the custom of able-bodied passengers the men got out to take the
short cut, and rejoined the lightened diligence on the farther side.
Glancing from the back window, as they passed up the heath slope, I
noticed that the owner of the brown hands and the white cuffs had
already entered into conversation with my men-folk. And when, a
quarter of an hour later, they re-entered the coach, all three were
on terms of unexpected intimacy.
"This senor," the Boy explained, with an introductory wave of the
hand, "is the father of that clever baby. You remember, mother. The
one we saw yesterday on the way to the port. He sat in a basket and
said 'Bon di tenga.'"
The father, a strapping, clean-limbed Majorcan, fairly beamed with
parental pride as he acknowledged the imputation. The boy, he told
us, was now nearly three years old, but he had spoken as well ever
since he was two. His own excellent Spanish he accounted for by
saying that, like so many Andraitx young men, he had been a sailor,
and had voyaged for several years to and from Cuba. Then, having
saved some money, he had returned to his native town, had married,
and was now farming his own bit of land. This morning he was
journeying to Palma to collect the rent of a house he owned there.
The sun was up when the diligence stopped before the _consumos_
station at the entrance to Santa Catalina, and we alighted. It was
only as we returned to more sophisticated surroundings that I
realized that since leaving Palma on Thursday I had not seen a
single hat upon a feminine head. No wonder we were stared at in
Secoma!
Half an hour later we were sitting at breakfast in the sunshine at
the Casa Tranquila. We had arrived at Andraitx in the dusk, and had
quitted it in the dusk, so it seemed as though all that had happened
during our stay there had been but a pleasant dream.
[Illustration: Christmas Turkeys]
XII
NAVIDAD
We returned from Andraitx to find that Christmas had stolen a march
upon us, taking us unawares.
Our first intimation of it was a communication that reached us from
the postal authorities. It announced that a parcel awaited us at the
head post office, and stated that if we called between the hours of
twelve and thirteen on the following day, and paid the sum of eight
pesetas seventy-six centimos charged as duty, we would be entitled
to carry it away.
The slip of green paper containing this laconic intimation
fluttering into our uneventful lives, interested us hugely. To what
could the notice refer? We expected nothing, and yet the amount of
the duty--eight pesetas seventy-six centimos--argued it a
possession of notable value. We would not have lost a moment before
hastening off to pay the impost and claim our property had not the
notice expressly mentioned the one hour of the morrow on which it
might be procured.
What could it be? Thinking ourselves discreet people, we professed
to build no castles on the subject, but we all enjoyed the feeling
of mystery.
It was with a pleasant sense of expectancy that next day, shortly
after noon, we entered the post office in the Calle San Felio, and
after some inquiry discovered the department for the distribution of
parcels. Two people were in advance of us. A young workman was
getting a small package, a servant-maid was receiving a couple of
round, flat boxes so large that a side door in the counter had to be
opened for their egress.
Watching, we wondered secretly if ours would be as big, or if it
would be small and precious.
After a preliminary signing of a book and the paying of the money,
the parcel was produced and solemnly handed over to us. Its
dimensions exceeded even our most sanguine expectations, and it was
weighty in proportion. The address on the label showed that it had
come from the best confectioner in London. This, taken in
conjunction with its opulent proportions, seemed to presage a
prolonged period of riotous living.
"It must be cake," the Man said.
"It must be a tremendous lot of cake," opined the Boy, who was
carrying the bulky parcel. "Let's get home and open it."
Owing, I think, to the cost of sugar, confections of every kind in
Majorca are expensive and limited in variety. And although in
England a plethora of good things had made us inclined to be blase,
two months of residence in this land where sweets are matters for
consumption on high-days and holy-days had revealed in each of us
the possession of an unexpected sweet tooth. And the sight of the
ample proportions of that confectioner's parcel set them aching
furiously.
"If it's sweets, we must not begin eating them until luncheon is
over," I said, more by way of counsel to myself than to the others.
"We'll see," said the Boy, who was determined not to commit himself.
When we had entered the Casa Tranquila the carefully packed box was
lifted on to the table and the exciting task of opening it began.
The seals had already been broken, but there seemed several miles of
carefully knotted string to unwind. Beneath the enveloping brown
paper was an encasing of the corrugated cardboard in which
breakables are packed. Within that was a thick layer of fine
shavings. The dimensions of the package had been considerably
lessened when, all the outer wrappings thrown aside, there was
revealed a large square tin box. The side presented to us bore no
sign of an opening. It really seemed as though the elusive gift was
determined to baffle us.
"The box has been carefully soldered," said the Man. "I can't
understand how the Customs could fix the amount of the duty without
knowing what was inside. How are we going to open it, I wonder?"
But when he turned the box over a wide gash in the bottom revealed
that the task had already been performed. Pressing aside the jagged
edges of the tin, we saw within yet more shavings. When they had
been carefully removed, fragments of china, and something tied in a
rent white cloth met our gaze.
"It's been a plum-pudding, and they've smashed it to atoms," the Man
said bitterly.
"Oh, what a _shame_! The mean wretches!" I lamented.
The Boy said nothing, but felt for his pipe.
Having succeeded in widening the gash considerably, the Man drew out
the remaining enclosures. The pudding--a particularly fine one--was
intact, but the bowl that had encased it was shattered. Splinters of
the china were adhering to its dark richness. The Spanish Customs
at the frontier, in their zeal to discover the nature of the
contents and their fear of permitting a concealed bomb to escape
their vigilance, had not only cut open the box and smashed the bowl,
they had also ripped across the cloth that tied up the pudding.
"Perhaps they were right to charge eight pesetas seventy-six
centimos, but they needn't have made mincemeat of that nice china
bowl, and rags of the pudding-cloth," I said indignantly.
"Probably they thought that as mincemeat was also seasonable fare it
would be a proper accompaniment to the pudding," the Man said.
But the proof of the pudding is ever the eating of it. Its
misadventures over, ours turned out to be a prince of plum-puddings.
The flavour was perfection, and the size was such that we had to
call in the aid of our friends to eat it. Formal entertainments were
outside the scheme of life at the Casa Tranquila, but the Consul and
his wife came to supper--menu, hot plum-pudding and flaming brandy.
And some native friends came to tea--menu, plum-pudding toasted in
slices, and coffee.
Should future generations of Majorcans grow up in the quite
erroneous belief that the British serve rich black plum-pudding hot
at all meals, I'm afraid the blame must rest with us.
Palma is always bright, but at Christmas-tide an increase of
liveliness seemed to pervade the town. The shop windows displayed
new wares, and the streets were full of country folk pricing,
bargaining, and purchasing. The confectioners' windows were full of
large round cardboard boxes, each containing a sugar travesty of a
serpent, a weird reptile, reposing on a bed of sweets.
The market square at night, when it is usually deserted, displayed a
new and popular species of merchandise. Its outer sides were lined
with rows of stalls laden with slabs of native sweetmeats all made
in long blocks, and piles of tempting crystallized fruits. Other
stalls held nothing but the curious little figures of native
ware--men, women, animals, poultry, all very small--that the
Majorcan children use when, with the aid of cork, they build little
models of the Nativity in imitation of those seen at Christmastide
in the churches.
During the days preceding Christmas Day great preparations for the
feast were made. In the market the price of choice fruits and
vegetables rose a little. And the wide open space just without the
gate of San Antonio--the patron saint of swine--became a busy fair
devoted to the sale of pigs, turkeys, sheep and fowls.
The part whose colour and movement rejoiced the artistic soul of the
Man was that given over to the display of turkeys. The portion whose
comic element delighted the Boy and me was that devoted to the wards
of San Antonio, who, to judge by the shrillness and insistence of
their cries, was proving himself but an irresponsible and callous
guardian.
The peasant-women, neat in the native costume, gaily coloured
kerchiefs over their heads, their hair in pigtails, armed with long
rods, stood beside their flocks of turkeys. At intervals they
scattered handfuls of grain amongst them; but to do the birds
justice, they showed little inclination to stray.
On one side a long wall was formed of hooded carts filled with
turkeys. And round each brood was a little group of townsfolk,
making critical survey of the birds and, after a good deal of wordy
chaffering, purchasing. The other side was occupied by a long row of
fowl-sellers, who treated their wares with less respect; for
splendid cocks, their burnished plumage gleaming with a thousand
prismatic hues, lay helpless, their feet tied together, their bills
in the dust.
Sucking-pig being the favourite Christmas dinner in this land of
sunshine, by far the larger space was allotted to the swine. And
swine there were to satisfy all demands, from litters of tiny
sucking-pigs surrounding their mothers to pigs of quite
considerable bulk. As the pigs were sold by weight, it is safe to
say that there wasn't a thirsty pig in the market that day. And
while we saw few pigs being fed, we saw many being encouraged to
drink. Some of the salesmen stood by their laden carts ready, on the
approach of a likely customer, to thrust a hand into the mass of
swart animalism and extract a protesting squeaker. Others sat lazily
on chairs by their flocks, content to wait to be approached. While
some of the older herdsmen wore slung over the shoulders the
distinctive goatskin of their calling, most of the younger were
attired in suits of corduroy, sun-faded into glorious harmonies of
golds and browns and blues. We noticed that whilst certain of the
men dealt in turkeys, none of the women sold pigs.
And out of the city streamed the townsfolk, money in hand for the
purchase of their Christmas dinner. Ladies in mantillas, attended by
neat maids, bought turkeys; prosperous-looking tradesmen,
accompanied by pinafored shop-lads provided with bits of rope,
walked about pricing pigs; and lean operatives, with a hungry eye
for the yearly tit-bit.
It was after a pig had changed owners that the fun began. The market
being held outside the city walls, the purchase had first to be
taken to the _consumos_ shed to be weighed and have the duty paid on
it. And the pigs, although comparatively placid while yet in company
with their old comrades, when severed from them protested with full
strength of lung and limb. Then woe betide the luckless being whose
task it was to carry the agitator home. One man only did we see who
had had the forethought to bring a sack in which to carry home his
rebellious purchase.
Everybody appeared to have evolved a different method of conveyance.
Some men wore them as a collar round the neck, grasping the fore
feet in one hand, the hind in the other. Some tried to lead them,
with dire results. One flustered woman we saw had a child in her
arms and was dragging at the end of a string a plump young porker
that refused to walk. The majority, relinquishing any attempt at
suasion, simply clutched the furiously objecting quadrupeds
desperately in their arms and made the best of their way through the
streets.
Just as we were leaving the market we encountered a trio of elderly
ladies, attended by a demure little maid in pigtail and _rebozillo_,
whom we had noticed making a careful scrutiny before deciding. Their
choice seemed at last to have been made, for the young servant
carried in her arms, as tenderly as though it were a baby, a tiny
sucking-pig. So far it had uttered no complaint, but just as the
group turned into the street it awoke to the knowledge that
something untoward was happening, and with the energy of one thrice
its fighting weight, began squealing and squirming. In a moment
consternation fell upon the sedately pacing quartette. When we last
saw them a man had been hired to carry home the pigling, whose
lamentations still rent the air.
During the day or two that would elapse before the creatures were
sacrificed for consumption they appeared to reside in the bosom of
the family circles and to be treated as honoured guests. The fact
that a home was in a flat three floors up did not deter its
occupants from housing a four-footed edible guest. Turkeys strutted
in doorways and upon high balconies. Proud children escorted pigs
out for an airing.
Two days before the feast we noticed on a piece of waste ground just
inside the gate of Santa Catalina an enclosure roughly constructed
of planks and sacking. From a post fluttered a banner of brown paper
inscribed with the legend, _Se matan lechonas_ (Little pigs kill
themselves). And thither, the right moment having arrived, people
brought their pets. Within the enclosure, but in full view of the
public, the piglings were killed, soused with the boiling water that
was kept bubbling over a fire, scraped and made ready for the pot in
the twinkling of an eye.
On Christmas Eve we attended the midnight service in the Cathedral.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the streets of Palma were
unusually busy. Groups of people, the women and children all
carrying folding stools, or in some cases rush-seated chairs, were
walking sedately in the direction of the churches.
In the silver light there was something mysterious about the
succession of black-robed figures--the women's heads muffled in
black mantillas or black silk kerchiefs--that moved steadfastly
along the narrow mediaeval streets.
[Illustration: A Scene of Slaughter]
When we reached the Cathedral many people had already gathered. When
we would have taken our usual seats under the organ, one of the
canons in a robe of lace and rose-coloured silk approached and
whispered to me in French that that portion of the church was
reserved for men, but that I was free to take any place I liked on
the opposite side. Crossing the foot-high wooden barrier that had
been erected down the centre of the nave, under his escort, I set up
the sketching stool I had brought at the base of one of the great
pillars, and watched the edifice gradually fill with a reverent
throng of worshippers.
And now the necessity for the folding stools became evident, for
while the portion of the building allotted to men was well provided
with seats, only a great square of matting covered that half of the
floor-space that had been set apart for the women.
The Cathedral was brilliantly lit with electricity; and although
there was something inexpressibly affecting in the sight of the
kneeling multitude, to us the Cathedral lost much of the sombre
magnificence it had in the daytime, when, except for the candles
burning on the altar, the only light was that which stole in through
the stained-glass windows, and the greater part of the grand temple
was rendered impressive by obscurity.
Later, when we spoke of this to our friend the padre he agreed with
us. But, as he said in his irreproachable English, "What can we do?
The Cathedral is very large, and the people are not all good."
There was no respect of persons. Wrinkled old peasant-women and
lovely young members of the ancient Majorcan nobility knelt side by
side. The pew my men-folk occupied was shared by a gentleman in a
fur-lined coat, and two little ragamuffins who, oblivious of their
sacred surroundings, slumbered peacefully throughout the
proceedings, curled up snugly together like a pair of monkeys
nesting in a tree-top.
At a pause in the service a white-robed youth, supposed to represent
the Angel Gabriel, who was attended by two others carrying lighted
candles, appeared in a pulpit. He wore a scarlet cap and bore a
naked sword, and in a melodious voice chanted in Spanish _Sibila_--a
hymn that foretells the varied fates awaiting the evil and the good
at the end of the world.
At one o'clock, when we slipped out of the Cathedral, leaving the
multitude still at worship, and walked homewards through the
brilliant moonlight, all was hushed and peaceful. The signs of
carnage had vanished. The banner with the suicidal legend, _Se matan
lechonas_, no longer fluttered by the gate of Santa Catalina; and
only a few vagrant turkey feathers, blown about the roads, remained
to tell of the innocents who had been butchered to make a Christian
holiday.
Christmas, we had been warned, would be a quiet day in Palma: a day
of family greetings, of indoor festivities, when the streets would
be deserted. Any feasts we might have shared were far away in
fog-bound Britain, and neither turkey nor sucking-pig graced the
larder of the Casa Tranquila. The weather was idyllic, like the most
perfect of perfect summer days at home--even after more than two
months' experience of Balearic Island weather we had not ceased to
be surprised by its consistent beauty. So we decided to have a
picnic.
We had heard vaguely of a famous cave in the country behind our own
district of Son Espanolet--a cave important enough to afford shelter
to the people of Palma who, in thousands, had fled thither to escape
from a plague of cholera that sixty or seventy years before had
devastated the town. But while everybody seemed to know of the
existence of the cave, no amount of inquiry elicited information as
to its exact whereabouts. So on this lovely Christmas morning we
resolved to take luncheon with us and spend the day hunting for it.
I think it was the Rudder Grangers who wished to live in the last
house of a village, as by doing so they could be in touch with
humanity on the one side and with Nature on the other. Our own road,
the Calle de Mas, came very near answering these requirements, for,
being the last road in the little suburb, it met both town and
country. By walking to the end of the houses, over whose garden
walls oranges gleamed golden, and turning to the left by the
brand-new Villa Dolores, and past the old farm-house that stood
hedged in with tall cactus by the wayside, we were at once on the
verge of the beautiful rural scenery.
Our informant had been right. The street was empty. As we passed
along, a smell as of roast sucking-pig greeted us; but everybody was
indoors behind their closely shuttered windows.
The road that leads through the undulating almond and olive groves
towards Son Puigdorfila and the hills had never been so deserted.
And never had the air been softer or the mountains more mistily
blue. The leaves of the gnarled olives shone silver-grey beside the
dark, rich foliage of the carob-trees, and the white blossoms of a
honey-scented weed thickly flecked the green of the six-inch high
grain.
The village of Son Rapina, perched on its eminence, gleamed like a
jewel in the strong sunlight; but the path leading towards it showed
not a single traveller. For once, farm-work had ceased; the only
sound that reached us was a far-off musical tinkle from the bells of
a flock of goats as they moved about, seeking for fallen pods under
the great algarroba-trees.
The cave, we had gathered, was somewhere near Son Puigdorfila, but
when we had passed that country-house, and had wandered down the
valley towards the empty bed of the _torrente_, we found nothing
that in the most remote way suggested the presence of a cave.
We had almost abandoned the quest when a sound of bells warned us of
the approach of a herd of plump brindled asses, which appeared under
the guidance of an old man.
In his suit of faded blue cotton, with a goatskin slung over his
shoulders and a gaily striped kerchief bound round his brow and
knotted at the back, the long ends falling beneath his wide-brimmed
hat, and a tall staff in his wrinkled brown hands, he was a fine
specimen of the hale Majorcan peasant whose declining years hold no
greater physical discomfort than a gradual lessening of the full
strength of manhood.
He knew of the cave--_Cueva Fuente Santa_ he called it. Nay more, he
knew its history from the making to the present day. And while the
brindled asses browsed around us he told us the story of the Cave of
the Holy Well.
The Conquistador, it appeared, on setting out on his perilous
mission, had vowed to the Virgin that if through her aid he
succeeded in ousting the heathen from Majorca, he would signalize
his victory by building a noble Cathedral in her honour; and it was
in quarrying the stone from the steep ground by the side of the
_torrente_ that the great cave had been formed. He told us of the
refugees who, fleeing before the cholera, had camped there in
safety; and brought the record up to date by mentioning that to the
present day on the Sunday after Easter great crowds of the townsfolk
made a little pilgrimage to the Holy Well, to drink its waters and
to eat their _empanadas_--pies made specially of lamb for the
occasion.
The cave was near--only a little way, he added, as he hurried to
overtake his now straying herd. If we would proceed farther down the
side of the _torrente_ we would discover it, close by the old well.
So in the sunshine, which was warm without a trace of oppression,
for the sea air agreeably tempered the heat, we wandered on until,
in the side of a fir-topped bank, we found the cave.
And it was quite unlike anything we had imagined. To enter by the
wide square portal was to find oneself in a vast, many-chambered
hall. In quarrying out the interior the long-forgotten workmen had
left at intervals great rudely sculptured blocks that served as
supporting pillars to the roof. Four square holes, open to the sky,
afforded ventilation. Round the walls, and about the bases of the
pillars, had been hewn ledges which might have served for seats or
for beds.
At one point the roof had been blackened by smoke from the
fugitives' fires. But the whole interior was dry and airy. There was
not a trace of damp anywhere, and the sandy floor was one that
could easily have been kept clean and wholesome. It would have been
hard to imagine a more secure or a more sanitary place of refuge.
Down below, nearer the river-bed, was the quaint Moorish
well--square in form, with a domed roof. And looking down the valley
of the _torrente_ from the brow of the hill in front of the cave
where the fig-trees grew, we had a grand prospect of Palma
Cathedral, that from each variant point of view seems to gain a new
beauty.
An unwonted silence lay over the sunlit land. For once there was no
sound of human voice uplifted in song, and that aided the sense of
peace. The Balearic islander is the most skilful market-gardener in
the world. He makes roads that enable one to drive up one side of a
mountain and down the other with perfect ease. He builds walls that
look as though they would last throughout the ages and successfully
resist a shock of earthquake at the end of time. But as a vocalist
he is not attractive.