of glossy green foliage and drooping florets and buds. The blossoms,
which had four petals, were cream-hued and flecked inside with
crimson. It was a dainty and distinctive trailer. Even in its
natural state it was difficult to imagine a more graceful wreath. A
passer-by of whom I asked its name called it _Sylvestris montana_,
and volunteered the information that, though it luxuriated on dry
walls, no one could succeed in inducing it to grow in gardens.
Following the path as it wound about the side of the hill, I found
myself by easy stages rising high amid the olive terraces. There
were silver-white olives beneath me, silver-white olives above me.
The voices of the invisible gatherers mingled harmoniously with the
music of the running water. A soothing sense of peace lay over all.
I think it was then that I fell in love with Soller.
There are places that at first sight you are entranced with, and in
two days find you have exhausted. Soller is decidedly not one of
these. At the close of the third day of our stay in the
hill-encradled town we felt as though we had hardly yet had more
than a glimpse of its beauties, so many and varied are they. It is
said that you can stay at Soller for two months and go for a
different walk every day--and I believe it.
From the first waking moments, when one could see the rising sun
illumine the hill-tops, until, with its sinking, the grand crest of
the Puig Mayor--the Greater Peak--was garbed in celestial glory, the
day was a succession of artistic delights.
Soller had for us an added charm in the companionship of congenial
fellow-visitors--an English lady who appreciates the beauty of the
place and the homely, good qualities of its people so highly that
she spends long periods there, and an enthusiastic young artist from
the Argentine who, with the world to choose from, elects to paint at
Soller.
Under their guidance we had driven to Biniaraix and, alighting,
mounted the _Barranco_--a wonderful path by which the peasant
proprietors reach the olive-trees that their untiring care in the
preparation of the stony soil and their skill in husbandry have
persuaded to grow on every possible--and, one might almost add,
impossible--ledge of the rocky steeps.
The Barranco, which was like a series of low, broad steps, zigzagged
between the mountains like some eccentric, never-ending staircase.
As we went up and up we paused often to look down to where, deep in
the valley, Soller lay embowered in its orange gardens. And while we
climbed we marvelled at the ceaseless industry of a race that is
willing to expend so much time and toil to reap so small a return.
On the following afternoon we drove to Fornalutx, a little antique
town three miles from Soller. Fornalutx is the point from which
expeditions start to climb the Puig Mayor.
The little town, which is built from the warm, amber-brown stone of
the hill-side on which it perches, is very old. There does not seem
to be a yard of straight street within its bounds. The houses are
set down pell-mell, anyhow and anywhere. A delightful lack of
uniformity reigns supreme. An orange orchard pokes itself in here, a
vine trellis projects there, a flight of steps interjects its
crooked way at every corner.
And it is all pictures!
The Painter, who knew the place, reflecting our pleasure, hurried us
on to see a good subject, and another good subject, and yet another.
As we passed up a quaint side street the tinkle of mandolines fell
gratefully on our ears, and we paused before the open doorway from
which the sound issued. Green branches and tissue-paper frills
decorated the entrance; within, some sort of merrymaking was in
progress.
[Illustration: The Mandoline Player]
A group of pinafored urchins who were hanging about outside told us
that it was the _fiesta_ of the master of the house.
It was rude, inquisitive, and wholly inexcusable, of course, but,
incited thereto by curiosity, we drew nearer and nearer until we
could see into the room which opened directly from the street, and
wherein a young girl and a grey-haired man were seated, mandolines
on knees, playing a duet. They performed without music but in
perfect harmony.
The girl, who was dark-eyed and pretty, was attired gaily in honour
of the festivity. She wore a red skirt, a pale-green bodice, and an
elaborately embroidered white apron. Blue ribbons adorned her
well-oiled hair, silver bracelets and rings decorated her slender
wrists and skilful fingers. The man was evidently her father. In the
background we got an impression of guests and of a presiding
matronly presence.
With a final flourish the melody ceased.
"Bravo!" we cried, and clapped our hands.
It was no longer possible to ignore the presence of the impertinent
foreigners. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the sociable
Majorcans welcomed the opportunity of recognizing our uninvited
appearance. For, as we turned to go, the mistress of the house
hurried out, a hastily vacated chair in either hand, to urge us to
enter, and would take no refusal.
Within, the guests had rearranged themselves. Retiring further into
the room, they had left space for us. It would have been
discourteous to reject the hospitality so unaffectedly offered.
Our little party was soon grouped inside the doorway, and the
father, whose _fiesta_ it was, laying aside his mandoline, seated
himself at an old piano, and the concert began afresh, the daughter
playing the mandoline to her father's accompaniment on the venerable
instrument. The company, which included two priests, smoked as it
listened appreciatively.
On the centre table was a liqueur-stand, two decanters of red wine,
and a large round dish holding a giant _enciamada_. When the music
ended and we rose to go, the hostess advanced carrying the
liqueur-stand, and, doing the honours with an ease of manner and
dignity of bearing that might have adorned any social rank, she
insisted on pouring out a little glass of _aniset_ for each of us.
Having drunk to the health of the hero of the _fiesta_, we made our
farewells and departed, delighted with this chance glimpse of placid
and happy home-life, and wondering what manner of reception a party
of curious intrusive foreigners who disturbed the peace of a family
gathering would have met in our own conservative country.
That afternoon at Fornalutx was fated to be one of those that stand
clearly out in the memory, not because of any special adventure or
of any great occurrence, but simply because it held a succession of
captivating little incidents, of happy chances.
Passing down a narrow street of steps we came upon an old house
whose wide outer court tempted us to enter. Exploring, we found
ourselves in an olive oil factory. In the inner chamber a patient
mule, his eyes blindfolded by having miniature straw baskets tied
over them, was walking sedately round, supplying the force that
crushed the olives, and from the press the oil was gushing in
streams that went to fill the vats underneath the floor.
On the outside wall of the post office a caged bird was singing
cheerily. Next door was the prison, but that cage was empty. The
barred window of its cell opened breast-high on the street, but
spiders had, undisturbed, woven webs across its bars, and the key
stood in the door. Evidently malefactors are scarce in the quaint
hill-town.
Leaving the crooked streets, we strolled up the side of the
_torrente_, which flowed amidst orange orchards and by the sides of
picturesque houses. Pomegranate-trees, their dainty foliage flecked
with autumnal gold, had rooted in the high banks by the water, and
the unplucked rose-red fruit had already supplied many a luxurious
meal for the birds. Were I a bird I would elect to build my nest at
Fornalutx, for there I would be sure to find an abundance of good
food. Figs bursting with ripeness hung on the trees, and all around
were oranges, and vines, and yet more oranges.
Far up the precipitous hill-path, at a point so high that it
afforded a glorious view of Soller, we came upon a farm-house known
to our friends.
The occupants, greeting us kindly, took us into the most curious
kitchen imaginable. Goatskins covered the ceiling, and in the centre
was a place where seats encircled a charcoal brazier--a Majorcan
"cosy corner," where the household could sit and snugly toast their
toes, when storms blew snell about the mountains and rain obscured
the valley.
The garden space in front of the farm-house had been turned into a
great bower by a huge vine that, trained along a trellis, cast over
it a pleasant shade.
[Illustration: At Fornalutx]
It was late in the season--the last day of November--yet a few
glorious clusters of grapes, the berries all golden and pink and
wearing a bloom unmarred by touch of hand, hung heavy from its
branches. Here another instance of native generosity awaited us, for
the housewife, resolutely refusing recompense, sent us away laden
with bunches. As we descended to where the carriage waited we must
have presented something of the appearance of the returning spies
that Moses had sent out to view the land of Canaan.
The sun had set when we reached Fornalutx. Looking up from the
crooked street towards the hills we saw the peak of the Puig Mayor
stand out against the darkening eastern sky, sublime, magnificent,
bathed in a flood of roseate light. It was a fitting climax to a day
of quiet delights.
We had entered Soller wet and weary on Saturday night, knowing no
one within many miles. When, on Wednesday afternoon, the diligence
bound for Palma called at the Marina to pick us up, people of four
different nationalities assembled round the coach door to bid us
"God-speed."
We would fain have lingered amid the oranges and palms of Soller,
but time was flying and we had much to see elsewhere.
The diligence was full--so full that there would hardly have been
space for an added thimble. It was our first experience of a
Majorcan diligence, and we were interested to see how pleasantly the
already closely packed passengers squeezed together to make room for
new-comers, and to note how quietly they all sat, without fidgeting,
with scarcely a change of position, during a drive that lasted over
four hours.
The window in front and those at the sides were shut, and remained
so throughout the journey. Fortunately our seats were by the door,
and through its big window, which we kept open, we had a splendid
view.
The highroad from Soller to Palma is, I verily believe, one of the
most curious ever made. Immediately after leaving the town it has to
ascend 1,500 feet, which exploit it accomplishes by zigzagging at
acute angles to the summit. That done, it zigzags down the other
side.
The progress uphill was necessarily slow, so slow indeed, that the
driver, who had traversed that road daily for thirty years, left his
sure-footed mules to guide themselves, and trotted along behind the
coach smoking the eternal cigarette. And, while we revelled in the
ever-varying views afforded by the constant change of direction, our
fellow travellers gently dozed, with the exception of a round-eyed
little girl, who, oppressed by the glory of her first hat and the
excitement of her first journey, kept wide-awake.
Up we went, every moment revealing some fresh effect of light and
shadow in the enchanting mountains, past where the embryonic
workings of the new light railway scarred the hillside. Up we went
and up, catching little glimpses of the town nestling far beneath in
its cradle of mountains, and seeing the last flash of sunset
illumine their crests. As we mounted slowly the somnolence of our
fellow passengers became more profound, and a portly father who was
seated beside the little girl, to her evident alarm, lurched farther
and farther in her direction, threatening altogether to efface her.
The Man was on the point of going to the rescue, but the coach
having reached the old carven cross that marks the summit, a sudden
and vivifying change came over our manner of progress. The driver
remounted the box beside the two motionless old women, whose
black-shrouded figures we had seen silhouetted against the light,
and off we set, at a pace that atoned for our crawl uphill.
The more rapid motion wrought a transformation on our companions.
All the slumberers awoke. The portly gentleman, simultaneously
opening eyes and mouth, gazed down in astonishment at the child, as
though during his doze she had materialized out of nothing. Lively
expressions lit up the blank faces. The little old man in the corner
began softly chanting one of the quaint native songs, that to me
always sound like improvisations.
It was already dusk when we stopped to change our three hardy mules
at a wayside _fonda_: and the lights of Palma were sparkling through
the December darkness when we drew up at the city gate for the
_consumero's_ inspection.
During our days of absence the gay little city seemed to have
decided that winter had come. The soldiers had donned their heavy
coats, and men were going about muffled in great cloaks: but leaves
were still thick on the plane-trees in the Borne, and to us the air
seemed still soft and pleasant.
A few minutes later we were entering the Casa Tranquila with that
feeling of absolute contentment that return to one's own home alone
can afford.
[Illustration: Son Mas, Andraitx]
X
ANDRAITX
A happy fortune more than good guiding led us to Andraitx. The Boy,
painting at the port of Palma had seen the diligence, stuffed within
with country folks and top-heavy without with their bundles, start
with a gay jingle of bells for that little-known town, and was
seized with a desire to visit it.
Somewhat precipitately we engaged our seats in the following day's
coach, and then proceeded to make inquiries about the place. Nobody,
it seemed, had a good word to say of it, perhaps because no one went
there. Baedeker scorned even to mention its name. There was only an
inferior _fonda_, one informant said. There was no _fonda_ at all,
amended another.
The diligence left Palma at two o'clock, and the fee for the 30
kilometros--over 20 miles--was two pesetas. Taking only a light
suit-case, we locked the doors of the Casa Tranquila that glorious
December afternoon, and walking down, reached in good time the
little back-street cafe whence the coach started.
Several passengers were already in waiting--a pleasant-faced old man
and his comely wife in native dress, sundry peasant women muffled in
shawls, one or two men whom the mistress of the cafe was serving
with lunch. A little pile of luggage--bundles tied in brilliant
kerchiefs, and market baskets--littered the floor. As we waited,
more passengers arrived and more. We were glad our places had been
secured.
At five minutes before two the mail-bag appeared; and at ten minutes
past, the diligence rattled down the narrow cobbled street and
pulled up at the door of the cafe. It was a cumbrous and yet cramped
vehicle lined with clean striped cotton.
The slender mail-bag having been deposited in a hollow seat, the Man
and I hopped briskly in and secured the places on either side of the
door, which had a wide window, arguing away our consciences'
accusation of selfishness by the excuse that we were probably the
only passengers to whom the scenery would be new. Then the nice old
country couple came in, followed by a huge matron with a little son;
and a pretty young girl took the seat next to me. An old dame, who,
in spite of the heat, was muffled into a living mummy, mounted
beside the Boy on the box. The country women were packed into a
hooded cart that was waiting to receive the overflow, the driver got
up in front, and we were ready to start. It was already half an hour
after starting-time, but we delayed until a nice little boy,
attended by two juvenile shop-lads clad in overalls of check cotton,
appeared to join us. As fitting preparation for his four-hour
journey in the stuffy interior of the coach, careful relatives had
enveloped the urchin in a heavy top-coat and wound a thick muffler
round his neck. He was hauled into the coach, his luggage, which
consisted of two large round bundles neatly tied in gaily striped
handkerchiefs, went to swell the mound on the top, and off we set at
last, only to halt at the bottom of the street to admit a woman of
such appalling dimensions that she seemed to prove what the Boy
declares is the Majorcan rule with regard to diligences--that they
first fill them quite full, and then add a couple of the fattest
people procurable.
Clambering ponderously in she subsided with a flop between the other
massive matron and the pretty girl. "Caramba!" exclaimed the pretty
girl, and the journey began in earnest.
Palma was brilliant in sunshine. Looking back as we crawled up the
heights towards the Terreno, it glowed like a jewel in the strong
sunlight. The sea was a vivid azure. Beyond the opposite shores of
the bay the distant isle of Cabrera showed distinctly.
As the road wound onwards in and out, we got glimpses of fairy-like
inlets of the sea, of beautiful caves and tiny bays all sparkling in
the sunshine. As we passed the hotel at Cas Catala a German waiter
appeared to get the newspaper from our driver, and we felt glad that
our journey ended in a place where German waiters were unknown.
Turning from the sea, the road passed among rocky slopes crowned
with pines and olives. Amid the stones we caught sight of rosy heath
and of great clumps of lavender rich in purple blossom. It was on
this beautiful sloping country-side that the first great battle was
fought between the troops of King Jaime and the hosts of the Moorish
Amir. The fighting was severe; and, though the victory was his, the
chroniclers of the period tell how the brave young King of Aragon
wept when he learned of the loss of two nobles, brothers, who had
been boon companions of his own. A tapestry in one of the chambers
of the Casa Consistorial at Palma gives a pictorial rendering of the
scene. And under a large pine by the wayside, nearly half-way
between the capital and Andraitx, is a monument--a simple iron
cross set on a stone pedestal--commemorating the valour of the
Spaniards who lost their lives to help to free the Christians.
When the way was uphill, and the coach lumbered slowly along,
slumber crept over the passengers. When we again reached the level
and the pace quickened, everybody awoke, and conversation became
general; at least, as far as the native element was concerned. The
Man and I yearned for a knowledge of Majorcan when the two plump
ladies, whose tongues were their only active members, took turn
about in relating what were evidently incidents of dramatic
interest.
Once or twice, when the road ascended some specially steep slope in
zigzags, the coach stopped, and most of us got out and, crossing the
hill by a short cut--we followed those who knew the way--rejoined it
on the farther side. Needless to mention, the only two dames whose
absence would have made any appreciable lessening in the weight
remained fixtures.
The two points of difference between Majorcan and British travellers
that we had noticed on the drive from Soller again impressed us. One
was their quiet demeanour. They were not restless, they never
fidgeted. They sat quite still, their hands placidly folded--except
when a little gesticulation was necessary to adorn a tale. The
second, which was even more unlike the British of the same class,
was that though the journey was one of about four hours' duration
they had made no provision for it. Even the small boy, or the little
child, had not so much as a sweet or a biscuit to break the
monotony.
When, half-way, we stopped to change horses, the old man, who had
been pleasantly interested in the feminine gossip, stepped lightly
out, and returning with a large tin mug of water, handed it round.
It was the pretty girl who, when it came to her turn to drink,
gracefully declined the privilege in favour of me, saying, with a
wave of her hand, "Ah, no! The senora first."
The way was wild and romantic. Only at long intervals was there a
house even by the road-side. Just at dusk we passed several open
carts crowded with young olive-gatherers returning from work--a gay
band, shouting and singing. After that the night appeared to fall
suddenly upon the earth, and the new moon, a bright star poised
above her, shone in the sky.
A second diligence, starting from some other point, had joined us;
and as we moved slowly along in company, the two lumbering
heavily-laden coaches and the covered van, the little procession had
something of the aspect of a party of emigrants travelling in quest
of a new home.
When the mysterious beauty of the half-lights had vanished, and the
night gathered, we began to wonder why we had left the Casa
Tranquila, where we had been so comfortable. We had no special
reason for coming to Andraitx; there was no attraction to draw us
thither. And even now we did not know if there was any place where
we might sleep.
Just before we entered the town the coach stopped a moment and the
Boy came round to the door.
"I've been consulting the driver," he said. "He recommends a place
where he says we'll get the best cooking in Andraitx."
"Is it an inn?" we asked.
"No, I don't think it's exactly an _inn_, but the man has been a
cook. His house is at this end of the town. The driver says he'll
stop there if we like. Will that do?"
It was quite dark now. We were cramped and tired, and the refuge
that wasn't exactly an inn was at least near. We agreed that it
would do.
Three minutes later the diligence drew up in front of an open door,
through which the light from a good oil lamp streamed into the
blackness of the street.
"This seems to be the place," said the Boy. "But it's a shop!"
There was no opportunity for hesitation. Our luggage was already on
the pavement. Turning to a tall, bearded man in a white apron who
appeared in the doorway, we asked if he had accommodation.
Yes, he had room, he replied; would we enter?--and, following him,
we found ourselves in a wide, airy shop. On one side were shelves
filled with delicacies. On the other were three great wine barrels.
And on the floor stood the usual assortment of hampers and open
baskets containing fruits and vegetables.
At the back of the shop, sandwiched between it and the kitchen, was
a neat little dining-room. And when we had been ushered in there the
Boy, as our spokesman, proceeded, after the custom of the country,
to ask terms--"What would be the charge for board and lodging, wine
included, a day?"
Our host hesitated. He was an exceptionally nice-looking man and
spoke beautiful Spanish.
"The terms? That would depend upon what one had. He could make any
terms that suited, from one peseta and a half a day. But for four
pesetas--_then_ he could do us really well."
A bargain was quickly struck. We were to pay three pesetas and a
half a day, wine and the little breakfast included; and our first
meal was to be served as soon as it could be prepared.
After a short stroll through the dark streets, and not a little
conjecture concerning immediate happenings, we returned to our
lodging. The glass doors of the little dining-room opened on to the
shop, its window looked to the kitchen, where our host was already
busy over the stove. The sound of quick footsteps overhead suggested
that rooms were being prepared for our reception. Her parents being
engaged, the shop had been left in charge of the daughter of the
house, a pretty, dark-eyed child of seven years old.
She made a charming little picture, as she sat amongst the scarlet
_pimientos_ and the yellow lemons waiting for custom. And when a
younger child, carrying a quart bottle, entered to buy a pennyworth
of wine, the business-like way in which she placed the funnel in the
bottle, and filling the measure from the barrel poured it in without
spilling a drop, delighted us. As also did the accustomed way in
which she dropped the penny into the table-drawer that served as
till.
Before we had time to grow impatient our hostess, looking like an
adult copy of her child, appearing, spread the table neatly with
clean linen and shining crystal, then set before us a dish of rolls,
one of olives, and small plates of spiced sausage and ham. Then the
host entered carrying a bottle of a good brand of imported claret
that he had taken from his shelves, and a syphon of seltzer.