Buenos Ayres, and while still young had been able to follow the
worthy native custom and return with his savings to his native
district, where he was now comfortably settled, farming his own bit
of land and driving his own pony-trap.
When we asked his advice as to where we might stay at Alcudia, he
said there were two hotels at the port, which is a mile beyond the
old city. The Hotel Miramar was the larger. But the proprietors of
the Fonda Marina were friends of his own. They were very nice
people. He could heartily recommend them. And here I may say that
one of the many nice features of the Majorcans is that they are
almost invariably on friendly terms with each other. If a shopkeeper
happens to be out of the commodity a buyer wants, he will put
himself out of his way to direct the customer to a brother vendor.
Alcudia is a curiously old city--far older even than Palma, they
claim. It has a distinct inner wall--Moorish--and many substantial
traces of an outer one--Roman. Entering by the gate of San
Sebastian--near which a much-chipped wooden figure of the saint is
sheltered in a netting-protected niche in the wall--we drove through
the corkscrewy streets and out by a gate on the farther side.
Before coming we had decided not to stay in the ancient city. Its
sanitary condition was supposed to be doubtful, and we had failed to
hear of an inn there. But when we had driven through the picturesque
Roman gateway and past the antique cross beyond, we looked back, and
the place seemed so enticingly old-world, so like a habitation out
of another century than ours, that we felt sorry we had made no real
endeavour to find a lodging within its walls. However, the
recollection that we would have to start about 3 a.m. in a small
boat to get on board the Minorca steamer reconciled us to the
prospect of living as close as possible to the harbour.
The Fonda Marina was an attractive-looking new house built at the
very edge of the bay. As we drove up, the host and hostess,
recognizing our driver, hastened out to welcome him. Before marrying
and settling down as hotel-keepers, the husband had been a steward
on South American steamers, and the wife had been cook to the former
proprietors of the _fonda_. Both were pleasant, frank country folk,
and terms were quickly arranged.
"We would like to stay here till the boat for Minorca calls
to-morrow night. Can you take us for three pesetas a day?" we asked.
"For three pesetas _each_?" the host inquired dubiously, as though
he thought we had suggested his accepting that sum for the trio. "If
for three pesetas _each_--yes, surely."
So, to the evident satisfaction of everybody concerned, the easy
bargain was concluded.
The Fonda Marina was particularly bright and airy. Its windows
overlooked the great Bay of Alcudia, from which, in olden times,
expeditions were wont to sail for Africa and the Levant. These were
the days when the kings of Spain built whole fleets from wood grown
in Majorcan forests.
There was a drawing-room whose three windows each commanded a
totally different point of view. It had a good balcony, and was lit
by home-made acetylene gas. Our rooms, which were clean and
comfortable, faced seawards. With a very long rod one might almost
have fished from their windows. A more enticing summer residence
could hardly be imagined.
Our hostess had promised that in a few minutes luncheon would be
ready. And it was with lively curiosity that we awaited its
appearance. The two Dromios had entertained us for the same sum; and
we were interested to see how the catering of the Fonda Marina would
compare with that of their caravansary.
Seating ourselves in one of the large halls downstairs, we waited
the turn of events. The mistress of the house had disappeared into
the kitchen, whence frizzling sounds expressive of hurried cooking
smote cheerily upon our expectant ears.
Presently a slim, dark-eyed young maid, Consuelo by name, hastened
out bearing an armful of plates which she proceeded to set at
intervals round a large baize-covered table near us. Then she added
thick glass tumblers, a tall jug of water, and a large rye loaf.
"I say," said the Boy, "there are _six_ plates. We're evidently
expected to dine with the family. That'll be fun."
But his hopes of a treat were disappointed by Consuelo reappearing
to invite us into a neat little dining-room whose existence we had
not suspected. There we found a table nicely spread for three, with
the elaborately monogrammed linen one sees in every Majorcan home,
good cutlery, a bottle of red wine, and a siphon of soda-water.
When we had taken our places our host himself placed before us a
large dish of _arroz_--the excellent native stew of rice mixed with
anything savoury in the form of fish, flesh, fowl, or vegetable that
happens to be at hand.
Fried fish followed--fresh out of the sea, and so delicious of
flavour that we were inclined to question whether those caught in
the bay of Pollensa could possibly be better.
While we were eating it, the hostess came in to ask what we would
have next--whether we would prefer an omelet or cutlets. We
unanimously chose omelet, and in a hand-clap one, hot and buoyant,
was on the table. Oranges and apples and black coffee completed the
menu.
During the meal, the solicitude of the family to see that we lacked
nothing that would conduce to our comfort was almost embarrassing.
The door of our dining-room stood open, and although the host and
Consuelo, who served us, did not actually remain in the room they
were continually passing the door with anxious eyes turned on our
proceedings. And when a dish was removed the senora would come in
person to inquire if it had been to our liking.
The climax came when the only child of the house--Cristobal, a dear
brat of five--in his desire to see the eccentric strangers eat,
crept stealthily up the staircase and stationed himself on his knees
just opposite the open door of the dining-room, gazing down through
the banisters at us.
This ingenious little manoeuvre was discovered by his father.
There ensued a sound resembling applause, and young hopeful was
borne off, howling, to be comforted in the kitchen.
Immediately after luncheon the Man walked back towards Alcudia to
sketch the view of the sea-gate of the old city, that had struck him
when we drove through. And, left to our devices, the Boy and I went
boating.
A jolly, flat-bottomed punt belonging to the _fonda_ was moored
close at hand, and just across the blue and silver water lay an
enticing stretch of lovely white sand. Behind it rose a bank of low
shrubs overtopped by tall pines whose foliage had been so cropped
that at a little distance they bore a striking resemblance to
cocoanut palms. Beyond the flat expanse of land rose a line of
mountains that glowed warm heliotrope and pink in the strong
sunshine.
The still water was so clear that we could see every grain of the
sand, every spray of seaweed, beneath. And as we drifted over the
lagoon we felt as though the intervening decade had slipped back and
that we were once again on the coral strand of the Pacific Islands.
I had heard that beautiful and, sometimes, very rare shells were to
be found in the Bay of Alcudia. So, getting the Boy to put me on
shore, I wandered along by the edge of the water looking for them.
But my quest proved of little avail. Shells there were, it is true,
but they were very small, very fragile, and almost colourless; most,
indeed, were pure white and nearly transparent. I have gathered
shells in many parts of the world, and I confess I was disappointed.
Still, it was the only point on which Alcudia did not far exceed any
expectations I had formed of it. The comparative failure of my
search must have been owing to the long continuance of calm
weather. As the Mediterranean is almost tideless, it is only after a
storm that wave-borne treasures are usually to be found washed up on
her beaches.
Perhaps I may not have looked in the right spot, though I did wander
a long way round the shore in the direction of the Albufera--the
tract of marshy land where rice is cultivated. So far, that I was
glad when the Boy, by skilful navigation, succeeded in avoiding the
many sandbanks and could run the punt in and, picking me up, row me
over to the _fonda_.
The Man was awaiting our return, and after taking a cup of tea we
walked eastwards along the coast towards an old Moorish tower that
we had seen from the distance.
The sun had set. It was in the mysterious half-light of the gloaming
that we mounted the steps leading to the door and found it open at a
touch. Within all was darkness. The flame of a match revealed
chambers showing that the tower had evidently been a home as well as
a place of defence. One had evidently been the living-room of the
Moorish tenants, for almost half the floor-space was occupied by the
wide chimney-corner, where a host might have gathered round the
blazing logs. I never see an ancient dwelling without experiencing a
keen desire to know what manner of folks were the first to kindle a
fire on the deserted hearth.
Feeling our way up the worn stairway, we reached a floor with more
empty and silent apartments. Two or three broken steps led to a
cunning opening placed exactly over the front entrance. Besiegers
essaying to storm the door must have fallen easy victims to the
alert watchers above; and that wide hearth had room to heat an
amazing lot of water. At either side of the opening were embrasures
into which the defender of the fortress might dart after he had
aimed his missile--scalding water, arrows, heavy stones, or whatever
the fashion of his time in projectiles chanced to be.
Mounting yet higher, we found ourselves standing in the open air, on
a flat circular roof overlooking the wide bay. On one side of the
roof were two chambers and a draw-well.
The view from the top of this ancient Moorish tower was grand. The
sun had long set, but the sky still held a thousand glorious hues
that were reflected in the sea. No craft moved on the surface of the
water, and not a living being was in sight on land. The whole lovely
world seemed to belong to us. Allured by the romantic beauty of the
spot, we lingered until the colour had faded and the sky had become
so dark that we had to stumble our way _fonda_-wards over the rough
field-track, vowing to return on the morrow to see the place by
daylight.
Supper was waiting when we got indoors--half-a-dozen fried eggs
served with fried potatoes, cutlets, cauliflower and cheese. A
home-made sausage, a mould of _membrillo_ jelly, fruit and
coffee--an _outre_ combination perhaps, but it was all very tempting
and nicely cooked, and we enjoyed it.
Another of our charming Balearic days had ended. And so, as Pepys
would say, to bed.
Our wonderful luck in weather continued. We awoke to yet another
perfect morning. Immediately after breakfast the Man set off to
sketch one of the countless curious antique Moorish wells--known as
_norias_--used for the irrigation of the crops: wells whose chains
of earthenware jars are worked by the motive power supplied by mules
that, yoked to a long shaft, keep walking in a circle. The mule
needs no guide, as the rein, which is tied to the beam overhead, at
intervals gives a gentle tug in the required direction.
It was oddly pathetic to see the patient brutes, their eyes
blindfolded by having straw saucers fastened over them plodding
steadfastly round and round, while from the ceaseless filling and
emptying of the chain of jars the water gushed in a miniature
waterfall into the trenches dug between the long lines of growing
vegetables. In this fertile plain near the sea, the crop at this
mid-winter season appeared to consist mainly of cabbages and
cauliflowers. And when we saw those grown at Alcudia we knew where
the mammoth cabbages that had dominated Pollensa market had been
reared.
[Illustration: A _Noria_ Near Alcudia]
The Boy had gone alone to do a sketch on the roof of the Moorish
tower that had interested us on the previous night. As he sat
working, there came a sound of steps ascending the crumbling stairs;
and to his pleasure three pretty Majorcan girls appeared, come to
fill their earthen water-jars at the old draw-well on the roof, a
well that even after the lapse of hundreds of years still continued
to yield an abundant supply of pure water. The girls were exactly
the figures required to complete the sketch. So to their
gratification and his own benefit the Boy put them in.
In the afternoon, the Man and I walked the easy mile to Alcudia, and
wandered about the quaint old town, climbing both the inner and the
outer walls, wishing we knew more of its history, and lamenting that
our limitations of language kept us ignorant of the meaning of these
extensive and variant lines of fortifications. So we made no
exhaustive inquiries, but prowled about and drew our own rough
conclusions as to the relative values of the Roman and Moorish
manner of building and defence.
Coming upon a handsome and imposing church, we went in. It was dark
and silent. Straying through the outer building, which had a vast
Moorish dome, we entered a curious and beautiful inner church, whose
sides were lined with the nearest approach to private boxes that we
had ever seen in a sacred edifice.
Returning to the outer church, we were looking at the decorations in
the dimness of the side chapels. The Man had struck a match to
enable us to see a grotto that was rendered still more obscure by
half-drawn curtains. The sound echoing through the silence brought a
lad, who was evidently intensely interested in the church and its
possessions. Lighting a tall candle, he drew aside the curtains, and
with something of the pride of ownership in his manner revealed to
us the Christmas tableau of the scene in the stable at Bethlehem.
His glory in the display was so evident that we did not remark on
the contempt for perspective that had represented the Virgin and
Child as giants, and the worshipping kings and shepherds as merely
pigmies; nor did we venture to hint that anything in the nature of
an anachronism marked the presence of a gay satin cushion at Mary's
feet.
The lad's soul was evidently in the work of the church. When we
thanked him, and the Man offered him a coin in recognition of the
willing services he had rendered us, he at first refused to take it;
then, when we insisted, accepted and immediately put it into the
collection-box marked "For the High Altar."
Our landlord had spoken of the remains of a Roman amphitheatre that
was in the district; and finding that we were interested, he
volunteered to pilot us thither. And, indeed, without his escort we
would never have found the place, for it lies in the heart of a
farm, the way to which leaves the main road half-way between the old
city and her port.
A commonplace path between stone walls led to the farm-house, whose
quite ordinary exterior gave no suggestion of the strange tracks of
bygone races that lay hid in the ground all about. Having asked and
obtained the permission that enabled us to trespass, we passed on
and reached a rocky slope which bore signs of having at some time
been used as a quarry.
To our unskilled eyes nothing seemed to promise that our
surroundings would prove other than the usual Majorcan farm placed
on a particularly rocky bit of country.
Our guide, who had been walking in advance, stopping suddenly,
pointed to the ground at his feet.
"There!" he said.
And looking, we saw that we were standing on the top step of a
barely distinguishable semicircle that had been roughly hewn in the
rock. With a beautiful disrespect for age, a stone dike had been
built right across the seats. I think we counted six rows above and
five below the wall. And in the arena flourishing almond-trees had
rooted deep in the once blood-stained soil. A hole in the ground
allowed a peep into a cavern where the wild beasts used in the
combats had been housed.
But the ground held other secrets. In the solid rock that rose above
the sides of the amphitheatre there were many graves--once sealed;
now, having been desecrated by bygone generations of Moors, merely
slits gaping to the skies.
About four years earlier a strange finding had taken place within a
few paces of the farm-house. An untouched Roman grave had been
discovered; and our guide, who had been present at the opening,
described the scene in language so graphic, and accompanied by such
dramatic gesture, that we had not the smallest difficulty in
following the most minute detail.
He told us how, when the hermetically sealed top stone had been
lifted away, the complete body of a woman, apparently young, lay
before them, as she had been placed two thousand years before, with
a necklace of gold round her throat, earrings in her ears, rings on
her fingers. And how, as they looked in awed silence, the body that
throughout these ages had maintained a semblance of humanity, had
before their eyes slowly crumbled into undistinguishable dust.
[Illustration: Ciudadela Seen from the Sea]
XVI
MINORCA
The weekly steamer from Barcelona to Minorca was due to call at the
port of Alcudia at 3.30 a.m. We went to bed, but not to sleep, for
half a dozen intending passengers, five of them commercial
travellers, had arrived by diligence from La Puebla, and the _fonda_
echoed with unwonted noise.
When, about three o'clock, we went downstairs, the large hall was
brilliantly lit, and men muffled in big cloaks and scarves were
gulping glasses of hot coffee before leaving the shelter of a roof.
In the public room beyond, some harbourmen and one of the
never-absent carbineers sat smoking.
A nondescript being--faded red cap on head, bare feet thrust into
hempen sandals--summoned by the landlord, appeared from the outer
darkness and, shouldering our baggage, passed out into the night. We
followed, and walking by faith, at length found ourselves standing
on the pier, the unseen water lap-lapping at our feet, an increasing
group of fellow-voyagers gathering about us.
Out of the dense blackness a boat with a lantern burning dimly at
her prow crept beneath us and paused. Some one lit a match,
revealing a short flight of steps leading to the water. Descending
with fumbling feet, we reached the elusive craft below.
A curious company we were, vague, indefinable, all closely packed
together, and all silent. A priest, a party of commercial
travellers, and a gaunt Moorish-looking being, who was wrapped from
his head--on which, as we afterwards saw, he wore, probably to save
bother in packing, a wide felt sombrero with a jaunty yachting cap
set a-top--to his naked ankles, in a great white blanket.
There was no moon, and the paling stars gave but little light as the
two boatmen, standing up facing the bow, moved the heavily laden
boat across the smooth swart water. Urged on with strong, unswerving
strokes, the boat moved away from the invisible land, the while we
sat dumb, motionless.
I was just thinking that in something of these attitudes of utter
and hopeless despair might the unwilling passengers of Charon endure
the last dread journey across the Styx, when the Boy, who was
sitting next to me, whispered, "Don't we look exactly as though we
were shipwrecked people adrift on the ocean?"
Then the bulk of the _Monte Toro_ loomed vaguely ahead, and as our
bow neared the accommodation ladder the elder boatman, abandoning
his oar, began collecting his fees of fivepence each (_dos reales_)
for piloting us over the bay.
The illusion had vanished. We were everyday human beings once more.
Before we left London a Spanish friend had strongly advised us to
travel second-class in Balearic Island steamers. He said the second
saloon accommodation was justly popular with those who knew,
because, first-class passengers being few, it was better placed and
more commodious.
The Man has cherished a lifelong theory that when journeying by sea
the best accommodation is not too good. But on this occasion of our
crossing from Majorca to Minorca, as the weather was still tranquil,
he allowed himself to be persuaded to put our friend's advice to the
test. And the experience of that night was so eminently
satisfactory that it not only added to our immediate comfort but
saved us much money in the future.
When crossing from Barcelona our first-class cabins, which were
small and had thwart-ship berths, had been situated in the stern.
The second-class cabin on the _Monte Toro_, which I shared with the
only other lady passenger, was large, airy, and as gay as ivory
paint, brass rods, and scarlet draperies could make it. It was right
amidships too, had two port-holes, and berths that for comfort could
scarcely have been improved upon.
The lighter with a load of pigs being still on the way, the decks of
the smart little steamer were quiet. A pet donkey, covered with a
scarlet blanket, was tethered under the sheltering boat deck; a
glint of gold lace in the galley revealed the captain warming
himself by the cook's fire.
When I entered the cabin labelled "Senoras," a pretty girl in a pink
petticoat was standing before the mirror engaged in exaggerating the
bulk of her abundant dark hair by padding it out with quite
unnecessary "rats" and cushions into twice its natural proportions.
Lying down, I fell asleep to the lullaby grunting of the pigs that
were being hauled on board. When I awoke it was daylight, and a
glance through a port-hole showed that we were nearing a flat coast.
The pretty pink petticoat had already gone on deck, and putting on a
cloak and hood, I followed to join my people in a sheltered corner
of the promenade deck, from where we surveyed the coast that we were
approaching with the deliberate rate of speed that characterizes
Balearic Island steamers.
The general aspect of Minorca, the flat country, the white houses,
the windmills, vividly recalled our first glimpse of Guernsey as we
had approached it early one winter morning many years ago.
Ciudadela, which is the oldest city in the island, was the capital
in the time of the Moors. It was to the rulers of Ciudadela that
King Jaime sent his demand for the submission of Minorca. From our
place on deck we could see Cape Pera, the eastern point of Majorca,
twenty miles distant, where the young King and his knights kindled
the huge bonfires that, by alarming the Moors into the belief that a
hostile army lay encamped there ready to invade them, gained him a
bloodless subjection. Ciudadela, which was the seat of a bishop in
423, is still the ecclesiastical capital of Minorca, though Mahon
has long superseded her in all else.
The sea is rarely smooth on the Minorcan coast. It was within a
short distance of Ciudadela that, not many days later, the _General
Chanzy_, bound from Marseilles to Algiers, was wrecked with the loss
of every soul on board with the solitary exception of one young man,
whose escape was surely the most marvellous on record.
As we lay to outside the very narrow entrance to the harbour, the
five _comerciantes_, who were preparing to go on shore, eyed askance
the tossing cockleshells of boats that were advancing ready to
convey them to land. By taking the motor-car that ran the
twenty-eight miles connecting Ciudadela with Mahon, which is on the
opposite extreme of the island, they would save three precious
hours. With the prospect of a charming sail along the coast before
us we did not envy them.
After a protracted delay the boats succeeded in approaching near
enough to the accommodation ladder to enable the commercial men to
embark. And they were off, clutching at the sides of the little
boats, as with rueful faces they joggled shorewards over the choppy
waves.
Our chilly friend of the enveloping blanket and the naked ankles,
who was a deck passenger, had, as the Man reported, spent the night
perched on a grating over the engine-room--a situation where he
would surely be warm enough. Where he performed his toilet no one
knows, but as we neared Port Mahon he appeared transformed from a
shivering bundle into a dandy. Neat black socks covered his ankles,
and his brown coat, orange shirt, and green velveteen trousers
revealed a nice taste for colour. His yellow-white blanket had
disappeared, but he still wore his two hats.