inevitable, and at that date indispensable, watch-tower. From its
top, though now lowered by the passing of centuries and overgrown
with herbage, we saw through the gaps in the trees beyond how
comprehensive a view the watchers had commanded of the surrounding
country.
The top of the mound on which we stood had been hollowed out, and
Senor Rande remarked that children came up from Arta to dig for
treasures.
"Do they find any?" we asked innocently.
Raising his forefinger, the senor shook it before his face in the
gesture we had grown to think characteristically Majorcan.
"_Nada!_" he made laconic reply.
Devil's tomatoes, heavy with golden fruit, and beautiful
large-blossomed lavender periwinkle grew in great profusion about
the devastated homes of the vanished people. And it seemed a curious
coincidence to remember that the last periwinkles I had seen were
those growing about the base of the megalithic monuments in Minorca.
One wonders what connection this starry-eyed flower could have had
with these prehistoric races.
I had received the information that begonias grew wild in Majorca,
with the mental reservation natural to a native of a less gracious
climate. So it was a pleasant surprise to recognize a leaf or two of
their distinctive marled foliage thrust out from between the heaped
stones of the ruined Phoenician village.
Our return journey from Arta was not worthy to rank in our memories
with our triumphal progress thither. We had a special conveyance,
but as Canet was already in Manacor, having driven the diligence
that left Arta at three o'clock that morning, he could not act as
our charioteer, and his employer, who drove us, set the pace
sedately.
The wind was high, dust was more than a possibility, and the box
seat held no attractions. So we sat inside and yawned a little as
the kilometros crept slowly past.
In the little grass-grown station at Manacor the afternoon crowd was
beginning to gather. And in the station yard the diligences for
Arta, for Capdepera, for San Lorenzo, were drawn up prepared to
start as soon as the train had arrived and their passengers had
climbed into their seats.
We had taken our places in one of the empty carriages that were
standing ready to be attached to the train for Palma, when the
smiling sun-tanned face of Canet appeared at the window. He had come
to bid us good-speed, and remained to share our tea, and to puzzle
over the powers of the Thermos bottle. Though he politely praised
the tea, I am convinced that he secretly scorned the bad taste of
the "Ingleses" who chose to drink so uninteresting a decoction in a
land overflowing with good red wine.
Our little excursion, undertaken though it had been with something
of reluctance, had proved like others a charming one, and one whose
every moment had been full of new interests.
[Illustration: Palm-Sunday at Soller]
XXI
AMONG THE HILLS
March was more than half over; we had already reluctantly begun to
measure our stay in the Fortunate Isles by weeks instead of months
when we drove to Soller to spend a few days with an English friend,
who, with all the world to choose from, elects to make her home at
Soller.
When we left Soller on our previous visit in early December,
darkness had fallen long before we reached Palma, so the first half
of this return journey was new to us. And as the day was beautiful,
we sat luxuriously back in the open carriage and enjoyed it to the
full. The shower that had fallen had greatly refreshed the land, and
though more rain was eagerly hoped for, the almond-trees were heavy
in leafage and thickly ruched with the green-velvet casings of the
embryonic fruit.
During the winter we had noticed few wild birds. Now, amongst the
olive-trees that lined the highway as we approached the rising
ground, many were flying. A brightly plumaged bird with a crested
head crossed our path like a flash of gold, and disappeared among
the trees. It was the hoo-poo, the typical Balearic bird, known
locally as the _pu-put_.
The highway between Palma and Valldemosa passes through a
picturesque gulch. The road between Palma and Soller climbs a
considerable mountain, up whose steep sides the native makers of
roads--surely the most ingenious in the world--have carried the path
in a series of amazing zigzags, so that the view of the traveller
varies incessantly. As we mounted higher and massive crags rose
about us, we sometimes stopped the carriage to look down over the
vast orchard that covers the plain, to where the far distant spires
of Palma Cathedral showed against the sea.
As our altitude increased the air became colder. The wind that met
us at the top was almost keen, and we were glad to rattle down the
farther side of the hill up which we had climbed so slowly.
A few turns down the zigzag, a fine old cross, its carvings gnawed
by the corroding tooth of time, stands overlooking the valley and
the tawny-roofed houses of Soller, as they lie surrounded by their
orange gardens. A poor cottage was hard by, and while we paused to
let the Man make a rapid sketch, two children, a boy and girl, crept
nearer and nearer, until at last they grouped themselves in
conventional attitudes at the foot of the cross. It did not require
words to tell us that they must have posed in the foreground of many
photographs of the same subject.
At the Hotel Marina, where our friend was staying, three good things
awaited us--a gracious welcome, a glorious fire of almond shells,
and a daintily spread tea-table.
In the evening we went to Son Angelats, a beautiful "possession"
dating back to the Moorish occupation. Son Angelats nestles snugly
into the side of the mountain, and all the year round it is bowered
in roses of every shade and hue. The air was fragrant with the
mingled odours of flowers innumerable; and when we walked down to
Soller through the gloaming the sweet essence of the blossoms
accompanied us, for our hands were full of roses and violets.
As we strolled through the grounds I noticed what I thought was a
blue bead lying on the path. Picking it up, I discovered it to be
the seed of a small grassy-leaved plant new to me, but much used in
Majorca for covering the sides of banks where grass refuses to grow.
The seed, which was about the size of a pea, was of the pure deep
blue of the sapphire.
The name of the plant the gardener declared to be _convoladia_. I
spell the word phonetically. And when I asked what the appearance of
the flower was, he made the incredible statement--and stuck to
it--that the plant had none.
It is impossible to stay in Soller without feeling the magnetic
attraction of the Puig Mayor, which is higher than any mountain in
the British Isles. A dozen times in an hour we found ourselves
turning to see how it looked, for its aspect held the charm of
exhaustless variety. One might leave it a purple shadow amid
light-hued satellite hills and turn again a few minutes later to
discover it rose-tipped and the others in shadow.
Next morning I looked out on a lovely scene. In the growing light of
dawn the encompassing mountains showed clearly their outlines,
unblurred save by a wanton wisp of mist that seemed too trivial to
bear any meaning. But when my breakfast tray was brought in, rain
was falling with the quiet persistence of rain that has come to
stay. So we spent the morning indoors enjoying refreshing gossip,
and refreshing peeps into English books, and in watching from the
windows and balconies the ever-changing cloud effects on the
mountains.
There were moments when the crest of the Puig Mayor rose majestic
above a rolling fleece of vapour that blotted out all the lesser
heights; and times when, though the clouds hung heavy over the town,
and the few passers-by huddled beneath time-worn umbrellas, every
red rock and cleft of the mountain glowed under a sun that shone for
it alone. Or again the Puig Mayor itself might vanish, and some
nearer height stand out against the wall of mist in unexpected
beauty of contour--imposing only because of its temporary isolation.
In the afternoon the sky cleared a little and we ventured out. The
Good Fairy, our hostess, who abounds in individualities that are as
charming as they are original, possessed, by right of purchase, the
fruit of a tree of sweet oranges. Her tree grew in an orchard on the
outskirts of the town that is itself an orange garden. And hither we
went to listen to the sweet clamour of the nightingales while eating
the fruit we had plucked.
Among the glossy-green leaves Keats's "light-winged Dryads of the
trees" were singing "of summer in full-throated ease." We would
gladly have lingered long, but heavy rain again encompassed us; and
we returned to the comforts of the hotel, reluctant to leave the
melodious plot, but rejoicing for the sake of the islanders, in
whose expectant ears the sound of the rain falling on their thirsty
land must have been much more musical than the song of the immortal
bird.
Next day was Palm Sunday--the children's day. Yet when we left the
hotel in the morning and ventured out into the rain-washed streets,
there was not a child in sight. Old people--grandmothers, formless
figures muffled from forehead to ankle in black shawls, moved
decorously along carrying folding stools; grandfathers, protecting
their Sabbath garb with rose-coloured umbrellas of a silk so fine
and antique that one longed to implore them not to ruin it by
exposure to the weather, were hastening towards the church. But the
narrow streets of the quaint old town were curiously empty of
children.
To our uncomprehending eyes it appeared more the day of the
grandparents than of the children. I blush now to acknowledge that,
for the moment, we had forgotten that the day of the children is
always, and in almost greater measure, the day of the grandparents
also.
We entered the church to find both the outer absence of youth and
the presence of the aged explained. Above even the pungent odour of
incense, the savour of sweet flowers perfumed the air. The centre of
the church was a seething mass of greenery. Tall spikes of palm
arose like sword blades from out a forest of green branches--a
forest that looked as though ruffled by a strong wind, so restless
was its incessant motion.
Closer observance revealed the motive power to be a multitude of
small boys who sat, closely packed together, on benches, holding
aloft branches, many of which were wreathed with flowers. Most of
the trophies showed the grey-green of olive--a shapely bough chosen
with care from the family possession, with all the available
blossoms of the garden twined about the stem. And many revealed
ingenuity and artistic taste in the garlanding of the flowers.
Certain of the palm fronds had a piece fixed athwart the tip to
represent a cross. A proportion, happily but a small proportion, of
the trophies carried struck the blatant note of artificiality, for
in their case the palm frond was split and twisted into ornamental
shapes, and out of all semblance of that they were supposed to
represent. A few were travesties of Christmas-trees, for their
fictitious branches were laden with silvered and gilt sweets, toys
and trinkets, seemingly trivial, but doubtless owning a significance
of their own.
Beside the rows of close-cropped dark heads moved priests and
black-robed teachers. And on the outskirts of the throng hovered
bigger boys, torn betwixt two opinions--whether it were better to
continue to assert their claim to have reached an age exempt from
such childish matters, or to yield to their natural desire to join
the palm-bearers and have a place in the procession that was to
follow.
One urchin, but recently advanced to the dignity of his first long
trousers, held half-concealed a scrap of olive, to which he added by
furtive gleanings from the fallen blossoms that littered the floor,
garnering a battered, but still recognizable rose here, a gaudy
marigold there, until he had achieved a trophy that, if not one to
court careful examination, yet at a little distance presented quite
a respectable appearance.
When the rose-red umbrellas had dripped themselves almost dry, and
the branches supported by the hot hands of restless boys were waving
faster than ever, the black-robed teachers and a nun, moving
noiselessly amongst their pupils, began to marshal them into a
double line.
Standing at the side, in company with grandfathers whose fine old
weather-beaten faces gazed proudly intent at those who were to carry
their names to succeeding generations, we watched as the little
forest of branches, borne sedately, passed in front of the altar,
and then moved in procession round the church. The smallest boys
walked in front, and many of them were burdened with the care of
umbrellas in addition to the proud glory of the decorated branch
that wobbled in their tired hands; while boys of larger growth,
unable to resist, yielded to a natural desire to shoulder their
boughs as muskets.
Very few girls took an active part in the proceedings. The
half-dozen who did belonged to the class that have hats for Sunday
wear, and the palms they carried had cost money. Little girls whom
fortune had denied the envied possession of either ugly hats or
ornamental palms looked on with longing in their soft dark eyes as
the favoured ones marched by.
When the complete circuit of the edifice had been made the
palm-bearers moved to a side, and a band of clergy advancing paused
just within the great doors, through which certain of their number
had slipped outside.
Standing thus, their resplendent robes of purple and scarlet thrown
into strong relief against the old wood of the door, the group began
chanting. When they ceased there came from without the sound of
answering voices. Again were the voices within raised in recitative.
From outside came again the reply.
Then, reverberating solemnly through the deep silence that ensued,
came the sound of a thrice repeated knock on the closed door. At the
summons the wide doors were thrown open and the outside band
admitted. Then, the symbol of the release of repentant souls from
purgatory having been thus impressively enacted, the band, now
chanting in unison, moved towards the high altar.
The ceremony of the blessing of the palms is a beautiful one, and
one of which no child who has taken part can ever forget the
meaning.
The last we saw of it was a hale old grandfather, who carried in his
arms, under the shelter of his big rose-hued umbrella, a sleepy
little boy, whose weary hand still grasped his flower-wreathed
olive-branch as they took the path leading to the mountains.
The earnestly prayed for rain, when it did come, came in unstinted
quantity. It had rained all night, and on Monday rain was still
falling, but more softly--almost, one might say, reluctantly--on the
little white-robed first communicants who, sheltered by the
umbrellas of mothers or aunts, were threading their way delicately
among the pools of water that lay as traps for their white-shod
feet.
But the Majorcan climate is too beneficent to spoil the notable day
for the young communicants. Before noon the clouds had drifted away
from the mountains; and though the sun did not appear, the air was
mild and balmy, and through the wonderfully absorbent nature of the
Soller soil the streets speedily became dry enough to enable the
dainty white shoes to trip about almost without blemish.
And all day long, everywhere one looked, young girls, some in
expensive raiment, others in evidently home-made garments, but all
with long white veils flowing from their wreathed heads, moved
sedately from house to house, accompanied by an admiring train of
female relatives, as they paid visits of ceremony to all their
friends.
And as for the boys!--words fail to tell of the glories of their
harshly new suits, their shining patent leather boots, of their
spreading collars, of the elaborate bow of gold embroidered white
ribbon that decorated their left arms; or, greatest of all--of their
self-importance.
They, too, had their public promenade, and paid their visits. They,
too, had their attendant group of appreciative relatives. On meeting
any friends the little party would pause, and the graceful ceremony
of asking forgiveness for past misdeeds be gone through, when the
young communicant, bending and kissing the hand of the elder, would
say, "If I have ever done you any harm, forgive me now."
My men had gone off to see Biniaraix, a hamlet of brown houses
grouped about the white tower of a church on the mountain-side, and
to enjoy a reminiscent glance at Fornalutx, the quaint hill-town
where, on our previous visit to Soller, we had spent a well
remembered afternoon.
So the Good Fairy and I, left to our own devices, passed the
afternoon in rambling about this town of amazing contrasts. As I
said before, Soller is endowed with a curiously absorbent soil--a
soil that acts as a charm in cases of inflammatory rheumatism and is
prime factor in the remarkable longevity of the inhabitants. The
roads were already so dry and pleasant to walk on that, but for the
evidence of the _torrente_, which was a raging river, it would have
been hard to credit that for two days and nights thrice-blessed rain
had fallen without intermission. Snow covered the crest of the Puig
Mayor and lay heavy on its shoulders, yet down in the valley the
soft air was sweet with the fragrance of orange blossoms, and all
about the golden or copper-coloured fruit hung in profusion on the
trees. Truly Soller is a place of piquant contrasts.
The trespasser is welcomed in Majorca. There are no
notice-boards--except a few _vedados_ to warn against hunting--no
padlocked gates. So we wandered about, following bypaths that led
from one small "possession" to another; and never, after we left it,
returning to the highroad until it was time to return home.
That the Good Fairy is widely beloved was evident at every turn. Her
diplomatic powers are great, but she had to exercise them all to
avoid spending the afternoon indoors in the hospitable homes of her
humble acquaintances, who, catching a glimpse of her as she passed,
hastened out to entreat her to enter.
Living in this place of natural delight must be cheaper even than in
Palma. One courteous dame took us all over her house, that we might
see the views from her windows. The house, which was in the town,
was a comparatively new dwelling in a good airy street. It had a
large high-ceilinged _zaguan_--the entrance chamber that is a
combination of hall and reception-room--from which opened a neat
kitchen. A few steps up from the _zaguan_ was a cosy parlour from
which a stair led down to the _terras_. Above, on the first floor,
were two bedrooms, and on the second floor two more, all well lit
and affording exquisite views. Being in town the house had no
garden; but the _terras_ with its big jars of plants seemed a
favourite place for taking the air.
When I indulged my curiosity by asking the rent, the good dame told
us that for all this excellence she paid twenty-four dollars a
year--less than five pounds; and the rent included taxes!
As we strolled farther afield the wealth of the land was heaped upon
us. Our hands overflowed with the Balearic violets, that are the
sweetest in the world, and the Balearic pansies, that are, I verily
believe, the poorest. For pansies love a cold damp soil, and rarely
flourish south of the River Tweed; and the Tweed is a far, far cry
from these sun-loved isles.
We had sprays of orange blossom given us too, and ripe oranges,
whose golden sides the beneficent sun had tanned to copper. And we
sat in a garden and ate them, while the aged donor, who still
possessed the fine features and limpid eyes of her bygone youth,
talked to us, illustrating her stories by a pantomime of feature and
gesture so expressive that even I, with my meagre knowledge of her
language, could hardly fail to grasp their meaning.
In the kitchen of her house the wide hearth was almost shut in by a
three-sided settle, whose seats were strewn with fleecy white
sheepskins. On the kitchen shelves the native ware of brown,
decorated in crude patterns of red and yellow, was arranged with
unconscious artistic effect.
Mounting gradually higher, we rested at a point where the town lay
open before us. Hills rose steeply behind us; in front the ground
sloped down in terraces; and, far beyond, the fruitful gardens and
russet houses of the town rose again towards the snow-crested
mountains, or at one point fell gradually to the cleft beyond which
showed the sea.
Becoming suddenly conscious that we had let the tea hour slip past
unheeded, we were hastening back to the hotel, when, crossing the
bridge that spans the _torrente_, we caught the promise of a sight
that made us quickly return to the open space of the market square
that we might obtain a less interrupted view. Over the roofs of the
houses the snow-capped mountain summits, struck by some magic shaft
from the hidden sun, glowed rose-red, and the unearthly beauty of
the transfiguration held us mute and spell-bound.
The curious thing was, that though little groups of people stood
gossiping in the market-place no one appeared to have eyes for this
refulgence but ourselves. Seeing us standing gazing silently towards
the mountains, they turned also to see what had attracted our
attention, then turned away uncomprehending.
XXII
DEYA, AND A PALMA PROCESSION
The last lingering trails of rain-clouds had vanished and the sun
shone from a cloudless blue sky when next day we drove off behind
Pepe and his pair of white horses to picnic at Deya, the curiously
distinctive little town that perches on a hill betwixt mountain and
sea, half-way between Soller and Miramar.
The road was a good one, and as the way, though steep, was set in
zigzag fashion, its ascent would have been easy but for the
barbarous way in which, acting with the empty cunning of these
would-be crafty island road-menders, someone had littered the road
with lumps of stone, thus forcing the passing vehicle to act the
ignominious part of road-roller by threading its way out and in over
the newly mended parts. Sometimes the stones were so evilly placed
as to impel us to venture perilously near the edge of the
precipitous track.
It was a relief as we slowly mounted upwards to come upon the
perpetrator of the crime in the very act of further blocking our
path. Taken thus red-handed, he was not one whit dismayed, but
complacently stepped aside to let us pass.
The opportunity was not one to be missed. Half drawing up and
turning round on the box, Pepe launched towards him a few
objurgations in trenchant Majorcan. And the Good Fairy, putting her
head out of the carriage, added the weight of her gentle reproach.
[Illustration: Deya]
"What is this you do?" she asked in her pretty Spanish. "Placing
stones on the road to welcome the strangers! Is this the way you
show them the delicacy of the Spaniard?"
Thus doubly reproached, the _caminero_ stood transfixed; and our
emotions having found vent, we drove on, leaving him with his hand
raised to his brass-bound hat, his mouth open but speechless.
Having reached the summit, we began the descent, losing sight of our
grand mountains, but gaining a glimpse of the Mediterranean, which
glowed in that warm blue that makes one wonder--until one tries the
temperature--why sea-bathing should be confined to the summer
months.
The tawny-roofed houses of Deya cluster on a high rock that rises
like an island from out a sea of valley which is girdled by
precipitous mountains. Streams in cascades were rushing down in a
joyful pell-mell, the cherry-trees were heavy with blossom, and the
pomegranates were opening their first delicate copper-tinted leaves
as we drove along the highroad that follows the curve of the valley.
The attentive _chef_ of the Marina had made us independent of
_fondas_, and Pepe had promised to find us a good place to lunch in.
So when he drew up at a path that branched off from the highway on
the Miramar side of Deya, we took our hamper, from which the neck of
a bottle protruded alluringly, and started to explore it.