Transcriber Notes
● Obvious printer errors corrected.
● Variations in spelling, accents and hyphenation left as in the
original.
● Italics are represented by underscores surrounding the _italic text_.
● Bold text is represented by equals signs surrounding the =bold text=.
● Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WITH A CAMERA
IN MAJORCA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: MAJORCAN COUNTRY GIRLS.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WITH A CAMERA
IN MAJORCA
BY
MARGARET D’ESTE
AUTHOR OF “THROUGH CORSICA WITH A CAMERA”
_Kennst Du das Land wo die Citronen blühn,
Im dunklen Laub die Gold-Orangen glühn,
Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht,
Kennst Du es wohl?_
With Illustrations from Photographs
by Mrs. R. M. King
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1907
------------------------------------------------------------------------
(_All rights reserved._)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Contents
PAGE
PART I
PALMA AND ITS IMMEDIATE VICINITY—PORTO PI— 1
BELLVER—CASTLE OF ALARÓ—RAXA
PART II
OUR FIRST TOUR IN THE ISLAND:—FELANITX— 44
SANTUIRI CASTLE—ORATORIO DE SAN SALVADOR—
PORT OF MANACÓR—DRAGON CAVES—CAVES OF ARTA—
CAP DE PERA
SECOND TOUR:—ANDRAITX—SAN TELMO—ESTALLENCHS— 66
BAÑALBUFÁR
THIRD TOUR:—VALLDEMÓSA—MIRAMAR—SOLLÉR— 78
FORNALUTX
FOURTH TOUR:—ALCUDIA—POLLENSA—CASTILLO DEL 94
REY—MONASTERY OF LLUCH—GORCH BLAU—INCA
PART III
ISLAND OF IVIZA—SANTA EULALIA—PHŒNICIAN 121
NECROPOLIS—SALT WORKS
PART IV
MINORCA—PORT MAHON—PREHISTORIC ALTARS— 142
CIUDADÉLA—ROCK DWELLINGS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
List of Illustrations
MAJORCAN COUNTRY GIRLS _Frontispiece_
VIEW OF PALMA _Face p._ 2
SIGNAL TOWER AT PORTO PI ” 3
PUERTA SANTA MARGARITA ” 8
PUERTA SANTA CATALINA ” 9
VIEW FROM THE GRAND HOTEL ” 10
SENTRY BOX ON THE RAMPARTS ” 11
PATIO WITH BANANA CLUMP ” 12
STREET IN PALMA ” 13
PATIO WITH WELL ” 14
PATIO IN THE CALLE ZAVELLA ” 15
ARAB BATHS ” 16
DOOR OF MONTESION CHURCH ” 17
CLOISTERS OF S. FRANCISCO ” 18
CLOISTERS, UPPER CORRIDOR ” 19
STAIRCASE OF PRIVATE HOUSE ” 20
STREET OF THE ALMUDAINA ” 21
LONJA ” 22
DOOR OF S. FRANCISCO ” 23
GIRL WEARING THE REBOSILLO ” 28
IVIZAN HOUND ” 29
PATIO IN BELLVER CASTLE ” 32
IN THE GARDEN OF RAXA ” 33
CURIOUS OLIVE-TREE ” 36
GATE-TOWER AT ALARÓ CASTLE ” 37
CURIOUS OLIVE-TREE ” 38
CURIOUS OLIVE-TREE ” 39
A WIND-WHEEL ” 46
GROUP OF WINDMILLS ” 47
A WINDMILL ” 52
SANTUIRI CASTLE, INTERIOR ” 53
SANTUIRI CASTLE, EXTERIOR ” 54
ORATORIO OF OUR LADY OF S. SALVADOR ” 55
VIEW OF ARTA ” 60
WOMEN WEEDING A WHEATFIELD ” 61
ENTRANCE TO THE CAVES OF ARTA ” 64
FISHERMAN IN PHRYGIAN CAP ” 65
VIEW OF ESTALLENCHS ” 74
INTERIOR OF HOUSE IN VILLAGE ” 75
GEORGE SAND’S ROOMS AT VALLDEMÓSA ” 80
VIEW ON NORTH COAST OF MAJORCA ” 81
STREET AT THE PORT OF SOLLÉR ” 86
PALMER FROM THE HOLY LAND ” 87
VIEW OF SOLLÉR ” 90
OLD HOUSE AT FORNALUTX ” 91
COURTYARD AT ALFÁDIA ” 94
ROMAN GATE, ALCÚDIA ” 95
BAY OF ALCÚDIA ” 96
MOORISH WATERWHEEL ” 97
BAY OF SAN VICENTE ” 100
ANCIENT COSTUME OF MAJORCA ” 101
COCK FOUNTAIN AT POLLENSA ” 104
ROMAN BRIDGE, POLLENSA ” 105
CASTILLO DEL REY ” 108
GORCH BLAU ” 109
PLA DE CUBA ” 116
VIEW OF THE PLAIN AROUND INCA ” 117
TOWN OF IVIZA ” 124
BAY OF IVIZA ” 125
A PURVEYOR OF DRINKING WATER ” 126
MOORISH TYPE OF HOUSE ” 127
IVIZAN PEASANTS ” 130
VIEW OF SANTA EULÁLIA ” 131
PORCH OF CHURCH, S. EULÁLIA ” 134
PHŒNICIAN TOMBS ” 135
FORTIFIED CHURCH OF SAN JORGE ” 138
SALT WORKS, IVIZA ” 139
TALAYOT OF TORELLO, MINORCA ” 148
PREHISTORIC ALTAR, TALÁTO-DE-DALT ” 149
OUR GALARÉTA ” 152
A WILD OLIVE-TREE ” 153
NAU-DE-TUDONS ” 156
ALTAR OF TORRE TRENCADO ” 157
PIGS’ PALACE AND PREHISTORIC PYLON ” 158
MEGALITHIC DWELLING ” 159
ROCK-CUT DWELLINGS, SAN MORELL ” 164
INTERIOR OF ROCK-CUT DWELLING ” 165
------------------------------------------------------------------------
AUTHOR’S NOTE
To those who are unacquainted with the Spanish language, the
pronunciation of Majorcan names is such a stumbling block that the
following phonetic rendering of some of those most frequently met with
may be found useful:—
Jaime = Ha-eé-may
Lonja = Loan-ha
Andraitx = An-dreítsch
Lluch = Lee-oók
Sollér = Sole-yair
Iviza = Evéess-a
Mahon = M’hone
Aubercuix = O-ber-cóotsh
Puig (signifying Peak) = Póotsch
Bañalbufar = Ban-yal-boo-fár
Felanitx = Fay-la-néetsch
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Map of =Majorca=]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART I
In the spring of 1906 we found ourselves with three months to devote to
foreign travel, and after some deliberation we decided to spend them in
exploring those “_Iles oubliées_” of the Mediterranean—Majorca, Minorca,
and Iviza—and in ascertaining for ourselves whether they were worth
visiting and what were the possibilities of a stay there.
Their names, it is true, lingered in our memories like some familiar
echo from far-off schoolroom days, but with regard to all practical
details we were extremely ignorant, and it was without knowing a soul in
the islands or a soul who had ever been there, that we set out on the
last day of January to visit the Balearics—those homes of famous
slingers.
A railway journey of twenty-two hours takes the traveller from Paris to
Barcelona by way of Toulouse. The change from France to Spain is an
abrupt one. After racing through flat lands of vine, through sand dunes
and salt lagoons, one crosses the frontier into a dry place of red and
orange hills, where stone villages stand bare and unshrinking in the
strong sunlight, and here and there a palm—solitary outpost of the
south—waves her dusty plumes; and the night falls suddenly upon a sky
crystal clear, as the sun slips in glory behind the strong outline of
the purple Pyrenees.
* * * * *
An old writer has left it on record that the thing which chiefly
repented him in his life was having gone anywhere by sea when he might
have gone by land. Since it is decreed, however, that islands shall be
reached by water, one subject of remorse was spared us as we boarded the
steamship _Miramar_ at half-past six on the evening of February 5th. And
so great is the power of comparatives to cheer, that though the worst of
sailors, we derived a certain happiness from the reflection that we had
at any rate chosen the lesser evil in sailing from Barcelona instead of
taking the twenty-four hour crossing from Marseilles.
Behold us then at dawn gliding into the Bay of Palma and gazing around
us with that undefined expectancy that even in these prosaic days of
travel tinges with romance the landing on an unknown shore.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_From the grounds round the Castle of Bellver a most
lovely view of Palma is obtained through the pine-trees_....”
(page 31)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“... _the little harbour of Porto Pi, guarded by an old
Moorish signal tower_.”
(page 32)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Here is nothing of the wild and rugged mountain scenery that meets the
eye on approaching Ajaccio. Rather like some Fortunate Isle safe from
the reach of tempests does Majorca lie serene and dreaming upon the
water. The great bay opening to the south is enclosed upon the east by a
level shore terminating far out at sea in the blue headland of Cape
Blanco, while closer at hand the western coast line is indented with
many a rocky promontory and wooded headland curving down to the
harbour’s rim. A low cliff of orange sandstone encircles like a sea wall
the head of the bay, and upon this cliff stands Palma, a sea of
colourless houses massed upon the water’s edge and stretching backwards
to the wide plain—deep blue and level well-nigh as the sea itself—that
forms the background to the town and to the great cathedral that towers
high above all other buildings.
At its eastern rim the plain rises slightly to the double peaks of the
Puig de Randa, far inland; on the west the panorama is closed by a
distant range of sapphire blue mountains, the Sierra of the interior.
We land, and are rattled quickly away in an omnibus to the Grand Hotel—
but a few minutes distant from the quay. It was no small relief to find
that we were spared a further encounter with the Spanish _douane_, for
the ruthless violation of our trunks at the frontier station of Port Bou
was still fresh in our memory, while the very hour of our sailing from
Barcelona had been marked by a last attempt at extortion. A Customs
official who was patrolling the wharf in all the glory of helmet and
sword, took upon himself to detain a packing case of ours, containing a
saddle, and, on the ground that he could not see what was inside, he
forbade it to be put on board.
It was late—it was dark—the boat was about to sail, and we had retired
to our cabin. Our hired porter raved and shrieked upon the quay, then
came to us and said we must have the case opened or it would be left
behind. I stumbled upstairs again, my Spanish deserting me at such a
rate that by the time I reached the shore my vocabulary was literally
reduced to the one word, _sombrero_—which, unhappily, did not bear upon
the matter. The _douanier_ was polite, but firm. With shrugged shoulders
he said the Senorita would comprehend that with the best will in the
world he could not see through a deal board.
At that moment the gleam of a street lamp fell upon an upturned palm
protruding from beneath the military cape—and into it I slipped a
peseta, which produced such a furious access of shrugging and
protestation that for one brief moment I thought I had insulted the man.
But on looking round I saw that all was well, porter and case being
already half-way on deck—and with a sense of deep annoyance at having
tipped a person I would willingly have fined, I followed them and went
to bed.
On the Palma quay all is peace. By a simple arrangement involving a
certain annual subsidy to the Customs officials, the proprietor of the
Grand Hotel has ensured protection for his guests’ luggage, which
escapes even the most nominal examination. The hotel omnibus merely
draws up for a moment in front of the _Douane_ on entering the town; the
officials, armed with long probing rods, saunter out, open the carriage
door and wish us good day—and on we go again.
The town is still half asleep, and as we drive up to the hotel its
shutters are being unshipped by yawning faquins. We find a large and
handsome five-storied building with an imposing façade, and balconied
windows that look out upon the small central square of the town. The
interior conveys a truly southern impression of silence and space, due
to the great expanses of marble pavement and to the cool stone walls and
passages which prevent the conveyance of sound. The dining hall is
immense; so are the lobbies that run round the central well of the
house, and off which the bedrooms open. We go upstairs, and within an
hour of our arrival have become _pensionnaires_ of the hotel at 10s. a
head a day, and are installed in two excellent rooms on the third floor,
comfortably furnished, fitted with electric bells and light, heated by
hot water, and reached by a lift, while our wants are being ministered
to by a cheerful white-capped chambermaid answering to the name of
Dolores.
* * * * *
With brains still jumbled by travel it is almost impossible to realise,
in the midst of such up-to-date comfort, that we are really and actually
in Majorca—an island that might, for all we knew to the contrary a few
weeks ago, have proved an inhospitable rock. Memories recur of nights
spent _en route_ at Paris and Toulouse, and we go to the window half-
expecting to see a vista of wide boulevards and to hear the familiar
clanging of electric trams as they glide up and down some arcaded street
of cafés and shopfronts.
We are sharply recalled from such visions: a sea of pale yellow-ochre
tiles, unbroken, though intersected by narrow crevasse-like streets,
stretches down to a strip of brilliant blue water in the harbour below.
On flat house tops lines of wet linen flap wildly in sun and wind.
Jutting up above the mass of irregular roofs are fantastic turrets and
aviaries, painted blue and red, the homes of innumerable pigeons now
wheeling in flocks over the town, their wings singing as they cleave the
air above our heads. From scattered belfrys and towers unmelodious bells
clash out wildly for a few moments and then relapse into silence; and
like a running accompaniment to the murmur of the streets is heard the
gobble, gobble of many turkeys, and the bright eye of one of these birds
is seen watching us fixedly through the Venetian shutters of a small
upper room across the way. No, truly! this is all very unlike a northern
city.
Majorca is in fact a stepping-stone between Europe and Africa, where the
East and West—rather than the north and south of her geographical
position—may be said to meet.
She has had many masters in her day: the earliest colonists of whom we
have any record were the sea-faring Rhodians, who were said to build “as
though for eternity.” But not the faintest trace of their occupation
survives. Their successors were the Carthaginians, who left footprints
in Minorca by founding Mahon, the capital, the reputed birthplace of
Hannibal. Then came the Romans, who in 123 B.C. founded Palma and
Pollensa; Balearic slingers fought under Julius Cæsar in Gaul as they
had done under Hannibal at Cannæ. Five hundred years later the islands
were captured by the Vandals—were retaken by the Byzantine general
Belisarius, and fell subsequently with the greater part of Spain into
the hands of the Visigoths.
In the eighth century came the resistless tide of the Saracens, who held
the island for an uninterrupted period of nearly five hundred years, and
might have kept it longer had they not strained the patience of their
Christian neighbours to breaking point by their piratical habits. They
had become such a menace to the marine commerce of Europe that the then
Pope preached a crusade against the Balearic bandits, and an allied
fleet sailed from Pisa and Catalonia in the twelfth century. The
pirates’ nest was smoked out, Palma succumbing after a long and stubborn
siege. The allies, however, proved unable to retain their prize, and the
island relapsed to the Moors, who so far took their lesson to heart as
to somewhat amend their ways.
But the great assault was yet to come. On Sept. 6, 1229, Don Jaime I—
King of Aragon and Count of Barcelona—destined to live in history by the
title of _El Conquistador_, set sail for Palma with 150 galleys and
18,000 soldiers, besides a great company of Spanish knights aflame with
religious zeal, the lust of conquest, and the hope of glory. We are told
that the Christian host encountered a great storm on the way, and that
they were grievously sick before they landed near Porto Pi to the west
of the town.
Here the infidels attacked them, but were beaten back and besieged
within the city, which fell some three months later after a desperate
resistance, and was entered by the victorious Spanish army on December
31, 1229.
From that memorable day may be said to date modern Palma. Everything
around one testifies to the break that separates the history of the town
since the conquest from the old period of Arab domination. The names of
the streets immortalise the Conqueror and succeeding sovereigns or
notables of the invading race. The scutcheons that ornament the public
buildings display the arms granted to Palma by Don Jaime—a castle in the
sea, with a palm-tree issuant, quartered with the arms of Aragon and
surmounted by the Bat, cognisance of the Counts of Barcelona.
The town houses of the aristocracy are the old palaces of the nine noble
families whose ancestors accompanied the Conqueror and settled in the
island. The Governor’s residence stands where did the Moorish sheikh’s
palace; the Cathedral occupies the site of the principal mosque. So
thorough were the invaders in destroying or converting to other uses the
Moorish buildings, so fierce was their Christian zeal—“which spared not
even stones”—that hardly a trace remains of the oriental Palma, that
city crowned with minarets and peopled with 80,000 souls, which attained
under the Moors a glory and magnificence that have never since been
equalled.
* * * * *
The Palma of the present day is a prosperous town of some 60,000
inhabitants. She has burst her ancient limits, and her eastern outskirts
are thick with factories and windmills extending to the plain, while
outside her western fortifications has sprung up a large residential
suburb, and the wooded slopes above the bay are thronged for miles with
villas and summer residences. Only the town that lies inside the walls
is the old Palma, and this—in its main features—has probably altered
little since the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The gateway by which Don Jaime is said to have made
his triumphal entry into Palma in the year 1229._”
(page 10)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The Riéra is seen flowing beneath the bridge that leads
from the gate of Santa Catalina to the suburb of the same
name._”
(page 9)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A wide thoroughfare divides the town into the upper and lower _Villas_,
and starting from the harbour, takes a right angle near the Grand Hotel
and makes its exit through the Porte Jésus in the north-west walls. This
is the principal artery of the town, and was originally—like the Rambla
of many another Spanish city—the bed by which the river found its way to
the sea; but in the year 1403 a disastrous flood, causing the loss of
hundreds of houses and lives, so alarmed the inhabitants that the river
was turned from its course and conducted into the moat that surrounds
the town. Spanish rivers are proverbial for their lack of water, and it
is difficult to credit the Riéra—which in its normal state suggests
nothing more dangerous than a gravel pit after rain—with such powers of
destruction in bygone days.
The gigantic scale of Palma’s encircling fortifications may perhaps best
be realised by a glance at the accompanying picture, where the Riéra is
seen flowing beneath the bridge that leads from the gate of Santa
Catalina to the suburb of the same name.
The fortifications date from very different periods. The completed
design of moat and rampart as it now stands was originated in the
sixteenth century and only finished a hundred years ago; but remains of
the old Moorish defences still exist, though they suffered severely in
the great siege of 1229, and were strengthened and largely rebuilt by
the Spanish conquerors.
A picturesque gateway on the north of the town, now called Santa
Margarita, but dubbed by the Moors the Gate of the Christians, is
pointed out as having been the one by which Don Jaime made his
triumphant entry into Palma. This gateway, like the other survivals of
the ancient fortifications, stands some way within the _Muralla_ of the
present day, which encompasses the town as with a raised highway—one
might almost say a common, so incredibly vast are the earthworks within
the walls. Hither the townsfolk ascend at evening to enjoy the sea
breeze and the glorious view over land and sea. Cows graze peacefully
along the ramparts, surrounded by children at play; and wheeling flights
of pigeons execute aerial manœuvres overhead, while squads of new
recruits march unendingly backwards and forwards from morning to night
in the dry bed of the moat below, and the bastions re-echo the sharp
words of command.
The moat on the eastern side is devoted to rope-making, and there men
are seen walking backwards all day long, spinning as they go, and the
dull thud of heavy mallets is heard as they beat out the bundles of
esparto grass.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“... _the_ Plaza del Mercádo, _lying in the shadow of the
old hexagonal tower of San Nicolas, and flanked by the
great balconied house of the Zafortéza family_.”
(page 12)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_At intervals along the ramparts stand ancient sentry
boxes of weathered sandstone_....”
(page 11)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the southern ramparts overlooking the harbour and immediately beneath
the cathedral, is the broad terraced walk that forms Palma’s most
beautiful promenade. At intervals along the low parapet stand ancient
sentry-boxes of weathered sandstone, and one looks past them out to sea,
with a bird’s-eye view of the harbour and its shipping backed by the
white suburb of Santa Catalina and the pinewoods of Bellver. Above us
rise clustered houses, with here and there a group of slender palm-trees
leaning from some garden, and crowning all stands the great cathedral,
rich with pinnacles and flying buttresses, and turning to the harbour a
cliff-like face of sandstone deep tanned by centuries of sun and sea.
Small wonder that the townspeople love to stroll on their beautiful
_Muralla de Mar_. It is probably the only portion of the ramparts that
will survive the work of destruction now proceeding—for the doom of the
fortifications is sealed. The last part they played in history was
during the Spanish war of succession in 1715, when Palma hotly espoused
the cause of the Austrian archduke and was reduced by General Aspheld
with an army of 10,000 men. Modern science has rendered the old walls
useless as a defence—modern hygiene considers them an undesirable
barrier to fresh air.
And so they are to go.
For the last thirty years the work of pulling them down has proceeded
with but occasional pauses from lack of funds. Already a wide breach has
been made on the side next the sea; to the north a large section of the
moat has been filled in and converted into a square with gardens; and
workmen are now engaged in throwing down the eastern walls. The outer
casing of masonry is being gradually stripped off and the vast
earthworks shovelled into the moat. To the onlooker it seems as if ants
had been set to remove a mountain as he watches one trolley-load of
rubbish after another slide down to the glacis below without making the
slightest perceptible difference.
Yet it is only a question of a few years before walls and moat alike
shall have vanished. Gone will be the old entrance gates with their
scutcheons and turrets and their deep archways of black shadow where
lurks the _douanier_ watching for his prey. Gone will be the bridges
with their ceaseless stream of passengers plying to and from the town.
Gone—alas! will be one of Palma’s most picturesque features.
* * * * *
A cheerful scene greets the eye of the stranger who starts out on a
voyage of exploration the morning after his arrival at the Grand Hotel.
Facing him, as he emerges into the street, is the _Plaza del Mercádo_,
lying in the shadow of the old hexagonal tower of the church of San
Nicolas, and flanked by the great balconied house of the Zafortéza
family. If it happen to be a Saturday morning a busy throng is
congregated on the square; the ground is strewn with displays of glass
and crockery, of coarse green and brown pottery and graceful waterjars,
while the sellers of young orange-trees, of toys and jewellery, of cheap
rocking chairs and folding trestle bedsteads, vie with one another in
attracting the attention of possible purchasers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The_ patio _in some houses is merely a plain courtyard
enclosed by whitewashed walls, with perhaps a clump of
bananas growing in the centre_.”
(page 14)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Long flights of steps lead to the higher part of the town,
some broad and shallow, the playground of innumerable
boys_....”
(page 13)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Long flights of steps lead to the higher part of the town—some broad and
shallow, the playground of innumerable boys; others steep and so narrow
that the tall houses almost meet overhead.
The cobbled streets of the oldest and most aristocratic quarters of
Palma resemble ravines, and are barely wide enough to admit of the
passage of the heavy two-wheeled carts that come lumbering through,
scraping either wall with their axles and compelling foot passengers to
seek the shelter of the nearest archway. An oriental atmosphere of
mystery hangs about the massive, fortress-like walls of the great houses
that tower on either side, turning to the outer world a blank and
inscrutable face of reserve that offers not the faintest indication of
the life existing within. External windows are represented by a few
heavily-barred apertures high overhead, but if you chance to find the
great nail-studded _porte-cochère_ standing open you are at perfect
liberty to go in and look about you.
The universal plan of all the better houses is that inherited from the
Arabs—of a _patio_ or open courtyard in the centre of the building, from
which a staircase ascends to the dwelling rooms on the first floor. In
some houses this _patio_ consists of nothing more than a plain courtyard
enclosed by whitewashed walls, with perhaps a clump of bananas growing
in the centre; but in the palaces inhabited by the nobility and dating
back some centuries the courtyard is frequently of great beauty and
constitutes the chief architectural feature of the house.
The residence of the Oleza family in the _Calle de Moréy_ has a fine
courtyard in Rénaissance style; handsome pillars of red marble support
the vaultings of the house, and the gallery that spans the marble
staircase rests upon a wide flattened arch bearing the family coat of
arms. The ground floor is devoted to stables, coach-house, and domestic
offices, and in the court stands that characteristic feature of Moorish
and Spanish _patios_—the well, from which the household draws its water
supply. The bucket is lowered from a wrought-iron support in the form of
a crozier, and on being brought up brimming its contents are upset into
the font-shaped receptacle of stone close by, from which they flow
through an orifice into the water jar placed on a slab below.
The palace of the Marquis de Vivot in the _Calle Zavella_ is not as
ancient as many another, dating as it does from the beginning of the
eighteenth century only, but its _patio_ is the largest in Palma and
certainly one of the most beautiful. It is approached by fine _portes-
cochères_ and has in the centre a paved space where carriages stand at
the foot of the great staircase. From eight beautiful marble columns
spring the graceful arches that uphold the house, and in brilliant
relief against the black shadows of the recess stands out the clear red
of two immense oil-jars containing palms.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_In the court stands that characteristic feature of Moorish
and Spanish_ patios—_the well_.”
(page 14)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The_ patio _in the palace of the Marquis de Vivot is one
of the most beautiful in Palma_....”
(page 14)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am not competent to enter into the details of wrought work and
sculpture with which the _patios_ of Palma abound, but even to the
visitor unversed in architecture a voyage of discovery in the older
quarters is full of interest. The meanest back street may produce a
richly-carved window frame or a staircase with a stone balustrade of
quaint and original design. The _Calle de Sol_ boasts a house front in
purest Rénaissance style, five big windows on the first floor being
wreathed in gargoyles and strange stone monsters.
In the _Calle de la Almudaina_ we come upon an ancient machicolated
archway spanning the street. This once formed part of the wall that
encircled the very kernel of the old Moorish city, and is the only
survival of the five gateways that afforded entrance to the Citadel.
Not far from here is the equally ancient Moorish Bath, a small building
some twenty feet square standing in an orange garden. It is in the
Byzantine style, and is built of small bricks scarcely thicker than the
intervening layers of mortar. The circular basin which no doubt occupied
the floor of the building has disappeared, and the interior contains
nothing but twelve much-worn pillars standing in a square, the eight
centre ones supporting the cupola of the roof, while the four corner
columns are by an ingenious—and I believe very unusual—arrangement
omitted from the circle and left standing back in the angles of the
building.
An air of incredible age pervades this blackened and cobwebbed relic of
Islamism that lingers, unaltered and half forgotten, in the very heart
of the Christian city. It forms—with the Almudaina arch and the signal
tower of Porto Pi—the only authentic memorial of the race which occupied
Majorca for a period of five hundred years.
* * * * *
The churches of Palma are many. One of the oldest is that of Monte Sion,
which is said to have adopted both the site and the name of a still
older Jewish synagogue: as one skirts its walls, huge, blank, and
dungeon-like, one is quite unprepared for its exquisite doorway—one of
the richest pieces of sculpture in Palma. It is a fine specimen of
rococo, dating from 1683, and constituting in its delicacy of detail and
beauty of proportion one of the finest of the many beautiful church
doors for which Palma is famed.
Scarcely less magnificent is the west front of the great church of San
Francisco, with its immense doorway in late Rénaissance style,
surmounted by an exquisite rose window. This church contains the tomb of
a scion of a noble Catalonian house—the famous Rámon Lull, warrior,
scholar, and saint—who in the reign of Jaime II. founded a college for
the instruction of twelve monks in oriental tongues, and was himself
martyred in Algeria by the infidels whom he went forth to convert. His
body was secured by some Genoese fishermen, who set sail for Italy with
their precious burden; but when off the coast of Majorca their boat
refused to advance till the martyr’s body was brought on shore, where it
was laid to rest in its native soil by the monks of San Francisco.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_An air of incredible age pervades this blackened and cobwebbed
relic of Islamism_....”
(page 16)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The exquisite doorway of Montesion is one of the richest
pieces of sculpture in Palma._”
(page 16)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The tomb is a beautiful Gothic monument of red marble, but the effigy of
Rámon Lull, surrounded by fretted canopies and fantastic heraldic
beasts, is only dimly visible in the deep gloom of the church.
A trap door leads down to an immense crypt, where a huddled-up human
skeleton is pointed out and the story told of a bloody tragedy enacted
in the church in the year 1490. Two of Palma’s greatest families were at
deadly feud, and while attending the ceremonies of the _Jour des Morts_,
upon some slight pretext came to blows. The church became a slaughter-
house, and before swords were sheathed more than three hundred dead and
wounded were left on the field of battle.
Whether the skeleton in the crypt is one of those that fell that
memorable day may be doubted; but it is not improbable, for the church
and its monastery were founded shortly after the conquest—by monks of
the order of St. Francis of Assisi—and were from earliest times one of
the chief places of burial for the nobility. The walls of the adjoining
cloisters are thick with scutcheons and memorial tablets to those who
were once the greatest in the land.
A beautiful colonnade of slender Gothic pillars encloses the monks’
garden, where two geese—sole occupants of the _Paradiso_—chatter angrily
at the intruder. No other sound but the soft rustlings of palm branches
and the whispers of the wind in the orange-trees breaks the silence of
the long galleries and deserted cells.
From the upper corridor with its broken pavement chequered with dazzling
patches of sunshine one looks out from under the deep overshadowing
eaves to where the cathedral spires rise dim and distant across half the
city. The atmosphere of infinite peace that pervades these cloisters—the
sense of seclusion, although so near the busy life outside the walls—
must have appealed deeply to the brown-frocked friars who once paced
these beautiful walks “revolving many memories.”
Bitter must have been the day of expulsion when this monastery, like all
the others in the island, was suppressed in 1835.
The church of San Nicolas contains a statue of Santa Catalina, a
Majorcan saint of great fame, and—incorporated in the outer wall, is the
rock on which she was sitting in the bed of the Riéra at the moment when
she was informed of her admission into the convent of St. Magdalen. The
interiors of these southern churches are so dark that it is with
difficulty possible to make out the statues that occupy the side
chapels; here may be seen a black Madonna and child of miraculous power;
there a group of saints laden with ex-votos in the shape of flat silver
images of men and women and models of human limbs, hung upon their arms
by grateful devotees; in another niche is a life-sized Christ upon the
cross—wearing a fringed crimson petticoat to the knees and a broad
silver girdle with a bunch of artificial roses stuck in it, while matted
locks of real hair straggle out from beneath the crown of thorns.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_In the ancient monastery of S. Francisco a beautiful
colonnade of slender gothic pillars encloses the monks’
garden_....”
(page 18)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_From the upper corridor one looks out to where the
cathedral spires rise dim and distant across half the city._”
(page 18)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the Cathedral the darkness is so intense by contrast with the
blinding light outside that it is some considerable time before one’s
eyes become sufficiently accustomed to the gloom to perceive the details
of the rich interior. The roof of the nave rises 150 feet above the
level of the pavement, and is divided from the side aisles by fourteen
great columns 70 feet in height, slender and stately as the shafts of
forest trees. High overhead—where the delicate ribs of the vaulting
cross—are carved the armorial shields of knights, who for this privilege
paid heavy sums in bygone days towards the building of the church. Eight
chapels, gorgeous with statues and gilding, occupy either side aisle,
and above them are Gothic windows—so little suited to this land of
fierce light that they have had to be bricked up, with the exception of
a few tiny apertures through which the sun shoots golden arrows. The
faint light that penetrates the rich rose windows above the choir lies
in jewelled stains upon the pavement, and does little to dispel the
solemn gloom.
From the dim east end, far away, where wreaths of incense rise and the
high altar is outlined in brilliant points of light, comes the distant
chanting of priests and the response of choir boys—and suddenly a great
rush of harmony fills the cathedral as the voice of the organ sinks and
swells like a storm-wind among the columns, and dies trembling away in
the uttermost recesses of the great building.
Worshippers move to and fro in constant succession; men spread their
handkerchiefs upon the stone floor and remain upon their knees in
prayer, wholly oblivious of the coming and going around them. Women,
dressed in deepest black, kneel motionless at the _grilles_ of the
various chapels, where lamps burn with a dull red spark before the image
of saint or Saviour. A stately _Suisse_ in wig and gown paces up and
down and receives the visitor desirous of seeing the treasures of the
sacristy; here are exhibited heavy silver candelabra, embroidered
vestments, jewelled crosses, and reliquaries—and in company with these
may be seen, bedizened with tawdry velvet and sham ermine, the mummified
body of Majorca’s second king, Don Jaime II., who died in the year 1311.
It was in the old church of Santa Eulalia, not far away, that in 1256 a
general assembly was called to proclaim this Don Jaime—the second son of
the Conqueror—heir to the crown of Majorca, his elder brother’s
inheritance being the throne of Aragon, which carried with it a merely
nominal suzerainty over the island kingdom. Before long, however, a
dispute arose over the terms of allegiance due to the King of Aragon,
and in 1285 Don Jaime was dispossessed of his kingdom by Alfonso III.
for thirteen years, after which time it was restored to him by the
usurper’s son, and retained till his death.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The_ patios _of Palma abound in sculpture and wrought-iron
work_....”
(page 15)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The machicolated archway spanning the street of the
Almudaina is the only survival of the five gateways that
afforded entrance to the Citadel._”
(page 15)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
He was succeeded by his son Sancho, who died without children, and the
crown then passed to his uncle, the fourth son of the Conqueror, and
through him to Don Jaime III., the last King of Majorca, who fell upon
the field of Lluchmayor in 1349, in a last attempt to regain the crown
wrested from him by Pedro IV. of Aragon.
So ended—within little more than a hundred years of its creation—the
independent monarchy founded by Jaime the Conqueror, and the islands
have from that time been incorporated with the kingdom of Aragon.
In the fine sixteenth-century town hall is preserved a full-length
portrait of the Conqueror, which represents him as a grave-faced man
with a pointed beard and hair cut square upon the shoulders, robed in
crimson mantle, ermine collar, crown, and sword. For many centuries it
was the custom to celebrate the anniversary of the capture of Palma by
exhibiting this portrait outside the town hall, surmounted by the royal
standard of Aragon and surrounded by the portraits of eminent Majorcans.
* * * * *
The town contains innumerable other features of interest, but before
leaving this portion of my subject I must not omit a mention of the
_Lónja_—the Exchange—a large building standing near the harbour, and one
of the first objects to attract the attention of the traveller as he
nears the quay. Its keep-like walls and turreted parapets are usually
the subject of much admiration, but I must confess that to us the great
building seemed too symmetrically square and too conspicuously new to
awaken in us any enthusiasm for its exterior.
Severely rectangular it undoubtedly is—but its appearance of newness is
misleading, for it dates from the fifteenth century, when it was the
custom for Spanish towns to vie with one another in the splendour of
their Exchanges; its claim, therefore, to be one of the finest _Lónjas_
in Spain is a legitimate source of pride.
It is said to have been begun in 1409, when the merchants of Palma,
having rendered the King of Aragon great aid in the conquest of
Sardinia, received permission to levy a tax on all the outgoing and
incoming wares of foreigners and pirate persons; and so large was the
sum accruing from this protective toll that after applying part of it to
the defence of their commerce at sea they devoted the remainder to
building this splendid Exchange—a testimony to future generations of the
extent and prosperity of Palma’s trade in the Middle Ages.
The interior is extremely striking, containing nine fluted and twisted
columns of great height, their delicate groinings spreading in palm-like
tracery over the roof. The building has long been disused, and the light
that enters as the shutters are flung wide of the great windows looking
out to sea discloses nothing but some old paintings upon the walls and a
jumble of sculptured fragments piled upon the stone seats that surround
the hall.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The interior of the Lonja—Palma’s ancient Exchange—contains
six fluted columns of great height_....”
(page 22)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The great church of S. Francisco has a doorway in late
Rénaissance style_....”
(page 16)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It will perhaps be thought strange that a town so comparatively easy of
access as Palma, and possessing so much to attract the artist and the
antiquarian, should be so little known to the world at large. Yet if we
reflect how small a distance from the beaten track will suffice to
deflect ninety-nine per cent of the travelling public, it is no subject
for wonder that Majorca is still an unknown isle.
A certain number of travellers pass through Palma on their way to and
from Algiers, but the island in general is as yet barely aware of the
existence of the tourist, and he is quite a recent institution even in
Palma itself, where the opening of the Grand Hotel three years ago may
be said to have inaugurated a new era.
Viewed in the light of a tourist resort the old town is so far behind
the times that she brings me in mind of some old-fashioned châtelaine
who with dignity offers her guests of her best, without in any way
altering her mode of life to suit the standard of modern requirements. I
can recall but two shopkeepers in Palma who knew any language but
Spanish, and at the Bank a special clerk is hastily summoned if an
Englishman chances to enter the door. An English church—the earliest
sign of a recurring visitors’ season—is as yet only represented by a
mission-room in the suburb of Santa Catalina, where the Church of
England service is read every Sunday by a Wesleyan minister.
To the globe-trotter it will come as a surprise to find that he is no
longer under the world-wide ægis of Thomas Cook, and that that name by
which he has hitherto conjured conveys nothing whatever to a Majorcan
official. The foreigner who visits the remoter villages of the interior
is still looked upon as something of a curiosity; he will have to drive
in native carriages, live on native food, and bid a temporary farewell
to that cosmopolitan standard of comfort provided for all who travel the
world’s highways. But he will at least be sure of one thing—an unfailing
welcome by an island race noted for its charming manners.
I think the courtesy of the natives is one of the first things to strike
the new-comer in Palma. Many a time as we rambled about the labyrinthine
streets of the town did a Spanish lady come out of her way to ask if she
could be of any use in directing us; in any difficulty you may apply
without hesitation to one of the common soldiers with which the town
swarms, and with all the instinct of a well-bred man he will immediately
do his utmost to be of assistance, nor would his own colonel more deeply
resent the inference of inferiority conveyed by the offer of a tip.
The bow with which a native gentleman asks you to enter his _patio_ and
photograph what you will is only equalled by that of the peasant who
rises from table at a wayside cottage to ask the passing stranger to be
seated and to share his meal.
In a country where manners cease to form a distinction between the
classes social intercourse becomes easy and natural. A market-woman will
enter the democratic tram, dragging with her an unmanageable and
overflowing basket, and the gentleman seated next her will without
hesitation accept half of it on his knees, hand it after her when she
rises, and raise his hat as she turns to thank him. There is neither
thought of condescension on his part nor of presumption on hers.
School attendance is not compulsory in Majorca, and many of the peasants
with whom we came in contact were wholly illiterate; yet in no instance
had the proverbial twopence extra for manners been spared in their
education. I remember how when talking to a muleteer we once regretted
our inability to speak Spanish more fluently.
“Ah, but the Señora speaks well!” he said quickly; “think how difficult
I should find it if it was I who had to learn _her_ language!” And an
old man chimed in, “And I, Señora, cannot even write!”
The _patois_ spoken by the peasants is a dialect composed of the old
Catalonian tongue alloyed with a strong dash of Provençal French, and it
bears very little resemblance to the Spanish of Castile, which became
the language of the educated classes after the union of Ferdinand and
Isabella. The latter is, however, the tongue taught in the schools, and
the stranger who can speak “castelláno” will find himself understood
throughout the Balearic Islands, barring by a few of the older and more
illiterate peasants.
The people of Palma are so little accustomed to Spanish-speaking
foreigners that some of the shopkeepers cannot be brought to mention the
price of an article to their customers, but persist in counting out the
required sum into their own hand and exhibiting it in dumb show—to the
exasperation of a certain German lady who objected to being “treated
like a child.”
The shopping expeditions of more or less speechless tourists must
necessarily be productive of many a laughable incident, yet I never saw
a native betray the slightest amusement at the mistakes committed; I
have indeed had my hand wrung with heartfelt sympathy by a good woman to
whom I was struggling to explain myself.
The chief shopping centre for visitors is perhaps the _Platería_—a
narrow street occupied by working silver-smiths—where gold and silver
chains are measured off and sold by the palm, and bits of old enamel and
peasant jewellery, in the shape of antique pendants and crosses, are
displayed in the little windows. Amongst the most fascinating objects
are clusters of silver-gilt buttons set with amethyst and garnet, such
as are worn by the countrywomen on _fête_ days, and dozens of minute
silver charms representing baskets, lanterns, tubs, and other familiar
objects, reduced to the scale of a mouse’s belongings; while hanging
everywhere, of all sizes and shapes, are the silver chain purses used by
every Majorcan, and exported by the thousand—to be sold at double the
price by fashionable jewellers in London.
Few foreigners leave Palma without a souvenir in the form of a piece of
old-fashioned faïence or majolica—the latter an imitation of the Arab
lustre ware—manufactured at the neighbouring _fabrique_, along with the
pretty glazed tiles, originally introduced from Valencia, with which the
Majorcans face the steps of their staircases. Other local industries
include lace-making and embroidery, basket-weaving, the plaiting of
complicated string seats and backs to the native chairs, tanning and
shoemaking—in which latter branch a large export trade is carried on
with South America. Shoes are cheap, and it is quite noticeable how
neatly shod the Majorcans of all classes are.
The Majorcans are good workers, and their charges moderate. The scale of
wages is low, but so is the cost of living, and it would be difficult to
find a more contented and prosperous-looking race than these islanders.
Extreme cleanliness is one of their most salient characteristics; they
are noted too for their good looks, and it is indeed rare to find a
plain face among them; and this, combined with a sensible, cheerful
expression and a natural talent for effective colouring in dress,
renders them a remarkably picturesque and attractive people. The country
girls still retain the muslin coif, or _rebosillo_, which once formed
the universal female headgear, but in Palma this has given way to a
handkerchief worn somewhat far back on the head over beautifully dressed
hair.
Scarlet skirts are much in vogue among the working classes, but, on the
whole, soft half-tones are preferred to the primary colours, and a crowd
of market-women presents a gay kaleidoscopic scene in which lemon-
yellows, sage-greens, salmon-pinks, brown-reds, and turquoise blues are
worn side by side with charming and harmonious effect.
* * * * *
In the early morning the big market-place in the upper town is the
_rendezvous_ of countless housewives, bargaining busily, basket on arm,
for the day’s provisions. Under the long arcades bordering the cobbled
square are installed the sellers of fruit and vegetables, with plaited
ropes of garlic, pans of fresh olives, strings of scarlet capsicums and
bitter tomatoes, hampers of newly picked oranges, bunches of pale
Majorcan dates and still paler bananas, and masses of figs turned out
_en bloc_ from big rush baskets lined with leaves. A neighbouring booth
supplies flat fig cakes stuffed with almonds and aniseed, and slices of
dark red _Carne de Membrillo_—an excellent quince preserve, in
consistency like damson cheese.
From the fish market, where the morning’s catch is displayed upon marble
slabs, rises a very babel of voices. Loud and shrill is the clamour of
the fishwives as they detain the passer-by with a scaly hand, and seek
to repair the mischief with a no less scaly apron. Crabs and lobsters
lie sprawling upon their backs, and wave stemmy legs amongst marine
creatures never seen upon a hotel table—giant shell-fish, octopuses
lying in knotted heaps, jelly-like squids, ugly thorny monsters who are
all head, and gorgeous little fishes coloured like macaws—scarlet, blue,
yellow, or glittering with metallic greens and reds.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The country girls still retain the pretty muslin coif or_
rébosillo....”
(page 27)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_These dogs can boast a longer pedigree than any dogs
under the sun, for they are descended from the hunting dogs
of the old Egyptians_....”
(page 29)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
By midday all will have been sold, and the market square given up to
tall, cadaverous-looking dogs that saunter round the deserted stalls and
pick up what fragments remain. Gaunt, listless, and apparently starving,
these dogs of Palma attract the attention of every new-comer; and thanks
to a fellow-guest at the Grand Hotel, our own interest in them was
specially aroused. This Swiss scientist had come to Majorca to study the
domestic animals of the island, and the result of his researches had
proved a theory he had long held—that somewhere on the shores of the
Mediterranean would be found descendants of the dogs of ancient Egypt.
This island breed, known locally as Iviza dogs—but dubbed by the
unappreciative foreigner “degenerate greyhounds” and “pariahs”—can boast
a longer pedigree than any dogs under the sun, for they are descended
from the much-prized hunting dogs of the old Egyptians. Introduced ages
ago by Greek or Phœnician colonists, they are now peculiar to the
Balearics, where they are found in great numbers.
They are the size of a large greyhound, with smooth coats usually yellow
and white. Nothing will fatten them: the pampered favourite of a great
house is as lean as his scavenging _confrère_ of the market-place, and,
like him, he wears a look of melancholy weariness not unfitting an old,
old race that has existed since the dawn of history. The chief
characteristic of the breed is their long, pointed ears, which when
pricked stand stiffly erect, and never droop as do those of the somewhat
similar hounds imported from Algeria and Morocco. These ears, with the
long, narrow muzzle, give the dogs a striking resemblance to the jackal-
headed god Anubis of Egyptian sculpture.
They are mild, timid creatures, quite useless as watchdogs, but popular
as pets, and—like their original ancestors—much valued for purposes of
the chase. Landowners keep them for coursing hares and rabbits, of which
they catch extraordinary quantities; and so devoted are the dogs to this
sport that those belonging to peasants on large estates have frequently
to be hobbled, and are seen wearing steel bracelets on their fore and
hind leg, connected with a light chain.
Another interesting relic of a bygone race is seen in the survival in
the Balearics—so our Swiss professor pointed out—of the Greek type of
horse familiar to travellers who have seen the statues of Balbus—_père
et fils_—in the Naples Museum. These animals are not very common, but
here and there one comes across a horse differing utterly from the
prevailing Andalusian type. Round and compact, often black in colour,
and with stiff mane and tail, these horses have a remarkably arched
crest and a slightly convex outline of nose—the profile of head and neck
being represented rather by the segment of a circle than by the right
angle formed at the apex of the skull by the lines of the slender
Spanish horse.
* * * * *
Mules are largely used in the Balearics, Majorca being especially
celebrated for its breed. They are big, handsome animals, unusually
docile, owing to the gentle treatment they receive, and a good pair of
carriage mules is more sought after and more valuable than is a pair of
the best Continental horses. Nearly all the carriages of the Palma
gentry are drawn by fast-trotting mules, and towards evening a perfect
procession of _galarétas_ wends its way westward along the sea road,
each with its match pair of strong, sure-footed beasts that make nothing
of the hills to be encountered.
Half an hour’s drive along this road brings one to the wooded knoll
beyond Santa Catalina, on which stands the old castle of Bellver, a
well-preserved thirteenth-century fortress, whose yellow walls rise
above the surrounding pines, foursquare and stately. In olden days it
was used as a residence by the Kings of Majorca—in later times it served
as a state prison—and now it stands empty, the last use it was put to
having been as an astronomical station for the English expedition which
went out to Palma in 1905 to observe the solar eclipse. From the grounds
round the castle a most lovely view of the town is obtained through the
pine-trees, and it is amongst these woods that a new hotel is now being
built, to be opened this year under the name of Hotel Victoria. It will
be under the same management as the Grand Hotel in Palma, and being
connected with the town by a service of trams it will no doubt prove
extremely popular with visitors who prefer life amid country
surroundings.
A mile or so beyond Bellver we come to the little harbour of Porto Pi,
the mouth of the creek guarded by an old Moorish signal tower, now
converted into a lighthouse, though still used for signalling purposes.
It is not till we get beyond Porto Pi that we reach the real country and
find ourselves amongst olives and asphodel; and here the Spanish ladies
descend from their carriages and stroll bareheaded along the road—the
only form of exercise in which they indulge. The Majorcan roads are upon
the whole very good, though dusty in dry weather; and they are kept in
far better repair than one would be led to expect from watching the
leisurely procedure of the _Péon caminéro_, who brings stones and earth
upon the scene in small basketfuls, moistens them with a watering-pot,
and stamps them in patiently with a small rammer. When, however, he has
occasion to spread road metal in greater quantities he takes a high hand
with the public, and procuring large boulders he arranges them on
alternate sides of the road, so as to compel passing vehicles to drive
over the fresh stone; he is considerate enough to remove these
stumbling-blocks at nightfall, but it is a ludicrous sight to see a
whole string of smart carriages twisting in and out of these obstacles
as if in a driving competition, in obedience to the arbitrary behest of
the road-maker.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The Castle of Bellver is a thirteenth century fortress, and
has a circular_ patio _with an upper and lower colonnade_.”
(page 31)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_At the château of Raxa the grounds are laid out in
Italian fashion, with orange and cypress terraces, and
splendid flights of marble steps._”
(page 35)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The almost universal type of native carriage is the _galaréta_, a light-
running covered vehicle, in appearance not unlike a baker’s cart on four
wheels. The hinder part is entered from the rear, and is seated like a
wagonette; there is a window on either side, and another dividing it
from the broad hooded seat in front on which the driver sits.
To the foreigner these covered carriages appear intensely uncomfortable;
if he be above the medium height his head comes in irritating contact
with the roof; he can see hardly anything of the landscape from the
windows, and he never ceases to marvel at the natives who can pack
themselves in incredible numbers into one of these little-eases and
emerge unruffled and cheerful at the end of a long drive. Yet it must be
admitted that in its own country the _galaréta_ possesses several
distinct advantages over the open carriage; its occupants are
indifferent to sun and rain, and can protect themselves from both dust
and wind; on the hottest summer’s day a draught can be created by
lowering the glasses and drawing the Venetian shutters with which each
window is fitted, while upon the homeward drive the chilly night air can
be as easily excluded.
Like all Southerners the Majorcans dread the change of temperature that
takes place at sundown, and towards evening they wrap themselves in
cloaks and mufflers, while the fearless foreigner sits out on a terrace
to enjoy the sunset and is extremely indignant at waking next morning
with a sore throat.
In a land where the new-born year is so amazingly precocious it is
difficult to remember that in England he is still in his white swaddling
clothes; by the end of January the plain around Palma is decked with
miles of almond orchards in full bloom, their faint scent filling the
air and their laden branches covering the country with billowy white
masses. The wind has forestalled the date of the Carnival, and his last
night’s Battle of Flowers has flung deep drifts of snowy confetti upon
the sprouting wheat beneath the trees. But there are still snow-caps on
the blue hills away to the north, and a sudden rattling storm of hail
reminds us that even in Majorca Spring is not yet fully enthroned.
By February a vast expanse of young wheat has clothed the land in a
garment of the crudest Pre-Raphaelite green—almost startling in its
intensity when seen in contrast with sea or sky.
By the first week in March new potatoes and green peas are in the
market, the orchards are knee-deep in beans, and the whole island is
fragrant with bean blossom. In the carob groves—where the knotted trunks
and twisted limbs of the old trees cast strange shadows on the swaying
corn—are purple anemones, pink gladiolus, and a blue shimmer of honey-
scented grape-hyacinths.
The long days of unbroken sunshine are now devoted to excursions into
the surrounding country, and visitors begin to leave the town in which
they have wintered and to roam further afield.
A favourite drive is to the neighbouring Château of Raxa, a country seat
belonging to the Count of Montenegro, where the grounds are laid out in
Italian fashion with orange and cypress terraces, stone vases and
statues, and splendid flights of marble steps. Roses, violets, freesias,
and heliotrope were in full bloom in the gardens on March 3rd, and the
women engaged on the orange harvest handed down to us branches heavy
with fragrant golden fruit. Oranges are nothing accounted of in Majorca,
and lemons are looked upon as so far below all price that they are given
one for the asking, any idea of payment being vigorously scouted.
The road to Raxa runs for many miles through a red plain given up to
olive culture; whether it is the soil of Majorca that is responsible for
the extraordinary grotesqueness of the olive-trees I cannot say, but
they resemble nothing I have ever seen in other lands. Stretching away
in quaint perspective on either hand are distorted grey forms suggestive
of an enchanted forest; many of the old trees stand on a kind of tripod
formed by the splitting and shrinking of their own trunk; here a hoary
veteran of many centuries has wound himself into an excellent imitation
of a corkscrew; a group of twisted crones appears to gossip together
with uplifted hands, while two sprawling wrestlers are locked as in a
death-struggle in each other’s arms. Here squats a gnarled mass like
nothing so much as a gigantic toad; there a boa-constrictor twines
itself in folds about its prey, and an antediluvian monster stoops to
examine with interest the strange human insect that has adventured
itself within reach.
So endless are the variations of form assumed by these extraordinary
trees, so fascinating is each fresh discovery, that one wanders on and
on, like children in a bewitched wood, and a determined effort of will
is required to tear oneself away from such a scene and return to the
carriage awaiting one on the prosaic high-road.
* * * * *
The same weird olive groves will be found on the way to Alaró, a small
inland town lying at the foot of the mountains, near which are the ruins
of the castle—famous in Majorcan history—which one morning in March we
set out by rail to visit.
Majorcan trains are not fashionable in their hours, and it was little
after daybreak that we steamed out of the Palma station and glided away
through richly cultivated fields of beans and wheat, where pleasant
homesteads stood embowered in almond orchards and fat yellow lemons
bobbed over the garden walls. As the line approaches the mountains the
country becomes wilder and more open; vast undulating expanses of stony
red ground are being slowly ploughed by mule teams, and miles upon miles
of fig-trees cast a white shimmer over the plain—their leafless branches
so pale as in the distance to resemble blossoming orchards. The dark
glistening green of carob groves contrasts vividly with the feathery
grey of the olive, and as a background to the scene a dark belt of pine-
trees crowns the red slope and stands out in brilliant relief against
the indigo blue ranges of the Sierra.
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[Illustration:
“... _an antediluvian monster stoops to examine the
strange human insect that has adventured itself within
reach_.”
(page 36)
]
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[Illustration:
“_One enters the precincts of the old fortress of Alaró
through a Moorish gate-tower with a curious double
archway_....”
(page 38)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Within an hour we descend at Consell and change to the branch line
forming the connection with Alaró; a small tram was awaiting us outside
the station, and this proved to be the branch line. No road was in
sight, but the tram lines vanished into an endless perspective of
beanfields, and through these we were slowly drawn by two horses
harnessed tandem fashion. Our only fellow-travellers in the tiny front
compartment—reserved for the rich who could afford to pay threepence—
were a couple of buxom market-women, most deeply interested in our
appearance.
Quaint things happen so easily in Majorca that we were not much
surprised on reaching Alaró when the tram conductor got down, shouldered
our camera and the heavy luncheon basket, and without a word marched
away towards the village inn as though it were his business in life to
conduct strange ladies there. Setting rocking chairs for us among the
wine barrels, he lit a cigar and proceeded to assist in the saddling of
the two donkeys that had been ordered overnight for our ascent to the
castle of Alaró. One was a riding donkey for my companion, the other a
pack animal to carry our impedimenta, its pack saddle being furnished
with panniers and fitted with the native breeching strap—a wooden
contrivance shaped like a Cupid’s bow, which fits across the donkey’s
hind legs and rubs off all the hair.
Away we started in brilliant sunshine with an old man and a boy in
attendance, and turning into a narrow track between stone walls we
followed a babbling torrent through carob and orange gardens and began
to wind up the hillside by a steep zigzag path. Innumerable sheep-bells
tinkled among the olive yards, and the voice of a herdsman rang out in a
Gregorian chant from far up the heights where he tended his goats among
holm oak and pine. Sheer above us towered the perpendicular red scarp of
the cliff on which the castle stands, a small white speck upon its edge
the _Hospedéria_ of the summit.
A couple of hours’ stiff climb brings one to the back of the cliff, and
scaling a rough rock staircase one enters the precincts of the old
fortress through a Moorish gate tower with a curious double archway—the
outer arch being round-headed and the inner one pointed.
Like a great wedge of cheese with straight cut sides does the cliff of
Alaró stand out into the plain; its perpendicular front rises sheer in a
terrific precipice, its only approach a steep ascent commanded by a
fortified tower. Small need to be told that by assault the castle was
impregnable; but it was subdued by siege and starvation in 1285, when
Alfonso the Beneficent of Aragon warred with Jaime II. of Majorca. What
followed the surrender of Alaró is known to every Majorcan; the
Conqueror, exasperated by the vain but most gallant defence of the
castle, had its two governors burnt alive at the stake in the presence
of his whole army.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Many of the old olive trees stand on a kind of tripod
formed by the splitting and shrinking of their own
trunk._”
(page 35)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“... _running a nightmare race with each foot rooted to
the ground_.”
(page 35)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
So perished the heroes Cabrit and Bassa, leaving their names to be
handed down through the centuries as the names of men who died loyal to
their king at a time when the greater part of the island had gone over
to the usurper.
When Majorca again came into the hands of the legitimate line the ashes
of the canonised heroes were placed in an urn and deposited beneath an
altar in Palma Cathedral, where they remain to this day; and every
succeeding generation hears from childhood up the stirring tale of how
the two patriots fought and how they died.
The little oratory of Our Lady of Refuge stands upon the summit of the
cliff, and no doubt originated as the chapel of the fortress.
Subsequently it became a renowned sanctuary, and attached to it, as is
usual in Majorca, is a small _hospéderia_, or hostelry, where pilgrims
and visitors can obtain a night’s shelter. The view from this point is
worth coming far to see; unrolled like a map at one’s feet, far, far
below, is the great southern plain, from the Bay of Palma on the west,
where the dark mass of the cathedral still shows just visible above the
faint haze enveloping the city, to the glittering Bay of Alcúdia upon
the far east coast. All the cities of the plain—Inca, Benisalém, La
Puebla, Múro, and Lluchmayór, lie outspread before us. Behind us, range
upon range, are the wooded slopes of the Sierra, the topmost peaks still
crowned with snow; threads of quicksilver flash down the mountainsides,
and valley, plain, and hill alike are enveloped in a grey sea of olive-
trees, dwarfed by distance to the semblance of lavender bushes.
Some idea of the height of the rock on which we stand is obtained by
dropping a stone over the edge; peering over the abyss as we lay full
length on the ground we launched a small boulder into space, and, watch
in hand, timed its descent.
“One, two, three,” the seconds ticked away, and still the stone fell,
though to our eyes it appeared already to have reached the olive groves;
“four, five, six,” and not till now did a dull crash come up from below
to tell us that the stone was at its journey’s end. We arose cautiously
and walked back along the very centre of the cliff, feeling in every
nerve that were we to stumble nothing could save us from covering fully
thirty feet in our fall and disappearing over the edge of the precipice.
Rejoining our donkeys, we set off on our downward ride. Midway we were
overtaken by a party of boisterous young men who tore down the
mountainside laughing and shouting, gave us a breathless good-day in
passing, and vanished with giant strides down a precipitous shortcut,
apparently intent on breaking their necks. We looked on aghast, but our
guides evidently considered it no abnormal way of descending a mountain.
“Going downhill no one is old,” says the island proverb reassuringly; no
doubt the subsequent stiffness of our own knees was the result of not
having gone down sufficiently fast.
* * * * *
The Palma carnival differs so greatly from that function as celebrated
on the Riviera as to be worthy of mention. There the tourist element and
its accompanying ostentation of wealth are the most conspicuous features
of the performance. Here, in Palma, all this is wholly lacking, and the
carnival has retained its native character to a truly refreshing degree.
It is essentially a people’s festival, with hardly a foreigner present.
From three o’clock in the afternoon till late at night the whole town is
_en fête_; all the shops are shut, and the shop people sit in merry
groups before their doors; the balconies overlooking the Borne are
crowded, and the wide Borne itself is a seething throng of people on
foot sauntering up and down, and chaffing one another in high good-
humour.
The troops—of which five or six thousand are quartered at Palma—send a
large contingent to the crowd of holiday-makers; infantrymen in long,
blue coats, crimson trousers, and bright green gloves, mingle with
pretty girls in kerchief and _rebosillo_, whose hair is powdered thick
with coloured confetti. Here is an old peasant, come in from the
country, wearing under his hat a handkerchief wound round his head in
the style of his Catalonian ancestors; his wife has donned her gayest
shawl, and has brought the baby, who chuckles with delight at the
festive scene and wears a funny little straw hat shaped like a Saracen
turban trimmed with scarlet pompoms.
Tiny maidens of four and five are costumed as grand ladies, and walk
about, quaintly dignified, with proudly trailing train and flaunting
fan, in rich brocade skirts and velvet bodices, with long, white gloves,
and hair elaborately dressed with flowers and high tortoise-shell combs.
A party of Arabs, draped in white sheets and armed with spears, lead
about an unfortunate comrade disguised as a dancing bear, who is
vigorously kept up to his part throughout the day; and small boys,
dressed as Pierrots, or rejoicing simply in the disguise afforded by a
pasteboard nose and a high falsetto voice, caper unrestrained through
the crowd.
Towards evening a couple of hundred carriages turn out into the streets;
galarétas, landaus, dogcarts, and wagons form into line and follow each
other in slow procession round and round the Borne. The smart barouche
and pair of the Captain-General is preceded by a humble donkey-cart, and
followed by a heavy country _charrette_ overflowing with clowns. Every
one is dressed according to taste, and every one is free to throw things
at every one else. The imperturbably correct coachman of a stylish turn-
out gets hit on the nose by an egg-shell stuffed with confetti; the
gentleman seated beside him—who wears a mask and an amazing tow-wig—
replies with a well-directed volley, and a furious fusillade ensues, the
enemy coming up to the very windows of the galarétas to pour in a deadly
fire among the occupants.
Mounted officers, armed with paper rockets, do battle with the people in
the balconies, who, in return, hail down missiles and torrents of
confetti upon their assailants. Eggshells fly in showers from carriage
to carriage, smashing upon any head they meet with. On the wide Place
Weyler the confetti lie so thick that the square resembles some
cathedral floor—tinted by stained glass windows, and the carriages and
horses are so tangled up in coloured streamers that they appear to have
broken through a great rainbow spider’s web and carried it bodily away
with them.
By eight o’clock the Carnival is a thing of the past, and the gay, good-
humoured crowd is in full retreat, thoroughly tired out.
And at midnight the stars look down upon a sleeping city, whose
stillness is only broken by the sonorous chant of the watchmen going
their rounds with lantern and staff. The familiar cry—so associated with
Palma—again rings out beneath our windows:—
“_Alobado sea el Señor! Las doce—y sereno!_”
(Praised be the Lord! Midnight, and a clear sky!)
------------------------------------------------------------------------