subject to sketch, I lured him along by my favourite watercourses.
The sun beat warmly on the limpid water, in which the swarms of
little fish, looking like vivified marks of exclamation, were
ceaselessly flashing about. And on the surface herbage countless
glistening frogs, green, golden, bronze, and chocolate, were
perched, like little kings, each on his floating throne. It was with
lamentable lack of monarchical dignity that each in turn, as he got
hint of our approach, took an agile header into the water and
disappeared.
Going on past the tall whitewashed gates that seemed to have so
scant reason for existence, we reached the San Antonio road, and
there in the shadow of a wall at the side of a bean-field the Man
sat down to paint.
Against the cloudless sky the Cathedral-crowned town rose grandly.
From where we sat the encircling ramparts appeared as complete and
impregnable as they did in the time of the Roman occupation.
From our point of view, which afforded no glimpse of the newer
houses sheltered close between the ancient gate and the harbour, the
city looked much as it must have done in those bygone days when the
ground on which the lower portion of the town is built was still
lapped by the salt water of the bay.
While the Man painted I sat by, well content. The bean blossoms made
sweet savour in our nostrils, and the gentle swish of falling water
from the _noria_ in an adjacent field gave a refreshing suggestion
of coolness. And as we sat near the roadside quaint figures passed
by in slow succession. Perched sideways on their panniered mules
came broad-hatted women. The local convention that proscribes hats
for Sunday female wear permits them on weekdays; and so, set
jauntily on top of the sober handkerchief that covered the head,
most of the peasant women wore a wide white hat, bound with black,
and encircled with a black ribbon that hung in long ends
behind--women whose grave sun-browned faces argued that the day for
protecting the complexion was surely past.
Leaving the Man at work, I crossed to where in the raised _noria_, a
dozen yards beyond the white highroad, a blindfold mule was
patiently at work. All alone there by the creaking old Moorish well
he was walking round and round the path, already worn to dust by the
passage of his willing feet.
But if one chanced to be born a mule and had to draw water for a
living, a pleasanter place in which to carry out one's vocation
could hardly be imagined. For close about the stone-sided platform
that surrounded the well grew two immense fig-trees and a large
pomegranate; and for many months of the year the _noria_ must have
been an oasis of leafy shade in the midst of sun-baked fields.
Even on that April day the fig leaves were unfolding, and the small
green knobs of the first crop of fruit had sprouted close under the
foliage at the tips of the ash-grey branches. The big pomegranate-tree
held its spreading branches over the mule-track, as though desirous of
warding off the sun from the patient worker. On the delicate tracery
of branches the leaves, that always seem too minute and finely
fashioned to be in perfect accord with the heavy roseate fruit, were
showing rich copper hues.
In humid spots about the stone bastions of the well moisture-loving
maidenhair fern was clinging. As the shaft, slowly revolving, turned
the wheel, the chain of wooden buckets emptied themselves with a
musical tinkle of falling water into the wooden trough beneath, from
which it flowed into a big square tank.
At first sight the enduring mule had seemed the only sentient being
near, but a second glance revealed abounding life. The water in the
reservoir was dotted with lively black entities that proved to be
tadpoles. On a decaying log sat a handsome frog with a panel of
green, of so vivid a tint as to seem as though freshly enamelled,
neatly let into his glistening brown back. Along the sandy bottom of
the clear water a great warted toad moved sluggishly. Close in the
shadow a dark trout was lurking. Within reach of my hand a golden
lizard lazily sunned himself; and on the top of the wall rested a
dragon-fly with a broken wing.
A swallow swooped overhead. Among the poppy-strewn barley
grasshoppers were chirping merrily. In the sunshine a newly-hatched
swarm of insects gyrated, tentatively exercising their wings--all
Nature seemed indolently happy. But still the patient mule trod on
its way. Sometimes it paused a space, and I rejoiced; but the moment
the listening ears ceased to hear the trickle of the falling water
the persevering beast had again started upon the monotonous circular
tour.
It must have been a case of conscience, for nobody was at hand to
see whether the task was accomplished or not; but still, with eyes
blinded to the beauty around, the patient mule pursued the ceaseless
round, until, ashamed of my own inactivity, I longed to loosen the
halter, to take off the straw blinders that covered his eyes, and to
turn him into the cornfields to eat his fill.
"What have you done with yourself?" asked the Man, as he closed his
colour-box and prepared to return to the hotel for lunch; "I'm
afraid you must have had a dull morning."
But when I would have explained to him how excellently well I had
been entertained I found it difficult. So I said nothing, for, after
all, what possible social community could one find in a blindfold
old mule and a handful of saltant or fluttering creatures?
* * * * *
In the afternoon the padre came with us, and we drove right across
the island to San Antonio, the town that ranks second in importance.
From Iviza diligences run to San Antonio, to Santa Eulalia, to San
Carlos, San Jose, and San Juan, and the fare is fivepence. But
Ivizan diligences are impossible things. We had seen them and
shuddered, for they were merely rough carts with matted floors and
close airless canvas covers. And any we had seen were so crammed
that segments of squashed passengers protruded from every opening.
To secure the services of a two-wheeled carriage, a horse, and a man
for a complete day costs a douro (four shillings) in Iviza, and the
charge for a half-day is the same.
The padre, Don Pepe, accompanied us, and in the care of a
grave-faced Ivizan clad in a mourning suit of black ribbed velvet we
set off, pausing at the hamlet of San Rafael to see the fine vista
of the town from the plateau before the church.
I must confess that at first sight San Antonio was disappointing.
What we had expected I do not know. What we found was a whitewashed
village set on a rocky slope by an enclosed bay. The situation was
delightful; but after the grandly characteristic city of Iviza this
zealously whitewashed town, in spite of its antiquity, seemed
insignificant and _new_.
Antonio, the friend whom Don Pepe sought, was away on his
"possession." So while a willing messenger sped to fetch him, we
visited the church. The cura was absent, though his lace-trimmed
vestments--which, like the town, were white as the driven snow--were
hanging to dry within the precincts by the church porch.
The church of San Antonio shares the attractive informality which is
the distinctive feature of Ivizan architecture. It was once a
fortress of defence against the Moors. From the flat roof we had a
magnificent survey of the country about, saw the bay, which, like
all the water about the island, abounds in fish, and the lighthouse,
to which Don Pepe promised to take us, and the rough track up the
solid rock towards the _Cueva de Santa Ines_, into whose recesses
Antonio was going to guide us.
We had left the church and were moving in the direction of the
lighthouse, when the padre's quick eyes noted a figure hastening
towards us. The messenger had done his work. Antonio had returned.
The senor was in the prime of manhood and on the eve of marriage.
After our other sightseeing was done, we were promised a glimpse of
his chosen one--or, to speak quite correctly, of the damsel who had
selected him; for, as I have said before, in Iviza it is the lady
who chooses.
On the sunny bank near the lighthouse we encountered an interesting
and venerable trio--the Alcalde, the Captain of the Port, who wore
earrings, and the cura of San Antonio. With them also our padre was
a favourite. The cura urged us to return to the _curato_ and take
coffee with him. But the afternoon was passing and there was still
much to see.
So we said good-bye and left them with something of envy in our
hearts, to resume their dawdle among the white flowering asters and
butterflies, by the shores of the placid bay. Wherever their lives
had been passed, they seemed at length to have found anchorage in a
spot remote from the storms and dissensions that agitate and perplex
the world.
The men walked the mile to the cave. I drove, but many times during
the short journey I realized that it would have been far less
exertion to walk. The road lay over wickedly disposed rock, and when
my hat was not butting the canvas sides of the trap it was violently
colliding with that of the driver, who, though he bounced up and
down on his seat, still managed to preserve his air of imperturbable
calm.
The story of this subterranean chapel is a curious and interesting
one. It is believed that in the early years following the conquest,
before the fortress was converted into a church, the inner chamber
of the cave was used as a temple where Mass and other religious
services were held. Some time later--probably towards the end of the
sixteenth century--a wooden image of the martyred Saint Ines was
discovered in the cave, an image that, though it was several times
removed to the Church of San Antonio, always mysteriously reappeared
in the cave. This was ultimately accepted as a sign that the saint
desired her image to remain in the cave, which then received her
name.
On the anniversary of San Bartolome's day--the very day on which the
image had been discovered--in the height of a violent tempest, a
foreign barque found safe harbourage in the bay of San Antonio. On
board the distressed ship was a gentleman who had in his possession
a beautiful painting of Santa Ines. In his extremity he made a
definite bargain with the saint, vowing that, if through her
intercession the whole ship's company landed without scath, he would
present her portrait to the church of the first port where they
disembarked in safety.
It was on hearing of this miraculous intervention, and of the
widespread notice it attracted, that the ecclesiastical authorities
at Iviza gave permission for the little subterranean cavern to be
used as a place of worship.
After that time, on the annual recurrence of San Bartolome's day,
people in great numbers journeyed from all parts of the island to
the little town, and after attending Mass in the parish church went
with the inhabitants of the town to the cave, near which they
picnicked. Then, after having taken a draught of water from the holy
well in the interior of the cave, they assembled outside and danced
until sunset.
This quaint custom continued until 1865, when it was modified
because the roof of the cave showed signs of collapse, and the
natives of Iviza had a superstitious belief that the impending
catastrophe would occur on the day of the annual gathering. Since
then the dance has been held in the town, but is only attended by
those from a distance, as, since the scene of the festival has been
changed, the girls of San Antonio refuse to take part in it.
When we had secured the key from a silent woman at the farm-house
near by, we gained the mouth of the cave by treading unconventional
paths--first walking in single file along the broad top of a stone
wall, then treading across a tobacco patch, where, warmly sheltered
by surrounding walls, the broad young leaves were growing strongly.
At the entrance to the cave Antonio and a companion who had joined
him--we knew him only as "Charles, his friend"--lit candles, and
close on each other's heels we crept, doubled up and with stumbling
feet, through the burrow-like passage that led to the inner shrine.
Many changes must have taken place of late years, for the chapel was
cumbered with fallen refuse. The arch of the roof masonry and the
hollow where the altar had stood could still be distinguished,
otherwise there was little token left of the strange history of this
underground place of devotion. As we crawled back towards the light
and the outer air, Antonio pointed to where, at the bottom of a
tortuous and shelving passage, was situated the holy well.
The climax of our visit to the little white town was the promised
introduction to the beloved of Antonio, whom we met in the house of
her mother, in the street near the church.
Antonia could not have been more than twenty, if indeed she had
quitted her teens, but in sobriety of dress and demureness of outer
deportment she was a facsimile of her comely mother. It was only
when you noticed that her full red lips had difficulty in refraining
from curving into smiles, just as the dark hair so smoothly
plastered down on either side of her rosy face seemed rebelliously
determined to ripple into waves, that you realized that Antonia was
overflowing with exuberant young life.
Antonio knew it, though. No disguise of decorous matronly garments
or assumption of a demure manner could conceal from him Antonia's
real girlish charm. One could see that by the way his string-seated
chair edged imperceptibly nearer hers, and by the ingenious manner
in which, without seeming to do so, he yet managed to watch her
every motion.
It was at this juncture that a happy thought occurred to the padre.
Would it be possible for the Man to do a sketch--just the smallest
jotting--of Antonia, as a memento of the occasion?
"Of course it would," agreed the Man. "And of Antonio, too!"
At this the lips that Antonia had been trying so hard to keep prim
broke apart in irrepressible giggles and her hand slipped up to see
if her rebellious hair was smooth enough to do her credit. And
Antonio straightened his shoulders and gave a furtive twist to the
ends of his moustache.
The light was fading, and the chairs had to be placed--close enough
together to satisfy even Antonio's desires--near by the open door;
just outside which a row of children had already secured front
places to view the show.
The sketch was necessarily hurried, even perfunctory, but it gave
immense satisfaction.
"Oh! Look at Antonio," Antonia gurgled joyously. "See his moustache!
Is it not fine?"
"It is like the moustache of an officer of _carabineros_," said
Antonio, feeling it to see if it were actually more imposing than he
had thought. "If I really look like that I ought to be a Minister of
State; but--I prefer to be the husband of Antonia!"
[Illustration: The Church of Jesus, Iviza]
XXVIII
WELCOME AND FAREWELL
The shimmer of the sunrise and the reflection of the hills in the
unruffled waters of the harbour were so ethereally beautiful in
these Ivizan mornings, that I found it impossible to stay in bed. On
the last day of our stay I was early out on the balcony.
Scarcely anybody was about. A man in a red cap and a coat of yellow
velvet was baiting lobster-pots. And a boy in velvet trousers that
sun and the passage of time had faded to an inimitable shade of pale
moss-green was playing with a dog. Otherwise the town seemed asleep.
The scene was the perfection of drowsy restfulness, when the sudden
blast of a steam-siren broke in upon the placidity, and with the
sound a steamer, looking gigantic in these miniature surroundings,
entered the bay.
With her appearance the world awoke. As the ship moved slowly in
towards her berth, which was just below my balcony, people appeared
from all directions, as though they had been lying in ambush
awaiting the signal to concentrate upon a given point. Probably the
fact that the military element was present in force suggested the
simile. A band of officers in full dress, with short natty
astrakhan-lined overcoats and white gloves, stood a little apart
from, and in advance of, the general public. Among them were the
lieutenant in command of the carbineers, and the tall chief of the
civil guard, who looked immense in a heavy cloak lined with scarlet.
The municipal authorities had assembled in force, also
representatives of the Church, the British Consul--"Good morning,
sir!" to me on the balcony--and a comprehensive gathering of
townsfolk, all with the air of being pleasantly excited about
something that was going to happen.
The steamer--it was the _Cataluna_--was close to the wharf now, but
there was no sign on deck of any unusual occurrence. Except for the
crew, a few steerage passengers, and a knot of priests who clustered
on the boat deck amidships, nobody appeared to be on board. But
still the crowd waited expectant.
Then just as the gangway connected the _Cataluna_ with the land a
solitary martial figure, a uniformed officer whose breast was
decorated with several medals, appeared on the poop. And towards the
ship and up the gangway, in slow and ceremonial order, moved the
officers. The lieutenant-colonel of the Ivizan battalion of the
_cazadores_ led. Over the gangway, across the deck, up the
companion, and into the arms of the decorated officer, which were
outstretched to receive him. In quick succession the others passed
up, to be received cordially, if not so affectionately as their
colonel. Then, as in turn the waiting authorities followed, it
dawned upon us that we had been close spectators of the arrival of
the new Governor of Iviza, and that from our point of vantage we had
witnessed his first official reception.
It was about this stage of the proceedings that among the men in
uniform who were surrounding the new Governor on the poop we began
to recognize different members of our hotel party.
The imposing captain of infantry was the tall man who sat next to us
and spoke to nobody. The man with the bellowing voice and the
beautiful eyes was the lieutenant in command of the Ivizan
carbineers. The man at the end of the table was a captain of
engineers. The man with the eye-glasses was the captain of the
medical corps.
So much for our fancied astuteness. In place of sharing the table
with a party of commercial travellers, as we had imagined, we had
really been eating at the Ivizan equivalent to an officers' mess!
When everybody with any claim to the distinction had been presented
and the company on the poop had dwindled down to a few, the family
of the newly arrived Governor made its appearance, in the persons of
three lively boys and a baby in a nurse's arms. Then, coincident
with the appearance on deck of a lady in a hat and motor-veil, the
six soldiers in fatigue uniform who had been in waiting sped up the
gangway, to return laden with hand baggage, which, with other
femininities, included a blue bandbox. And in their wake the
Governor and his little tribe, accompanied by the colonel, stepped
in stately measure across the wharf, and disappeared into the door
of the hotel that gaped hospitably open beneath us.
As we drank the coffee that the overworked Paco had just brought us,
we wondered a little what the new Governor's impressions of Iviza
would be. He looked worn, we thought, as though weary with years of
service; and we hoped that he would find his new home in this remote
island a place of peace.
The little breakfast over, our black-garbed driver and the British
Consul, who had suggested taking us to see the _Salinas_, were
waiting. And we drove out in the sweet morning towards the curious
series of lagoons where two great harvests of salt are yearly
reaped.
The day was glorious, the air crisp, exhilarating, as we drove out
over the country roads towards the wide stretch of flat land where
the sea-water, prisoned by a cunning sequence of locks into vast
shallow vats, was slowly evaporating in the strong sunshine.
Although lead and zinc are mined near Santa Eulalia, the Salinas at
Iviza and at Formentera form the great industry of the Ivizan group
of islands, salt to the amount of nine thousand tons being shipped
each year to various parts of the world.
The history of these vast salt lagoons reaches back to before the
conquest. In 1871 the Salinas, which for many years previously had
belonged to the State, became the property of a private company, now
known as the _Salinera Espanola_.
The road, which led between green fields, had been lovely. An
occasional girl perched on a donkey comprised almost the entire
traffic. We reached the Salinas to find a scene of great brilliancy.
All along the sides of the pools rose pyramids of salt, their
glistening sides clearly reflected in the still water with something
of the effect of carefully moulded icebergs. And along the portable
line of rails strings of trucks laden with the sharp-faceted
crystals of the rough salt were moving towards the wharf.
Down by the wharf everything was white--the roads, the few houses,
the great stores of salt that lay awaiting shipment, the shoes of
the men that stood in the flat-bottomed barges beneath with long
rakes, packing away the salt as it streamed down in a sparkling
white torrent from the pulverizing machine on the staging of the
quay above.
From Iviza salt is shipped in great quantities to many distant
countries. It was interesting to hear that even in salt the taste of
the nations varies--Russia liking hers large in crystal, America
preferring that supplied her to be as fine as possible.
We stood on the pier that jutted out over the clear green waters of
the islet-studded bay, watching the men at work filling the barges
with the salt that was to be transhipped to the Italian barque that
lay in the bay of Iviza. A fine, robust, brown-faced smiling lot of
men they were. And the work on which they were at the moment
engaged seemed mechanical and easy. Hanging on the railing close by
were fishing nets, and they told us they caught many fish in the
bay.
On that bright airy morning the work seemed pleasant and not
over-arduous: different from what it must be when the fierce
southern heat has dried up the sea-water and the labour consists of
standing under the burning sun, beset by mosquitoes, scooping up the
salt from the floor of the lagoons and building it up into pyramids.
If ever there was specially thirsty work it must be salt salving.
There seemed to be surprisingly little accommodation for the
labourers near the Salinas. In summer, when close upon a thousand
labourers are employed, a large proportion of them are forced to
live in the town of Iviza and add a walk of many miles to the
exertion of the day.
At the hotel at luncheon the newly installed Governor with all his
family (except the baby) and the colonel sat by us at table. The
elder men were still in uniform, but the _habitues_ of the board had
been quick to return to mufti.
Our walk that afternoon was in the care of Don Narciso, and under
his guidance we walked through pleasant country byways towards the
few clustered houses that comprise the little village of Jesus, to
see a notable picture in the church there.
It was through a fair green world that Narciso led us that radiant
afternoon--under trees heavy with great green velvet almonds, and
through fields deep in full-bearded grain and rich in blood-red
poppies and crimson gladioli, among which wide-hatted women, the
upper of their many skirts tucked up pannier fashion, were busy
working.
Just outside the Church of Jesus, at a _noria_ in the shade of a
tall palm, trellised vines, and budding pomegranate-trees, a
sun-browned man, his little brown son, and an old brown mule were
working in happy unison. The church itself belonged to that informal
type of architecture in which Iviza abounds. The roof was
red-tiled, and without and within the building was severely
whitewashed. The special panel which formed the centre of the great
altar-piece was the work of an unknown painter of the early
Valencian school.
In a broad, simple composition it represented the Virgin and Holy
Child surrounded by angels. The details were obscure, even after Don
Narciso had thrown open the big door of the church to allow more
light to enter; but the colour was remarkably rich and full. And
though the surrounding subjects were inferior in workmanship, their
subdued tones harmonized well with the dignity of the central panel.