typical set of travellers by diligence--a priest, a soldier, one of
the very new recruits who had a six days' leave to visit his home; a
specimen of the pleasant elderly countryman who is the inevitable
accessory of such a journey, and two commercial travellers that we
stopped to pick up as we passed a draper's shop in town.
Our driver was a man of decision. Little time was lost over
starting. Five minutes after the train had entered the station we
dashed out of it at a pace that threatened to make the distance
between us and Arta seem far too short.
It was a perfect evening for driving. There was no wind, and the
rain of the previous night had laid the dust. The road was a good
one, broad and level--very different from that over which we had
bumped and joggled on the previous day. The sinking sun cast a
glamour over a land that was at any time beautiful. The swift motion
was gloriously exhilarating. Perched up on the box seat, the Man and
I felt radiant with the sheer joy of being alive as we drank in the
sweet bean-scented air, and watched the approach of the picturesque
groups of farm folk who were returning townwards from their day's
work in the fields. Our driver, Canet by name, seemed to be popular.
Sunburnt faces looked up to smile him a greeting. Laughing girls
crowded into ramshackle carts exchanged gay repartee in the passing.
As we drove onwards the surroundings became less flat, and in the
distance a range of sugar-loaf hills--the mountains of Arta--appeared.
About half-way on the journey we jingled through a nice little town,
San Lorenzo, where grape-vines grew on the walls of the houses that
lined the narrow streets, and old, old wives sat on the doorsteps
taking their ease.
Beyond San Lorenzo hills rose about us, and the road ran between
tracts of uncultivated ground. Here, too, the road was busy with
returning labourers in delightfully quaint groups. Many of the men
wore their blue cotton shirts outside, like blouses, and all wore
wide-brimmed hats of straw or felt.
Each family party was accompanied by an animal--an ass or an ox, a
goat or a black pig. What struck us as being funniest of all was to
see the understanding way in which, in every instance, the pigs
trotted sedately beside their owners, exactly like well-bred dogs.
Then the road rose high between pine woods whose undergrowth was
thick with the withered blossoms of heath, and we traversed a
mountain pass up which the men walked, before rattling inspiritingly
down the farther side.
We were still some distance from the town, and the wayfarers we
overtook had their faces turned towards it, when it became quite
dark--too dark to distinguish anything except vague outlines of
mountains.
Leaving the smooth white road along which we had sped so bravely, we
entered a narrow street thickly strewn with a misery of sharp jagged
stones that made advance a penitential progress for both man and
beast. And Canet, turning towards us, said impressively:--
"We are in Arta!"
Our destination in Arta was the Fonda de Rande, which had been
warmly recommended by our friend the padre at Palma, but when the
coach drew up in front of the Cafe Mangol we alighted, to find
ourselves literally in the embrace of its voluble landlord. By
pledging our word to hire a carriage from him on the morrow we
obtained our release, and with Canet acting the dual part of guide
and porter, we retraced our steps for a few yards along the dark,
stony streets.
In speaking of the Fonda de Rande the padre had described the Senora
Rande's cooking as being excellent, her charges moderate, and her
house the cleanest in Arta. After two nights' experience we not only
endorse his statements, but go further, and say that her house is
the cleanest in all Majorca, and that is saying a very great deal.
Within half an hour a meal was before us--a dish of pickled fish,
another of fresh fish, hot lamb cutlets and fried potatoes, sweet
oranges, and plums of the senora's own drying.
Our rest that night was luxurious. The beds were soft, the blankets
light and downy. We slept until the hour when a man promenaded the
town blowing blasts on a seashell to call the people to their work.
Before we had left our rooms ponderous steps resounded in the
passage outside our doors. It was the proprietor of the diligence,
brother to the host of the Cafe Mangol, come in person to ask at
what time we would require a carriage for our visit to the caves.
Having promised to be ready an hour later, we descended to the
dining-room, where, after we had drunk our glasses of coffee, the
senora insisted on refilling them: an attention without precedent in
our experience of Spanish hostelries.
Breakfast over, we sallied out in quest of provisions for our little
expedition, a somewhat difficult matter, for the shops at Arta are
even more independent of signs than those of the other Balearic
towns.
A little questioning revealed a quite unexpected house to be a
baker's. The apartment next to the street was fitted up with a
counter; but its window was closely shuttered, its shelves empty. To
all appearance the entire business of the establishment was carried
on in the bakehouse at the back, where, in full view of a pile of
egg-shells and other evidences that proclaimed the genuineness of
the ingredients employed, we bought little square sponge-cakes hot
from the oven.
Boldly entering another shop, which we knew to be a greengrocer's by
the orange-hued gourd and basin of parsley on the doorstep, we found
it half shop, half weaver's workroom. In one part the mistress and
her daughter sold vegetables, boots, and many other requirements of
both outer and inner man. In the other the portly father wrought at
his hand-loom, weaving the strong dark-blue cotton material so much
in use locally.
Having bought a supply of sweet little mandarin oranges at twopence
a dozen--just half the Palma price--we returned to the _fonda_ to
find the carriage, with Canet and the two horses that had made such
light work of the diligence, waiting in readiness to take us to the
caves.
[Illustration: Towards the Parish Church, Arta]
It had been so dark when we entered Arta that it was not until we
left the town and looked back that we realized how picturesquely it
was situated. The blue mountains form a wide circle round it, and in
the centre of the clustered houses a hill crowned with church towers
rises grandly.
Arta is a district of rural occupations. The fresh butter of the
island is made at Son Servera, a village close by. On our way
coastwards we met many interesting and paintable figures. Here an
old man with a scarlet and yellow handkerchief tied under his hat,
and a shaggy goatskin bag slung over his shoulder, herding a flock
of kids; there a handsome girl, whose petticoat had faded to an
adorable shade of crimson, and whose fingers were busy plaiting the
strands of the palm-leaves as she watched by a cow that looked, as
so many of the island cattle do, like an Alderney.
The fields on either side of the road were planted with flourishing
trees of almond and olive and fig. Assuredly in their season no
traveller need go hungry in any Majorcan road. He has only to help
himself. They say that if a native sees a stranger taking his fruit,
in place of upbraiding he will volunteer with sincere good-will to
show him the tree the flavour of whose fruit is finest.
At a lonely bit of the way a contented-looking little group,
consisting of a fine, stalwart lad in light-blue cotton, a smiling
matron in workaday dress, and a plump black pig, stood at the corner
of a field by the road to watch us go past.
As we neared them the radiance that illumined their faces found
reflection in those of the Boy and Canet.
"It's the soldier who travelled in the diligence last night," the
Boy explained. "That must be his home. He is one of the new
recruits, and had six days' leave to spend with his mother. Don't
they seem to be enjoying it?"
And they did. Even the black pig radiated supreme contentment.
High up on the left as we journeyed we saw a little ancient-looking
town grouped about the lower slopes of an eminence whose height
seemed to be crowned by a castle surrounded by defences. It was
Capdepera, a relic of antiquity of which we knew but little, and
instantly resolved to learn more.
The way to the Dragon Caves had been across a bald moorland. That
leading towards the Caves of Arta was down a fertile valley, that
through the efforts of skilled husbandmen had been brought to a high
state of cultivation. In a field by the wayside clumps of narcissus
were blooming unappreciated, and as we came near the cliffs we saw
that their rocky sides were yellow with a species of gorse which
grew in cushioning clumps.
When we were within easy distance of a fine, sandy bay, flanked on
the east by a towering cliff, a man left the solitary house which
stood in the middle of the valley and came towards us.
"That is the guide," Canet said, pointing his whip-handle in his
direction.
The guide to the Caves of Arta was a lean, middle-aged man, whose
well-cut face suggested an innate appreciation of humour. When we
stopped he mounted to the box, and we went on slowly, for the sandy
road was heavy.
A little farther on we drew up again. A woman, supporting with both
hands a tray containing something edible, had left the house and was
hurrying towards us across the field. When she got near we saw that
the tray contained three of the large pastry turnovers that, in
outward appearance, at least, so strongly resemble Cornish pasties.
"I could do with one of these turnovers. I wonder if she sells
them?" said the Boy, as she climbed to the box beside her husband
and the genial Canet.
"A turnover wouldn't come amiss," agreed the Man. "I suppose she
sells them."
But the woman did not offer her provender to us. The guide got one.
I suspect Canet of getting another. The third was probably the
cook's own dinner.
Leaving the carriage, we turned to the left of the lovely bay, on
whose sands rollers were breaking, and walked along the mile of
delightful path that runs along the side of a precipitous
pine-covered cliff. Beneath us roared the sea; from above came the
murmur of wind-tossed pines, with whose perfume the air was
fragrant, but the way was warm and sheltered.
Our guide, who accompanied us, kept modestly in the rear. It was
only when we waited for him, and discovered that he was engaged
lunching on one of the hot pasties, that we understood his
reluctance to join us. To judge by eyesight, the pasty was stuffed
with spinach and prunes. To judge by another sense it was stuffed
with garlic.
We were naturally eager to compare the attractions of the Caves of
Arta with their rivals of Manacor. A striking contrast was evident
from the first sight. The approach to the Dragon Caves had offered
no suggestion of the glories within. The exterior of the Caves of
Arta, viewed when, turning away from the sun, one mounted the big
flight of steps leading to the vast opening in the face of the
cliff, was sublime.
When we had climbed the steps and were standing in the entrance-hall
under the great overhanging roof, where maidenhair-fern grows green,
the guide, kneeling on the ground before a lot of tin vessels, made
a stock of acetylene gas to light our journey through the darkness.
He had removed his hat, and as, with his mind intent on his work, he
carefully mixed the ingredients, he suggested some magician
preparing for some uncanny rite.
While he was occupied with his incantations we surveyed our
surroundings, and for the first time were able to understand how the
Moorish refugees, who at the capture of Palma fled in vast numbers
to the caves, were able, for so protracted a period, to defy the
army of the Conquistador that had followed them thither.
Beneath the wide opening the cliff falls precipitously to the sea.
High above it the overhanging roof forms a protective hood.
The rocky sides and floor of the caves afforded an endless supply of
the rough-and-ready missiles popular in those days. A more perfect
natural stronghold could hardly be imagined. And but for a clever
stratagem on the part of two brothers, members of that band of
intrepid young nobles who so ardently supported their valiant
leader, the Moors might have held out interminably. These two
brothers scaled the cliff, and, having reached the point directly
above the mouth of the cave, threw lighted firebrands down upon the
huts and defences that were clustered on the rocky shelf beneath,
with the object of setting the huts on fire and filling the caves
with suffocating smoke. But the caves were so extensive that even
this ruse did not quickly prevail. And it was not until Palm Sunday,
1230, three months after the taking of Palma, that the fugitives
surrendered.
Shouldering an iron rod, from which were suspended two lamps, the
guide announced that he was ready to start. There was no need to
take off coats. The caves were so spacious and lofty that the
temperature was pleasant, and although the distance to be traversed
was considerable, the work of seeing them was not fatiguing.
The attitude of our present guide was different from that of the
former. The guide who showed us the Dragon Caves trotted us through
them in the business-like fashion of a man who is paid a fixed sum
for performing a stated task. He wasted few words, and was, we
thought, a trifle stingy in the matter of magnesium wire. The moment
of his expansion came only after unexpected tips had been added to
the amount of the regulation fees. But Amoras, guide to these Caves
of Arta, showed them as though, after even thirty-five years of
performance, he still joyed to reveal their glories. His interest
also was a hereditary one; his father, who had held the post before
him, had been killed by falling from the cliff path to the rocks
beneath. Half-way between the bay and the caves, a cross set in the
side of the cliff marks the place of the tragedy.
[Illustration: Entering the Caves of Arta]
Amoras took the pace slowly, and after lighting us through a
succession of vast caverns, paused to remark, with a quiet smile of
enjoyment at our surprise, "We are only now at the end of the
entrance-hall."
The drought that prevailed without appeared to have had a malign
influence even on the water supply of the Caves of Arta. Pointing to
a hollow enclosed by stones, Amoras told us that was the well,
which, for the first time in his thirty-five years of experience, he
now saw dry.
Before we had traversed a tithe of the extent of these capacious
caverns we understood how the fifteen hundred Moorish refugees, men,
women, and children, with their flocks and herds, an immense
quantity of grain, and many precious belongings, had found
hiding-place within.
The Manacor Caves are fantastic and wonderful. Those of Arta are
stupendous, overwhelming in their gloom and grandeur. Any conception
I had ever formed of cavernous magnificence was far exceeded; and to
me the Caves of Arta were infinitely more impressive than the Caves
of Manacor. When I tried to express this, Amoras said devoutly:--
"The Cave of the Dragon is an oratory chapel. This is a cathedral."
Countless glories are concealed in the vast caverns. Stalactites so
large that to try to calculate the length of time occupied in their
formation makes the brain reel. Statues as complete in detail as
though carven by the chisel of a sculptor. Cascades of glistening
crystal. The huge crouching figure of a winged Mephistopheles, and
in the Hall of the Banners flags--marvels of immobile drapery--that
stood out at right angles from the pillar whence they were
suspended.
It was in the Hall of the Banners that Amoras, warning us not to
follow, disappeared from sight, leaving us in the dark. Then from a
height came strange noises designed to strike terror into the
breasts of the timid. Then the light of a Roman candle threw into
weird effect the great maze of stalactite pillars, cones, and
festoons that rose about and above us to unimagined heights.
But perhaps the most beautiful if not the most amazing of the sights
was that contained in the Salon of the Queen of the Columns, where,
in a lofty hall, there stood alone, as though conscious of its
exquisite beauty and holding aloof, a stately pillar twenty-two
metros--over sixty feet--in height. About the base were grouped
curiously modelled clusters of flowers, and above, as far as the eye
could distinguish, the same delicate tracing was revealed.
"Under it we are as nothing," Amoras had said reverently, as he
stood beneath it, and one felt that had he worn a hat he would have
uncovered before the column.
There was a delightfully nerve-soothing effect in the absolute
stillness of the caves. Not a sound from the outer world could
penetrate these vast recesses.
"All the neighbours are asleep," Amoras replied drily when the Man
remarked on the silence.
Though the Caves of Arta are astonishing in their immensity, there
is nothing alarming or gruesome about them. It did not occur to
anybody to speculate secretly on what would happen if the guide were
seized with illness or anything happened to the lights.
Both sets of caves--the Dragon and the Arta--are well worthy a
special expedition. If it were possible to see only one I would give
the preference to the Caves of Arta. But that is a matter of mere
personal taste. I must confess that men seem more impressed by the
fantastic marvels concealed in the Dragon Caves.
I had promised to show Senora Rande the English way of serving
spinach as a vegetable course. So when we reached the _fonda_, only
a quarter of an hour late for lunch, the senora was waiting to hold
me to my word.
Fortunately the cooking of spinach is the simplest of culinary
devices, and while the fresh green leaves were sinking to a pulp in
the earthen pipkin, I had the privilege of watching the senora make
one of her excellent omelets--an invaluable lesson, and one that I
humbly trust will render impossible my again making such an
egregious failure as I did when attempting to cook an omelet at the
Hospederia at Miramar.
Being certain of a good driver and good horses, we had engaged Canet
to return for us at three o'clock. We were anxious to get a near
view of the quaint old town, Capdepera, whose distant appearance had
attracted us as we drove to the caves in the morning. And we wished
also to visit Cala Retjada, a little fishing village a mile or two
farther away, that we had heard was celebrated for its known fish
and for its suspected smugglers.
The short drive was full of the life and interest that characterize
an agricultural district. About the stone dikes, sloe blossom lay in
drifts, looking strangely home-like beside the giant clumps of
cactus.
Leaving the carriage when we had reached Capdepera, we walked about
briskly, for the wind was fresh, bent on exploration. A peep into
the church revealed nothing of special note. Turning away, we
climbed a steep street, and found ourselves outside the old gateway
leading to the fortified enclosure that in bygone days had evidently
been the place of refuge for the citizens when danger threatened.
And of a truth the space enclosed within these battlemented walls
would have afforded shelter to a great community.
To the well-preserved ramparts Nature had added an impregnable
defence in the form of a thick growth of cactus. Both without and
within the wall their prickly leaves luxuriated.
From the flat roofs of the watch-towers that surmounted the
battlements the watchers must have been able to see to a surprising
distance. A white line across the sea revealed the coast of Minorca,
twenty miles away. Close by was Cabo de Pera, the eastmost point of
the island. With a vigilant guard stationed in these watch-towers no
enemy, either from land or sea, could have reached Capdepera before
the inhabitants had timely warning to remove themselves and their
valuables within the safety of the stronghold.
The old parish church--Our Lady of the Hope--is within the
enclosure, close by a modern house that bore signs of occupation. In
pockets of hungry soil a little spindly grain grew about the roots
of hoary fig-trees. While all the fig-trees outside were still
naked, one in a sheltered corner already showed bursting leaves and
the diminutive knubbly warts that were to swell into fruit. Besides
tufts of wild mignonette, henbane reared its downy foliage and
evil-smelling creamy blossom.
Seated in the open doorways of the houses, the women of this remote
town were making baskets from the dried leaves of the palmetto
(garbayous), a dwarf palm-tree that abounds on the mountains of
Arta. Some were pleating the split fronds into long strips that
others were sewing into the baskets, which besides being largely
used in Majorca are exported by ship-loads to France.
The pleasant and cleanly little industry seemed the ruling influence
of the town. In the street we passed men carrying great numbers of
the baskets fitted snugly inside one another. A glimpse into the
open door of a warehouse revealed the place close packed from floor
to rafters with the baskets. On the way to Cala Retjada we drove
past a cart piled high with stock ready for shipment; and in a
sheltered cove beyond the fishing village we saw, lying at anchor,
the _pailebot_ that was waiting to convey the goods to an over-seas
market.
When we reached Cala Retjada the wind was blowing in fresh from the
sea, and the boats lay snugly drawn up on the beach of a tiny haven.
A number of small shut-up houses lining the semicircle of the bay
showed that the stone-washed shore was a favourite place of summer
residence. To the west is the imposing headland of Cape Vermay.
Westwards pine woods clothe the rocky slopes about the sea. Truly a
pleasant place to fly to when the interior of the island is hot and
relaxing.
The people of the eastern town struck us as being more Moorish in
type than those of the more northern or western parts of Majorca. In
Cala Retjada, in the person of the handsome bronzed captain of the
_pailebot_, we saw and instantly recognized our ideal of a pirate
chief--the heroic pirate who treats his enemies nobly. He wore a
scarlet nightcap with a grass-green band, a golden brown velvet
suit, an orange cummerbund, and yellow string-soled shoes. Truly he
was a joy to behold.
Daylight was fading when we turned our faces towards Arta; and as we
approached the romantically situated town, we passed many parties of
returning labourers, and many little bands of pretty girls, who had
presumably strolled out to meet them, though each sex kept
rigorously apart.
It is the rarest thing to see an unmarried man and a girl walking
alone in Majorca. The strict system of chaperonage that prevails in
the higher classes evidently has its prototype in the lower also,
for the maidens walked with twined arms--like some Maeterlinck
chorus--and the men, as far as we could judge, confined their
attentions to admiring glances.
We had heard that the remains of a Phoenician village still
existed in an ancient forest of ilex not far from Arta. When we
questioned the senora next morning, as she poured out the coffee,
regarding its whereabouts, she promptly suggested that her husband
would take us there. So when we sallied forth it was in company with
Senor Rande and the _perro de Rande_--a fine specimen of the ancient
hunting dogs that are still prevalent in the island. It amused us to
see him leap high into the air to sight his prey.
The way, though it covered a bare half mile, was devious, and
without assistance would have been difficult to find. But it ended
in something far more wonderful than we had been led to anticipate.
Near the summit of a gentle mound that was covered with ilex and
low-growing scrub we found ourselves confronted by a wall built of
vast, roughly hewn blocks of stone. Before us was an open portal,
formed of two huge blocks supporting a third stone, one end of which
was pierced by an orifice that had two openings towards the sky.
Within this gateway were the tumbled remains of a city that had been
encircled by walls constructed of great single blocks of stone--a
city so old that all tradition of its builders was lost. We had
thought the Roman remains at Alcudia and Pollensa as of surpassing
antiquity. Here was evidence of an occupation far older still.