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."