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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.