peasant family of such attractively quaint appearance that we paused
and, affecting to be admiring the prospect, waited for them to pass.
They were all attired in the gala dress of the island. The
sun-tanned farmer father wore a suit of old-gold embossed velvet and
a purple scarf was wound about his waist. The mother wore the
immoderately wide skirt gathered into a plain high-waisted bodice,
the short green silk apron, the little shoulder shawl with its
prettily flowered border and long fringe, and the gay embroidered
head-wrap that make up the distinctive Ivizan costume. From the tip
of her pigtail a brightly coloured ribbon hung down to the hem of
her spreading skirts. The eldest child, a girl of eight or nine, was
a diminutive facsimile of her mother. The elder boy wore a man's
suit in miniature of very light blue, and a wide-brimmed yellow hat.
The group tapered off with a wee boy in a quaintly cut long frock
and a white Carlist cap, and a baby in bunching petticoats and a
muslin cap with wings. The father, who smiled pleasantly when he saw
us notice the children, carried with evident care a liqueur bottle.
Moving decorously, as though bound on some important mission, they
preceded us into the church.
We had paused to examine a fine old painting, and when we reached
the special chapel that contained the celebrated image we found the
little family already kneeling before the altar, even the youngest
apparently impressed by the solemnity of the occasion.
After a few moments the father, rising from his knees and still
holding the bottle, approached the padre to crave a private word
with him, and they quitted the chapel together, leaving the mother
and children still on their knees.
A great silver lamp, suspended from the roof, burned in front of the
_Cristo_, and all around the walls were votive offerings--models of
hearts, of legs, of arms, even of heads, and little silver figures,
some in peasant dress, one in a smart frockcoat. Oddest, perhaps, of
all was a pair of silver trousers.
[Illustration: Thanksgiving]
There were medals, a fine model of a full rigged ship, a little
muslin frock, another of rich satin in a glass case, all presented
in token of succour prayed for and obtained in time of imminent
danger to life or limb.
While we lingered, a female attendant entered the chapel carrying
the liqueur bottle, and drawing down the great silver lamp,
proceeded to fill its reservoir from the store in the bottle, the
family, who still maintained their devotional attitude, half turning
with something of proprietary interest to watch her movements.
Returning to the body of the church, we found the padre and the
father of the family in earnest converse. During a recent serious
illness, explained the padre, the peasant had vowed the gift of a
bottle of olive oil for the sacred lamp. Now, on his recovery, his
first action had been to make a little pilgrimage to the chapel,
bringing his entire family to give thanks for his restoration to
health and to deliver the promised gift.
The exhibition of such unquestioning faith and gratitude in this
world of scepticism was inexpressibly touching. And our hearts
melted and were glad with the little household. Still, though the
father declared himself again robust, a sickly pallor showed beneath
his tan, and when he grasped our hands in farewell his touch was
ice-cold.
Walking back along the ramparts we noticed a gentleman who, though
personally unknown to us, yet bore a remarkable racial resemblance
to many people we had known in Britain. He was well dressed after
the English fashion, wore fawn kid gloves, and though the sky was
cloudless, carried a neatly rolled umbrella.
"That is the Senor Wallis, a member of an illustrious family here.
They all speak English. Shall I introduce you?" asked the padre,
seeing that we were interested.
To our gratification the Senor Wallis not only spoke English
admirably, but also understood it perfectly.
"My grandfather came here as British Consul," he explained. "He
married and settled here. My father was Consul after him. We have
always spoken the English language at home."
Here then was a family, living in a remote island where they might
not hear English spoken once a year, who because their ancestor had
been English carefully maintained the language and traditions of
their forebears. As the Boy said afterwards, it reminded one of
Kipling's tale of Namgay Doola!
A little farther along, a massive figure, joyously arrayed in a suit
of maize-coloured corduroy, a lilac-check shirt and a green hat,
gladdened our vision.
"That is the present English Consul," said the padre, who seemed to
be on good terms with everybody. "I shall introduce him to you."
The British Vice-Consul blushed when presented to genuine natives of
the country he represented. His knowledge of the language was
rudimentary, and after a few tentative efforts the conversation
lapsed into Spanish. As the Boy said, it was quicker.
The padre had promised to call at three to take us to see the
excavations in process on a slope just outside the city. And after
lunch I strolled out to the fields in search of Ivizan wild flowers.
Within a five minutes' walk of the town I soon gathered an
armful--purple and yellow and white and yellow toad-flaxes, pink
asters, blood-red poppies, big cream chrysanthemums, little blue and
white iris, a handsome garlic-smelling pink flower, wild mignonette,
both the tall and the dwarf asphodel, a yellow pheasant's eye, one
or two unfamiliar blossoms, and, best of all, many regal spikes of
the tall crimson gladioli that were growing among the green corn.
The padre was punctual to a moment, and we were soon mounting the
rocky hill just beyond the city wall where the excavations were
going on.
There was nothing in the appearance of the place to suggest that
underneath our feet there existed Phoenician catacombs. Great
spikes of the handsome evil-smelling asphodel were blooming all
around, and two men in wide felt hats and abbreviated blouses,
standing by some heaps of soil, were the only visible sign of the
important work that was being done.
When we reached them we saw that their labour consisted of passing
the earth that had been brought to the surface through a fine
sifter, and that close by yawned a hole overhung by a rope running
on a wheel attached to a rough tripod.
The Boy was the only one of the party daring enough to accept the
invitation to descend. Leaving his coat behind, he slid down the
rope and vanished through a hole in the bottom of the shaft. The
younger workman followed. While we awaited their re-appearance we
noticed that many bones, earth-coloured, light in weight and brittle
to the touch, mingled with the mounds of refuse, and that bits of
broken pottery and fragments of iridescent glass leavened the heaps.
Soon the Boy and his guide, earth-stained and perspiring, for the
underground atmosphere was close and hot, scrambled their way back
to the surface.
The Boy's account was that when he had swung himself down the shaft
he and his guide entered the subterranean passage, feeling as though
he were entering his own grave, in place of merely going to view
that of other people. Passing through an outer hall, they came to a
narrow chamber where, by the light of an acetylene lamp, a being
looking like a gnome or a ghoul was sitting on the edge of a long
stone coffin grubbing in the dust and ashes that filled it.
Resting on the rim of the coffin were the relics that he had already
recovered from the debris--bits of shattered pottery, and a
beautiful but mutilated statuette of terra-cotta about five inches
in height.
From that cell they descended to a large chamber on a lower level,
where there were many coffins and a plenitude of bones.
When in recent years three Phoenician catacombs were discovered it
was found that their existence had been known to the Moors, who at
some unknown date had already despoiled them of treasure, leaving
traces of their appropriation in the form of broken water jars and
other worthless relics. Fortunately the Moors valued only the gold,
so that, in spite of the damage caused by their rough handling, a
mine of precious things still remains to gladden the archaeologist.
Leaving the sunny hill-side, where spring flowers were blooming among
the crumbling bones of these nameless dead, we mounted to the house
by the windmills, where the treasures found in the graves are
primarily housed.
There also was the padre a welcome guest, and in a small dark room
wonderful things were shown us. Tiny jars delicately figured;
perfect vases of iridescent glass; strange bas-relief recumbent
figures with stiffly extended hands; antique coins, scarabs that the
Moors had bereft of their setting, ornaments that had escaped their
rapacity, and old lamps enough to have satisfied even the covetous
Abanazer.
It was oddly suggestive to think that, while the people who were
entombed in these stone coffins thousands of years ago had known
delicate arts and worn costly jewellery, their successors on the
land lived in primitive dwellings and drew the water they drank in
earthenware jars that in form were exact copies of those so long
buried in the tombs. Truly in some things the world has not
progressed!
[Illustration: A Trio and a Quartette]
XXVI
AN IVIZAN SABBATH
Sunday morning was as calm and beautiful as could be desired by
visitors with only a few days in which to explore an island.
With quite unwonted energy we rose before seven o'clock, and after
dressing and taking a cup of tea in our own little sitting-room,
went out to the Alameda to see the countryfolk coming in to Mass or
market.
On the ships in the harbour flags were flying. Everybody was in gala
dress. The very air felt gay. And as we sat on one of the stone
seats in the leafy Alameda and watched the people streaming into
town from the broad white roads that lead to San Antonio, Santa
Eulalia and other villages, we chirruped with irrepressible delight,
so unexpectedly and deliciously quaint were the figures that passed
before us.
Some of the women rode mules, and sat perched high on a pile of
sheepskins, their multi-coloured petticoats billowing about their
neat ankles. Others were packed closely into open carts that had
cushions placed low on either side of their sagging floor-matting.
Many walked, accompanied by vigilant elderly relatives. And oh! how
demure and decorous they all looked, with their dark hair parted in
the middle and severely plastered down the sides of their rosy young
faces.
An object of fervent admiration in my childhood was a pincushion
made of a little china doll, whose placid head and insignificant
body appeared from a widely distended skirt. And on this brilliant
Sunday morning the Ivizan women and girls in their exaggerated
skirts seemed to me like a procession of walking dolls.
The dresses appeared to be fashioned from any material that boasted
a pattern, for the Ivizan detests a plain material. Even the velvet
or plush used in the men's clothes was in many instances flowered or
striped. The short broad aprons were of bright-coloured silk
elaborately tucked above the hem. Their deeply fringed shawls and
head wraps were bordered with wreaths of gaily tinted flowers. The
chains of big oblong gold beads and elaborate gold pendants in the
form of crosses and crowns gave a blatant and contradictory note to
the staid costume, while the gaudy hue of the ribbon that tied the
end of the pigtail and fell in long ends nearly to the hem of the
skirt suggested a hint of the original Eve lurking behind all this
apparent demureness. Gold buttons closely set ran from the wrist of
the long sleeve, which was often of green, to the elbow. And the
white sandalled shoes, whose toes were caught up by a cord bound
round the ankles, had a suggestion of sabots that added a Dutch
touch to the picture.
Sometimes a mother in sober garments or a smiling father in a wide
hat marched past in proud chaperonage of a diffident young daughter
rigged out in all the family jewellery. One girl, who enjoyed the
personal care of her mother, wore a gown of old rose-spotted brocade
looped up in pannier form to show a pink petticoat.
To our thinking the extreme of quaintness was reached in the person
of a little maid of seven or eight, whose dress was a travesty of
that of her widowed mother; with the sole difference that, while the
mother's mourning garb was of unrelieved black, the kerchief and
tiny shawl of the child had bordering wreaths of white flowers. As
she walked slowly by, a tiny entity in over-voluminous garments, the
Man declared that, despite her superhuman sobriety, and the "papa,
prunes, prisms" expression of her infant lips, he felt convinced
that it was with difficulty she resisted a desire to skip!
They say there are ten men for every woman on the island, and our
experience of that Sunday morning inclined us to believe it. From
every direction came fine strapping lads moving in droves. A
distinct resemblance in the dress, taken in combination with the
rakish dare-devil air with which these young bloods set their wide
hats to one side and swaggered along, vividly suggested the Mexican
cowboy.
In striking contrast to the expansive attire of the women, the men's
dress appeared designed to accentuate their natural slimness. The
trousers of velvet or plush in all manner of rich shades fitted
closely to the figure except at the ankle, where they spread widely.
Gaily hued shirts or short full blouse jackets, usually black or
blue, were worn. Red or striped sashes were wound about their
waists. Most of the hats were large and adorned with gold cords. And
in addition to one necktie for use, it was customary to add a second
and sometimes even a third for show.
We were sincerely sorry to find that nine o'clock, the hour when we
were due at the hotel for coffee, had rushed upon us. When we came
out again on our way to visit the Museum, the streets about the
market were busy with a moving throng resplendent in colour.
For the moment the girls appeared to have got rid of their chaperons
and were parading about in quartettes, sextettes, even septettes,
their tightly pleated pigtails streaming stiffly behind, their
hands, holding pocket-handkerchiefs heavily edged with substantial
crochet lace, sedately crossed in front.
One group that particularly rejoiced the artistic soul of the Man
was made up of four demure damsels who walked in a row, the tallest
at one end, the others decreasing in height till the row ended in a
dear dot. Their outlines were so much alike that they had the effect
of having been stencilled in a diminishing scale.
It was perhaps only to be expected that wherever one saw a bevy of
girls a corresponding cluster of men would not be far distant. Yet
we rarely saw them address each other.
The modern etiquette of peasant courtship in Iviza runs on strict
though simple lines. A plenitude of suitors being assured, it is the
maiden who makes the selection. The admirers of a marriageable girl
wait for her outside the church door on Sunday. When she leaves Mass
the one who has the premier claim attaches himself to her, and trots
beside her for the first portion of the homeward journey, then at a
fixed point or within a stated time-limit he gives place to the
second, and so on until the number is exhausted. If any man seeks to
exceed his allotted space, or in any other way tries to transgress
the unwritten law, pistols may flare and knives are apt to spring!
Apart from this the people of Iviza are peaceable, and on all points
moral and virtuous. It must be admitted that certain of the more
frolicsome spirits still keep up the old custom of saluting the
maidens of their choice with a charge of rock salt fired at the
ankles. And it is devoutly to be hoped that the unwieldy masses of
petticoats serve at least one useful purpose by shielding their
wearers from the saline missiles of love's artillery.
When we had reached the Cathedral square, where the Museum is
situated, we found the door open and the custodian--in whom we
were surprised to recognize one of our fellow-guests at the
_fonda_--waiting to receive us.
Though the Museum at Iviza has been in existence for little more
than two years it already contains a notable collection of
Phoenician, Roman, Byzantine and Moorish remains. To an
archaeologist, inspection of the contents would have been a special
treat. Even to us who had little knowledge of the subject it was
intensely interesting.
Within the centre cases and in the glass-doored cupboards that line
the walls were many things whose worth we could not venture to
guess. The varied assortment of coins seemed especially valuable.
One jar found during the process of excavation had contained over
six hundred specimens.
Among the other exhibits were several primitive bas-relief figures
with abruptly out-jutting hands, resembling those we had seen on the
previous day. Two figures had the hands clasped on the bust over
something suggesting a loaf, and one had a ring through the nose.
Many of the vases and slender vials from the tombs were beautiful,
both in outline and in decoration. And we saw a particularly fine
scarab that had been found in one of the stone coffins immediately
after our visit to the catacombs on the previous afternoon.
In the second room were some curious old documents and certain of
the more bulky exhibits. And from a top shelf a row of skulls of
these bygone races grinned down upon us creatures of to-day, as
though their owners found something ludicrous in the idea of a
special house being set apart in which to guard as treasures what to
them had been but everyday possessions.
When we left the Museum the padre, with kindly thought and subtle
intuition of what is most likely to interest the stranger in a
foreign land, took us a-visiting. First he introduced us to the only
professional artist on the island, who like everybody else in the
place seemed a special friend of our sponsor.
And in the artist of this far-off southern islet we rejoiced to meet
the romantic painter of fiction--the picturesque hero one reads
about but rarely has the good fortune to encounter.
Don Narciso--his very name was in keeping--was young, buoyant of
spirit, charming in manner, and enthusiastic regarding art. He had a
thick curly black beard, abundant wavy black hair. He wore a
becoming blouse, and his loosely knotted silk tie was of _amarilla_
silk.
The painter welcomed us cordially, and took us into his studio,
where he was at work upon a full-length portrait of a bishop who had
been a native of the island.
Round the walls were brilliant studies both in figure and landscape.
We had been living close to Nature for six months. It was a pleasure
to breathe again the studio atmosphere. In less than two minutes the
three artists were deep in discussion of kindred interests. Their
nationalities might be different, but Art has only one language.
Names--Velasquez, Goya, and others of more recent date--were bandied
between them, the while the padre and I sat dumbly attentive.
When we were leaving, Narciso took us into the artistically unkempt
garden attached to the studio, and from the line of orange-trees
beyond the old well plucked a spray heavy with the luscious blossom.
This he presented to me with a grace that dignified the sprig into a
bouquet. And we all parted with promise of an early reunion.
A few yards farther down the road we passed a group of ladies, whose
smart Paris hats and modern raiment, seen in that land of quaint
attire, gave the wearers an oddly foreign look.
"Son la familia Wallis," murmured the padre, as he raised his hat to
them.
The house of the padre, our next place of call, was just beyond the
seminary where the students whom we had seen leaving the Cathedral
in their robes of black and scarlet were undergoing their thirteen
years of probation before entering the Church.
The padre's home in all its appointments impressed us as being
exactly suited to the quiet refinement of its master. From the
windows one gained a superb view of the rippling waters of the
landlocked harbour and of the undulating country beyond.
We had the honour of meeting the padre's mother, a lady who, though
shrunk a little by weight of years, was still hale and bright. And
his sister, the widow of a distinguished officer. And his niece, who
was so vivacious and charming, that when she waved to us from her
balcony as we left we wondered if the _novio_ who was standing in
the street, whispering love up to a maiden in a mantilla on the
balcony just beneath hers, had not made the mistake of a floor!
It was evidently the feast-day of one of our fellow-guests at the
hotel, for at the close of the midday meal a tray of dainty Spanish
sweetmeats in frilled paper cases was passed round--being handed,
evidently by special instructions, to us also.
When we had helped ourselves we bowed indecisively towards the
farther end of the table, saying vaguely--in the hope that our
gratitude might reach the donor--"Muchos gracias, senor." The other
senores were quick to indicate the benefactor, who flushed a little
as he acknowledged our thanks.
While lunch was being served a dark silent young man, who was one of
the regular company, several times left his place, and from our
seats at table we saw him go to the open front door of the hotel and
glance up and down the street, as though on the look-out for
somebody. Seeing him return alone for the third time, we whispered
hints of a dilatory sweetheart.
But when the eagerly expected guest did appear it was not some
graceful dona, but a little baby girl, the sleeves of her white
frock tied with black ribbon, who was carried in in the arms of a
stout peasant nurse. As the padre told us later, our taciturn
fellow-guest was the postmaster, who had lost his young wife, and
this was their babe come to pay the bereaved father her weekly
visit.
When we went out in the afternoon the townsfolk were promenading
under the shade of the Alameda, but the _payeses_ had all
vanished--gone back to the rural homes whither we would like to have
followed them. With the disappearance of the quaint figures the
charm seemed to have vanished, and when we met our new friend the
sacristan we cajoled him into going for a stroll along the
watercourses that intersect the reclaimed land beyond the harbour.
These are a curious feature of a delightfully curious country. On
either side of the raised centre path were broad ditches full of
clear water, whose yellow sand was speckled with black shell-fish.
Shoals of little fish darted in and out among the rushes, and on
every patch of floating weed a tiny frog sat and croaked.
The fertile ground on either side of the ditches was divided into
small holdings, or _feixas_ as they are locally called. And there
mixed crops of fruit and vegetables flourished abundantly. Vines
trained to trellises bordered the water, and at frequent intervals
tall whitewashed gateways, reached by little bridges and quite
unsupported by walls, reared their gleaming bulk with something of
the self-conscious air that might be attributed to whited
sepulchres. As in Majorca, the small agriculturists appeared to live
in the towns. There were no dwellings on the _feixas_, though a few
had sheds from which issued the grunts of unseen animals.
The evening glow was on the hills when we left the watercourses and
followed a track that led between fields of full-bearded rye dotted
with blood-red poppies towards a picturesque white-walled _noria_.
In the shadow of the trees close by the old Moorish well, which was
encircled by a trellised vine, sat the farm folk enjoying the rest
of the Sabbath. A guest in a mantilla was with them.
So far from resenting our intrusion they welcomed it. Seeing that we
were interested in the working of the _noria_, the farmer ran
forward and, seizing the long wooden donkey shaft, set the wheel
revolving, and made the circle of buckets (which were not fashioned
of earthenware as in Majorca, but formed from lengths of hollowed
pine stem--a peseta each they cost, he told us) discharge their
contents for our benefit, the primitive machinery, which made
laudable objection to Sunday labour, protesting the while with
groans and squeaks.
[Illustration: The Gates of the _Feixas_, Iviza]
His wife--who had received us with friendly looks and kindly
greeting in the Ivizan dialect, that, while greatly resembling
Majorcan, omits the harsher sounds, hastened further to reveal her
good will by picking me the few blossoms within reach. Even the
townified guest in the mantilla added a genial word of greeting.
Yes, the Majorcans had spoken truly when they said the people of the
sister isle were courteous to strangers.
[Illustration: The Church of San Antonio, Iviza]
XXVII
AT SAN ANTONIO