surprise him. He is unconscious of his lack of melody, and rather
fancies himself as a songster. The merry Majorcan plough-boy does
not "whistle o'er the lea." He sings, or rather chants, in a loud,
discordant voice, an artless recitative, apparently improvising both
words and music and weaving the little incidents of the day, the
trivial happenings of his surroundings, into his interminable lay.
When the Boy was painting in the beautiful undulating country that
lay between Son Espanolet and the mountains, he sometimes discovered
a reference to himself in the _pastorale_.
"_It is the painter English.
He is making a picture.
He has put Gabriel into it.
Perhaps he will put me also,
And my fine pigs._"
But though the voice of the herdsman might be unmelodious, it
mingled harmoniously with the jangle of bells as his flock of pigs,
goats, sheep, or asses moved slowly over the uplands under the
fragrant almond-trees.
The air was sweet with perfume of the wild lavender that grew in
profusion about the entrance to the caves. Not a soul was in sight.
It was with a quiet scorn of flesh-pots--even of those that
contained sucking-pig--that, sitting in the sunshine, we lunched
frugally off sandwiches, claret, and big yellow Muscat grapes.
We had left the Casa Tranquila with the understanding that the day
was to be observed as a complete holiday. Yet when the cave revealed
picturesque possibilities it would have surprised one unaccustomed
to the devious ways of the Man and the Boy to have seen how well
provided they chanced to be with working materials.
Leaving them busily sketching, I wandered about gathering the heads
of sweet lavender. I had a newly born ambition to fill a cushion
with the dried blossoms--an ambition that in England would have been
extravagant, but one that in this gracious land was to be gained by
a little charming labour. So with that feeling of absolute mental
content and of physical well-being that seemed to characterize our
Balearic days, I picked and picked and picked until the
luncheon-basket was full to overflowing with the purple-grey
flowers, and the subtle odour of sweet lavender encompassed me with
a cloud of fragrance.
Even in these days of late December I had never taken a country walk
without finding a fresh wild flower. To-day it was a rose-coloured
cornflower, _cyanus_; and in addition, growing close to the caves, I
came upon a fruit, or vegetable, that was quite new to me. The
latter was splendidly decorative. Imagine a giant tomato plant erect
and armed with aggressive prickles, that bore a profusion of apples
whose colour varied from green mottled with white in the unripe, to
brilliant yellow in the mature. I found afterwards that it is known
as the "Devil's tomato." Tufts of the pale pink heath flourished
under the pines, and on the slopes about the fig-trees my favourite
Japanese-like dwarf asphodel, whose white, starry blossoms were
striped with chocolate, were out in profusion.
The far-off tinkle of bells that, to our now accustomed ears, ranked
almost as a necessary accompaniment to the scenery, had gradually
been drawing nearer; and soon the troop of donkeys again appeared,
followed by their patient, kindly-faced herd. They were the only
living things in sight, and as they moved slowly along they
harmonized delightfully with the rustic surroundings.
Approaching nightfall drove us homewards, reluctant to end a day
that had been full of intangible charm. The record of its doings,
baldly set forth on paper, reveals a total lack of incident. The
preceding Christmas Day, spent at a seaside hotel in laboriously
enjoying the festivities of the season, we had almost forgotten.
These placid hours passed quietly in this country of sweet smells,
of gentle noises, of pure, soft air, we would always remember.
As we strolled towards Son Espanolet the setting sun seemed
determined, in honour of the day, to give an extra glorious display
of fireworks. And when the glow had faded from the mountains,
leaving them purple velvet, a vivid rose flush that melted into the
blue haze of the distance lingered long in the eastern sky. And just
above was the nearly full moon, a globe of shining silver. There was
no actual dusk, hardly any gloaming; for before the sun had sunk to
rest the moon, her lamp brilliantly burning, was ready to do duty.
[Illustration: After the Feast of the Conquistador, Palma
Cathedral]
XIII
THE FEAST OF THE CONQUISTADOR
It was the 31st of December, and the day was one of a long
succession of calm summer-like days. The sky was a cloudless blue,
and the air so warm that in the plantations beyond Son Espanolet
sundry over-zealous almond-trees, deceived by the brilliance of the
weather, were already bursting into premature bloom.
It was too fine to waste indoors the remaining hours of the year,
and the gay little town was always interesting. So we walked towards
Palma, and, after strolling down the mole and revelling in the
colour and movement of the harbour, we ascended the long flight of
steps leading to the ramparts, and, passing the Almudaina, reached
the Cathedral, whose grandeur and sacred beauty ever held a fresh
fascination for us.
Entering by a side door, we judged from the presence of certain
extra decorative trappings in front of the high altar that some
special service was in prospect. People were already seated in the
pews that filled the front portion of the nave. Finding places at a
side, we waited, listening to the joyous strains of the grand organ.
Just before eleven o'clock the great doors of the Cathedral were
thrown open, and the warm sunlight streamed into the sombre
interior. Then, through the hush of expectancy that had fallen over
the congregation, we heard the far-off beating of drums. Something
was, looked for--was even now on its way--we knew not what; but we
also waited, expectant.
Nearer the sound came, and nearer. From our side seats we could see
the guard in front of the Almudaina saluting, then from the brilliant
sunlight into the mysterious half-gloom of the Cathedral there passed
a quaint little procession, led by a drum-major gorgeous in scarlet
and gold. Behind him, three and three, came the drummers, still--even
within the sacred walls of the Cathedral--keeping up the _rat-a-plan_
with a vigour that seemed almost profane.
Half-way up the nave they turned aside and stood, rapidly plying
their drum-sticks; while, preceded by two mace-bearers in robes of
scarlet, their symbols of office over their shoulders, came in
evening dress the Civil Governor and the Alcalde, followed by
members of the Council. Behind, in uniform, came the Chiefs of
Police.
When they were seated--the Civil Governor, as representing the King,
being placed in a chair under an embroidered canopy, the others in a
specially draped pew alongside--the service began. At one portion of
the ceremony a priest with attendants mounted the pulpit, and in an
eloquent address related the whole story of the conquest of Majorca
by Jaime, the young King of Aragon, who on that very day six hundred
and eighty years before had entered the city.
In picturesque language and in fine declamatory style he told how
for many hundreds of years the lovely island had suffered under the
oppression of the wicked and tyrannical Moors. How prosperity had
rendered them only the more piratical and cruel, so that no
Christian ship was safe from their assaults. How, rendered yet
bolder by success, they even raided the Catalan coast, sacking
Barcelona, and killing its Count. How at length the indignation of
the Spaniards roused them to take action; and the heads of the
ecclesiastical, the military, and the royal sections meeting
together, resolved to fit out a fleet, and to dispatch an expedition
to wrest the island from the heathen. Under the handsome and daring
young King of Aragon the fleet of over a hundred and forty vessels,
containing an army thirty thousand strong, set sail. They left the
Spanish coast on the 1st of September, 1229, but the Moors made so
determined a resistance that it was the last day of the year before
the hosts of King Jaime succeeded in entering the town.
As in duty bound, the orator ascribed mainly to the influence of the
Church over the Catholic hearts of the people the success of the
expedition that had freed the Christians from their oppressors.
The oration ended, service at the high altar proceeded, while at
intervals gay, almost jocund, music burst forth from the grand
organ. The lightsome strains were infectious. The Alcalde
unconsciously beat time with his staff, and the fingers of the
youngest representative of the municipal government played an
imaginary instrument in time to the music.
There was such a decidedly Gilbert-and-Sullivan suggestion about the
sprightly air that one might be pardoned for expecting the chief
ecclesiastical dignitary to advance singing--
"I am the Bishop of this Diocese"
or for anticipating the attendant priests making hearty response--
"And a right good Bishop, too!"
Later in the proceedings the clergy formed into a procession, led by
white-robed acolytes and choristers carrying crucifixes and lighted
candles, and walked slowly round the Cathedral, chanting as they
went; the Civil Governor, the Alcalde, and the other representatives
of the Government bringing up the rear.
The impressive religious service ended, the drummers again fell into
line, and the civic dignitaries, with the mace-bearers, marching to
the sound of the drums, passed out into the sunlit streets.
Following in their footsteps, we sped towards the Town Hall, in
front of which, as we now gathered, the annual ceremony of saluting
the flagstaff of King Jaime the Conquistador was to take place.
There a gay scene awaited us. Detachments of soldiers, their bands
playing, lined the laurel-strewn space before the building. All the
balconies were full of spectators and the street was thronged with
what appeared to be the entire juvenile population of Palma.
With the arrival of the Governor and his escort the ceremony was
speedily completed. The flagstaff, which was heavily wreathed in
laurel, was carried round. Arms having been presented, the historic
trophy retired into carefully tended seclusion until another
anniversary would again bring it into prominence. The military
formed up, and to the sound of inspiriting music marched cheerily
off. The feast of the Conquistador was over.
The origin of the custom we found reached back into bygone ages. For
many centuries after King Jaime's death the people of Palma had an
annual procession on the anniversary of the taking of the city, and
walked through the streets with the banner under which their
deliverer had fought so valiantly carried before them, while the
entire populace prayed for the safety of his soul. The banner has
long since rotted into dust. Now the staff alone is borne, and apart
from the promenade inside the Cathedral there is no procession.
The inner chambers of the Cathedral guard a wealth of treasure, the
collection of centuries, and an inestimable array of relics, which,
through the courtesy of the church dignitaries, we had the privilege
of seeing.
One morning about ten o'clock, when we entered the Cathedral from
the sunlit streets, the faint blue mist of incense hung about the
high altar, and the sound of chanting echoed through the aisles. At
first sight the vast building appeared to be empty; but as our eyes
became accustomed to the perpetual twilight that reigns under the
great roof we became conscious of kneeling worshippers, dimly seen
through the obscurity--a young lady, her mantilla-framed face bent
over her rosary, an old man praying before one of the side chapels
where a faint light was burning.
We were expected. Our friend the padre, a dignified figure clad in
vestments of lace and fur, welcoming us with a silent shake of the
hand, led us noiselessly along a side aisle.
As, passing through a door that led behind the high altar, we caught
a glimpse of the officiating clergy, it almost seemed as though we
were behind the scenes at a theatre where some great life-drama was
being enacted. There were the stately and imposing performers, the
engrossed and scarcely visible audience.
Leaving us in charge of the brother priest who acts as custodian of
the treasure, our sponsor returned to resume his part in the
service. Preceding us through the sacristy, our new guide escorted
us to an inner chamber where, in an impregnable safe built in the
wall, the venerated sacred relics of the Cathedral are kept.
Carefully unlocking and throwing open the guardian doors, he
revealed a cabinet draped with a crimson curtain. Slipping behind
the drapery, he busied himself lighting candles. Then, reappearing,
he drew aside the curtain, revealing the almost startling
magnificence of the precious metal and rare pearls in which the
relics are enshrined.
One object--that occupying the place of honour--was carefully
enswathed. Bending low before it, the padre, with reverent hands,
withdrew the covering, showing an exquisite cross of gold, inset
with priceless gems and hung with strings of costly pearls. In the
centre of the cross--faintly perceptible through its encasement of
crystal--were some fragments of the true Cross. On certain
occasions, such as the service on Good Friday afternoon, this relic
is borne in procession round the Cathedral.
The custodian, who was an enthusiast happy in his appreciation of
and delight in his mission, proceeded to show us more of the
wondrous treasures of the old Cathedral. Among the things almost
too sacred to mention were three thorns from Christ's crown of
thorns, a piece of the purple cloth of His robe, a fragment of His
swaddling band, and a portion of a garment worn by the Virgin Mary.
A bone, black and shrivelled with age, was from the finger of St.
Peter. And an extremely interesting relic--one so veritably antique
that it is mentioned in the first inventory of the sacred trophies
belonging to the Cathedral--is the tip of one of the arrows with
which St. Sebastian, who is the patron saint of Palma, was killed.
Like all the other relics, this is carefully enclosed. Another relic
of the saint is the bone of his fore-arm, which is enclosed in a
case surmounted by a hand, on whose outstretched fingers are many
costly rings, votive offerings presented in gratitude by those who
believe they have benefited by his intercession on their behalf.
Two magnificent crowns, those that on special occasions are worn by
the effigies of the Virgin and the Holy Child, were also in that
safe in company with other valuables too many to catalogue.
The Mass was still in progress. While we gazed from the face of the
priest, which glowed with fervour, to the wondrous things he showed
us with such tender veneration, came a sound of chanting, the music
of boys' voices rising sweet and clear. There was still the first
impression of having been admitted behind the scenes--an impression
which the entrance of certain of the officiating clergy who came
into the sacristy to change their vestments served to deepen.
Leaving an attendant to extinguish the lights and re-lock the great
iron doors, the padre opened other cupboards and showed us a
plethora of riches, valuable not only for the material but for the
beauty and artistic skill of the workmanship. A crucifix bore an
exquisitely carven ivory figure of the dead Christ, and in the
hollow of the slender stem of a gold cup a craftsman of surprising
ingenuity had contrived to mould a representation of the Last
Supper, so minute in detail that it portrayed not only the table
with the company seated around it but also the food that was placed
before them. On the inner base of the vase, the executant of this
triumph of the goldsmith's art had graven his name, which I forget,
and his age, which at the date of the completion of this intricate
and original piece of work was sixty-nine.
Our guide did not scamp his task. He appeared to take both pride and
pleasure in it, and showed us everything, from the vestments, which
were rigid with gold and embroidery, to the massive silver
candelabra worth nearly seven thousand pounds, that are so heavy
that when they are moved into the body of the Cathedral for use
during special services, it takes four men to carry the top, and six
men the base, of each.
At three different dates, when long-continued drought had induced
privation, this silver has been sold for the relief of the poor; and
three times has it been bought back again, and restored to its place
in the Cathedral.
Until recently the embalmed body of King Jaime II. (who died in his
palace of the Almudaina just across the road from the principal
entrance to the Cathedral), which rested in a marble sarcophagus in
front of the high altar, was shown to the public on the 31st of
December, the anniversary of the day on which his father, the
Conquistador, freed Palma from the Moors.
The mummified corpse is no longer publicly exhibited, and the coffin
containing the remains has been removed to a recess behind and above
the high altar, where it rests awaiting burial.
By special permission we were allowed to see the body of the
monarch. The coffin, taken from the sarcophagus, had been placed on
a stone bracket. An attendant, mounting a ladder that leant against
the wall at the head of the coffin, slid back the lid. And in turn
we climbed up and, bending over, peeped into the open coffin to see,
through intervening glass--what? A royal robe of velvet and gold and
ermine, the lace-trimmed sleeves crossed at the empty wrists, and
above the neck of the garment a dark fleshless skull, with the brown
skin tightened over it, closed eyes deep sunk in the sockets, and
toothless jaws wide agape. A rose-pink velvet nightcap encased the
shrunken head of the monarch who, six hundred years ago, reigned
over Majorca.
[Illustration: The Coffin of Jaime II in Palma Cathedral]
The reign of this second Jaime, which extended over a period of more
than thirty years, would appear to have been an exceptionally placid
one for these warlike days. We know that he brought from Spain
cunning workmen who converted for his use the castle of the Moorish
Amir, the Almudaina, into a royal palace, and there a code of Court
etiquette was formulated and put into practice by the new monarch.
The wife of the Captain-General, who now occupies the old Moorish
palace, a few nights before we saw the remains of the former tenant
of the Almudaina, gave a reception in the form of a "tea-party"--the
guests to arrive at ten o'clock, the tea to be served at midnight.
One wonders what the nature of King Jaime's Court functions were--at
what hour his guests assembled, what the entertainment was, and when
they dispersed.
The imposing marble sarcophagus in which in times past these
remnants of royalty were entombed has been removed to a corner of
the cloisters, where we saw it standing forlorn and forgotten.
[Illustration: Market Day at Pollensa]
XIV
POLLENSA
We had intended deferring our expedition to the neighbouring isle of
Minorca till later in the season; until after the week or two of
cold weather that we had been warned to expect in January had
passed. But as the opening days of the year went by in brilliant
sunshine, and the temperature continued ideal, we felt tempted to
delay no longer.
It was the Man's suggestion that we should make a roundabout tour of
it, visiting first the old-world towns of Pollensa and Alcudia, then
sailing from the port of Alcudia to Minorca and returning from Mahon
direct to Palma.
So at daybreak on the 8th of January Bartolome appeared to drive us
to the station.
The sun had risen, Bartolome was smiling, and the hills beyond Son
Espanolet shone pink and heliotrope in the morning light as we drove
along; yet there was a sharp little nip in the air, and the
_consumeros_ were still shivering in their blankets, covered up to
their noses and cowering over their braziers. Without these
reminders we would have forgotten that it was the depth of winter in
the Fortunate Isles.
At Palma station the customary small bustle heralded the departure
of the morning train. The porter of the Grand Hotel was seeing off a
French couple who were going to Manacor to visit the Dragon Caves.
Among the little company of natives with their fringed shawls and
white muslin _rebozillos_ the French lady, who wore a smart
flower-trimmed toque on her golden hair and costly furs on her
shoulders, looked oddly out of place.
On this occasion the 7.40 train left with extreme punctuality, and
its rate of progress, though slow, was steady. The only other
passenger in our second-class compartment was a swarthy man who wore
a yachting cap, white shoes, and a striped blanket. He evidently
felt cold, and as he sat curled up on the seat his appearance was a
ludicrous combination of a member of the Royal Yacht Club and an
Asiatic hospital patient who had risen to have his bed made.
He was journeying to Inca, apparently for the first time, and when
he asked for information regarding the number of stations to be
passed before his destination was reached, it seemed reversing the
natural order of things that we foreigners should be able to give
it.
Nearly two months had passed since we travelled over the line, and
it was interesting to note the difference in the appearance of
things. Then the rich red earth had been furrowed by the plough, or
was in process of sowing. Now it was covered with long lines of
sturdy beans, or with springing grain level and green as a tennis
lawn.
The fig-trees and grape-vines were leafless now; but the evergreen
carobs showed the tender shades of the new leaves at the tips of the
well-covered branches. The olives wore their accustomed silver-grey,
but the first pale blossoms of the year flecked the almond-trees
with white.
We had taken _combinados_ tickets, and the second-class fare--two
pesetas thirty-five centimos--included the ten-mile coach drive from
La Puebla to Pollensa.
When we alighted at the station two diligences were waiting, one for
Pollensa, the other for Alcudia. Choosing the right one the Man and
I got inside with six other folk--three young men, two young women,
one old man, and a baby too young to count. The Boy went on the box,
luggage was piled on the roof, and the horses set to work to drag
their heavy load over the dry, newly mended road.
The Majorcan way of repairing a road is to put a layer of roughly
broken stones over the worn bits, then to block the smooth places
with chunks of rock, so that the unhappy travellers are perforce
obliged to do the work of levelling by driving over the loose
stones.
But though the way was rough and jolty there was no dust, and there
were no mosquitoes; and our company, including the brand-new baby,
was the soul of good nature. The young men and women chatted gaily
together in the harsh Majorcan dialect; the old man evincing a
friendly interest in the conversation, which difference of
nationality unfortunately rendered unintelligible to us. Once or
twice, when the subject under discussion appeared more than usually
entertaining, the Man and I whispered to each other, as we had done
before in similar circumstances, "If we could only understand what
they are saying!"
Our progress was slow, owing partly to the roughness of the road,
and partly, as the Boy later explained, to the fact that the driver,
who was a very old man, fell asleep at intervals, and only awoke
when the horses stopped.
Half-way to Pollensa we exchanged drivers with the coach that was on
its way to La Puebla; and our new man being wide-awake, matters
progressed more briskly. The Boy told us afterwards that, seen from
his place on the box, the scenery had been glorious; but from the
interior of the diligence it was impossible to gain more than a
general impression of lovely wooded slopes, and of distant hills
that seemed to draw nearer and nearer until, suddenly, while
Pollensa seemed still a long way off, we found ourselves in a narrow
lane lined with tall houses. In and out of the most tortuous streets
imaginable the diligence twisted, then abruptly came to a standstill
at no place in particular, and we realized that we had penetrated to
the heart of Pollensa.