a place of piquant contrasts.

The trespasser is welcomed in Majorca. There are no
notice-boards--except a few _vedados_ to warn against hunting--no
padlocked gates. So we wandered about, following bypaths that led
from one small "possession" to another; and never, after we left it,
returning to the highroad until it was time to return home.

That the Good Fairy is widely beloved was evident at every turn. Her
diplomatic powers are great, but she had to exercise them all to
avoid spending the afternoon indoors in the hospitable homes of her
humble acquaintances, who, catching a glimpse of her as she passed,
hastened out to entreat her to enter.

Living in this place of natural delight must be cheaper even than in
Palma. One courteous dame took us all over her house, that we might
see the views from her windows. The house, which was in the town,
was a comparatively new dwelling in a good airy street. It had a
large high-ceilinged _zaguan_--the entrance chamber that is a
combination of hall and reception-room--from which opened a neat
kitchen. A few steps up from the _zaguan_ was a cosy parlour from
which a stair led down to the _terras_. Above, on the first floor,
were two bedrooms, and on the second floor two more, all well lit
and affording exquisite views. Being in town the house had no
garden; but the _terras_ with its big jars of plants seemed a
favourite place for taking the air.

When I indulged my curiosity by asking the rent, the good dame told
us that for all this excellence she paid twenty-four dollars a
year--less than five pounds; and the rent included taxes!

As we strolled farther afield the wealth of the land was heaped upon
us. Our hands overflowed with the Balearic violets, that are the
sweetest in the world, and the Balearic pansies, that are, I verily
believe, the poorest. For pansies love a cold damp soil, and rarely
flourish south of the River Tweed; and the Tweed is a far, far cry
from these sun-loved isles.

We had sprays of orange blossom given us too, and ripe oranges,
whose golden sides the beneficent sun had tanned to copper. And we
sat in a garden and ate them, while the aged donor, who still
possessed the fine features and limpid eyes of her bygone youth,
talked to us, illustrating her stories by a pantomime of feature and
gesture so expressive that even I, with my meagre knowledge of her
language, could hardly fail to grasp their meaning.

In the kitchen of her house the wide hearth was almost shut in by a
three-sided settle, whose seats were strewn with fleecy white
sheepskins. On the kitchen shelves the native ware of brown,
decorated in crude patterns of red and yellow, was arranged with
unconscious artistic effect.

Mounting gradually higher, we rested at a point where the town lay
open before us. Hills rose steeply behind us; in front the ground
sloped down in terraces; and, far beyond, the fruitful gardens and
russet houses of the town rose again towards the snow-crested
mountains, or at one point fell gradually to the cleft beyond which
showed the sea.

Becoming suddenly conscious that we had let the tea hour slip past
unheeded, we were hastening back to the hotel, when, crossing the
bridge that spans the _torrente_, we caught the promise of a sight
that made us quickly return to the open space of the market square
that we might obtain a less interrupted view. Over the roofs of the
houses the snow-capped mountain summits, struck by some magic shaft
from the hidden sun, glowed rose-red, and the unearthly beauty of
the transfiguration held us mute and spell-bound.

The curious thing was, that though little groups of people stood
gossiping in the market-place no one appeared to have eyes for this
refulgence but ourselves. Seeing us standing gazing silently towards
the mountains, they turned also to see what had attracted our
attention, then turned away uncomprehending.




XXII

DEYA, AND A PALMA PROCESSION


The last lingering trails of rain-clouds had vanished and the sun
shone from a cloudless blue sky when next day we drove off behind
Pepe and his pair of white horses to picnic at Deya, the curiously
distinctive little town that perches on a hill betwixt mountain and
sea, half-way between Soller and Miramar.

The road was a good one, and as the way, though steep, was set in
zigzag fashion, its ascent would have been easy but for the
barbarous way in which, acting with the empty cunning of these
would-be crafty island road-menders, someone had littered the road
with lumps of stone, thus forcing the passing vehicle to act the
ignominious part of road-roller by threading its way out and in over
the newly mended parts. Sometimes the stones were so evilly placed
as to impel us to venture perilously near the edge of the
precipitous track.

It was a relief as we slowly mounted upwards to come upon the
perpetrator of the crime in the very act of further blocking our
path. Taken thus red-handed, he was not one whit dismayed, but
complacently stepped aside to let us pass.

The opportunity was not one to be missed. Half drawing up and
turning round on the box, Pepe launched towards him a few
objurgations in trenchant Majorcan. And the Good Fairy, putting her
head out of the carriage, added the weight of her gentle reproach.

[Illustration: Deya]

"What is this you do?" she asked in her pretty Spanish. "Placing
stones on the road to welcome the strangers! Is this the way you
show them the delicacy of the Spaniard?"

Thus doubly reproached, the _caminero_ stood transfixed; and our
emotions having found vent, we drove on, leaving him with his hand
raised to his brass-bound hat, his mouth open but speechless.

Having reached the summit, we began the descent, losing sight of our
grand mountains, but gaining a glimpse of the Mediterranean, which
glowed in that warm blue that makes one wonder--until one tries the
temperature--why sea-bathing should be confined to the summer
months.

The tawny-roofed houses of Deya cluster on a high rock that rises
like an island from out a sea of valley which is girdled by
precipitous mountains. Streams in cascades were rushing down in a
joyful pell-mell, the cherry-trees were heavy with blossom, and the
pomegranates were opening their first delicate copper-tinted leaves
as we drove along the highroad that follows the curve of the valley.

The attentive _chef_ of the Marina had made us independent of
_fondas_, and Pepe had promised to find us a good place to lunch in.
So when he drew up at a path that branched off from the highway on
the Miramar side of Deya, we took our hamper, from which the neck of
a bottle protruded alluringly, and started to explore it.

The path ended at a gate that opened into private grounds. In any
other country the most presumptuous among us would have hesitated
before invading the garden of unknown owners. But we were in the
Fortunate Isles and the charm of their unconventionality influenced
us. Walking in, we found some conveniently placed stone seats under
the shade of a huge lemon-tree, and there we spread our feast of
lamb cutlets, potato omelets, cakes and fruit.

The house, of one corner of whose quaintly terraced garden we had
taken possession, appeared to be untenanted. Its windows were
closely shuttered, its stable empty; but soon from the highest
terrace an old head peeped at us. A little later it appeared on a
terrace lower, then nearer still, the attached body becoming
gradually more and more visible, until the owner appeared before us
in the person of an aged woman whose frivolously abbreviated
petticoats seemed incompatible with her sober face.

It was the caretaker, come not to warn us that we were intruding,
but to urge us to leave the place we had chosen for one where there
was a proper table and much water.

We resisted her enticements and she trotted off, her appearance a
ludicrous combination of propriety and indecorum, with her serious
face swathed in its black kerchief and her lavishly displayed light
drab ankles.

She did not quite abandon us, however; and when the men had gone off
to paint she returned, and was so evidently desirous that we would
not leave before seeing the marvels of the garden, that we consented
to allow her to show them.

And, indeed, the arrangement of the grounds revealed much ingenuity.
The spot where she would have had us eat was a stone-built
_mirador_, through a shallow cave, at whose back a mountain torrent
had been induced to flow. As she had promised, there was both "a
table" and "much water." In summer the suggestion of coolness
imparted by even a trickle of water would be charming. Then, with
the torrent rushing at breakneck speed, the effect was a little
overpowering and the noise positively deafening. Our chosen place
under the big lemon-tree might not be so extraordinary, but it had a
placid charm that soothed while it did not detract from the matter
in hand.

The nephew of our unconsciously serio-comic cicerone, in the person
of a one-eyed _calender_--I beg his pardon, gardener--joined us to
reveal fresh attractions of summer-house and rivulets, and of a
grotto where, amid a perfect cascade of maidenhair-fern, a graceful
statue of Our Lady of Lourdes was embowered. From every point the
view was lovely, but I defy anybody to find a spot about Deya that
does not afford a lovely prospect.

When we left the place our lady of the stockings, eager to do
something for the generous tip the Good Fairy had slipped into her
hand, insisted on carrying our hamper. And during the remainder of
our afternoon at Deya, whether we went up hill or down dale, amongst
the picturesque houses clustered on the church-crowned hill or
through the gardens that lined the side of the river, we seemed
always to be encountering her. Whether she was paying a round of
visits to display her coin, or bound on an exhaustive shopping
expedition to squander it, we did not know; but at every turn of the
road we seemed to see the twinkle of those drab ankles.

One of the many charms of Deya is the proximity of the sea, which
laves the foot of its valley. Another is its delicious irregularity.
I do not believe there are a half-dozen yards of straight road in
Deya. Every house has its own elevation, its individual bypaths.
Another and an invaluable charm to artists is the manageable quality
of its pictorial effects. The extensive grandeur of Miramar is
almost unpaintable, but Deya has a complete picture at every turn.
We saw many in the course of that afternoon stroll. Women washing,
men gathering oranges, a handsome woman in a petticoat of vivid
scarlet leading a recalcitrant black goat: all ready for
transference to canvas.

The hours flew past. Almost before we knew, dusk was falling and we
were on our way back to where the snow-capped Puig Mayor presides
over the wonderful Soller valley.

We had been a little apprehensive, expecting a repetition of the
somewhat hazardous morning journey. But the Good Fairy's appeal to
the chivalry of the Spaniard had borne immediate result. Every stone
had been laboriously removed from the path. So without hindrance we
rattled gaily down into the valley, where lights were already
twinkling through the dusk.

The final day of our visit to Soller brought yet another experience
of unusual interest. Our hostess had still another surprise in store
for us. We had viewed the high mountains from beneath, now we were
going to see them from the crest of one of their number.

Pepe took the reins in his skilled hands and guided the surefooted
mules, who, for this expedition, replaced the white horses, up a
perilous road that curved about the mountain-side, rising higher and
ever higher until we looked down over the many terraces of olives
into the valley that lay placidly basking in the afternoon sunshine.

Our ascent was necessarily very deliberate. As we wound slowly up we
passed neither dwelling nor human being; and those of us to whom the
way was new began to wonder why any road should have existed on so
lonely a height. Then when we had got so high that it seemed as
though an eaglet's aerie would be the most likely habitation, the
road ended on a flat plateau, and we found ourselves driving into
the outer courtyard of a farm-house so old and weather-beaten that
in appearance it resembled the rocks and crags that surrounded it.

We alighted unnoticed. Doves were flying overhead. A dog greeted our
advent with an interrogative growl; fowls clucked about unheeding.
Pepe, rolling himself up in a striped blanket, curled up on the box
to await the hour when it might be our pleasure to return. And we
walked on, wondering if we had left the everyday world behind in the
valley and had all unwittingly climbed to the palace of the sleeping
beauty.

A stone-cast from the house was a _mirador_ known to our
conductress. Securely seated therein, poised right on the edge of
the mountain-crest, we looked at the vast panorama. Crags rose high
about us. Behind and above us towered an unfamiliar side of the Puig
Mayor, its massive shoulders deep in drifted snow.

Far beneath, looking like some gaily coloured map when seen from
that height, lay the port of Soller with its lake-like harbour and
pigmy headlands. And northwards spread the far-reaching sea, whose
grandeur no altitude could dwarf.

The sensation of being above the world was gloriously exhilarating.
When a bird flew overhead we almost felt as though we too had
wings, and two lines from Davidson's _Ballad of a Nun_ kept running
through my mind:

    "I am sister to the mountains now,
     And sister to the sun and moon."

Leaving the _mirador_, we wandered happily about the plateau. Among
the grass a strange flower was blooming, and it seemed quite natural
that this amazing location should boast a flower of its own. It was
an orchid whose sugarloaf-shaped spike was covered with florets of
dull purple, close-packed after the manner of a grape hyacinth. In
many of the plants the flowers burst into a tuft at the top. It was
strange and not pretty, but curiously in keeping with its isolated
situation.

When we returned to the house Pepe, swathed in his blanket, was
still deep in the slumber of the man of tranquil mind: but the
mistress of the house was at hand. Approaching, she greeted us with
grave courtesy. She had the remains of much beauty. The soft bloom
of girlhood lingered on her matronly cheeks, and the retrospective
look of one accustomed to deep solitude was in her fine dark eyes.

On her invitation we entered the house, whose tall sides surrounded
an inner courtyard. One end of the big cool kitchen was partitioned
off with high-backed settles, and right on the middle of the floor
of the "cosy corner" thus formed a pile of logs was glowing. Looking
up, we saw that overhead the roof contracted until it became a wide
chimney, through which a glimpse of blue sky was visible. A gun hung
on the whitewashed wall, and on one of the seats which was thickly
spread with skins a shepherd lad was resting.

Returning to the _mirador_, we watched the sun sink in a golden
glory over the misty blue sea. Then, lamenting the inevitable close
of another perfect day, we drove back down the vagrant deviating
way, feeling as though we had for a brief space been translated to a
new and inspiring world.

It was with sincere regret that on the morning of Holy Thursday we
bade the Good Fairy farewell and, with Pepe again as charioteer,
started on our drive back by way of Deya, Miramar, and Valldemosa to
Palma, where we had an afternoon engagement.

The scenery of this coast road must rank with the finest in the
world, and on that March morning it was looking its loveliest. There
was no wind, and both sea and sky were of that deep warm azure that
makes so fitting a background to Balearic Island vistas.

On reaching the first houses of Deya, we stopped the carriage, and
alighting, climbed the easy ascent to the church. Halfway up the
slope a French artist was painting, filling in his canvas with a
delicate mosaic of heliotropes and pinks and purples.

He was enthusiastic about the pictorial quality of his surroundings.
"Deya," he declared, was "_un paradis pour les peintres_."

When we peeped into the church Mass was being celebrated, and from
the dusk of the interior the eyes of young communicants looked
gravely at us from under their white wreaths.

Amid the clustered houses halfway down the hill a quaint old
building proclaimed itself the Casa Consistorial. A worm-eaten stair
led to the town hall. The iron-barred door of the dungeon opened at
a touch, revealing its abandonment to the base uses of a
lumber-shed. As far as we could see, the sole person in charge of
the municipal chambers of Deya was a year-old infant who occupied a
low chair in the wide-roofed porch. He, however, maintained a
magisterial dignity of demeanour throughout our cursory inspection
of the premises.

As we left the valley the lofty crags and olive-clad slopes of
Miramar rose about us. Their appearance was already familiar, and it
was with a positive thrill of pleasure that we saw them again.
Across the smooth surface of the Mediterranean a liner was passing,
and we wondered what impression the passengers would get of the
island.

We reached the Hospederia to find that for the moment the solitude
that in November we had found so attractive had vanished. Evidently
some periodic household inspection was in process, for in the wide
doorway women sat mending house-linen, and children clinging to
their skirts glanced shyly at us.

Fernando was absent, but Netta remembered us, and brought a large
glass jug of the matchless Miramar water out to the _mirador_
overhanging the sea just beyond the house whither Pepe had already
carried our lunch.

Valldemosa was looking lovely in the fresh green beauty of spring,
when an hour later we drove through its steep streets. The terrace
gardens of the old Carthusian monastery were sweet with bud and
blossom; and on the road beneath, a couple of bearded brown-robed
Franciscan monks, treading softly on sandalled feet, gave us
greeting.

As we left the gorge whose precipitous sides rose high overhead, an
eagle, clearly outlined against the azure sky, gave the finishing
touch to the wild beauty of the spot.

After the soul-inspiring grandeur of the everlasting hills, the
plain, in spite of its luxuriant verdure, seemed tame; and even
Palma appeared almost uninteresting. But it must be admitted that we
were approaching it by the back way--by the kitchen entrance, so to
speak--and in strict justice Palma should be entered by the front
door, which is the port.

We had been invited to the palace of one of the noble Majorcan
families to witness the passing of the Holy Thursday procession, and
as we walked into Palma in the early evening, signs of preparation
for the ceremonial were in evidence. Strangely clad figures, looking
supernaturally tall in their long robes and high pointed hoods, were
advancing towards the city. And their odd garb and masked faces gave
them the appearance of beings strayed from out the dread days of the
Spanish Inquisition.

By the gate of Santa Catalina one of the masked men--his
face-covering thrown back--was having a heated argument with a
_consumero_ respecting a demand for payment of duty on the tall
candle he carried. And within the gates like figures were to be seen
all advancing towards some given point.

Outside the walls, where the buildings were comparatively new, the
weirdly garbed shapes had seemed anachronisms, with more than a hint
of the fancy dress carnival about them; but once within the walls of
the ancient city, its narrow streets and tall closely shuttered
dwellings made fitting setting for their mediaeval guise.

In the streets ladies wearing mantillas and the costumes of black
brocaded satin that they reserve for religious ceremonials were
hastening, rosaries in hand, from one church to another. It is the
custom to visit as many churches as possible on Holy Thursday. One
lady we knew told us she had entered twenty-two that day.

Just opposite the old palace on whose balconies we were placed was
one of the five churches through which the procession was to pass.
In the roadway beneath, people had already gathered in expectation
of its approach, and as we waited a sound of distant music,
monotonous, penetrating, reached us. Then the town drummers, led by
a small body of mounted civil guards (who defiled to a side and rode
on to await their exit from the farther door of the building)
appeared, and still vigorously plying their drum-sticks, marched
into the church.

Very few members of the clergy were to be seen. The participants in
the solemnity were almost entirely laymen. Representatives of many
municipal bodies took part in the procession. There were civic
authorities who carried a well-brushed silk hat in one of their
white-gloved hands and a lighted candle in the other: doctors,
members of the Red Cross Society, the town band, firemen, police,
boys from the orphanage, old men from the workhouse--all evidently
proudly conscious of the importance of their position.

[Illustration: Processionists of Holy Thursday]

At intervals a platform supporting one of the fine carved images
from the Cathedral was borne by. When the beautiful effigy of the
Crucified Christ from the Church of La Sangre--that exquisite statue
to whose flowing hair so many women have gloried to contribute their
tresses--was carried past, the expectant crowd fell upon its knees
before it.

To our untutored eyes a striking feature of the observance was the
long succession of masked penitents, who, bearing tall lighted
candles, walked in a double line. The hue of their robes varied from
almost bright blue to the more effective black and white. Some were
handsomely embroidered, others plain. Two of the men were laden with
chains; and one at least trod the cobble stones with naked feet, in
public fulfilment of a vow taken in a time of impending danger.

Most of the penitents held lace-edged handkerchiefs to protect the
candles from the warmth of their hands; but in spite of the
precaution certain of the candles already showed signs of softening.
Many of the processionists bore emblems of the Passion, and one
group as it entered the church broke into a mournful chant.

One of the observances of the function appeared to be the
distribution of sweets. It was curiously incongruous to see the
masked figures drop comfits into outstretched hands. We noted one
pause before a pretty pink-clad senorita, who with her _duena_ was
standing opposite our balcony, and signing to her to open the silver
chain-bag she held, he poured into it a great handful of sugared
almonds, to her blushing satisfaction.

The ceremony was imposing, touching, full of affecting suggestion;
but even as we looked we could not help regretting that night had
not fallen. Then the sight of a long sequence of quaint figures
bearing the tall lighted tapers through the sombre crooked streets
of the old town would have been much more impressive.




[Illustration: During the Carnival at Palma]

XXIII

OF FAIR WOMEN AND FINE WEATHER


The first thing that impresses the traveller regarding the
inhabitants of Majorca is the prevalence of good-looking young men
and of pretty and graceful young women. Legend tells that in
long-past days the people of Majorca were induced to make a treaty
with the Dey of Algiers, by whose terms they yearly paid him a
tribute of a hundred virgins, on condition that he restrained his
piratical hordes from molesting the island. One feels that the Dey
had an eye for beauty, for in these favoured isles to be handsome
seems to be the rule, not the exception.

While young the Majorcan women are charming after a peculiarly
feminine fashion. Compared with them French working women of the
same class are hard of feature and masculine and ungainly of form.
Their features are refined, their complexions clear, their feet
slender, their hands small, shapely, and well-cared for. When I
mentally compared the condition of their hands with those of the
rough toil-hardened hands of the women of the British working
classes, I wondered if the substitution of charcoal for coal and of
olive oil for grease in cooking could account for their better
preservation.

To rise to the admired standard of aristocratic Majorca a man should
look as though he had never done a day's work in his life. His hands
should be soft, his skin untanned. A youth who had been yachting
declared regretfully that on his return to Palma he was so brown
that none of the girls would look at him!

To judge from a letter written to the Palma paper, _La Almudaina_,
by a Majorcan on board an Italian liner bound for the Argentine, the
delicacy and fine modelling of Majorcan hands would seem to be
locally recognized and even gloried in.

    "What a misfortune," lamented the Voyager, "that the
    Italians have feet and hands so large, and fingers so
    twisted. Oh, hands of my country, with slender fingers
    and blushing nails, how my eyes feel home-sick to look
    upon you!"

Women of all classes wear long skirts, which on being daintily held
up reveal natty petticoats; and all show a pleasing taste in
footgear. Boots are cheap in Majorca, and the servant maid or the
work-girl on their Sunday afternoon promenade on the Borne will wear
smart shoes of patent leather or high-heeled boots of cream-hued
kid.

Nothing more charming or more suitable for everyday wear than the
native head-dresses--a mantilla of black lace for the mistress, a
_rebozillo_ of white muslin for her maid--could possibly be devised.
While for gala occasions, such as a bull-fight, the white lace
blossom-bedecked mantilla is positively captivating. And one
sincerely regrets that, in Palma at least, the hat is gradually
making its way. The ladies who lead Palma fashion wear hats, and
where they lead others hasten to follow.

A positive thrill of excitement runs through fashionable Palma when
notice is received of the approaching visit of a milliner or
costumier from Paris or Madrid. The hotel where the private view of
the new season's styles is held is thronged with eager buyers. When
the cream of the stock has been secured, the enterprising adventurer
disposes of the skim milk to the second-rate local shops, and sets
sail with full pockets. The pity is that, with both the tradition
and the usage of so picturesque a national custom for guidance,
matrons who themselves rigidly adhere to the mantilla should,
doubtless from the best possible motives, condemn their young
daughters to wear hats.

Even at the best the prevalent mode in hats was ugly, and possibly
the choice in Palma was limited, but it must be admitted that in the
matter of hat selection their customary refinement of taste appeared
occasionally to have deserted the Palma mothers. It was sad to see
the nice modest face of a young girl overshadowed by a huge erection
of green or red felt that was trimmed with a wild scurry of
dishevelled plumage--a style of headgear that might not have looked
out of place in the Old Kent Road, but which looked hopelessly
incongruous over the grave expectant eyes of a young Majorcan lady.

Contrasted with the life of an English maiden, which is full of
varied employments and endless social entertainments, the existence
of a Majorcan young lady would appear to be needlessly lacking in
interests.

She does not ride, or shoot, or golf, or cycle, or play tennis or
croquet, or do gardening, or smoke cigarettes. She has little
concern with politics, and she is content to leave the care of the
poor to an efficient staff of clergy.

She has been carefully and thoroughly educated. She has probably had
a special governess to teach her English, another for French or
Italian. The private chaplain may have instructed her in Spanish,
and she probably has a good knowledge of classical music.

But, her course of study over, there seems little left for her to
do. In the morning she goes to Mass; later she performs miracles of
intricate embroidery. In the afternoon she drives out, in winter
always in a closed carriage, and nearly always in the same
direction, which is westwards towards Ben Dinat. Sometimes the
carriage stops, and the occupants, alighting, take a little
promenade; then, re-entering the carriage, drive back to the tall
old palace in some narrow street in the city. After Mass on Sundays
she strolls on the Borne; from four o'clock till sunset she may
promenade on the ramparts or on the mole. That is the substance of a
Palma girl's exercise, and everywhere she goes her footsteps are
carefully shadowed by those of her _duena_.

Private dances, musical evenings, afternoon "At Homes," private
theatricals, are almost unknown. There are plenty of house-parties,
especially in summer, when the family is living at one or other of
its country seats; but those gatherings are usually confined to
relatives. Then there are the infrequent bull-fights; and
occasionally a dance is given at the fashionable club, the _Circulo
Mallorquin_--a festivity that begins at four o'clock in the
afternoon and ends at eight o'clock in the evening.

Sometimes the wife of the Captain-General gives an evening
reception; or the rare function of a real ball sends a flutter
through the higher circles of the island. Then and then only does
the aristocratic Majorcan maiden permit her graceful shoulders to be
seen. Frequently, carefully chaperoned, she goes to a theatre, and
sits in the family box throughout the interminable waits between the
acts. At the Carnival, which occupies three afternoons in the week
preceding Lent, she can appear on a balcony or in a carriage on the
Borne; and even, such is the _abandon_ of that time of licence, go
to the extreme length of exchanging repartee in the form of confetti
or paper streamers with an admiring foe.

Yet already there are signs of the far-reaching influence of an
English queen. Certain of the noble families have young English
ladies to teach their language to their daughters, and the few
Majorcans we heard speaking English in Palma spoke it beautifully.
Nowadays a Majorcan lady is not ashamed to admit that she dislikes
bull-fights. A few years ago such an admission would have been
accounted the rankest heresy. And Palma residents say they can tell
the girls who have English governesses--they always walk so quickly!

And here I may say that any young English lady, of good family and
of the Roman Catholic religion, who is so adventurous as to journey
to Majorca to fill a post as companion or governess can do so with
the assurance of meeting with every possible consideration. She will
not get a large salary, for money has a higher value in Majorca than
in Britain, but she will be treated like a princess. I know of one
case where a Palma family, who had engaged an English governess,
went to the trouble and expense of having a bedroom specially
decorated and furnished for her, after a high-art chamber pictured
in the _Studio_, that the expected guest might feel more at home
than if her room had been fitted up in the native fashion.

To our emancipated way of thinking there was something curiously
mediaeval in the careful chaperonage to which the lovely and graceful
Majorcan girls were subjected. And the scrupulous separation of the
sexes seemed to argue distrust, of the maidens as well as of the
men.

Matrimony is a popular institution in Majorca, and when a damsel has
reached a marriageable age an eligible suitor is rarely awanting. It
is when that suitor has cast the glad eye upon the lady of his
choice that matters would appear to proceed after an unsatisfactory
and yet most conspicuous fashion.

Suppose Don Sebastian desires to pay court to a lady whom he has
seen taking her carefully chaperoned walks, he writes a letter
asking her permission to do so. If the reply is in the negative the
matter ends. If it is in the affirmative the Don puts on his cloak,
which is frequently picturesquely lined with scarlet, and hies
himself to the palace of his inamorata, but in place of boldly
knocking at the front door and being ushered into one of the
reception-rooms, he takes up his position beneath the balcony on
which she is most likely to take the air.

When the object of his desire appears--and you may be certain the
_duena_ is close at hand--the lady looks down, the lover gazes up,
and only those who have put the matter to the test can judge how
physically harassing it is to breathe impassioned nothings to
someone who is suspended above your head.

[Illustration: The Wooer]

At this stage the matter halts for a period that sometimes runs into
years--for in these restful latitudes even the course of true love
moves slowly. Then, permission having been asked and granted, Don
Sebastian may accompany the lady and her chaperon in their walks for
a period approaching six months. When this point is reached, the
parents of Don Sebastian, carrying a handsome present, which most
frequently takes the form of a ring, call on the guardians of the
lady, and, their consent to the prospective union having been
gained, the suitor is at length admitted to the house, and the
public cease to see his love-lorn figure beneath the balcony. Even
when matters have crawled to this advanced stage the visits of the
Don are merely ceremonious calls, paid strictly under the watchful
eyes of the _duena_. And I am told it is not until the night before
the wedding that he is favoured with an invitation to dine at the
home of his bride.

In order to impart the proper aspect of romance to this oft-played
balcony scene, the actors ought to be, and often are, young and
graceful. When they are otherwise it is only too easy to give a
ludicrous rendering of the drama.

During our early months at the Casa Tranquila we sometimes, in the
evenings, passed a tall house, from a balcony on whose third storey
a plump lady would be shouting down coy replies to the blandishments
of an elderly swain who had to stand out in the middle of the road
in order to see his sweetheart. After a time both balcony and street
were vacant; presumably the suitor had been admitted inside. Then a
_to-let_ bill appeared on the balcony. The little romance had
evidently ended happily, and the mature lovebirds had built a nest
elsewhere.

Our six months' experience of the Balearic Isles fostered the belief
that we had discovered the ideal winter climate. Perhaps we had
chanced upon an abnormally fine season, though I question that; but
certain it is that from the middle of October, when we entered the
bay and saw Palma looking celestial in the rosy light of dawn, until
the second week in January, the weather was perfect.

Spain is proverbially sunny. Against England's 1,400 and Italy's
2,300 annual hours of sunshine, Spain offers 3,000. With this grand
allowance of sunshine the Majorcan heat is temperate. Statistics
show that during the Balearic summer the thermometer rarely rises
above 90 deg. Fahr., while in winter it seldom falls below 40 deg.
Fahr. A gentleman who has passed his life in Palma told us that twice
only had he seen snow fall--once when he was twelve year old, and
again a few years ago.

Except for a sultry day or two in the end of October the atmosphere
was only pleasantly warm. Week succeeded week when the sea reflected
a sky of cloudless glowing azure, when the air was soft and yet
exhilarating, and we could both walk and bask with pleasure.

Rain never comes before it is welcome in Majorca. Sometimes the
welcome waits long before it is claimed.

When after an unbroken succession of days or weeks, or it may be
months, of unbroken fine weather, one is awakened by the sound of
rain falling in torrents on the tiled roofs, it is to rejoice with
the knowledge that the thirsty crops are already drinking in the
moisture, that the diminished store in the wells is being
replenished, that your oranges are swelling, and that your lemons
will soon lose the hardness of the nether millstone and become
available for lemonade.

There is no hesitation about Majorcan rain. It does not play at
being wet; it is simply drenching. And when rain comes, no man,
however distinguished the uniform he wears or elevated his position
(he may even be mounted on a panniered mule), hesitates to carry an
umbrella. _Consumeros_, carbineers, farm labourers, postmen, all
shelter under them. Nobody thinks it funny to meet a solemn
policeman carrying a sword, a revolver, _and_ an umbrella.

After the middle of January the weather changed. The temperature
fell, and for nearly a fortnight cold winds raged. Warm wraps were
brought out of the trunks where they had hitherto lain, and in the
evenings a wood fire became a much appreciated luxury.

It was curious to note how speedily even this only comparatively
cold weather made its malign influence felt on a people accustomed
to warmth and sunshine. Colds and coughs abounded. Most of our
Majorcan acquaintances appeared to suffer. As one lady said
resignedly, "It is the tribute we must pay to winter."

Even the Boy spent several days in bed with a cold, reading all the
French and Spanish novels he could beg or borrow, and comforting
himself with the reflection that had he been well the weather for
the first time during the winter would have made it impossible for
him to paint outside.

Yet, had three months of sunshine not made us critical, we would
never have grumbled at these few days of cold wind. Adopting
unconsciously the local opinion of the weather, I found myself
commiserating the Squire and his Lady, who had recently arrived from
England.

"What a pity you didn't come earlier than you did. There was no bad
weather till you came."

"But we've had _lovely_ weather!" the Lady said, opening wide eyes
of surprise. "Why, we've been out long walks every day. It isn't
really cold, and there's only been one shower, and that fell at
night."

Remembering our British standard I was dumb.

Though Majorca was free from fog, sometimes on an absolutely
windless morning a light mist would envelop Palma and the smoke from
the works in the Calle de la Fabrica would hang heavy in the still
air. Then the Boy would hasten to say that we might be in
Bradford--a town, by the way, that he knows only by repute. But with
the rising of even the faintest breeze the highest spires of the
Cathedral would appear out of the mist as though, through some
supernal agency, they were suspended in mid-air. Then gradually, as
if a veil were being slowly drawn aside, the city would again become
visible.

With early February our radiant weather returned, and heads were
shaken, for the young crops showed sign of wilting under the
long-continued drought. Over a period of fifteen days the churches
sent up special petitions for rain--petitions that must have been
echoed in the heart of every man that owned a "possession," or
farmed a patch of ground, or even rented a garden plot.

We were at Soller when for two days and two nights the rain fell
incessantly, soaking the parched soil and transforming the dry
_torrentes_ into raging rivers. Then it suddenly ceased, leaving us
with the glory of snow-tipped mountains seen against a glowing blue
sky.

Late in March and early in April rain again fell, delaying the
annual ceremony of the Swearing to the Flag, but making the
spindling corn fill out in a magical fashion and the beans that had
begun to shrivel and blacken become erect and juicy. When we left
Majorca on the last day of April all fears of the fate of the crops
had been removed; figs and vines were budding, almond-trees were
luxuriant in foliage, and the far-spreading meadows were covered
with grain that gave promise of a rich harvest.

We had thought vegetables and fruit so cheap that it astonished us
to hear the natives declare that _now_ prices would fall--that it
was through the past two successive dry summers that they had risen
so high!

Residents told us that for nine months out of the year the weather
in Palma might be relied upon to be delightful, but that during the
three hot months--which were July, August, and September--the moist,
damp heat was very relaxing. Then it is that the aristocracy,
temporarily vacating their sombre palaces in the narrow streets,
remove their entire establishment to one or other of their country
seats, while people of smaller social importance flock to their
villas at the Terreno, or Porto Pi, or Son Rapina, or even to modest
cottages at our little Son Espanolet.

To us there seemed something funny in the notion of people having
coast residences that were within a twopence-halfpenny car-drive of
their town homes. But it is undoubtedly pleasant to live in a land
where, by a change of locality entailing, at the most, a two hours'
drive, one can avoid any extreme of either heat or cold.




[Illustration: The National Sport]

XXIV

OF ODDS AND ENDS


In Majorca there are hotels to suit all purses. At Palma the Grand
Hotel is probably the best suited to tourists, especially if there
are ladies in the party; while those who would like to see a real
Majorcan _fonda_ of the better class and eat good native cooking
should go to Barnils' in the Calle del Conquistador.

The sum charged is invariably by the day, and varies according to
the pretensions of the establishment. In most hotels it includes
both wine and aerated waters. On arrival it is always well to
inquire what the rate will be and whether it includes the little
breakfast. If the traveller thinks the terms asked too high and says
frankly what he is prepared to pay, he is almost certain to be
accommodated at his own price.

Our experience of the country _fondas_ was that they were
infinitely superior to British inns of similar standing. The cooking
was far better and the prices much lower. If one knows a little
Spanish and can make a bargain, three pesetas a day is quite a usual
price for a country _fonda_. The best should not charge more than
four, and the catering is surprisingly good. In remote places beef
may be scarce, but fish are generally plentiful, the rye bread is
good, and the omelets are always excellent.

Here I might say that in every instance we found the beds admirably
appointed and comfortable. The Majorcan housewife takes special
pride in her daintily embroidered house-linen. Toilet arrangements
are apt to be primitive, and, except at the larger hotels, baths are
unknown. An india-rubber bath is easy to pack and will be found
invaluable. In obedience to Baedeker's advice to travellers in
Spain, we carried round a tin of insect-powder. But though the
Balearic Isles are in Spain in one respect, at least they are not of
it, for at the end of our wanderings the tin was still unopened.

In Palma there are several clubs, notably the _Circulo Mallorquin_,
the _Club Real de Regatas_, the _Veda_, and others, political,
military, and social, to which the desirable foreigner would find
little difficulty in being elected. The subscriptions, which are
collected monthly, would strike a London clubman as ridiculously
low. He would find his fellow-members both courteous and charming,
but disinclined to join in any exertion. And unless in very
exceptional instances their acquaintance would begin and end at the
club.

The Majorcan does not go in for sport, though there is a sports
club. He detests walking, and very infrequently plays tennis. The
entire group of islands does not boast a golf course. An English
resident who was trying to get up a golf club found the natives
apathetic; but the invasion of half a dozen good enthusiasts would
probably change this attitude. Many of the Palma men keep boats.
Yachting seems to be the only occupation they incline to; and it
would be hard to conceive of a more delightful pastime than cruising
about that picturesque coast.

Furnished houses are difficult to find, anywhere in Majorca. But in
Palma unfurnished flats can be had. We saw quite a nice one in a
good locality that was let at forty pesetas a month--a rent that
included all taxes. At the delightful suburbs of the Terreno and
Porto Pi, houses with exquisite views of the sea can be obtained.
But everywhere to the foreigner who does not speak Spanish terms are
said to rise.

Even in the capital town the wages of both male and female servants
are very low. For about twelve pounds a year I imagine one might
have the pick of ordinary female servants, the price paid men being
alike small. But it would be futile to expect to find the carefully
drilled attendance with which home usage has accustomed us.

To our more conservative minds, the attitude of the island servitors
towards their employers seems strangely familiar. And their dress is
apt to be informal. Once when I was paying an afternoon call in
Palma the man-servant entered the drawing-room to receive an order
sketchily attired in a pink undervest and trousers. And throughout
the visit his voice trilling roundelays in the adjacent pantry made
unusual accompaniment to our polite conversation. At the moment I
confess I was surprised, but that was during our very early days in
Majorca. A few months later I doubt if I would have noticed anything
odd in either occurrence.

The cost of living strikes any one accustomed to British
housekeeping as small--not perhaps because food is so very cheap,
for it is dearer in Palma than in the country towns and rural
districts, and much dearer than in Minorca and Iviza; but because
life is much simpler and less pretentious and conventional than in
England.

Certain imported commodities such as sugar are expensive,
consequently the sweets that with people of the same class at home
would be an everyday article of diet are reserved for special
occasions, particularly the frequently recurring feast days.

Residence in Majorca entails no exhausting social demands on either
the strength or the bank account. Even among themselves the
inhabitants but rarely entertain beyond the circle of their own
relatives. And their meetings with friends seem confined to the
theatre, the promenade, the bull-fights, or at one of the infrequent
entertainments given at the principal clubs.

The payment of fourpence secured a stall at the combination of
cinematograph and variety show that during our stay in Palma was the
fashionable form of amusement. And without further disbursement the
visitor who inclined that way was entitled to wait on through the
interval between the two houses and witness the whole performance
over again. For plays or for light opera the fees advanced a little,
though I doubt if they ever rose to the sum charged for the pit of a
London theatre.

The bull-fights patronized by Majorcan society are those given in
summer. We went to one held at Easter, and though society was absent
the people were there in numbers that filled two-thirds of the Plaza
de Toros, which seats five thousand. The action was mercifully
modified, for no horses were exposed to the attacks of the bulls. We
entered the place with our national prejudices strong upon us, and
left it with a conflict of mingled attraction and repulsion. When a
bull knocked down a clumsy _matador_ who had been making painful but
futile attempts to give him the fatal stroke, we lamented that the
bull failed to kill his torturer. Yet when another and more skilful
_matador_ by a single thrust mercifully vanquished his bull, we
shared something of the enthusiasm of the spectators, who threw hats
and cigars into the arena, and finally bursting in, carried the hero
of the moment shoulder-high round the ring.

It had certainly not been a fashionable function. From a
neighbouring box our Vigilante bowed graciously, and Bartolome, who
was of the Vigilante's party, beamed broadly upon us. When we left
the Plaza de Toros we encountered Maria, who was chaperoning two
tall daughters in mantillas. And as we walked back along the
ramparts we overtook Mrs. Mundo trotting homewards with her twin
girls, whose uncovered locks were tied up with ribbons till they
looked like a couple of nice little ponies on their way to a horse
show.

For certain temperaments Majorca has a curious magnetic attraction.
People who have first set foot upon its shores with comparative
indifference find themselves returning again and yet again; with
each visit becoming more under the thraldom of its charm. The Squire
and his Lady, who half a dozen years ago visited the island because
so many other Mediterranean resorts were already known to them, have
returned with increased anticipation of pleasure each successive
spring since. And during our stay in Palma we made the congenial
acquaintance of a Scots lady and gentleman who find the glamour of
these fair islands strong enough to induce them to make a yearly
pilgrimage thither from the North of Scotland.

Majorca is a delightful place to loaf in. I know no place where one
more keenly experiences the mere joy of being alive. In that ideal
temperature, under those cloudless skies, one at first feels content
to let the days drift past, taking no heed for the things of the
morrow. But the air has an amazingly rejuvenating effect. In a short
time years drop off--one loses superfluous weight and regains
colour. Exercise ceases to be exertion and becomes a keen delight.
Walks that formerly ranked as a day's excursion become merely a
pleasant stroll, to be undertaken between an early tea and a late
dinner.

[Illustration: Calle de la Portella, Palma]

In Palma something to interest or touch one was always happening.
Once--it was on the first day of February--we entered the usually
deserted Rambla to find a crowd composed chiefly of young men, all
of the same age, gathered in front of the barracks. The majority had
the sunburnt complexion of the rustic. A few were evidently of
higher social standing. Many girls and a few old peasants fringed
the crowd. It was the occasion of the annual drawing of lots for the
enrolment of the young men of the Palma district, who were to spend
their next three years in the army.

Some of the lads peered anxiously in at the closed gates of the
barracks; others concealed their concern and chatted gaily with
their friends. Military service in that land of sunshine is not
arduous. Recruits thus drawn by lot are never sent off their native
island, and to flirt with pretty maidservants on the Borne on a
Sunday afternoon--which to the casual observer appears to be the
leading labour of the Majorcan force--can hardly be termed hard
labour. So no doubt many of the rustics were already wondering if
they would not look better in shakos and crimson breeches than they
did in the blue cotton and goatskins of their shepherds' dress.

At length the gates were thrown open and sergeants called upon the
conscripts to enter. Many paused to wave farewells, and almost all
saluted or raised their hats as they advanced to put their fortunes
to the test. A few of the more smartly dressed strolled nonchalantly
in, smoking cigarettes, and we guessed that they, following the
native love of a gamble, had already paid a hundred crowns to the
insurance company that, in the event of their drawing an unlucky
number, would forfeit to the State the three hundred crowns that
would purchase their exemption from the three years of service.

A period of suspense dragged past. Then a sympathetic movement of
the crowd intimated the deliverance of the first two freed men, who,
as they left the gate, threw high in air the couple of breakfast
rolls that, with two reales, are presented to every man who has
drawn a lucky number. Others relieved and hilarious followed
quickly, but many pretty girls and old men waited in vain for the
return of the candidates that fate had decreed were to swell the
ranks of the standing army. The barracks had swallowed them up and
they were seen no more. Perhaps they also had rolls and reales;
perhaps they were elated at the prospect of town life; perhaps they
already looked back with longing to their almond-trees and
goatskins!

For the adventurous, Majorca has plenty of peaks to climb, coasts to
navigate, shrines to visit, caves to explore. The distances between
the known points of interest--and there are very many places still
unexploited--are so easy that a tourist with only a few days at his
disposal can visit the most noted parts.

The two brothers in whose interesting company we visited the Dragon
Caves had only five days to spend in Majorca. But even in so brief a
space of time they succeeded in seeing and in doing much. Their
method of mapping out their time was so admirable that I am tempted
to quote it.

On Monday night they crossed from Barcelona, arriving at Palma early
on Tuesday morning. Having breakfasted on the steamer, they caught
the early train for Manacor, where they lunched before driving to
the caves. After dining and sleeping at Manacor they took the train
on Wednesday morning to the railway terminus at La Puebla, and from
there drove to the old towns of Pollensa and Alcudia. That
accomplished, they journeyed by rail to Inca, where they passed the
night, returning on Thursday by the morning train to Palma, where
they spent the day visiting as many places of interest as possible.
On Friday they drove to Soller by way of Valldemosa, Miramar, and
Deya. Rising early on Saturday morning they drove to Fornalutx, and
starting from there, climbed the Puig Mayor, getting a superb view
from the summit. In the afternoon they drove back to Palma in time
to catch the mail boat to Barcelona. The weather had been perfect,
and they were able to carry out their well-planned expedition
without interruption.

For those who enjoy gentle exploration Palma makes an admirable
centre. A good pedestrian could encompass the island on foot, and a
journey more full of varied scenery or among pleasanter or more
unsophisticated folk could hardly be imagined. Those of less
energetic nature would find much of interest within very easy
walking distance.

It is almost impossible--in Palma at least--to hire mules, but
driving is comparatively cheap. Every few minutes tramcars run to
Porto Pi, where there is a good aquarium, with, when we saw it, a
splendid display of writhing octopi.

A mile beyond the car terminus is Cas Catala, where there is a
delightfully situated hotel. Just beyond the hotel are lovely walks
through the pine woods that border the sea, and pretty little bays,
in one of which--that a little way past the _carabineros'_ hut, I
think--I got some nice little shells and quite a lot of sponges that
had been washed up by the sea.

Genova, which is a very short walk inland from the car terminus at
Porto Pi, makes an attractive point for a little excursion. In a
garden off one of the by-ways is the entrance to a recently
discovered cave, which is the property of the landlord of the little
_taverna_--the Casa Morena--who discovered it when he was digging a
well. The cave, though small in extent, resembles the Dragon Caves
in miniature, and has beautiful stalactites and stalagmites which
are both fine in form and quite unblackened by smoke.

The village church, which until lately was a favourite place of
pilgrimage, has many fine altar-pieces and other paintings, and it
has the rare quality of being so well-lighted that visitors are able
to admire their beauties.

In one of the side chapels is a delicately modelled recumbent wax
figure of a young girl. Another chapel has a small square glass case
containing a representation of the Nativity that is peculiarly
interesting because of the purely local dress of certain of the
figures. The Virgin holding the Holy Child is seated in the centre.
At her right stands an elderly man, apparently meant for Joseph. It
was surely without humorous intent that the devotee who fashioned
his garments garbed him in the quaint old Majorcan dress of
abnormally wide blue breeches. After seeing Joseph's dress it is
not the least surprising to notice that two women who are less
important actors in the scene wear their hair in pigtails and the
native _rebozillos_.

From the hill-side that rises behind the church, where the prickly
pear grows in great profusion, one can enjoy a glorious panoramic
view of the coast.

For slightly longer excursions diligences leave Palma almost daily
for all sorts of out-of-the-way and wholly charming places, such as
Esporlas, Andraitx, Lluchmayor, Soller, Estallenchs, Calvia, and
Valldemosa. And if the traveller is wise and hastens to book the
front seat he will escape danger of death by compression, and be in
a position to enjoy a leisurely and comprehensive view of the
country.

It is well worth while, when intending to remain overnight at a
town, to arrange to arrive on the eve of the weekly market. For
market morning brings many quaint rural people flocking into town on
panniered mules or in odd ramshackle conveyances. Sunday is the
market at Pollensa, and there the traveller may see a profusion of
the old men of the zouave-like breeches. San Sellas and Binisalem
hold their markets on Sunday also. That of Manacor is on Monday.
Arta, Montuiri, Llubi, and Porreras hold market on Tuesday.
Wednesday is the day at Sineu, and Thursday at Inca, Muro, and
Andraitx. Lluchmayor has Friday, and the day of the week at Palma is
Saturday, when the country folk bring in the harvest of their fields
and hold a little market of their own in the Plaza del Mercado,
under the shadow of the high-towered Church of San Nicolas. Early in
May Soller holds a three days' _fiesta_, when a historic incident of
the landing and repulsion of a band of piratical Moors is enacted
with great spirit by the people of the town.

A hint that may prove useful to any one arriving at some remote
place where there is no _fonda_ is to ask to be directed to the
schoolmaster. He is certain to know Spanish, may be pleased to meet
a foreigner, and is sure to be able to recommend a lodging. It is
to the courteous schoolmaster of Santany that we were indebted for
this suggestion.

Failing the presence of a schoolmaster, the civil guard is a good
person to apply to. They are said to be a fine and absolutely
reliable class of men. An artist friend chancing at nightfall to
light upon a village where there was no inn, applied to the civil
guard, who not only gave him a room in his own house, but appeared
in the morning to offer the use of toilet appliances in the form of
a comb and a pot of pomade.

The Balearic Islands appear to offer a good field to the
entomologist. A friend who visited Majorca during February has given
me this list of the butterflies and moths that, even at that early
season, he saw in plenty, mostly within a few miles of Palma: Bath
White, Cabbage or Common White, Red Admiral, Painted Lady, Clouded
Yellow, Brimstone, Wall Brown, Holly Blue, Small Copper, Swallow
Tail, and the Humming-bird Hawk Moth.

As the spring advanced and the giant poppies I had sown in November
became a four-feet-high hedge, butterflies--strange, to me at least,
and very beautiful--fluttered into the little garden of the Casa
Tranquila, and probably not finding the poppies so luscious as their
brilliant appearance had led them to expect, speedily fluttered out
again. They did not make their home with us, as had the big locust
that, in the late autumn, I captured when he was feasting on a moth
in the shrubby field behind the convent. Bringing the prisoner home
in my handkerchief, I set him on a pink ivy-geranium that flourished
in one of the big green flower-pots on the veranda.

He seemed well content with his new quarters, for there he stayed
all winter, taking up his position first in the tall scented
verbena, and, when that lost its leaves, changing his perch to an
adjacent almond-tree, as though he knew that would be the first to
bloom.

Very early in the year he vanished, and we thought he had gone for
good. But just as the first pale blossoms were opening in the
almond groves he re-appeared, bringing with him the female of his
species, and together in connubial amity they shared his old home in
the almond-tree. When the pale rose-tinted blossoms had fallen, and
the grey-green velvet pods of the young almonds were emerging from
the crimson calyxes, the locust and his bride deserted us to seek a
wider pasturage.

Though we wandered far from beaten tracks, the sole trace of
reptiles encountered was an occasional discarded snakeskin. In Iviza
lovely green and golden lizards and highly-varnished toy frogs in
all "art" shades abounded, but we saw none of either in Majorca.

Our only insect pests were mosquitoes--who, probably recognizing an
alien and attractive flavour in our blood, were a disturbing
nocturnal influence until, with the aid of a few yards of mosquito
netting, we succeeded in frustrating their knavish tricks. Even by
day they were not invariably quiescent; but the mosquito is a
gentleman. He always gives warning before attacking an enemy, and
when we met in open combat, there was something of the joy of battle
in the defence. According to local report, the tenure of his days
should have ended with November; but it was not until a fall of the
temperature about the middle of January that our assailant withdrew
his battalions and left us in peace.

Though our visit was a winter one, the wild flowers were an
unfailing source of pleasure. The season was unusually dry, yet I
never took a country walk without finding some blossom that was new
to me.

When we arrived in October the rocky slopes about Porto Pi were
covered by a royal carpet of the purple autumnal crocus. The last of
the sea lavender was fading, but horned poppies and chicory were in
bloom. It was there, too, that in November we found the curiously
shaped brown and green wild arums that are known in America as
"Dutchmen's pipes," and locally referred to as _frares_, whose
acquaintance we afterwards made at Andraitx. In April, when we left
Majorca, pretty little white and lavender iris starred the ground
and rich purple mallows and golden mesembryanthemums covered the
rocks of Porto Pi.

The beautiful coast about Cas Catala had a herbage of its own. Tall
flowering heath, a persistently blooming plant with dark blue
buttons, and delicate yellow rock roses were, as the months slipped
past, succeeded by a fine display of cistus.

Throughout the whole time of our stay a constant succession of sweet
lavender blossomed on the grey-green bushes. Asphodel, too,
abounded. The first to open was the smaller species, with its rushy
foliage and slender spikes of bloom. In January the tall rods of the
poet's asphodel rose in such profusion that we were forced to give
it place as the typical island flower. Forced reluctantly, I
confess, for to some the odour of the tall asphodel, when growing in
quantity, is far from pleasant.

It was at Soller, that district of piquant contrasts, that we saw
the delicate greenhouse maidenhair-fern growing in masses with
English ivy along walls, or draping the moist sides of the water
runnels.

It was at Soller, too, that we first made the acquaintance of the
ten-inch-high daisy. There was little of the character of its Scots
relative, the "wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower," in this aspiring
plant. But the Balearic Islands have another form of the _Bellis
perennis_, a lavender daisy, that sustains the family reputation for
humility by cowering close to the soil.

The winter had been so dry that the flowers of early spring were
disappointing. I found a few purple anemones where I had expected to
see hundreds, and gleaned a handful or two of narcissus from the dry
bed of the torrent where I had hoped to gather baskets full.

But with the coming of the long-hoped-for rain the earth gave up her
secrets, and secrets worth knowing they proved themselves. There
were amazing orchids--little round-bellied flies, so life-like that
one half-expected to hear them buzz; or glorious travesties of
insects that never were, some with bodies of glittering metallic
blue daintily edged with brown fur, others with delicate wings of
rosy heliotrope.

It was odd to find garden pets--grape hyacinths, gladiolus,
iris--leading a gipsy life on those sunny slopes, and odder still to
discover begonias, or even _Nigella damascena_, camping out, as it
were. One felt inclined to demand to be told why they were shirking
their obvious duty of beautifying gloomy British gardens.

The following list of the rarer Balearic plants, given me by a noted
Scottish gardener, is specially interesting as showing the wide
range of the island flora: Anthyllis cytisoides, Astragalus
poterium, Cynoglossum pictum, Daphne vallaeoides, Delphinium pictum,
Digitalis dubia, Genista cineria, Hedysarum coronarium, Hedysarum
spinosissimum, Helianthemum serrae, Helianthemum salicifolium,
Helichrysum Lamarkii, Hippocrepis balearica, Hypericum balearicum,
Lavatera cretica, Lavatera minoricensis, Leucojum Hernandezii,
Linaria triphylla, Linaria fragilis, Lotus creticus, Melilotus
messanensis, Micromeria Rodriguezii, Micromeria filiformis, Ononis
crispa, Ononis breviflora, Ononis minutissima, Pastinaea lucida,
Phlomis italica, Polygala rupestris, Scutellaria Vigineuxii, Sencio
Rodriguezii, Sibthorpia africana, Silene rubella, Sonchus spinosus,
Vicia atropurpurea.

Perhaps it was because wild flowers bloomed all through the months
that the native children did not care to gather them, and that
indifference to natural blossoms prevailed in all classes of the
community. It seemed as though the Majorcans had not yet realized
the decorative value of flowers. One rarely saw cut flowers used on
the table or in the reception-rooms even of people on whose country
estates roses and violets blossomed all the year round. I never saw
flowers for sale in the big daily market, and the few clusters that
in spring the countryfolk brought in to the Saturday market would
scarcely have sufficed to trim one fashionable hat.

In February, when the rose-coloured blossoms of the cistus were
beginning to open on the uplands, the brown-cheeked shepherd boys
began to look for the young shoots of the wild asparagus, which they
made into little bunches for sale, bound round with broad asphodel
leaves fastened with long, sharp prickles.

Though a gourmet could hardly have taken exception to the flavour of
the asparagus thus gathered, he might have objected to the size, for
the shoots were seldom larger than that sold in London under the
mysterious name of "sprue." But the flavour was delicious, and when
one added the pleasure of gathering to the value when found, the
wild asparagus was worth its weight in gold. While the season lasted
we often brought in a bunch or two from our sunset strolls, and
these occasions were signalized by the appearance of asparagus
omelet at supper.




[Illustration: Sunday Morning at Iviza]

XXV

IVIZA--A FORGOTTEN ISLE


With regard to Iviza, the third in importance of the Balearic Isles,
even the usually omniscient Baedeker maintains a dignified reserve.
And indeed Iviza is so little visited that while the _Islena
Maritima Compania Mallorquina de Vapores_ convey passengers thither
from Majorca for fifteen pesetas first class, or eleven pesetas
second, they charge eighteen and thirteen pesetas respectively to
bring them back to Majorca, which looks as though they thought
voyagers might require to be cajoled into going to Iviza, but would
need no inducement to return.

From the records in existence one gathers that no relics of the
Stone Age have been discovered in Iviza, though traces left by many
dynasties prove that from very early times occupation of the lovely
and fertile isle was hotly contested. Chaldeans, Egyptians,
Phoenicians, Romans, Greeks, Vandals, Saracens, and Moors fought
for its possession, but since the Aragonese invasion of the
thirteenth century Iviza has belonged to Spain.

We had heard strange tales of the Ivizans--told, it must be
admitted, by people who avowedly had never set foot on the
island--grim stories of ferocity, of the crack of the ready pistol,
of the slash of the handy knife. We had also heard that these grim
islanders were invariably kind to strangers. Now we were on the way
to judge for ourselves.

While the departure of the Barcelona boat lures all Palma to the
mole, only a handful of spectators was assembled when, at noon on
the 8th of April, the _Lulio_ steamed westwards.

It was a fine day with a brisk head-wind. Like the high mountains
around Soller, the waves were white-crested, and for the first three
hours the voyage was a delight. As the _Lulio_ skirted the coast we
enjoyed identifying the places now familiar to us by land. The
little bays beyond Cas Catala, Ben Dinat among its woods, the
windmills above the town of Andraitx, and the long, high islet of
Dragonera.

As the heliotrope mountains of Majorca receded into the distance,
the brilliance faded. From warm azure the sea changed to purple,
from purple to grey, and the wind blew keenly against us. The
_Lulio_ is only some 600 tons, and there was little shelter on the
saloon deck, which is forward of the funnel. We felt inclined to
envy the Ivizan passengers, who, camped on the snug lower deck,
first ate strange messes, then after a brief but busy interlude of
regret, curled up on their bundles and went snugly to sleep.

With us there were half a dozen men and one lady. And when the
captain invited her to share the cover of the chart-house which
abutted on our promenade, I envied her also until, after the dubious
enjoyment of a few moments of splendid detachment from the common
herd, she revealed signs of inward discomfort and fled to seek a
less conspicuous position.

Before the land we had left was out of sight, two little clouds low
on the western horizon were recognized as outlying islets of the
Ivizan group. Then, as we gradually approached nearer, hills upon
hills, promontories, more islets, appeared; and still we steadily
steamed westwards. The sun sank in golds and greys behind the Ivizan
heights, and still we went on through the grey gloom, past a rocky,
indented coast on which we saw no sign of habitation.

Then, out of the darkness arose the vision of a town piled on an
eminence--a town of unexpected beauty, for from the tranquil waters
of the almost landlocked bay to the highest point it was sparkling
with lights. It was Iviza, the one important town of the main
island.

To the hoarse grating of her anchor chain the _Lulio_ swung to, and
through the darkness the vague outlines of rowing boats could be
seen approaching.

The young boatman who was the first to accost us secured our custom,
and we stepped down the accommodation-ladder into the swaying boat.
Half a dozen natives followed, carrying their belongings in big
cotton handkerchiefs, a form of Balearic travelling case that to me
always seemed peculiarly alluring, for when not in actual service,
the handkerchief-portmanteau could be folded and stowed in the
pocket; or even, did occasion require, be put to other uses.

The behaviour of the boatman who rows him ashore in a new
country serves the experienced traveller as symbol of the treatment
awaiting him in that country. Our boatman asked one real
each--twopence-halfpenny--as his fee, which was exactly the sum
required of the native passengers. And that served as our token of
Iviza. We would be treated with strict honesty--there was but one
price either for native or stranger.

The arrival of the steamer, whose departure from Palma had attracted
so little attention, was a matter of importance at Iviza. People
clustered on the pier, and the steps leading to the water's edge
were so densely crowded that it was difficult for those landing to
find foot-room.

A burly Ivizan took the luggage, and after a cursory custom's
inspection we reached the _fonda_, which was only a stone's-cast
away. The _fonda_, which appeared to be the only one in the town,
was delightfully situated on the harbour. The rooms allotted to us
were the best in the house. Two opened from the drawing-room and one
had a balcony overlooking the water. The inclusive charge was six
pesetas a day--about four shillings and sixpence of English money.

Supper was in process of serving. Going downstairs, we entered the
dining-room, to find one long table at which were seated about a
dozen men. Judging rashly by our Minorcan experience, we classified
them collectively as commercial travellers, and concluded that Iviza
must be a more important place than we had imagined, if it gave
employment to so many.

The meal, which revealed a lack of inspiration on the part of the
cook, was served by a solitary waiter. When it was over, we went out
and felt our way about the streets. The capital town of Iviza, which
is built on a high rock, faces the sea. It has no back, no other
side. The old town, which is surmounted by the Cathedral and the
castle, is entirely surrounded by a perfectly preserved Roman wall.
The newer portion of the town, which is built on land reclaimed from
the sea, lies just below the principal gate of the old city.

Passing the quaint circular fish market and the vacant market-place,
which consisted of a red-tiled and raftered shed, supported on white
pillars and surrounded by trees, we walked up the slope leading to
the great gate in the Roman wall that encircles the ancient town.

In a niche on either side of the opening stood a massive marble
figure. The heads were gone and certain other members had not
outlasted the ravages of the centuries, but enough still remained to
show the beauty of the workmanship. From the neck-socket of the
draped figure foliage was springing, and the statue of the legionary
had the scarce dignified effect of carrying a bundle of fodder, so
boldly had the weeds sprouted from under his right arm.

The streets within the old city walls were dark and steep and
twisted. In their secretive recesses something of the atmosphere of
the Middle Ages seemed still to linger.

The Ivizans go early to bed. The lights that illumed our landing had
already been extinguished, and finding our progress over these
tortuous steeps a protracted stumble, we groped our way back to the
_fonda_, resigned to leaving further exploration to the morrow.

We slept soundly. When our early coffee came we drank it on the
balcony as we watched two boys fishing from a boat in a shallow just
beneath our windows. The bait seemed to be shell-fish, and the boy
in the Carlist cap who held the rod was catching little wriggling
fish as quickly as he could re-cast his hook into the water.

Then for the first time we awoke to the picturesque charm of the
Ivizan's choice of material and love of colour in dress. The fishing
boy wore plush trousers of a lovely pinky-fawn shade. His
companion's were moss-green, and his waist scarf was scarlet. A crew
of fishermen, their garments a kaleidoscope of gay hues, were
breakfasting in their boat near. And along the beach beneath, a boy
clad in faded blue velvet was carrying in one hand a basket of
beautiful rose-coloured fish and dangling a hideously suggestive
octopus in the other.

Our good friend the padre, a presbitero of Palma Cathedral, had
kindly recommended us to his chosen friend, who was a beneficiado of
Iviza Cathedral. So our first walk, on the morning after our
arrival, led up the precipitous paths towards the superbly situated
old church.

Seen by daylight the streets were vaguely reminiscent of both Palma
and Mahon, without resembling either. While the whitewashed walls
recalled the austere cleanliness of the Minorcan capital, the
condition of the streets gave one the impression that the
inhabitants subsisted chiefly upon oranges. The plenitude of
balconies held more than a hint of Palma, though most of the Ivizan
balconies were heavily fashioned of wood; and from many the entire
family washing (which in Palma would be dried on the flat roof),
even to sheets, hung out to dry. The Ivizans showed both taste and
skill in floriculture. Quite a number of the balconies were prettily
decorated with pot plants, from cinerarias to peonies, in full
bloom.

The market was busy when we passed. Grave-looking women, with
wide-brimmed white hats perched rakishly a-top the handkerchief that
covered their heads, were selling oranges or vegetables. One, with a
row of moist water-jars balanced on either side of the furriest
donkey I ever saw, was plying the trade of water-carrier.

We reached the Cathedral during morning service, and we waited,
enjoying the music and the tuneful clamour of the great wheel of
bells that mingled so harmoniously with the sound of the organ, and
wondering in which of the officiating clergy we would discover the
friend of our friend. He also had been looking out for us, and as
we, along with two old men, were the entire congregation, he had no
difficulty in distinguishing us.

When Mass was over we met on the _mirador_ outside, and though by
force of nationality, religion, language, and training we ought to
have been poles asunder, from almost the first moment of our
acquaintance we recognised a congenial spirit in Don Pepe, as the
young choristers, who clustered round, affectionately called the
padre.

Under his care we re-entered the Cathedral, which, despite, or
perhaps because of belonging to no known school of architecture, is
very beautiful, the interior with its canopied Virgin having an
inspiring sense of light. Then, accompanied by the sacristan, a
grave man with a charming smile, we saw some of the treasures of the
church, climbed the tower to see the comprehensive view from the
top, and visited the adjacent castle, which is now used as a
military barracks.

While within the fortifications we were introduced to an especially
interesting specimen of the cunning traps prepared by the Romans for
their unwary invaders. From one portion of the castle, which is
perched high within the strong fortifications, we were guided
through a long, dark, shelving passage, down, down, down, until on
passing through a massive door we entered an alley, lit from above,
that ended abruptly in a four-feet-high portal deep set in the great
city wall, and from without partly secured by a bastion.

The ingenious plan of the ancient defenders had evidently been to
leave unguarded the inconspicuous door, and when the besiegers,
discovering it and imagining themselves in luck, had crept through
the secret door into the alley, to shower missiles on them from the
circular opening overhead. It was a shrewd device, but one hardly
calculated to endear the Romans to their enemies.

Leaving the heights, we walked down towards the church of Santo
Domingo, an antique building with curious red-tiled domes. The
priceless treasure of this old Dominican convent is an image of
Christ which for ages has been the object of great devotion. Until
the last century ships on leaving or entering the harbour of Iviza
were in the custom of saluting it with their flag and a shot from
their cannon.

As we neared the church we saw approaching from a side street a
peasant family of such attractively quaint appearance that we paused
and, affecting to be admiring the prospect, waited for them to pass.
They were all attired in the gala dress of the island. The
sun-tanned farmer father wore a suit of old-gold embossed velvet and
a purple scarf was wound about his waist. The mother wore the
immoderately wide skirt gathered into a plain high-waisted bodice,
the short green silk apron, the little shoulder shawl with its
prettily flowered border and long fringe, and the gay embroidered
head-wrap that make up the distinctive Ivizan costume. From the tip
of her pigtail a brightly coloured ribbon hung down to the hem of
her spreading skirts. The eldest child, a girl of eight or nine, was
a diminutive facsimile of her mother. The elder boy wore a man's
suit in miniature of very light blue, and a wide-brimmed yellow hat.
The group tapered off with a wee boy in a quaintly cut long frock
and a white Carlist cap, and a baby in bunching petticoats and a
muslin cap with wings. The father, who smiled pleasantly when he saw
us notice the children, carried with evident care a liqueur bottle.
Moving decorously, as though bound on some important mission, they
preceded us into the church.

We had paused to examine a fine old painting, and when we reached
the special chapel that contained the celebrated image we found the
little family already kneeling before the altar, even the youngest
apparently impressed by the solemnity of the occasion.

After a few moments the father, rising from his knees and still
holding the bottle, approached the padre to crave a private word
with him, and they quitted the chapel together, leaving the mother
and children still on their knees.

A great silver lamp, suspended from the roof, burned in front of the
_Cristo_, and all around the walls were votive offerings--models of
hearts, of legs, of arms, even of heads, and little silver figures,
some in peasant dress, one in a smart frockcoat. Oddest, perhaps, of
all was a pair of silver trousers.

[Illustration: Thanksgiving]

There were medals, a fine model of a full rigged ship, a little
muslin frock, another of rich satin in a glass case, all presented
in token of succour prayed for and obtained in time of imminent
danger to life or limb.

While we lingered, a female attendant entered the chapel carrying
the liqueur bottle, and drawing down the great silver lamp,
proceeded to fill its reservoir from the store in the bottle, the
family, who still maintained their devotional attitude, half turning
with something of proprietary interest to watch her movements.

Returning to the body of the church, we found the padre and the
father of the family in earnest converse. During a recent serious
illness, explained the padre, the peasant had vowed the gift of a
bottle of olive oil for the sacred lamp. Now, on his recovery, his
first action had been to make a little pilgrimage to the chapel,
bringing his entire family to give thanks for his restoration to
health and to deliver the promised gift.

The exhibition of such unquestioning faith and gratitude in this
world of scepticism was inexpressibly touching. And our hearts
melted and were glad with the little household. Still, though the
father declared himself again robust, a sickly pallor showed beneath
his tan, and when he grasped our hands in farewell his touch was
ice-cold.

Walking back along the ramparts we noticed a gentleman who, though
personally unknown to us, yet bore a remarkable racial resemblance
to many people we had known in Britain. He was well dressed after
the English fashion, wore fawn kid gloves, and though the sky was
cloudless, carried a neatly rolled umbrella.

"That is the Senor Wallis, a member of an illustrious family here.
They all speak English. Shall I introduce you?" asked the padre,
seeing that we were interested.

To our gratification the Senor Wallis not only spoke English
admirably, but also understood it perfectly.

"My grandfather came here as British Consul," he explained. "He
married and settled here. My father was Consul after him. We have
always spoken the English language at home."

Here then was a family, living in a remote island where they might
not hear English spoken once a year, who because their ancestor had
been English carefully maintained the language and traditions of
their forebears. As the Boy said afterwards, it reminded one of
Kipling's tale of Namgay Doola!

A little farther along, a massive figure, joyously arrayed in a suit
of maize-coloured corduroy, a lilac-check shirt and a green hat,
gladdened our vision.

"That is the present English Consul," said the padre, who seemed to
be on good terms with everybody. "I shall introduce him to you."

The British Vice-Consul blushed when presented to genuine natives of
the country he represented. His knowledge of the language was
rudimentary, and after a few tentative efforts the conversation
lapsed into Spanish. As the Boy said, it was quicker.

The padre had promised to call at three to take us to see the
excavations in process on a slope just outside the city. And after
lunch I strolled out to the fields in search of Ivizan wild flowers.
Within a five minutes' walk of the town I soon gathered an
armful--purple and yellow and white and yellow toad-flaxes, pink
asters, blood-red poppies, big cream chrysanthemums, little blue and
white iris, a handsome garlic-smelling pink flower, wild mignonette,
both the tall and the dwarf asphodel, a yellow pheasant's eye, one
or two unfamiliar blossoms, and, best of all, many regal spikes of
the tall crimson gladioli that were growing among the green corn.

The padre was punctual to a moment, and we were soon mounting the
rocky hill just beyond the city wall where the excavations were
going on.

There was nothing in the appearance of the place to suggest that
underneath our feet there existed Phoenician catacombs. Great
spikes of the handsome evil-smelling asphodel were blooming all
around, and two men in wide felt hats and abbreviated blouses,
standing by some heaps of soil, were the only visible sign of the
important work that was being done.

When we reached them we saw that their labour consisted of passing
the earth that had been brought to the surface through a fine
sifter, and that close by yawned a hole overhung by a rope running
on a wheel attached to a rough tripod.

The Boy was the only one of the party daring enough to accept the
invitation to descend. Leaving his coat behind, he slid down the
rope and vanished through a hole in the bottom of the shaft. The
younger workman followed. While we awaited their re-appearance we
noticed that many bones, earth-coloured, light in weight and brittle
to the touch, mingled with the mounds of refuse, and that bits of
broken pottery and fragments of iridescent glass leavened the heaps.

Soon the Boy and his guide, earth-stained and perspiring, for the
underground atmosphere was close and hot, scrambled their way back
to the surface.

The Boy's account was that when he had swung himself down the shaft
he and his guide entered the subterranean passage, feeling as though
he were entering his own grave, in place of merely going to view
that of other people. Passing through an outer hall, they came to a
narrow chamber where, by the light of an acetylene lamp, a being
looking like a gnome or a ghoul was sitting on the edge of a long
stone coffin grubbing in the dust and ashes that filled it.

Resting on the rim of the coffin were the relics that he had already
recovered from the debris--bits of shattered pottery, and a
beautiful but mutilated statuette of terra-cotta about five inches
in height.

From that cell they descended to a large chamber on a lower level,
where there were many coffins and a plenitude of bones.

When in recent years three Phoenician catacombs were discovered it
was found that their existence had been known to the Moors, who at
some unknown date had already despoiled them of treasure, leaving
traces of their appropriation in the form of broken water jars and
other worthless relics. Fortunately the Moors valued only the gold,
so that, in spite of the damage caused by their rough handling, a
mine of precious things still remains to gladden the archaeologist.

Leaving the sunny hill-side, where spring flowers were blooming among
the crumbling bones of these nameless dead, we mounted to the house
by the windmills, where the treasures found in the graves are
primarily housed.

There also was the padre a welcome guest, and in a small dark room
wonderful things were shown us. Tiny jars delicately figured;
perfect vases of iridescent glass; strange bas-relief recumbent
figures with stiffly extended hands; antique coins, scarabs that the
Moors had bereft of their setting, ornaments that had escaped their
rapacity, and old lamps enough to have satisfied even the covetous
Abanazer.

It was oddly suggestive to think that, while the people who were
entombed in these stone coffins thousands of years ago had known
delicate arts and worn costly jewellery, their successors on the
land lived in primitive dwellings and drew the water they drank in
earthenware jars that in form were exact copies of those so long
buried in the tombs. Truly in some things the world has not
progressed!




[Illustration: A Trio and a Quartette]

XXVI

AN IVIZAN SABBATH


Sunday morning was as calm and beautiful as could be desired by
visitors with only a few days in which to explore an island.

With quite unwonted energy we rose before seven o'clock, and after
dressing and taking a cup of tea in our own little sitting-room,
went out to the Alameda to see the countryfolk coming in to Mass or
market.

On the ships in the harbour flags were flying. Everybody was in gala
dress. The very air felt gay. And as we sat on one of the stone
seats in the leafy Alameda and watched the people streaming into
town from the broad white roads that lead to San Antonio, Santa
Eulalia and other villages, we chirruped with irrepressible delight,
so unexpectedly and deliciously quaint were the figures that passed
before us.

Some of the women rode mules, and sat perched high on a pile of
sheepskins, their multi-coloured petticoats billowing about their
neat ankles. Others were packed closely into open carts that had
cushions placed low on either side of their sagging floor-matting.
Many walked, accompanied by vigilant elderly relatives. And oh! how
demure and decorous they all looked, with their dark hair parted in
the middle and severely plastered down the sides of their rosy young
faces.

An object of fervent admiration in my childhood was a pincushion
made of a little china doll, whose placid head and insignificant
body appeared from a widely distended skirt. And on this brilliant
Sunday morning the Ivizan women and girls in their exaggerated
skirts seemed to me like a procession of walking dolls.

The dresses appeared to be fashioned from any material that boasted
a pattern, for the Ivizan detests a plain material. Even the velvet
or plush used in the men's clothes was in many instances flowered or
striped. The short broad aprons were of bright-coloured silk
elaborately tucked above the hem. Their deeply fringed shawls and
head wraps were bordered with wreaths of gaily tinted flowers. The
chains of big oblong gold beads and elaborate gold pendants in the
form of crosses and crowns gave a blatant and contradictory note to
the staid costume, while the gaudy hue of the ribbon that tied the
end of the pigtail and fell in long ends nearly to the hem of the
skirt suggested a hint of the original Eve lurking behind all this
apparent demureness. Gold buttons closely set ran from the wrist of
the long sleeve, which was often of green, to the elbow. And the
white sandalled shoes, whose toes were caught up by a cord bound
round the ankles, had a suggestion of sabots that added a Dutch
touch to the picture.

Sometimes a mother in sober garments or a smiling father in a wide
hat marched past in proud chaperonage of a diffident young daughter
rigged out in all the family jewellery. One girl, who enjoyed the
personal care of her mother, wore a gown of old rose-spotted brocade
looped up in pannier form to show a pink petticoat.

To our thinking the extreme of quaintness was reached in the person
of a little maid of seven or eight, whose dress was a travesty of
that of her widowed mother; with the sole difference that, while the
mother's mourning garb was of unrelieved black, the kerchief and
tiny shawl of the child had bordering wreaths of white flowers. As
she walked slowly by, a tiny entity in over-voluminous garments, the
Man declared that, despite her superhuman sobriety, and the "papa,
prunes, prisms" expression of her infant lips, he felt convinced
that it was with difficulty she resisted a desire to skip!

They say there are ten men for every woman on the island, and our
experience of that Sunday morning inclined us to believe it. From
every direction came fine strapping lads moving in droves. A
distinct resemblance in the dress, taken in combination with the
rakish dare-devil air with which these young bloods set their wide
hats to one side and swaggered along, vividly suggested the Mexican
cowboy.

In striking contrast to the expansive attire of the women, the men's
dress appeared designed to accentuate their natural slimness. The
trousers of velvet or plush in all manner of rich shades fitted
closely to the figure except at the ankle, where they spread widely.
Gaily hued shirts or short full blouse jackets, usually black or
blue, were worn. Red or striped sashes were wound about their
waists. Most of the hats were large and adorned with gold cords. And
in addition to one necktie for use, it was customary to add a second
and sometimes even a third for show.

We were sincerely sorry to find that nine o'clock, the hour when we
were due at the hotel for coffee, had rushed upon us. When we came
out again on our way to visit the Museum, the streets about the
market were busy with a moving throng resplendent in colour.

For the moment the girls appeared to have got rid of their chaperons
and were parading about in quartettes, sextettes, even septettes,
their tightly pleated pigtails streaming stiffly behind, their
hands, holding pocket-handkerchiefs heavily edged with substantial
crochet lace, sedately crossed in front.

One group that particularly rejoiced the artistic soul of the Man
was made up of four demure damsels who walked in a row, the tallest
at one end, the others decreasing in height till the row ended in a
dear dot. Their outlines were so much alike that they had the effect
of having been stencilled in a diminishing scale.

It was perhaps only to be expected that wherever one saw a bevy of
girls a corresponding cluster of men would not be far distant. Yet
we rarely saw them address each other.

The modern etiquette of peasant courtship in Iviza runs on strict
though simple lines. A plenitude of suitors being assured, it is the
maiden who makes the selection. The admirers of a marriageable girl
wait for her outside the church door on Sunday. When she leaves Mass
the one who has the premier claim attaches himself to her, and trots
beside her for the first portion of the homeward journey, then at a
fixed point or within a stated time-limit he gives place to the
second, and so on until the number is exhausted. If any man seeks to
exceed his allotted space, or in any other way tries to transgress
the unwritten law, pistols may flare and knives are apt to spring!
Apart from this the people of Iviza are peaceable, and on all points
moral and virtuous. It must be admitted that certain of the more
frolicsome spirits still keep up the old custom of saluting the
maidens of their choice with a charge of rock salt fired at the
ankles. And it is devoutly to be hoped that the unwieldy masses of
petticoats serve at least one useful purpose by shielding their
wearers from the saline missiles of love's artillery.

When we had reached the Cathedral square, where the Museum is
situated, we found the door open and the custodian--in whom we
were surprised to recognize one of our fellow-guests at the
_fonda_--waiting to receive us.

Though the Museum at Iviza has been in existence for little more
than two years it already contains a notable collection of
Phoenician, Roman, Byzantine and Moorish remains. To an
archaeologist, inspection of the contents would have been a special
treat. Even to us who had little knowledge of the subject it was
intensely interesting.

Within the centre cases and in the glass-doored cupboards that line
the walls were many things whose worth we could not venture to
guess. The varied assortment of coins seemed especially valuable.
One jar found during the process of excavation had contained over
six hundred specimens.

Among the other exhibits were several primitive bas-relief figures
with abruptly out-jutting hands, resembling those we had seen on the
previous day. Two figures had the hands clasped on the bust over
something suggesting a loaf, and one had a ring through the nose.

Many of the vases and slender vials from the tombs were beautiful,
both in outline and in decoration. And we saw a particularly fine
scarab that had been found in one of the stone coffins immediately
after our visit to the catacombs on the previous afternoon.

In the second room were some curious old documents and certain of
the more bulky exhibits. And from a top shelf a row of skulls of
these bygone races grinned down upon us creatures of to-day, as
though their owners found something ludicrous in the idea of a
special house being set apart in which to guard as treasures what to
them had been but everyday possessions.

When we left the Museum the padre, with kindly thought and subtle
intuition of what is most likely to interest the stranger in a
foreign land, took us a-visiting. First he introduced us to the only
professional artist on the island, who like everybody else in the
place seemed a special friend of our sponsor.

And in the artist of this far-off southern islet we rejoiced to meet
the romantic painter of fiction--the picturesque hero one reads
about but rarely has the good fortune to encounter.

Don Narciso--his very name was in keeping--was young, buoyant of
spirit, charming in manner, and enthusiastic regarding art. He had a
thick curly black beard, abundant wavy black hair. He wore a
becoming blouse, and his loosely knotted silk tie was of _amarilla_
silk.

The painter welcomed us cordially, and took us into his studio,
where he was at work upon a full-length portrait of a bishop who had
been a native of the island.

Round the walls were brilliant studies both in figure and landscape.
We had been living close to Nature for six months. It was a pleasure
to breathe again the studio atmosphere. In less than two minutes the
three artists were deep in discussion of kindred interests. Their
nationalities might be different, but Art has only one language.
Names--Velasquez, Goya, and others of more recent date--were bandied
between them, the while the padre and I sat dumbly attentive.

When we were leaving, Narciso took us into the artistically unkempt
garden attached to the studio, and from the line of orange-trees
beyond the old well plucked a spray heavy with the luscious blossom.
This he presented to me with a grace that dignified the sprig into a
bouquet. And we all parted with promise of an early reunion.

A few yards farther down the road we passed a group of ladies, whose
smart Paris hats and modern raiment, seen in that land of quaint
attire, gave the wearers an oddly foreign look.

"Son la familia Wallis," murmured the padre, as he raised his hat to
them.

The house of the padre, our next place of call, was just beyond the
seminary where the students whom we had seen leaving the Cathedral
in their robes of black and scarlet were undergoing their thirteen
years of probation before entering the Church.

The padre's home in all its appointments impressed us as being
exactly suited to the quiet refinement of its master. From the
windows one gained a superb view of the rippling waters of the
landlocked harbour and of the undulating country beyond.

We had the honour of meeting the padre's mother, a lady who, though
shrunk a little by weight of years, was still hale and bright. And
his sister, the widow of a distinguished officer. And his niece, who
was so vivacious and charming, that when she waved to us from her
balcony as we left we wondered if the _novio_ who was standing in
the street, whispering love up to a maiden in a mantilla on the
balcony just beneath hers, had not made the mistake of a floor!

It was evidently the feast-day of one of our fellow-guests at the
hotel, for at the close of the midday meal a tray of dainty Spanish
sweetmeats in frilled paper cases was passed round--being handed,
evidently by special instructions, to us also.

When we had helped ourselves we bowed indecisively towards the
farther end of the table, saying vaguely--in the hope that our
gratitude might reach the donor--"Muchos gracias, senor." The other
senores were quick to indicate the benefactor, who flushed a little
as he acknowledged our thanks.

While lunch was being served a dark silent young man, who was one of
the regular company, several times left his place, and from our
seats at table we saw him go to the open front door of the hotel and
glance up and down the street, as though on the look-out for
somebody. Seeing him return alone for the third time, we whispered
hints of a dilatory sweetheart.

But when the eagerly expected guest did appear it was not some
graceful dona, but a little baby girl, the sleeves of her white
frock tied with black ribbon, who was carried in in the arms of a
stout peasant nurse. As the padre told us later, our taciturn
fellow-guest was the postmaster, who had lost his young wife, and
this was their babe come to pay the bereaved father her weekly
visit.

When we went out in the afternoon the townsfolk were promenading
under the shade of the Alameda, but the _payeses_ had all
vanished--gone back to the rural homes whither we would like to have
followed them. With the disappearance of the quaint figures the
charm seemed to have vanished, and when we met our new friend the
sacristan we cajoled him into going for a stroll along the
watercourses that intersect the reclaimed land beyond the harbour.

These are a curious feature of a delightfully curious country. On
either side of the raised centre path were broad ditches full of
clear water, whose yellow sand was speckled with black shell-fish.
Shoals of little fish darted in and out among the rushes, and on
every patch of floating weed a tiny frog sat and croaked.

The fertile ground on either side of the ditches was divided into
small holdings, or _feixas_ as they are locally called. And there
mixed crops of fruit and vegetables flourished abundantly. Vines
trained to trellises bordered the water, and at frequent intervals
tall whitewashed gateways, reached by little bridges and quite
unsupported by walls, reared their gleaming bulk with something of
the self-conscious air that might be attributed to whited
sepulchres. As in Majorca, the small agriculturists appeared to live
in the towns. There were no dwellings on the _feixas_, though a few
had sheds from which issued the grunts of unseen animals.

The evening glow was on the hills when we left the watercourses and
followed a track that led between fields of full-bearded rye dotted
with blood-red poppies towards a picturesque white-walled _noria_.
In the shadow of the trees close by the old Moorish well, which was
encircled by a trellised vine, sat the farm folk enjoying the rest
of the Sabbath. A guest in a mantilla was with them.

So far from resenting our intrusion they welcomed it. Seeing that we
were interested in the working of the _noria_, the farmer ran
forward and, seizing the long wooden donkey shaft, set the wheel
revolving, and made the circle of buckets (which were not fashioned
of earthenware as in Majorca, but formed from lengths of hollowed
pine stem--a peseta each they cost, he told us) discharge their
contents for our benefit, the primitive machinery, which made
laudable objection to Sunday labour, protesting the while with
groans and squeaks.

[Illustration: The Gates of the _Feixas_, Iviza]

His wife--who had received us with friendly looks and kindly
greeting in the Ivizan dialect, that, while greatly resembling
Majorcan, omits the harsher sounds, hastened further to reveal her
good will by picking me the few blossoms within reach. Even the
townified guest in the mantilla added a genial word of greeting.

Yes, the Majorcans had spoken truly when they said the people of the
sister isle were courteous to strangers.




[Illustration: The Church of San Antonio, Iviza]

XXVII

AT SAN ANTONIO


It was Monday morning, and when the Man went out in search of a
subject to sketch, I lured him along by my favourite watercourses.

The sun beat warmly on the limpid water, in which the swarms of
little fish, looking like vivified marks of exclamation, were
ceaselessly flashing about. And on the surface herbage countless
glistening frogs, green, golden, bronze, and chocolate, were
perched, like little kings, each on his floating throne. It was with
lamentable lack of monarchical dignity that each in turn, as he got
hint of our approach, took an agile header into the water and
disappeared.

Going on past the tall whitewashed gates that seemed to have so
scant reason for existence, we reached the San Antonio road, and
there in the shadow of a wall at the side of a bean-field the Man
sat down to paint.

Against the cloudless sky the Cathedral-crowned town rose grandly.
From where we sat the encircling ramparts appeared as complete and
impregnable as they did in the time of the Roman occupation.

From our point of view, which afforded no glimpse of the newer
houses sheltered close between the ancient gate and the harbour, the
city looked much as it must have done in those bygone days when the
ground on which the lower portion of the town is built was still
lapped by the salt water of the bay.

While the Man painted I sat by, well content. The bean blossoms made
sweet savour in our nostrils, and the gentle swish of falling water
from the _noria_ in an adjacent field gave a refreshing suggestion
of coolness. And as we sat near the roadside quaint figures passed
by in slow succession. Perched sideways on their panniered mules
came broad-hatted women. The local convention that proscribes hats
for Sunday female wear permits them on weekdays; and so, set
jauntily on top of the sober handkerchief that covered the head,
most of the peasant women wore a wide white hat, bound with black,
and encircled with a black ribbon that hung in long ends
behind--women whose grave sun-browned faces argued that the day for
protecting the complexion was surely past.

Leaving the Man at work, I crossed to where in the raised _noria_, a
dozen yards beyond the white highroad, a blindfold mule was
patiently at work. All alone there by the creaking old Moorish well
he was walking round and round the path, already worn to dust by the
passage of his willing feet.

But if one chanced to be born a mule and had to draw water for a
living, a pleasanter place in which to carry out one's vocation
could hardly be imagined. For close about the stone-sided platform
that surrounded the well grew two immense fig-trees and a large
pomegranate; and for many months of the year the _noria_ must have
been an oasis of leafy shade in the midst of sun-baked fields.

Even on that April day the fig leaves were unfolding, and the small
green knobs of the first crop of fruit had sprouted close under the
foliage at the tips of the ash-grey branches. The big pomegranate-tree
held its spreading branches over the mule-track, as though desirous of
warding off the sun from the patient worker. On the delicate tracery
of branches the leaves, that always seem too minute and finely
fashioned to be in perfect accord with the heavy roseate fruit, were
showing rich copper hues.

In humid spots about the stone bastions of the well moisture-loving
maidenhair fern was clinging. As the shaft, slowly revolving, turned
the wheel, the chain of wooden buckets emptied themselves with a
musical tinkle of falling water into the wooden trough beneath, from
which it flowed into a big square tank.

At first sight the enduring mule had seemed the only sentient being
near, but a second glance revealed abounding life. The water in the
reservoir was dotted with lively black entities that proved to be
tadpoles. On a decaying log sat a handsome frog with a panel of
green, of so vivid a tint as to seem as though freshly enamelled,
neatly let into his glistening brown back. Along the sandy bottom of
the clear water a great warted toad moved sluggishly. Close in the
shadow a dark trout was lurking. Within reach of my hand a golden
lizard lazily sunned himself; and on the top of the wall rested a
dragon-fly with a broken wing.

A swallow swooped overhead. Among the poppy-strewn barley
grasshoppers were chirping merrily. In the sunshine a newly-hatched
swarm of insects gyrated, tentatively exercising their wings--all
Nature seemed indolently happy. But still the patient mule trod on
its way. Sometimes it paused a space, and I rejoiced; but the moment
the listening ears ceased to hear the trickle of the falling water
the persevering beast had again started upon the monotonous circular
tour.

It must have been a case of conscience, for nobody was at hand to
see whether the task was accomplished or not; but still, with eyes
blinded to the beauty around, the patient mule pursued the ceaseless
round, until, ashamed of my own inactivity, I longed to loosen the
halter, to take off the straw blinders that covered his eyes, and to
turn him into the cornfields to eat his fill.

"What have you done with yourself?" asked the Man, as he closed his
colour-box and prepared to return to the hotel for lunch; "I'm
afraid you must have had a dull morning."

But when I would have explained to him how excellently well I had
been entertained I found it difficult. So I said nothing, for, after
all, what possible social community could one find in a blindfold
old mule and a handful of saltant or fluttering creatures?

       *       *       *       *       *

In the afternoon the padre came with us, and we drove right across
the island to San Antonio, the town that ranks second in importance.
From Iviza diligences run to San Antonio, to Santa Eulalia, to San
Carlos, San Jose, and San Juan, and the fare is fivepence. But
Ivizan diligences are impossible things. We had seen them and
shuddered, for they were merely rough carts with matted floors and
close airless canvas covers. And any we had seen were so crammed
that segments of squashed passengers protruded from every opening.

To secure the services of a two-wheeled carriage, a horse, and a man
for a complete day costs a douro (four shillings) in Iviza, and the
charge for a half-day is the same.

The padre, Don Pepe, accompanied us, and in the care of a
grave-faced Ivizan clad in a mourning suit of black ribbed velvet we
set off, pausing at the hamlet of San Rafael to see the fine vista
of the town from the plateau before the church.

I must confess that at first sight San Antonio was disappointing.
What we had expected I do not know. What we found was a whitewashed
village set on a rocky slope by an enclosed bay. The situation was
delightful; but after the grandly characteristic city of Iviza this
zealously whitewashed town, in spite of its antiquity, seemed
insignificant and _new_.

Antonio, the friend whom Don Pepe sought, was away on his
"possession." So while a willing messenger sped to fetch him, we
visited the church. The cura was absent, though his lace-trimmed
vestments--which, like the town, were white as the driven snow--were
hanging to dry within the precincts by the church porch.

The church of San Antonio shares the attractive informality which is
the distinctive feature of Ivizan architecture. It was once a
fortress of defence against the Moors. From the flat roof we had a
magnificent survey of the country about, saw the bay, which, like
all the water about the island, abounds in fish, and the lighthouse,
to which Don Pepe promised to take us, and the rough track up the
solid rock towards the _Cueva de Santa Ines_, into whose recesses
Antonio was going to guide us.

We had left the church and were moving in the direction of the
lighthouse, when the padre's quick eyes noted a figure hastening
towards us. The messenger had done his work. Antonio had returned.

The senor was in the prime of manhood and on the eve of marriage.
After our other sightseeing was done, we were promised a glimpse of
his chosen one--or, to speak quite correctly, of the damsel who had
selected him; for, as I have said before, in Iviza it is the lady
who chooses.

On the sunny bank near the lighthouse we encountered an interesting
and venerable trio--the Alcalde, the Captain of the Port, who wore
earrings, and the cura of San Antonio. With them also our padre was
a favourite. The cura urged us to return to the _curato_ and take
coffee with him. But the afternoon was passing and there was still
much to see.

So we said good-bye and left them with something of envy in our
hearts, to resume their dawdle among the white flowering asters and
butterflies, by the shores of the placid bay. Wherever their lives
had been passed, they seemed at length to have found anchorage in a
spot remote from the storms and dissensions that agitate and perplex
the world.

The men walked the mile to the cave. I drove, but many times during
the short journey I realized that it would have been far less
exertion to walk. The road lay over wickedly disposed rock, and when
my hat was not butting the canvas sides of the trap it was violently
colliding with that of the driver, who, though he bounced up and
down on his seat, still managed to preserve his air of imperturbable
calm.

The story of this subterranean chapel is a curious and interesting
one. It is believed that in the early years following the conquest,
before the fortress was converted into a church, the inner chamber
of the cave was used as a temple where Mass and other religious
services were held. Some time later--probably towards the end of the
sixteenth century--a wooden image of the martyred Saint Ines was
discovered in the cave, an image that, though it was several times
removed to the Church of San Antonio, always mysteriously reappeared
in the cave. This was ultimately accepted as a sign that the saint
desired her image to remain in the cave, which then received her
name.

On the anniversary of San Bartolome's day--the very day on which the
image had been discovered--in the height of a violent tempest, a
foreign barque found safe harbourage in the bay of San Antonio. On
board the distressed ship was a gentleman who had in his possession
a beautiful painting of Santa Ines. In his extremity he made a
definite bargain with the saint, vowing that, if through her
intercession the whole ship's company landed without scath, he would
present her portrait to the church of the first port where they
disembarked in safety.

It was on hearing of this miraculous intervention, and of the
widespread notice it attracted, that the ecclesiastical authorities
at Iviza gave permission for the little subterranean cavern to be
used as a place of worship.

After that time, on the annual recurrence of San Bartolome's day,
people in great numbers journeyed from all parts of the island to
the little town, and after attending Mass in the parish church went
with the inhabitants of the town to the cave, near which they
picnicked. Then, after having taken a draught of water from the holy
well in the interior of the cave, they assembled outside and danced
until sunset.

This quaint custom continued until 1865, when it was modified
because the roof of the cave showed signs of collapse, and the
natives of Iviza had a superstitious belief that the impending
catastrophe would occur on the day of the annual gathering. Since
then the dance has been held in the town, but is only attended by
those from a distance, as, since the scene of the festival has been
changed, the girls of San Antonio refuse to take part in it.

When we had secured the key from a silent woman at the farm-house
near by, we gained the mouth of the cave by treading unconventional
paths--first walking in single file along the broad top of a stone
wall, then treading across a tobacco patch, where, warmly sheltered
by surrounding walls, the broad young leaves were growing strongly.

At the entrance to the cave Antonio and a companion who had joined
him--we knew him only as "Charles, his friend"--lit candles, and
close on each other's heels we crept, doubled up and with stumbling
feet, through the burrow-like passage that led to the inner shrine.

Many changes must have taken place of late years, for the chapel was
cumbered with fallen refuse. The arch of the roof masonry and the
hollow where the altar had stood could still be distinguished,
otherwise there was little token left of the strange history of this
underground place of devotion. As we crawled back towards the light
and the outer air, Antonio pointed to where, at the bottom of a
tortuous and shelving passage, was situated the holy well.

The climax of our visit to the little white town was the promised
introduction to the beloved of Antonio, whom we met in the house of
her mother, in the street near the church.

Antonia could not have been more than twenty, if indeed she had
quitted her teens, but in sobriety of dress and demureness of outer
deportment she was a facsimile of her comely mother. It was only
when you noticed that her full red lips had difficulty in refraining
from curving into smiles, just as the dark hair so smoothly
plastered down on either side of her rosy face seemed rebelliously
determined to ripple into waves, that you realized that Antonia was
overflowing with exuberant young life.

Antonio knew it, though. No disguise of decorous matronly garments
or assumption of a demure manner could conceal from him Antonia's
real girlish charm. One could see that by the way his string-seated
chair edged imperceptibly nearer hers, and by the ingenious manner
in which, without seeming to do so, he yet managed to watch her
every motion.

It was at this juncture that a happy thought occurred to the padre.

Would it be possible for the Man to do a sketch--just the smallest
jotting--of Antonia, as a memento of the occasion?

"Of course it would," agreed the Man. "And of Antonio, too!"

At this the lips that Antonia had been trying so hard to keep prim
broke apart in irrepressible giggles and her hand slipped up to see
if her rebellious hair was smooth enough to do her credit. And
Antonio straightened his shoulders and gave a furtive twist to the
ends of his moustache.

The light was fading, and the chairs had to be placed--close enough
together to satisfy even Antonio's desires--near by the open door;
just outside which a row of children had already secured front
places to view the show.

The sketch was necessarily hurried, even perfunctory, but it gave
immense satisfaction.

"Oh! Look at Antonio," Antonia gurgled joyously. "See his moustache!
Is it not fine?"

"It is like the moustache of an officer of _carabineros_," said
Antonio, feeling it to see if it were actually more imposing than he
had thought. "If I really look like that I ought to be a Minister of
State; but--I prefer to be the husband of Antonia!"




[Illustration: The Church of Jesus, Iviza]

XXVIII

WELCOME AND FAREWELL


The shimmer of the sunrise and the reflection of the hills in the
unruffled waters of the harbour were so ethereally beautiful in
these Ivizan mornings, that I found it impossible to stay in bed. On
the last day of our stay I was early out on the balcony.

Scarcely anybody was about. A man in a red cap and a coat of yellow
velvet was baiting lobster-pots. And a boy in velvet trousers that
sun and the passage of time had faded to an inimitable shade of pale
moss-green was playing with a dog. Otherwise the town seemed asleep.
The scene was the perfection of drowsy restfulness, when the sudden
blast of a steam-siren broke in upon the placidity, and with the
sound a steamer, looking gigantic in these miniature surroundings,
entered the bay.

With her appearance the world awoke. As the ship moved slowly in
towards her berth, which was just below my balcony, people appeared
from all directions, as though they had been lying in ambush
awaiting the signal to concentrate upon a given point. Probably the
fact that the military element was present in force suggested the
simile. A band of officers in full dress, with short natty
astrakhan-lined overcoats and white gloves, stood a little apart
from, and in advance of, the general public. Among them were the
lieutenant in command of the carbineers, and the tall chief of the
civil guard, who looked immense in a heavy cloak lined with scarlet.

The municipal authorities had assembled in force, also
representatives of the Church, the British Consul--"Good morning,
sir!" to me on the balcony--and a comprehensive gathering of
townsfolk, all with the air of being pleasantly excited about
something that was going to happen.

The steamer--it was the _Cataluna_--was close to the wharf now, but
there was no sign on deck of any unusual occurrence. Except for the
crew, a few steerage passengers, and a knot of priests who clustered
on the boat deck amidships, nobody appeared to be on board. But
still the crowd waited expectant.

Then just as the gangway connected the _Cataluna_ with the land a
solitary martial figure, a uniformed officer whose breast was
decorated with several medals, appeared on the poop. And towards the
ship and up the gangway, in slow and ceremonial order, moved the
officers. The lieutenant-colonel of the Ivizan battalion of the
_cazadores_ led. Over the gangway, across the deck, up the
companion, and into the arms of the decorated officer, which were
outstretched to receive him. In quick succession the others passed
up, to be received cordially, if not so affectionately as their
colonel. Then, as in turn the waiting authorities followed, it
dawned upon us that we had been close spectators of the arrival of
the new Governor of Iviza, and that from our point of vantage we had
witnessed his first official reception.

It was about this stage of the proceedings that among the men in
uniform who were surrounding the new Governor on the poop we began
to recognize different members of our hotel party.

The imposing captain of infantry was the tall man who sat next to us
and spoke to nobody. The man with the bellowing voice and the
beautiful eyes was the lieutenant in command of the Ivizan
carbineers. The man at the end of the table was a captain of
engineers. The man with the eye-glasses was the captain of the
medical corps.

So much for our fancied astuteness. In place of sharing the table
with a party of commercial travellers, as we had imagined, we had
really been eating at the Ivizan equivalent to an officers' mess!

When everybody with any claim to the distinction had been presented
and the company on the poop had dwindled down to a few, the family
of the newly arrived Governor made its appearance, in the persons of
three lively boys and a baby in a nurse's arms. Then, coincident
with the appearance on deck of a lady in a hat and motor-veil, the
six soldiers in fatigue uniform who had been in waiting sped up the
gangway, to return laden with hand baggage, which, with other
femininities, included a blue bandbox. And in their wake the
Governor and his little tribe, accompanied by the colonel, stepped
in stately measure across the wharf, and disappeared into the door
of the hotel that gaped hospitably open beneath us.

As we drank the coffee that the overworked Paco had just brought us,
we wondered a little what the new Governor's impressions of Iviza
would be. He looked worn, we thought, as though weary with years of
service; and we hoped that he would find his new home in this remote
island a place of peace.

The little breakfast over, our black-garbed driver and the British
Consul, who had suggested taking us to see the _Salinas_, were
waiting. And we drove out in the sweet morning towards the curious
series of lagoons where two great harvests of salt are yearly
reaped.

The day was glorious, the air crisp, exhilarating, as we drove out
over the country roads towards the wide stretch of flat land where
the sea-water, prisoned by a cunning sequence of locks into vast
shallow vats, was slowly evaporating in the strong sunshine.

Although lead and zinc are mined near Santa Eulalia, the Salinas at
Iviza and at Formentera form the great industry of the Ivizan group
of islands, salt to the amount of nine thousand tons being shipped
each year to various parts of the world.

The history of these vast salt lagoons reaches back to before the
conquest. In 1871 the Salinas, which for many years previously had
belonged to the State, became the property of a private company, now
known as the _Salinera Espanola_.

The road, which led between green fields, had been lovely. An
occasional girl perched on a donkey comprised almost the entire
traffic. We reached the Salinas to find a scene of great brilliancy.
All along the sides of the pools rose pyramids of salt, their
glistening sides clearly reflected in the still water with something
of the effect of carefully moulded icebergs. And along the portable
line of rails strings of trucks laden with the sharp-faceted
crystals of the rough salt were moving towards the wharf.

Down by the wharf everything was white--the roads, the few houses,
the great stores of salt that lay awaiting shipment, the shoes of
the men that stood in the flat-bottomed barges beneath with long
rakes, packing away the salt as it streamed down in a sparkling
white torrent from the pulverizing machine on the staging of the
quay above.

From Iviza salt is shipped in great quantities to many distant
countries. It was interesting to hear that even in salt the taste of
the nations varies--Russia liking hers large in crystal, America
preferring that supplied her to be as fine as possible.

We stood on the pier that jutted out over the clear green waters of
the islet-studded bay, watching the men at work filling the barges
with the salt that was to be transhipped to the Italian barque that
lay in the bay of Iviza. A fine, robust, brown-faced smiling lot of
men they were. And the work on which they were at the moment
engaged seemed mechanical and easy. Hanging on the railing close by
were fishing nets, and they told us they caught many fish in the
bay.

On that bright airy morning the work seemed pleasant and not
over-arduous: different from what it must be when the fierce
southern heat has dried up the sea-water and the labour consists of
standing under the burning sun, beset by mosquitoes, scooping up the
salt from the floor of the lagoons and building it up into pyramids.
If ever there was specially thirsty work it must be salt salving.

There seemed to be surprisingly little accommodation for the
labourers near the Salinas. In summer, when close upon a thousand
labourers are employed, a large proportion of them are forced to
live in the town of Iviza and add a walk of many miles to the
exertion of the day.

At the hotel at luncheon the newly installed Governor with all his
family (except the baby) and the colonel sat by us at table. The
elder men were still in uniform, but the _habitues_ of the board had
been quick to return to mufti.

Our walk that afternoon was in the care of Don Narciso, and under
his guidance we walked through pleasant country byways towards the
few clustered houses that comprise the little village of Jesus, to
see a notable picture in the church there.

It was through a fair green world that Narciso led us that radiant
afternoon--under trees heavy with great green velvet almonds, and
through fields deep in full-bearded grain and rich in blood-red
poppies and crimson gladioli, among which wide-hatted women, the
upper of their many skirts tucked up pannier fashion, were busy
working.

Just outside the Church of Jesus, at a _noria_ in the shade of a
tall palm, trellised vines, and budding pomegranate-trees, a
sun-browned man, his little brown son, and an old brown mule were
working in happy unison. The church itself belonged to that informal
type of architecture in which Iviza abounds. The roof was
red-tiled, and without and within the building was severely
whitewashed. The special panel which formed the centre of the great
altar-piece was the work of an unknown painter of the early
Valencian school.

In a broad, simple composition it represented the Virgin and Holy
Child surrounded by angels. The details were obscure, even after Don
Narciso had thrown open the big door of the church to allow more
light to enter; but the colour was remarkably rich and full. And
though the surrounding subjects were inferior in workmanship, their
subdued tones harmonized well with the dignity of the central panel.

The cura was not at home, but his parents, a dear old peasant couple
who lived with him, received us warmly, offering that ready and
insistent hospitality that struck us as being a special feature of
the Ivizan life. Our winter in Majorca had accustomed us to the
polite but purely perfunctory fashion in which, like the Spaniard,
the Majorcan tenders food to all comers, secure in the knowledge
that it will be declined. But when the Ivizan offers refreshment to
the visitor he means it to be accepted.

The moment we were all seated on chairs set round the walls of the
wide, airy room into which the large door directly opened, the good
old father hastened to bring out a tray of tiny glasses and a
decanter of the pure, amber-hued Ivizan wine--wine that had been
pressed from grapes ripened close by. And the mother ran to fetch a
plate of sweet biscuits and goblets of clear water. Then they
watched with genuine pleasure while we sipped the wine, and, having
praised it in all sincerity, followed the custom of the country and
drank of the water.

The sole family of the worthy couple had been two sons, both of whom
had shown a vocation for the Church. The one in whose house they
lived was now cura of Jesus, the other that of San Raphael, only a
short walk distant.

Our casual visit to the little hamlet left in our minds an unfading
picture of rustic sweetness of atmosphere and of modest pride that
had attained its ideal.

From there we went to see a fine old country house, one of the
"possessions" of a friend of Don Narciso, who, though he does not
live there, courteously cycled over to do the honours. From the
roofed _mirador_ we had a good view of the town rising on its rocky
height above the sea.

Here, too, we had evidence of the Ivizan spirit of hospitality.
Native wine was again offered us, and from the orange gardens down
by the palm-encircled _noria_ we got abundance of huge oranges, and
a curious fruit that, with the outward appearance of the lemon,
boasted the sweetness of the orange allied to a floating essence of
bergamot.

There the kindly Don Pepe joined us, and together we walked back
through the gloaming.

At dinner the new Governor, still in uniform, his handsome wife and
their three nice boys again were present. After the State reception
of the morning, it amazed us to see with what an utter lack of
consideration they were treated. The very officers who had risen at
daybreak and donned their best uniforms to honour his arrival sat at
table with the Governor as though unconscious of his presence.

The sole sign of deference that we could discover was that the
landlord and Paco had put on their best coats in which to wait at
table. But there the distinction ended. In common with the others,
the Governor and his family patiently endured the tedious service.
To me it was almost painful to see the representative of official
power sit uncomplainingly, until the overworked Paco, having made
the round of the long table, handed the few chilled fragments still
remaining in the dish to the hero of the imposing little ceremony of
the morning. It made us inclined to wonder if the hospitality of the
Ivizans was confined to the humbler classes, or whether it would
have been a breach of Ivizan etiquette had one or other of the
principal residents offered these new-comers the freedom of their
homes.

So ended our visit to Iviza. For when dinner was over and our
farewells said, the _Cataluna_ was ready to take us back to Palma.
Our experience of the remote island that we had approached with
doubts had been a thoroughly delightful one, and when we steamed out
over the placid water we watched the lights of Iviza sink in the
distance with the feeling that we left real friends among the kindly
islanders.

Our visit had been a short one, yet our minds held precious memories
of the sincere and kindly people--of the padre, Don Pepe, and his
affectionate care for his flock; of Narciso and his pictures, of the
loves of Antonia and Antonio, and of the dear old father and mother
of the cura of Jesus.

Though it lacks the savage grandeur of some parts of Majorca, Iviza
has beautiful and romantic scenery, and life in the lovely island is
sweet and simple and wholesome. There is little money in
circulation, but more is not needed. The ground is fertile, the
climate gracious, the water-supply is unfailing, and fish may be had
for the catching. So food is plentiful and cheap. House rent in the
town of Iviza may be counted at about a half less than in Palma, and
when the townsfolk speak of the cost of living in the smaller towns,
such as San Antonio, they hold up their hands at the amazing
cheapness of it.

This, then, was our impression of Iviza, the remote island about
which such extravagant tales are circulated. That fire-arms and
knives still play a part when the interests of rival lovers clash is
openly acknowledged. But during our visit the course of true love
must have run smoothly, for no echo of pistol shot or clash of
weapon marred the peace of our stay.

As we found the people of that forgotten isle--honest, courteous,
generous, and hospitable, quaint of dress and soft of voice--so have
I written.




[Illustration: Moorish Tower at the Port of Alcudia]

XXIX

LAST DAYS


The golden months had flown past, speeding so swiftly that we felt
as though time must have defrauded us. Scarcely a day seemed to have
elapsed after our return from Iviza before we were saying, "Next
week we must go home."

But before beginning preparation for departure, three days were our
own. Three clear days in which to take a real lazy holiday; for
though the holiday spirit had pervaded our wanderings, we had all
been working hard. To be really idle we knew we must seek a spot
already familiar to us, one that offered no temptation to register
fresh impressions. And a brief family conclave found us unanimous in
the opinion that the port of Alcudia, from which, in January, we
had sailed to Minorca, was the ideal place.

Friday morning found us at La Puebla station, mounting the little
one-horse diligence that runs to and from Alcudia in connection with
the trains.

I shared the box-seat with a semi-comatose driver, a big box, a
bigger sack, a loaf of bread, and sundry nondescript parcels.
Besides my people, the only occupant of the interior was a bronzed
young man who had travelled in the same compartment with us from
Palma.

In the train the studied perfection of his dress had made me wonder
on what errand of ceremony he was bound. His trousers and waistcoat
were of very light pique, his coat of shining black alpaca. His
linen was new, his tie resplendent; his watch-chain of linked metals
was an inch broad; his face beamed with expectancy; his whole being
seemed to vibrate with glad impatience.

The way to Alcudia passed through a rural district, running at first
by many small holdings, where patient mules were turning
water-wheels to irrigate the little fields where their masters were
hard at work.

The driver, curling himself up in his corner of the box-seat, dozed
off after the manner of diligence drivers who have started on their
first journey long before dawn. The horse, taking advantage of his
master's somnolence, walked more and more and more slowly, until at
intervals the driver, unwillingly opening half an eye to see how far
we had progressed and finding us almost at a standstill, would urge
him on with opprobrious words.

The day was lovely--how often I seem to have written that! In the
lush green corn grasshoppers were chirping. By the wayside the
convolvulus was opening its big pink cups. And in the dark interior
of the diligence the bronzed man was telling his story.

He was a son of the district towards which we were slowly advancing.
His parents had a wayside _taverna_ and a tiny farm. But in the
family there were many mouths to feed, and though in Majorca there
was always food for all, money was scarce. So five years ago he had
gone to Algeria to push his fortunes. Now, having made a little
money, he was returning, without warning of his coming, to his old
home. As to the future? Well, that was for his parents to decide.

One did not require to be told that the five years of exile had been
industrious and frugal ones. Now the great moment was at hand. He
was already experiencing the expectant joy of the returning
wanderer.

When the small holdings had been left far in the rear and rocky
hills rose beyond the fertile fields, his assumed composure
vanished. He became frankly excited, eagerly watching the lonely
road and scanning the fields for sign of familiar forms and faces.

As the coach made a momentary pause while the driver delivered a
loaf and an amorphous parcel to a road-mender, the Exile, thrusting
his head from the back window, shouted greeting. And the roadman,
recognizing an old friend, ran after the already receding coach to
grasp him warmly by the hand.

The driver was wide-awake now, and evidently determined to make up
for lost time. And the cigars our Exile wished to give the
_caminero_ had to be thrown on the road, from which with grateful
nods and smiles he picked them up.

As he drew near his old home the Exile, though even more keenly
alert, became silent. When the little _taverna_ by the wayside came
in sight the driver, rising to the occasion, put on pace and pulled
up before the door in grand style.

The unusual sight of the coach stopping brought the old _tavernero_
and his wife to the wide doorway. From my perch on the box I saw
their expressions change from surprise to amazed delight. It was the
father--a typical Majorcan with a hale spare figure and shrewd
kindly face--who, advancing first, seized his exultant son in his
arms. The mother held back a moment, quivering with joyous
emotions, her lips parted in speechless welcome. Then, running
forward, she fell upon his neck.

The host and hostess of the Fonda Marina gave us hearty welcome,
and, as before, heaped benefits upon us. In our three months of
absence young Cristobal had grown perceptibly. He was at school now,
and had already learned to recite in Spanish sing-song the days of
the week and the months of the year.

Our former rooms overlooking the bay were vacant, and for three long
summer days we wandered as we listed--over the white sands, which
were now rich with the rare shells and scarlet coral for which, on
our previous visit, I had looked in vain; or among the pines, whose
sun-distilled fragrance mingled with the sea air. One radiant
morning we took a luncheon basket and wandered as far as the
Albufera, but at all other times the excellent cooking of the
mistress of the _fonda_ lured us back in time for meals.

The few people we encountered looked pleasantly at us. And the
Captain of the Port--a retired naval officer who spent much of his
time fishing from a boat moored at his own front door--most
courteously called, and presented me with a bouquet sent by the
ladies of his house.

Monday evening saw us back at the Casa Tranquila. With Tuesday began
the uncongenial labour of dissolution; for the little house that
during the never-to-be-forgotten months had been our headquarters
had to be emptied of its contents. Our belongings were few in
number, but our manner of living had brought us into such intimate
relations with them that we felt personal interest in each article.
We had developed quite an affection for our yellow cups and saucers
with their crude bunches of red and blue flowers; and our
chocolate-pot of brown and yellow native ware, with its perforated
lid and wooden pestle, ranked as a family friend.

The great vine that during the first months of our stay had
converted the veranda into an airy bower was again covered with
foliage and with embryonic clusters of grapes that some more lucky
tenants would enjoy. The rose-bushes that had bloomed all winter
were sending out an abundance of bud-laden shoots. Ripe lemons still
clung to the higher branches of the tree, though the new fruit was
already formed.

There was scant time for all we had to do. Yet we managed to pay
good-bye visits; to take final peeps at our favourite haunts; to
secure on behalf of a poultry-fancying friend a setting of the eggs
of certain Moorish-looking fowls whose jet black bodies were topped
by huge white feather turbans; to dig up bulbs of the most curious
kinds of fly orchis for another friend who is so fortunate as to
possess a "wonder garden."

Our final day, which rushed upon us before we had steeled ourselves
to meet it, was deplorably wet. It seemed as though the climate that
had treated us so generously was weeping at the thought of our
departure.

We lunched daintily at the home of our good friends the Consul and
his wife. Then came the moment when, for the last time, the bells of
Bartolome's chariot jingled at the door of the Casa Tranquila, and
the neighbours came out to wish us God-speed. None of them came
empty-handed. Pepe brought his finest carnations. The Andalusian
lady, her entire brood clinging to her matronly skirts, also offered
flowers, and the retired gentleman who lived in the lordly mansion
across the way hastened to cut his choicest roses.

So with the carriage full of fragrant evidence of good will, we
drove off, to pause a moment at Apolonia's door to bid her farewell.
At the distribution of odds and ends a rug and a hat had been
allotted to Apolonia. And when she seized this opportunity of
thanking us for the trifles sent her, Apolonia spoke appreciatively
of the rug, but there were tears in her bright eyes when she
referred to the _sombrero_. And that makes one wonder how it is that
the utterly useless and incongruous gifts are often the most valued.
The dear old soul had never worn a hat in her life and certainly
never would. The article could be of no possible use to her, but
perhaps, like Jess in the _Window in Thrums_ with her mantle, she
"would aye ken it was there."

As we turned the corner we got a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Pepe
carrying a gaily coloured handkerchief containing the discarded suit
of the Boy's that had fallen to Pepe's share. Waving the bundle,
they indicated that they were already on their way to the tailor's
to have the suit altered.

The Angelus was ringing as the _Miramar_ steamed out into the mist.
Standing at the stern, we looked back while the rain-clouds
gradually blotted out the town, and thought of the little house at
Son Espanolet standing empty and forlorn.

We had hoped that when the inevitable hour of parting came we might
leave in one of those magnificent sunsets under which we had so
often watched the mail-boat start for Barcelona. But though our last
sight of Majorca was veiled with rain and tears, we will always
remember it as a land of sunshine and of smiles.




INDEX

  Afterglow, 251

  Alaro, 204
    Castle of, 211
    Children of, 213

  Albufera, the, 173

  Alcudia, 169, 175
    Port of, 170

  Almudaina Palace, 27, 149

  _Almudaina, La_, 265

  Aloes, 184, 188

  Amphitheatre, Roman, 176

  Amusements, 277

  Andalusia, family from, 22, 332

  Andraitx, 111
    Port of, 117

  Aquarium at Porto Pi, 282

  Archduke Luis Salvador, 66, 82

  Arraco, 123

  Arta, 227
    Caves of, 232

  Asparagus, wild, 288

  Asphodel, 286, 298

  Astronomers, British, 55


  Banners, Hall of the, 235

  Barbarossa, 198

  Barcelona, 1

  Barnils, Hotel, 5, 6

  Barranco, the, 100

  Basket-making, 238

  Begonias, 240

  Bellver, Castle of, 4, 51

  Biniaraix, 100, 249

  Birthday party, 102

  Boot-brushing, 190

  Borrow, 49

  Breeches, baggy, 64, 159, 164, 282

  British Consul at Iviza, 297, 321
    "       "     " Mahon, 200
    " influence in Minorca, 186

  Bull-fighting, 277

  Butterflies, 284

  Byng, Admiral, 195


  Cabo Blanco, 211

  Cabo de Pera, 182, 237

  Cabrera, 169, 211

  Cabritt and Bassa, 209

  Cactus (prickly pear), 21, 122, 124, 160, 189, 205

  Cala Fonts, Minorca, 198

  Cala Retjada, 238

  Calvario at Pollensa, 160

  Candelabra, silver, 149

  Capdepera, 231, 237

  Cape Vermay, 238

  Carabineros, 77

  Carthusian Monastery, 71

  Cas Catala, 109

  Castle of Alaro, 211
    "     " Bellver, 4, 51
    "    and fortifications, Iviza, 294

  Catalans, Cave of the, 218

  Cathedral, Palma, 134, 143, 147
    "        Iviza, 294

  Cave at Genova, 282
    "  of the Holy Well, 139
    "   " Ramon Lull, 86
    "   " Santa Ines, Iviza, 316
    "  Smugglers', 87

  Caves of Arta, 232
      "    the Dragon, Manacor, 217

  Chaperonage, 5, 239, 268

  Charcoal stove, 45

  Charioteer, our, 67, 74, 152, 277, 332

  Chopin, 12,70

  Christians, early, 115

  Christmas Eve, 134
      "     market, 132

  Church of Jesus, Iviza, 324

  Ciudadela, Minorca, 181

  Clubs, 275

  Cobbler and his wife, 21, 333

  Coinage, 49

  Columns, Queen of the, 236

  Commercial travellers, 182, 200

  Conquistador, the, 4, 10, 52, 83, 109, 139, 144, 181, 194, 232
        "       Feast of, 143

  Conscripts, 166, 280

  Consell, 204

  Consul, our friend the, 15, 43, 131, 202, 332

  Consumos, 46, 127, 133

  Cookery, 11, 33, 65, 93, 113, 156, 171, 206, 227, 236

  Coral, 331

  Cost of living, 276

  Courtship, 268, 304, 318

  Customs, 5, 130


  Dances, religious, 213

  Dancing at San Antonio, Iviza, 317

  Delights, Cave of, 218

  Deya, 91, 254, 259

  Diligence, travelling by, 105, 126, 225, 283, 329

  Dogs for hunting, 239

  Dress, fashionable, 266

  Dress, native, 10, 61, 63, 159, 226, 265, 293, 312

  Dromios, the two, 165, 168


  Eagles, 71, 211, 260

  Electric light, 17, 136, 206

  Enciamada, the, 6

  Esglayeta, 68

  Exile, returned, 330


  Fairy, the Good, 245, 250, 252, 255

  Ferrer, 3

  Firewood, 45

  First communicants, 248

  Flowers, wild, 99, 121, 141, 192, 220, 240, 258, 285, 286, 298

  Fonda de Mallorca, Palma, 5
    "    " Rande, Arta, 227
    "   Central, Mahon, 185
    "   Feminias, Manacor, 216
    "   Marina, Alcudia, 170, 331
    "   at Iviza, 291

  Fondas, country, 274

  Footgear, 10

  Fornalutx, 100

  French influence, 98

  Frogs at Iviza, 311

  Furnishing, 17


  Gardening, 21, 45

  _General Chanzy_, wreck of, 182

  Genova, 282

  Governesses, 268

  Governor of Iviza, 321, 326

  Grand Hotel, Palma, 4, 204, 214, 274

  Gymnesias, 11


  Holy Thursday, procession on, 260

  Hoo-poo, 243

  Hospederia, 67, 72, 90, 260

  Hospitality, 15, 325

  Hotel Barnils, Palma, 5, 6
    "   Grand, 4, 204, 214, 274
    "   Marina, Soller, 92, 97, 105, 244

  Hot months, the, 273

  House-hiring, 16

  Housekeeping, 23


  Ilex, forest of, 239

  Inca, 63

  Iviza, 289
    British Consul at, 297, 321, 322
    Castle and fortification, 294
    Cathedral, 294
    Cave of Santa Ines, 316
    Church of Jesus, 324
    Cost of living, 327
    Courtship, 304, 318
    Dress, 293, 302, 308, 312
    Driving, 314
    Early occupation of, 289
    Fonda, 291
    Frogs, 311
    Hospitality, 325
    Market, 293
    Museum, 304
    New Governor, 321, 326
    Noria, 308, 312, 324
    Phoenician catacombs, 298
    Roman wall and statues, 292
    Salinas, 323
    San Antonio, 314
    San Rafael, 314
    Santo Domingo, 295
    Small holdings, 308
    Wild flowers, 298


  King Alphonso IV, 209
   "   Jaime, el Conquistador, 4, 10, 52, 83, 109, 139, 144, 181, 194, 232
   "   Jaime II, 149
   "   Sancho, 69, 84

  Kitchen, farm, 103, 258


  Language, 48, 121, 196, 200

  Laundress, our, 49, 332

  Lavender, sweet, 141

  Locusts, 284

  Lonja, the, 56

  Lull, Ramon, 83


  Mahon, 184

  Mallorquin antiquities, 81, 150, 177, 240
      "      prices, 7, 43, 44, 112, 155, 168, 170

  Manacor, 216

  Marketing, 7, 63, 80, 132, 159, 164, 189, 225, 283

  Martel, French expert, 219

  Mas, Juan, 167

  Masked penitents, 263

  Military service, 280

  Minorca, 181
    Athenaeum at Mahon, 189
    Barbarossa, 198
    Boot-brushing, 190
    British Consul, 200
       "    influence, 186
    Byng, Admiral, 195
    Cala Fonts, 198
    Ciudadela, 181
    Commercial travellers, 182, 200
    English words, 196
    Fonda Central Mahon, 185
    Market at Mahon, 189
    San Luis, 195
    Talyots, 190
    Taula, 192
    Villa Carlos, 198
    Whitewash, 185
    Wreck of the _General Chanzy_, 182

  Miramar, 75

  Monastery, Carthusian, 71

  Montjuich, 3

  Moorish oppression, 144
     "    refugees, 232
     "    tower, 173

  Mosquitoes, 118, 285

  Music, 31, 102, 140, 145


  Navidad, 128

  Nightingales, 245

  Noria, 174, 308, 312, 324


  Offerings, votive, 162, 297

  Olive-oil factory, 103

  Operations in church, exciting, 220

  Orchis, fly, 220, 286

  Our Lady of the Peak, 164
   "    "    "    Refuge, 209


  Palma de Mallorca, 4
    Almudaina, 27, 149
    Body of Jaime II, 150
    Cathedral, 134, 143
        "     treasures of, 147
    Consumeros, 46
    Customs office, 5
    First impression, 4
    Grand Hotel, 4, 204, 214, 274
    Hotel Barnils, 5, 6
    Lonja, the, 56
    Markets, 7, 132
    Port, 27
    Post-office, 129
    San Francisco, church of, 85
    Social life, 266
    Tavern at the port, 32

  Palmettos, 160, 238

  Palm Sunday, 245

  Peak, Our Lady of the, 164

  Penitents, masked, 263

  Phoenician catacombs, Iviza, 298
        "      village, 239

  Pigs, 134, 181, 183

  Plants, the rarer Balearic, 287

  Plum pudding, 130

  Pollensa, 155
    Port of, 157
    Town hall of, 165

  Port of Palma, 27

  Porto Pi, 4, 15, 273, 276, 285

  Post-office, Palma, 129

  Prices, Majorcan, 7, 43, 44, 112, 155, 168, 170

  Puebla, La, 154, 329

  Puerto Cristo, 217

  Puig Mayor, 100, 105, 244, 245, 249, 256, 257


  Queen of the Columns, 236
    "   of Spain, birthday of, 14


  Rain, 10, 92, 203, 271

  Ramon Lull, 83

  Refuge, Our Lady of the, 209

  Refugees, Moorish, 232

  Relics, sacred, 147

  Rent, house, 19, 250

  Road-mending, 252

  Roman amphitheatre, 176
    "   gateway, 169
    "   graves, 177
    "   statues, Iviza, 292


  Salinas, 323

  Saloon accommodation, first, 2, 194, 197
     "        "         second, 180, 194, 197, 202

  Salt, shipping, 323

  Samphire, 207

  San Antonio, Iviza, 314

  San Francisco, church of, 85

  San Lorenzo, 226

  San Luis, Minorca, 195

  San Rafael, Iviza, 314

  San Roch, Feast of, 213

  Sand, George, 12, 70

  Santa Catalina, 15, 18

  Santa Maria, 62

  Santo Domingo, Iviza, 295

  Scots visitors, 278

  Secoma, 125

  Sereno, the, 12

  Servants, 276

  Shells, 172, 282, 331

  Smugglers' cave, 87

  Snow, 271

  Social life, 266

  Soller, 94, 243
    Port of, 96, 257
    Fiesta at, 283

  Son Espanolet, 15, 18, 46, 166, 273

  Son Mas, Andraitx, 115

  Son Moragues, 82

  Son Puigdorfila, 138

  Son Rapina, 138, 273

  Son Servera, 230

  Sponges, 282

  Squire and Lady, 204, 272, 278

  Steamer _Ancona_ of Leith, 30
    _Balear_, 1, 3
    _Cataluna_, 321
    _Isla de Menorca_, 197
    _Lulio_, 290
    _Miramar_, 34, 333
    _Monte Toro_, 180
    _Vicente Sanz_, 194
    _Villa de Soller_, 97

  Sunshine, 270


  Talyots, 190

  Taula, 192

  Taylor, Bayard, 69

  Tea, 6, 81, 241

  Temple, the white, 76

  Terreno, the, 15, 51, 273, 276

  Tobacco, 32, 119, 317

  Torrentes, 94, 117, 140, 249

  Tourists, 28, 281

  Tower, Moorish, 173

  Town Hall, Pollensa, 165

  Train, travelling by, 61, 153

  Travellers, commercial, 182

  Travelling by diligence, 105, 108, 126, 154


  Valldemosa, 69, 80, 260

  Vegetable man, our, 25, 50

  Vermay, Cape, 238

  Vigilante, our, 39, 277

  Villa Carlos, Minorca, 198

  Votive offerings, 162, 297


  Wells, chain (norias), 174, 308, 312, 324

  Whitewash, 185

  Wild asparagus, 288

  Wild flowers, 99, 121, 141, 192, 220, 240, 258, 285, 286, 298

  Wind at Minorca, 191

  Windmills, 122

  Wine shop, 65, 112

  Winter climate, ideal, 270


  Yachting, 275

  Yacht of the Czar, 28




The Gresham Press
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED,
WOKING AND LONDON.




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber's note:

Times are shown using a period notation e.g. 7.40, these have been
left unchanged.

Changed quatro to cuatro in the second repetition of "Onza reals,
_cuatro_ centims, dos centims". (Ch. IV Housekeeping.)

Changed jewelry to jewellery in "conjunction with handsome
_jewelry_" for consistency with the rest of the book. (Ch. VI THE
FAIR AT INCA.)

_En el nombre del Padre, y del Higo, y del Espiritu Santo_ was left
unchanged, but this is normally written _En el nombre del Padre, y del
 =Hijo=, y del Espiritu Santo_. (Ch. VI THE FAIR AT INCA.)

Changed biscochos to bizcochos in "crisply toasted _bizcochos_".
(Ch. VIII MIRAMAR.)

Changed 'were' to 'was' in "Even in its natural state it _was_
difficult". (Ch. IX SOLLER.)

"made his money in Buenos Ayres" was left unchanged, although more
commonly known as Buenos Aires. (Ch. XV THE PORT OF ALCUDIA.)

"Muchos gracias, senor." was left unchanged, but this is correctly
said - "Muchas gracias, senor." (Ch. XXVI AN IVIZAN SABBATH.)

There is quite a lot of inconsistency in the book with words that are
hyphenated or spaced and/or joined. These have been left unchanged.

Likewise, accents and indication of foreign words (using italics) are
inconsistent. These have been corrected for placenames without
comment; all others have been left unchanged.



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