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.