the first of the fourteen stations of the Cross, the final one being
at the Chapel of Our Lady of the Refuge on the summit of the
mountain. Each station was marked with an iron cross set in a rough
cairn of stones, and each exhibited a pictorial tile representing
the incident commemorated.
The rough mule-track had ended at the towered gateway, which was in
fine preservation. Just within was a piece of smooth turf shaded by
trees. The remainder of the narrow crest of the mountain was rocky
and tumbled. Round the less precipitous sides were the remains of
battlements and watch-towers. The side farthest from the plain was
naturally so steep and impossible of assault as to need no
artificial defence.
The views from the mountain-top they had found magnificent, and
worthy of a much harder climb. To the north the great mountainous
range that culminates in the double peaks of the Puig Mayor had
barred the prospect; otherwise most of the island had lain open
before them. Inca, Binisalem, Muro, and other cities of the plain
were visible, and the bays of Pollensa, Alcudia, and Palma. The
hills beyond Arta, the hill behind Lluchmayor, Cabo Blanco, and the
outlying island of Cabrera were all distinctly seen.
The point that struck the climbers as curious was that, though all
lay so clearly before them, the height prevented their being able to
distinguish any sign of life or to hear any sound from below. The
effect was almost as though the lovely land on which they looked had
been deserted.
When they turned their attention to their immediate surroundings,
the only sentient creatures they discovered were a small boy who was
in charge of the chapel, a great eagle that soared overhead, and a
few hens that clucked and scraped the barren ground outside the
building that had once been the abode of some hermit monks, but
which was now an _hospederia_ in the care of the boy's parents.
In the little chapel was a beautiful statue of the Virgin, while the
sacristy held a sad relic in the form of two rib-bones of the brave
defenders of the Castle of Alaro, who, after having been starved
into surrender, were cruelly burned to death.
The chapel, perched up among the mist-wreaths and mountain eagles,
was very small; so small that a large covered veranda had been added
to the front for the shelter of the pilgrims who flock thither in
order to obtain the forty days' absolution gained by the attainment
of its summit. Just beyond the veranda is a sheer drop down. The
prospect to be obtained from the out-jutting rock our climbers
described as awesome.
They were half-way down on the return journey before the mist that
had been floating about caught them in its clammy embrace. The
ascent had occupied about two hours, the descent nearly one.
Bidding our hostess farewell, we went up the street to a cafe for
afternoon coffee.
It was an unlucky hour. The schools had just closed for the day, and
though the cafe was only a dozen paces from the _fonda_, we reached
it with a train of children in close attendance.
Our demands for coffee with milk and cakes and _enciamadas_ caused a
flutter in the breast of the comely mistress of the cafe. Summoning
her daughter Catalina--who was just seventeen and even more than
usually attractive--from the corner where she was making
pillow-lace, the mother thrust a large decanter into one hand, a big
basket into the other, and dispatched her for supplies. Then she
fanned the charcoal stove, placed a tall wine-glass, in which were
two pieces of sugar and a spoon, before each of us, and retired
behind the little bar to await the return of Catalina.
As we too waited, our attention was attracted to the window nearest
our table, to find a row of small girls' heads, the eyes gazing
fixedly on us, lining the bottom of the lower panes. As the moments
passed the numbers increased. Girls with babies in their arms
augmented the back row. Taller girls peeped furtively from the
sides, and when caught affected to be engaged in reprimanding the
curiosity of their juniors. Two little girls, who had arrived too
late to secure any place, in desperation opened the cafe door and
peeped in. Needless to say, their boldness was rewarded with
ignominious expulsion.
It was with something of the sensation of menagerie animals when
awaiting the meal that people have paid extra to see them consume
that we looked for the return of Catalina.
It came at last, and in the twinkling of an eye the milk was emptied
from the decanter into a tin pannikin and set on the fire; and the
contents of her basket--which proved to be neither _enciamadas_ nor
cakes but rather limp _bizcochos_--were heaped on a dish on the
table before us.
The children who had been so lucky as to secure front places to see
the lions fed got good value. We were all thirsty; the coffee-pot
was kept busy, the pile of _bizcochos_ steadily diminished. When we
had finished and went over to where Catalina had modestly resumed
her lace weaving, the spectators changed their window the better to
accommodate their desires to the altered conditions. When we said
good-bye and left they accompanied us--babies and all. One
gipsy-looking child ran in front, glancing back at us. The rest
trotted in our wake, making occasional momentary delays to call
round corners and into doorways for their friends to come and see
the wild beasts.
When the circus, as the Squire called it, had reached the outskirts
of the town, many of our adherents fell away. But a staunch band of
eight or ten remained faithful, and not only escorted us on our walk
and back to the car station, but whiled away the time by chanting
and performing dances for our better entertainment, one male infant,
known phonetically as _Tomeow_, gravely turning a succession of
somersaults before us, and we wondered if the religious dances that
are annually performed in the church on the feast of San Roch, the
patron saint of the town, which occurs on the 16th of August,
accounted for their rudimentary knowledge of the art.
Constant to the last, they formed a semicircle about us while we
awaited the departure of the train, which took the place of the
tram-car in which we had arrived, and listened wide-eared as we
chatted with a corporal of the Civil Guard.
"The children of Alaro seem good," remarked the Lady, who has the
gift of saying graceful things.
"Good--perhaps," allowed the corporal, frowning disapprovingly at
our satellites, "but curious!"
There was no possible repetition of our delightful canalboat cruise
of the morning. Night had fallen when we began the return journey in
one of the smallest railway carriages in existence.
When we reached Palma rain was falling, and the view from the
carriage window, of a wet platform with the lamplight falling on
dripping umbrellas, vividly recalled the moist far-off land of our
birth.
But a few hours later, when we left the Grand Hotel, where we had
dined, the stars were shining above the dimly lit mediaeval streets.
Palma was herself again.
[Illustration: In the Dragon's Cave]
XIX
THE DRAGON CAVES AND MANACOR
Majorca has two groups of stalactite caves that are reputed to rank
among the finest in Europe--the Dragon Caves at Manacor, and the
Caves of Arta which are near the most easterly point of the island
and far from a railway.
Life at the Casa Tranquila was so pleasant that none of us really
wished to leave it; yet a sense of duty urged that these sights must
not be ignored. At first we thought of visiting one or other of the
series of subterranean wonders, but opinion seemed so equally
divided as to which was the finer that, in perplexity, we finally
decided to see both and judge for ourselves.
The weather favoured our reluctant departure. The sun had just risen
into a cloudless blue sky when the bells of Bartolome's chariot
jingled at the door, and with the crumbs of a hasty breakfast still
clinging to our lips we hurried stationwards to catch the morning
train for Manacor.
We had spoken of going first to Arta, and a day or two later
returning to Manacor and the Dragon Caves; but on the journey we
made a chance acquaintance that had the effect of changing our
plans. Two Englishmen, arrived that morning from Barcelona and
giving five days to a rapid survey of the island, were going to the
Dragon Caves. It was quickly arranged that we should view them in
their congenial company.
As a place to stay at in Manacor our Majorcan friends had
recommended the Fonda Feminias, and there we went on arrival, to eat
an early lunch and secure rooms for our return.
The _fonda_, which has an architecture peculiarly its own, is
situated right in the centre of the town. The large loggia, off
which most of the sleeping apartments open directly, overlooks the
fine church that is the pride of Manacor. My room, which was on the
floor beneath, had a nice little sitting-room attached. I mention
this specially because a lack of sitting-rooms is usually the weak
point of Balearic _fondas_. The charge, arranged on arrival, was
four pesetas a day, including the little breakfast.
Lunch was quickly served in a large dining-room that was as quaintly
original as the rest of the house. It had ten doors, four corner
cupboards, and no windows. Light was admitted through two small
cupolas in the roof.
No time was lost. When we had eaten, a carriage was waiting to
convey us to the caves. Just at the moment of starting a man,
appearing from nowhere, silently seated himself on the box. He
turned out to be the guide for the caves, an indispensable
individual.
The road to the coast, for one that was neither particularly steep
nor crooked, was amazingly uncomfortable to drive over. Cruel
patches of the sharp stones with which the roads are mended scarred
the way. We bounced here, and bounced there; now surmounting an
acclivity and catching a glimpse of the blue sea, now dipping into
a hollow. It was a gratuitously bad road; evil alike for driving,
walking, or cycling over.
When we reached Puerto Cristo the carriage drew up beside two empty
vehicles at the back door of a little _fonda_ that is said to be
famed for its omelets and its pretty girls.
Passing through a room where a table was set for lunch, we reached a
trellised enclosure overlooking a charming little cove on whose
waters a boat was sailing.
The silent guide, who had lingered indoors to prepare his acetylene
lamps, appeared with them already lit; and, following in his wake,
we set off, past a few fisher houses in whose doorways sun-tanned
boys were baiting lines, across a bridgelet that spanned a slender
arm of the sea, and up a rough track over a moor so brown and bare
that it might have been in Devon. Judging by outward appearance, it
was the last place where one would have anticipated finding a cave
of even the smallest dimensions.
As we went we met two parties of Spaniards who had been seeing the
caves and were now returning. It was for them that the carriages
waited and the omelets were being prepared at the _fonda_ of the
three pretty girls.
Just as we were wondering if our taciturn guide would ever consent
to humour us by producing a cave, he headed for an opening in a
stone wall. Entering, we were confronted with a barred window and a
locked door set in the side of a slope.
Producing a key, the guide unlocked the door, then when we were all
inside he carefully re-locked it. A breath of warm exhausted air met
our faces. The guide, still preserving his impenetrable reserve,
removed his coat, and the Boy, fortunately remembering the advice of
an experienced friend, counselled us to follow his example. An hour
and a half of hard going was before us. The temperature, which was
high even in the entrance hall, was likely to increase as we got
farther underground. So the men in shirt-sleeves and myself in a
thin net blouse meekly pursued our dumb conductor down a flight of
roughly cut steps that seemed to lead right into the bowels of the
earth.
Walking in advance, the guide flashed his light upon all sorts of
varied wonders, from caverns so hideous and grimy that they looked
as though coated with the refuse of a coal mine, to banks of
glittering crystals or stalactites of glistening semi-transparent
amber.
At one point he drew aside, and stood mutely pointing in advance.
Thinking he meant us to move on, I was walking forward, when he drew
me back just in time to prevent my stepping into a lake so clear and
pellucid as to be absolutely imperceptible.
That was the beginning of the water effects that lend enchantment to
the Caves of the Dragon. The Dragon himself is but a poor thing,
diminutive and wholly unworthy his surroundings. We saw him. He was
pointed out, sneaking up a pillar, a truly undignified position for
any creature owning the romantic and awe-inspiring cognomen of
dragon. And, speaking confidentially, the humble name of lizard
would suit him better.
The lakes and pools are indisputably lovely, and the charm of the
Cave of Delights quite roused our enthusiasm. Imagine an azure lake
overhung by myriads of glistening pendants. Near the centre a low
pile of stalagmites suggestive of a fortress rose out of the water;
from the miniature fortress extended a reef in the form of a cross.
Stepping thereon, the guide set fire to a piece of ribbon which
illumined the farthest recess of the cave, revealing new and
unguessed beauties, and rendering the scene one of almost
supernatural loveliness.
Then came more caves and yet more. Up steps we went or down steps,
getting hotter and hotter in these airless depths as in single file
we "ducky-daidled" after our laconic conductor. Once, deep in some
gruesome cavern, he announced that the name of the place was the
Cave of the Catalans, and in reply to our question explained, with
something of animation in the recital, that some years ago, before
the entrance to the caves was guarded by lock and key, two young
visitors from Spain had conceived the idea of exploring the caves
without the aid of a guide. Twenty-seven hours later they were
discovered in that repellent spot, deep in a dismal subterranean
passage.
It must have been soon after hearing this suggestive story that some
one asked the guide if he could find his way out without a light.
And when he confessed that he could not, we all secretly wondered
how long the gas in the lamps we carried was calculated to burn; but
we were all too considerate of the feelings of each other to express
our thoughts.
It was distinctly reassuring to remember that if the worst had
befallen, if the man on whose guidance we trusted had been seized
with illness or had met with an accident and the lamps had gradually
flickered out, all we need do would be to sit down and wait; for the
driver of our carriage, finding we did not return, would have routed
out another guide, and we would soon have seen the lights of the
search party gleaming among the pendants and pillars.
At one point we were refreshed with water from a cleft in the rocks,
served in a tumbler that was kept inverted over a conveniently
placed stalagmite. Then we resumed the tramp. The sights seemed to
be endless, and one of the best--the Lake of Miramar--was reserved
for the last. About fourteen years ago this extensive waterway was
made the subject of special exploration by M. Martel, the French
expert. With the aid of a collapsible boat he spent a week in
investigation, and at its close was obliged to leave the farthest
reaches of the caves yet unexploited.
Hot, clammy and tired, we had returned to the cooler air, and,
resting upon the stone benches within the doorway, were refreshing
ourselves with tea hot from a Thermos bottle, when the guide,
suddenly dropping the mantle of reserve that had cloaked his
pilotage, told us the story of the discovery of the Dragon's Caves.
As he sat, a _coca_ in one hand, a square of chocolate in the other,
he became almost loquacious for so taciturn a being. The history
proved curiously limited for such remarkably extensive caverns.
It began one wet day about thirty years earlier, when his father,
who had been out shooting, took shelter in a cleft of the rocks to
eat his breakfast. Happening to drop a loose pebble through a chink
in the ground, he was surprised to hear by the sound that it had
fallen into a cavity of unexpected dimensions. That accidental
observation led to the research that opened the Dragon's Caves to
the admiration of a curious world.
Clothed and cool, though dusty and soil-stained, we regained the
open air, where a group of small orchid plants growing beside the
path attracted us. They were the fly orchis, and unusually perfect
specimens. The neatest, most insect-like little flies I have ever
seen poised amid the green leaflets on the slender stems.
A glorious sunset was flooding the sky with colour as we lurched
towards Manacor over the brutal road. The tall towers of the church
of this city of the plain stood out sombre and imposing against
glowing roseate banks of cloud.
We had been discussing the puzzling appearance of the building,
which had a faint resemblance to the Russian style of ecclesiastical
architecture, and none at all to any other known school. Scaffolding
still encircled the high steeple, and as we drew near the church it
appeared as though exciting operations were in process. A constant
stream of people entering the edifice was jostled in the passing by
a rush of men, lads and boys, who were hurrying out propelling or
dragging hand-carts and trolleys laden with blocks of stone, of
which heaps were already piled about the exterior of the church.
A useful rule in travelling, if you want to see what is going on, is
to follow the crowd. Moving with the throng into the church, we
stood astounded at the scene of destruction before us.
The interior of the lofty building was a riot of wild commotion. The
air was full of fine dust. By the light of the lanterns which showed
dimly through the obscurity, we saw the great white dome rising to
the sky; and on the floor beneath, two huge pyramids of broken stone
and mortar.
On the crest of the mounds vague figures were visible, working with
almost feverish energy to remove the vast heap of _debris_. The air
was vocal with the noise indispensable to violent and concerted
action. And the raucous sound of the wheels grinding on the stone
floor as a willing band seized each laden truck to propel it out of
the church added to the unholy din.
[Illustration: Manacor]
The whole scene was so unexpected, so foreign to the manners of the
twentieth century, that to our bewildered minds it almost appeared
as though history had slipped back and we had become spectators of
some iconoclastic mob engaged in the sacking of the church.
It was a relief to find the labour sanctioned by the presence of
priests, who looked with benign approval at the frenzied efforts of
the workers.
One of the number, seeing that we were strangers, and probably
guessing at our bewilderment, kindly approached, and, with quiet
pride illumining his fine old face, volunteered an explanation of
the exciting scene before us.
The clergy of Manacor, seeing the need of enlarging their already
important church, had appealed to the people. The people promptly
agreed to help, and the work of extension was quickly proceeded
with, the labour being entirely local, even the statues that adorned
the niches having been carved by one of the priests.
The walls of the new church, gradually rising, enclosed the ancient
building, in which service continued without intermission to be
conducted. When the new walls were complete, the floor of the
edifice was thickly covered with pine branches; and after Mass had
been celebrated on the very morning of our arrival at Manacor, the
ancient walls that had so well served their purpose were pulled
down.
After the inevitable blinding dust had settled a little, the labour
of clearing away the _debris_ began. And we had returned from the
Dragon Caves just in time to witness the multitude of helpers
exerting their utmost strength to restore by lamplight the interior
of the church from chaos to order.
When we first viewed the scene of demolition the labour required
appeared so herculean that it seemed as though toil that was merely
human could make but little impression. But four hundred willing
hands can accomplish marvels, and when we returned two hours later
one great mound had been mostly cleared away, and the other was
visibly diminished.
With unabated enthusiasm the work was proceeding. When roused to
their utmost effort there is no lassitude about these sturdy
Majorcans. Strapping lads, shouting the while, seized each laden
barrow and dashed off to empty it outside. Small boys imagined they
were helping by pushing behind with an admirable assumption of
strength, and adding their shrill voices to the clamour. Some of
the smallest, with an air of importance, carried out single stones.
Near where we stood a hole had been opened in the floor, and into
the vacuum beneath a band of youthful assistants was emptying
baskets of small stones and dust.
Most of the labourers were of the thick-set Majorcan type, but at
regular intervals a tall handsome young man--a veritable son of
Anak--clad in a pink shirt, light blue trousers, and a wide felt
hat, appearing out of the mist, advanced to the edge of the gaping
hole and discharged into it the contents of a large basket of
rubbish. He seemed to work alone, speaking to no one, and moving
with the silent precision of a machine.
The women kept strictly aside, taking no part in the work. In dark
corners of the ancient chapels that had been left untouched, a few
black-robed old women knelt in prayer. And near us a group of pretty
girls stood tittering and whispering. At one moment human nature
proved too much for some of the youths who had been passing us in
relays, bearing on their heads great bundles of the pine branches
that had been laid down for the preservation of the flooring. Making
a species of organized sortie, they rushed towards the girls,
brushing their faces with the ends of the dusty greenery. The girls,
giggling and squeaking, fled before the onslaught, but soon stole
back to resume their position as spectators.
When work ceased for the night an incredible change had taken place
in the interior of the church. And next morning, as we dressed, the
sound of boys' voices chanting came in through our open windows. The
people were already worshipping in their new church. For one evening
only had service been suspended.
During the labours of the previous night the women had perforce
remained quiescent. It was now their turn to help. Active females
carrying brooms were to be seen hastening through the sacred
portals, to emerge later vigorously sweeping clouds of dust before
them. One small girl had a baby tucked under one arm, while she
industriously plied a broom with the other.
When we took a final peep into the church before seeking the
afternoon diligence for Arta, the yawning fissure in the floor had
been cemented over, and rows of benches stood ready placed for
evening service. An inconsiderable heap of rubbish in a side aisle
was all that remained of the apparent desolation of the day before.
[Illustration: Arta]
XX
ARTA AND ITS CAVES
We met the diligence for Arta at Manacor station, where the
single-line railway ends on a track so grass-grown as to suggest
that it had, inadvertently, strayed into a field. Were the engine to
diverge a yard or two from the rails it would wreck the
stationmaster's goat, make havoc of his family washing, and
devastate his prickly-pear patch.
The Arta diligence, a spacious vehicle, supplied with good horses
and a capital driver, leaves the station yard immediately after the
arrival of the afternoon train from Palma. Should a sufficiency of
passengers arrive by the morning train, a diligence would start then
also; but the afternoon coach is a certainty. The distance is 20
kilometros, and the fare is three reales (sevenpence-halfpenny).