from making a meal of them, when an excellent soup was served.
"If I could choose, I know what I'd have next--a big fat omelet,"
the Boy said, as he finished his plate of soup. And on the thought,
as though in answer to his wish, the landlord entered bearing a fine
opulent omelet stuffed with green peas. When we had eaten that, he
was waiting to replace it with a dish of delicately browned veal
cutlets, savoury potatoes fried in butter, and more green peas. A
sweet course is so rarely served in Majorca that it was a pleasant
surprise to find the cutlets followed by a mould of the native
preserve, _membrillo_ (quince) jelly, and pastry turn-overs. The
dessert consisted of a pyramid of mandarin oranges cut with stems
and leaves. It was a surprisingly complete meal to be served on an
hour's notice in the back shop of a little unknown out-of-the-world
town.
The rooms allotted to us comprised the whole floor above. The _salon_,
which was to the front, had two handsome wardrobes--wardrobes would
seem to be as often placed in sitting-rooms as in bedrooms in
Majorca--a chest of drawers, several comfortable chairs. The beds,
with their lace-trimmed and monogrammed linen, were perfection. As we
fell asleep we blessed the happy chance that had led us to so much
more comfortable quarters than we had anticipated finding.
Breakfast, of French chocolate and hot buttered rolls, served to
confirm the good impression of the previous night.
The ambition of my infancy--to keep a little shop--threatened to
return as, from the stronghold of our neat little dining-room, we
watched the life of the shop, a portion of whose trade appeared to
consist of barter. First a woman entered with a basket of glowing
sun-kissed pomegranates which she exchanged for macaroni and other
groceries. She was quickly followed by a man who had a hamper of
lemons and a bag of the scarlet waxen pods of the sweet pepper to
dispose of.
While the chocolate was still in process of consumption our host,
courteously solicitous respecting our comfort of the night, waited
on us, his tall, slender form begirt with an apron of spotless
purity, on which was also embroidered the family monogram.
From our concerns the conversation naturally passed to his, and with
the simple friendliness of the Majorcan he told us his life-story.
Told how, like most of the Andraitx lads, he had early left home to
seek his fortune, but while most of his companions had become
sailors, he had chosen to make cooking his profession. A course of
years passed as a _chef_ in Havanna and other places had gained him
the nest-egg he desired. Returning to his native town while still a
comparatively young man, he had taken this shop, married to his
liking, and settled down in comfort.
There was neither sun nor wind. The air was calm and cool. It was a
splendid day for exploring a new locality. But Andraitx was still a
sealed letter to us. We did not even know what to look for.
When we arrived on the previous night the town had been shrouded in
darkness. So it was a charming surprise after we had mounted the
commonplace street to find that in situation Andraitx resembled a
miniature Soller. Hills, some crowned by windmills, enclosed it on
every side. Passing through the market square we climbed the
eminence on which perched the quaint old church, and looking back,
saw the town lying in the hollow beneath us; and to the north-west,
its mouth guarded by sentinel hills, the wide inlet of the sea that
marked the port.
Within the church, gloom and silence held possession. A little
distance off was the walled cemetery. Leaving an environment that
threatened to depress us, we scrambled down the farther side of the
rocky incline, and, finding a path, followed it.
The path, chosen at random, passed in front of Son Mas, a quaint old
building whose tower bore signs of great antiquity. The place was
evidently now in use as a farm-house, and the tenant, seeing us
pause to look in through the wide gateway, came out and cordially
invited us to enter.
He was a fine specimen of the handsome, robust sons of that gracious
soil. His sun-tanned skin and workaday garb seemed at variance with
his courteous dignity of manner, which admirably became the resident
of so ancient a mansion. He appeared to feel a special pride in his
surroundings and did not scamp the showing. Through the wide
courtyard, and up the central staircase that led to the balconies,
and through the deserted rooms he escorted us.
The tall square tower that now formed part of the house, he told us,
had in older times been used as a place of refuge by the Christians
during the attacks of the piratical Moors who infested the coast--a
stronghold to which they fled when news reached them that the
heathen marauders had entered the port and were advancing towards
the town. Would we like to see it?
Would we not! Following our leader, we passed along more corridors
and over floors aslant with age, till he stopped before the entrance
to what was probably the smallest winding stair ever devised for the
passage of human beings.
Up that very stair, our guide assured us, had the Christians fled to
seek safety in the tower. And as we timorously mounted the narrow
steps we agreed that the Andraitx early Christians must have been
the leanest of mankind. For one plump Christian in a hurry would
assuredly have brought destruction on all the rest by sticking in
the first bend of that pitch-dark winding staircase.
We emerged, dusty and breathless, into a square room whose window
framed a magnificent view over the town and the wide fruitful valley
to the shining waters of the port beyond.
In one of the walls was a groined cavity that had been a shrine. And
close beside it was the now walled-up doorway that, when the tower
stood apart, had been connected by a drawbridge with the main
building.
On the dusty floor in a corner lay some curious earthenware retorts
of a primitive date. The vessels had been found in an old cabinet in
company with a quantity of unknown drugs--presumably the stock of
some long-dead alchemist. Scientific men, hearing of the discovery,
had hastened to carry off the chemicals, the farmer told us, leaving
the earthenware behind.
All the acquisitive Briton in us yearned to possess one of the
quaint retorts. It was only the thought of their bulky brittleness
that conquered the covetous feeling.
From the room more pigmy steps wound upwards to a roofed _mirador_,
but, as the inner walls of the staircase were broken away in great
gaps, only the Boy was daring enough to ascend.
Returning, he reported a low roof that sloped down to battlemented
walls pierced with loop-holes through which arrows and boiling water
were wont to shower down on the besiegers. On one occasion the
captain of the Moors was killed with scalding water thrown from the
tower. To the present day the incident affords matter for intense
satisfaction at Andraitx.
[Illustration: In the Port of Andraitx]
XI
UP AMONG THE WINDMILLS
When at noon we returned to the shop our host had a delightful
little luncheon awaiting us. And it was in high good-humour with
him, with ourselves, and with all the world, that we set off to walk
the three miles of level road that lie between the town of Andraitx
and its port.
Every foot of the way was full of interest. At first it led past
rustic dwellings set in their orange and lemon gardens. In one
orchard a life-size, and life-like, male scarecrow was perched high
up in the branches of a pomegranate-tree. Then the road ran for a
long way close by the dry bed of a _torrente_, that in the rainy
season would be a river, and through groves of almond and
olive-trees before it reached the wide stretch of fruitful plain
devoted to the culture of vegetables.
Our path was cheerful with wayfarers. As we strolled along, a
succession of old vehicles and picturesque folk passed us. Old men
in suits of faded blue cotton, bright-hued handkerchiefs bound about
their heads under their wide hats, trotted by beside their panniered
donkeys. And dotted over the rich, red earth people were busy. In
one field a man was ploughing, while close on his heels a handsome
dark-eyed woman in a scarlet petticoat followed, dropping yellow
peas into the newly turned furrows.
Everybody within hailing distance gave us kindly greeting. Even an
infant, whose age might have been reckoned in months, from where he
was snugly seated in a basket, clearly echoed his parents' "Bon di
tenga," much to our amusement and to the frankly evident delight of
his father and mother.
In the rich, moist soil of that sheltered valley we thought we had
discovered the mould in which the gross eighteen-inch radishes are
grown. Perhaps it is the nature of that alluvial plain that accounts
also for so plentiful a harvest of mosquitoes. Certain it was that
they positively swarmed, and that being quick to detect a new and, I
trust, delectable flavour in foreigners, they paid us particularly
insistent attention, escorting us even to the port, and out on the
breakwater that cuts across the inlet, and makes snug haven for the
fishing craft and for the few cargo _pailebots_ that anchor in the
port. It was fortunate that, unlike those of the Palma mosquitoes,
their stings proved harmless.
We had brought tea-things with us, and leaving the Man sketching,
seated on a mast that lay under the sea-wall, the Boy and I took the
empty kettle, and set off in search of water, and of the men's
constant need--tobacco.
The sign over the door of the only shop in the place showed that it
was authorized to sell the tobacco that is a Government monopoly of
Spain. Going in, we found ourselves in a long, low-ceilinged
apartment that might have served for a type of a smugglers' den.
Several people of both sexes were within. From without we had heard
the gay clamour of voices, but with our unexpected entrance all
seemed stricken dumb. The woman who had been sweeping out the brood
of adventurous chickens stopped short, broom in hand, as though
turned to stone. The girl mixing something in a bowl paused to
stare. The men ceased their loud discussion and gathered in a silent
band to learn our business.
We were not altogether unaccustomed to pointed attention. That very
day in Andraitx our appearance had aroused something of the interest
accorded in an English country town to a circus procession. But the
silent scrutiny was distinctly embarrassing. The Boy is rarely
abashed, yet his voice faltered a little as, in Spanish, he asked
for cigarettes, naming a good brand. On learning that they were not
in stock he asked for others, and yet others, lessening the monetary
value of his demands until he reached those cigarettes that retail
at seven for a halfpenny. But even these were not to be had. "Then
what was for sale? Any brand would do."
Hard pressed, the authorized vendor of Government tobacco confessed
that he had none in stock.
"But this is the Government tobacco shop, and you are all
smoking--what on earth do you smoke, then?" demanded the Boy.
There was a momentary hesitation; then--"We all smoke contraband
tobacco, senor," he made reluctant admission.
"That's good enough for me," said the Boy, and with a relieved
expression the shopkeeper disappeared to return with a three-ounce
packet of smuggled tobacco, for which he charged sevenpence-halfpenny.
And vile though it undoubtedly was, the buyer declared that it was
vastly superior to that usually sold with the sanction of the Spanish
powers.
When, bearing the full kettle and the contraband tobacco, we
sauntered back to the breakwater, it was to find the Man the centre
of an interested crowd of boys. And all the time we waited an
engrossed audience surrounded us. Even the appearance of a longboat,
rowed by what to our eyes seemed a crew of pirates, so picturesque
was their garb, failed to divert a tithe of the attention.
Apart from its beauty, the port of Andraitx impressed us as being
the least prosperous place we had seen in Majorca. The houses were
poor and huddled together. And the population seemed large in
proportion to the probable increment. As one of the natives put it,
"the fishermen are many and the fish few." The village lads, fine
stalwart fellows all of them, were woefully patched as to attire.
Majorcan women are marvellously dexterous with the needle. Their
patches are so neatly inserted as to be works of art; but until that
afternoon at the port of Andraitx we had never encountered patches
that threatened to usurp the entire groundwork of a garment.
We had heard of the existence of an official known as the "Captain
of the Port," yet, one man being as dexterously mended as another,
failed to distinguish him among the loiterers about the pier. At
length a gentleman with side whiskers, taking up his stand behind
the Man, bowed ceremoniously to me, silently raising his time-worn
hat.
"Buenos dias," I said; in my desire to be affable forgetting that it
was already afternoon.
There was a momentary pause. Then, "Buenas _tardes_, senora. Buenas
_tardes_," he corrected, in a tone of gentle reproof.
And I decided that in spite of his plenitude of patches, his total
lack of waistcoat, and his dilapidated buff slippers, the gentleman
who revealed so refined a desire for exactitude of speech must be
the Captain of the Port.
It was on the morning of our second day at Andraitx that we decided
to go to Arraco, a little town about half an hour's walk farther
north.
When we spoke of going our host suggested our branching off from the
road and climbing the hill of the windmills to see the view.
Antonia, his little daughter, would accompany us to show the way.
And in a trice Antonia was pronounced ready for the excursion. Her
head was bare, her feet were encased in smart yellow boots, and in
the pocket of her red frock there were stowed away, as provision for
the journey, a roll and a diminutive black-pudding.
It was a lovely day--sweet and peaceful. Even after two months'
experience we never seemed to become accustomed to the consistent
urbanity of the Majorcan weather, and each successive perfect day
brought a fresh surprise.
The road was a beautiful one. Once beyond the outskirts of the town
it passed between slopes luxuriant in almonds and olives. Here and
there the falling golden leaves of a pomegranate made an aureate
glow on the red-brown earth. Perched high in an olive-tree by the
wayside a man was pruning its branches.
For the first ten minutes Antonia was demurely silent. Then, as her
shyness wore off, her horns appeared. She was a charming imp of
seven, the adored of her parents, who knew her variously as Anton,
Antonia, and Antonetta. Anton, in a tone of reproof when she was
caught pulling the hair of a friend, Antonia when she was ordinarily
good, and Antonetta on the many occasions that they found her
particularly adorable.
She went, apparently only when she had got nothing more interesting
to do, to a convent school, where she was, with exceeding
reluctance, beginning to learn Spanish--a tongue against which she
naturally cherished a grievance.
"What is the use of learning Spanish?" she demanded of the Boy, who
was urging her to speak it. "Majorcan--that is a useful language.
Spanish? No. Spanish is no use."
By the wayside the curious wild arums known as _frares_ (monks) were
growing. Picking a handful, Antonia began with great enjoyment
repeating a native rhyme, the point of which lay in knocking off the
heads of one of the flowers at the conclusion of each repetition:--
"_Frare lleig, frare lleig,
Si no dius se Misa, le tomere es bech!_"
--of which this is an easy translation:--
"_Lazy friar, lazy friar,
If your Mass is not said I will chop off your head._"
Antonia had a knowledge of vegetables too. Or is it some inherent
faculty that teaches children the edible fruits? When we chanced to
pass a big algarroba-tree she darted under it, and, after a little
rummaging amid the dry leaves, returned triumphantly bearing some
long dark-brown pods, in which the Man was amused to recognise a
fruit known to his experimentive boyhood as "locusts." The pods,
which are sweet and succulent, are used in Majorca as food for
cattle.
Just where the road came almost within sight of Arraco the path to
the hills crowned by the windmills branched off. Deciding to get the
climbing over first, we left the highway, and mounted amongst most
beautiful and varied vegetation. All about us tall pink and crimson
heaths were blooming. Small clumps of palms that we had not before
seen out of a conservatory grew among the rocks, and great cactus
rioted in picturesque masses.
The base of the windmills reached, we enjoyed a view that extended
in every direction. Beneath to one side was Arraco, its houses, save
where near the church they were huddled closer together, scattered
widely over the surface of a cup-like valley, that was so closely
encircled by hills that we could discover no way leading out. Above
the hills to the north the heights of the island of Dragonera rose
from the sea. From another point we looked down on Andraitx, and
marked the wide plain that ended in the placid waters of the port.
We had not meant to stay long on the heights, but the varied
prospects were so beautiful and the air so placid that we felt
tempted to linger. Then the Man took out his sketching block, and
the matter was settled. Arraco would remain unvisited. Like the
lotus-eaters, we were content and would roam no farther.
We were now so accustomed to Majorcan skilled and thrifty husbandry
that it was no surprise to find that even the summit of the height
was planted with fruit trees. On a rocky ledge, close under the
spreading sails of the windmill, nestled a tiny house, and every
handful of soil supported its fig-, almond-, pomegranate- or
apple-tree.
The air was soft and gentle. Even at that altitude there was
scarcely a breath of wind. Butterflies were hovering about. All the
world seemed at peace. From Arraco arose the faint chime of a bell,
from beyond the rock-bound coast came the murmur of the sea.
[Illustration: Above Andraitx]
I think it was the discovery that just outside the little hut a man
was eating his dinner that aroused us to the fact that we also were
hungry. Breakfast had been light, and early dinner, a good way off,
was not due till two o'clock. Antonia's sharp little white teeth had
long ago devoured Antonia's roll and black-pudding. We had started
out with the intention of foraging at Arraco; but Arraco, a
scattered handful of pigmy dwellings, lay far down in the hollow.
Then an idea occurred to us. The husbandman, who had finished his
meal, and was now lighting a cigarette, would be sure to have food.
We would ask him to sell us some bread.
The peasant, who proved to be a kindly soul, had a beard and the
most dilapidated hat ever worn by mortal man. But he had no bread.
The hut under the windmill was only a shelter. His home was in the
valley, and it was evidently his provisions for the day that he had
just consumed. He did what he thought was next best, and drawing a
great jar of clean water from his well, brought it to us.
The Boy and Antonia, who had gone off to try their luck at the other
windmill, returned bringing two shapeless lumps of the stalest rye
bread ever eaten, and the kindly dilapidated man who, in genuine
concern for our welfare, had been hovering near, disappeared into
his shanty, and reappearing with a plate of olives, presented them
to us. So off olives, water from an antique jar, and mouldy rye
bread that vied with it in antiquity, we took the edge off our
appetites.
I must not forget the prickly pears--or cactus figs--that we had
picked on the way up. A certain fearful joy attends the gathering of
this fruit, which requires the exercise of some ingenuity in dodging
its insidious prickles. But there the pleasure ends; for the fruit
is both seedy and insipid. To appreciate the prickly pear one would
require to meet it in an arid desert.
The sun was sinking when we set out for a final stroll at Andraitx.
We were to leave early next morning, and we knew that there were
countless walks we must leave unexplored.
A glory of grey and gold and orange was flushing the sky when we
turned into the road that wound up the valley. The mountains that
rose on either side were glowing roseate from the sunset; but under
any conditions the way would have been very beautiful. It led by a
_torrente_ in whose bed there was actually a trickle of water, and
just beyond a picturesque bridge was a village--of no social
importance probably, but assuredly of great artistic charm. The
village straggling up the side of the valley was such a place as
nobody ever tells one of--one of those unexpectedly picturesque
spots that, with a thrill of delight, one discovers for oneself, and
feels a proprietorial interest in ever after, almost as though one
had invented it. We learned later that the name of the hamlet was
Secoma, and that it was divided into two portions, which were known
respectively as Secoma Hot and Secoma Cold.
The narrow, winding street was busy. The olive-gatherers were
returning from work, and those who had remained at home came out to
gape at us. The barber who was shaving a customer, catching sight of
our passing reflection in the mirror, abandoned his task and ran to
the door to stare, with his customer, lathered and pinafored, close
on his heels.
Already were we beginning to recognize, and to be recognized, in the
district. An amazingly stately old lady, who appeared to spend her
days perched sideways on her panniered donkey, bowed with great
dignity from her perch. A handsome fisher-lad, who had formed one of
the Man's audience when he was sketching at the port, beamed when we
encountered him delivering fish in back-of-the-world Secoma.
We had entered Andraitx expecting little, and had found so much that
was interesting and pleasant that we were reluctant to leave it. But
an engagement for Sunday afternoon at Palma had to be kept. So
perforce we bespoke seats in the diligence leaving at the
extraordinary hour of four in the morning.
An hour earlier three great knocks sounded on the closed door of the
shop. It was the _vigilante_, who had been warned to arouse us. When
we went downstairs it was to find our attentive landlord with a
comforting meal of chocolate and hot buttered rolls ready to serve.
And concerning this most excellent host it is only just to say that
during our stay we found his efforts on our behalf increase rather
than diminish. In case any of my readers may ever chance to visit
this out-of-the-way town, I mention that his name is Gabriel
Calafill, and his address is Calle Cerda, which, being interpreted,
means Pig Street.
All the cocks in Andraitx seemed to be awakened when a jingle of
harness-bells drew us to the door of the lamp-lit shop. It was the
darkest hour. A single dim lamp was all we saw of the diligence. As
it drew up an invisible hand opened the coach door, and mounting the
invisible steps I peered into the solid darkness of the interior. If
there were any passengers inside, they were dumb and motionless.
Hazarding a greeting, I interjected "Buenos dias" into the darkness.
An instant reply from half a dozen throats showed that the coach was
already well filled. A minute later we had insinuated ourselves into
the places kept for us by the door, and the coach rolled off into
the gloom.
It was the hush before the dawn. The moon had long set. A few pale
stars sprinkled the sky. Beyond the town the gloom was less
impenetrable, and the road became a dim, grey ribbon slowly
unwinding behind us. The trees and mountains were black,
undistinguishable masses. The air was soft and very still. Within
the coach all was silent. No one moved. Then, as the miles gradually
slipped away, the sky began to lighten, and even the deep gloom of
the interior became less tangible. In the farther corner dull white
lines proclaimed a collar and shirt-cuffs while the sun-tanned flesh
they encircled was yet unseen.
As the daylight crept in, our fellow-travellers gradually became
visible. Two men, vague entities, had left the coach when half-way
we changed horses. There now remained a couple of quiet, respectable
market women, a lovely little girl, and a strapping young man.