Although it falls to the lot of few of us to remain as sublimely
unconscious of geography as was Charles Lamb—who asserts that though he
held a correspondence with a very dear friend in New South Wales he was
unable to form the remotest conjecture as to the position of that _Terra
Incognita_—yet I think I may safely assume that not many of my readers
are familiar with the geography of Majorca, and a glance at the sketch-
map given in this volume may be of service in acquainting them with the
principal places of interest in the island.
The fact which perhaps chiefly strikes one is the miniature scale of
distances. Just as the mouse occupies the same space on the page of a
book on natural history as does the elephant, so does Majorca appear in
its own particular map to be as large as Ceylon; and it gives one
repeated shocks of surprise to find that what looks like a day’s journey
is a matter of two hours by rail, or a morning’s carriage drive. There
are half a dozen excursions which visitors to the island rarely fail to
make; one is to Sollér, only a day’s expedition by carriage from Palma—
though, as it possesses a comfortable little hotel and is in the midst
of beautiful scenery, it is a favourite place for a lengthened stay. The
old towns of Pollensa and Alcúdia upon the east coast attract a certain
number of foreigners every season; and the fame of Arta’s stalactite
caves draws thither a large number of sightseers, being easy of reach
from the railhead at Manacór.
But with these exceptions the interior of Majorca enjoys an almost
perpetual immunity from tourists, most of whom are far from
enterprising.
It was to Arta that we ourselves were bound when we quitted Palma on
March 12th, but having plenty of time before us, and being fond of
driving tours, open air, and scenery, we decided to do the whole journey
by road, and to spend as many nights _en route_ as we found desirable.
Our carriage was one of the hotel victorias, drawn by an excellent pair
of little grey horses; our luggage was of the most modest description,
consisting of two of those feather-weight valises, made of brown
cardboard, that can be bought for a few shillings in most Continental
towns, and that belie their frail appearance by resisting ill-usage to
an almost incredible degree. Our driver was a friendly and reliable
native, who in all the years he had driven hotel carriages had never
been asked to conduct anybody across the island. It was indeed an
unheard-of thing to do. Was not the railway there to take people to
Arta? and was it not well known that the southern districts of the
island contained nothing that could be of any possible interest to any
one? However, it was no affair of his if English ladies were eccentric;
his not to question why. Their motives might be inscrutable, but he was
there to carry out their wishes, whether wise or foolish.
No June morning could have been more glorious than the one on which we
left the Grand Hotel, and, rattling over the cobbles down to the
harbour, struck out southwards towards Lluchmayór. For a couple of hours
we crossed a great plain, carefully tilled and tended. In the orange
gardens the golden crop was being gathered by peasants mounted on easel-
shaped ladders. Stretches of corn and beans alternated with extensive
fig orchards, which in July supply a harvest so bounteous that even the
pigs fare sumptuously upon the fruit. Thick as faggots of dead wood were
the leafless branches of the old trees—their elbows stuck out at an
aggressive angle as though resenting the proximity of their somewhat
heathenish-looking neighbour, the prickly pear, which in Majorca is
termed the “Moorish fig,” as opposed to the “Christian fig” of
cultivation.
Standing up above the level of the orchards, and extending over the
plain in numbers that suggest an immense pyrotechnic display in
preparation, are countless wind wheels, twenty or thirty feet in
diameter, furnished with a tail to keep their heads to the wind, and
with sets of wooden slats that furl and unfurl like a fan, according to
the strength of the breeze. Raised upon stone platforms and spinning
round rapidly, these wheels are engaged in raising water from wells and
pumping it into the great reservoirs that in summer supply the
irrigation aqueducts intersecting the fields.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“... _countless windwheels, twenty feet or more in
diameter, engaged in raising water from wells_....”
(page 46)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_On some of the hills windmills are massed in a gregarious
manner characteristic of Majorca_....”
(Page 51)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At noon we reached Lluchmayór, and after lunching at the inn we visited
the great high-backed church that prides itself on being the largest in
the island outside Palma. It was deserted save for the presence of three
old charwomen, who alternately chatted and laughed or piously mumbled
_Ave Marias_ and _Pater nosters_ as they plied their flappers about the
pulpit and the quaint old pews, resembling settees, with curved backs
and deep seats inlaid with scenes in coloured woods. A wax figure of
Santa Candida in a glass case, and some marvellous embroideries with
inch-deep scrolls of gold thread set with precious stones, are amongst
the most treasured possessions of this church.
On again, through Campos, whence we look back to catch a last glimpse of
the Palma Cathedral—far away across the plain; and the evening shadows
are lengthening fast as we drive into Santagný, where we are to spend
the night.
Santagný is the southernmost town in Majorca, and as such suffered
sorely in bygone time from the Algerian and Moroccan pirates who
infested the neighbouring islet of Cabréra. In the sixteenth century the
town was encircled with walls, to prevent the repetition of a raid that
devastated the whole countryside and forced the inhabitants to fly for
safety to the interior of the island. But centuries of safety have razed
the fortifications more surely than any piratical attack, and one
massive gateway—standing in the market-place—alone remains to testify to
the dangers run by the townspeople in olden days.
The _fonda_, or inn, at Santagný proved to be one of those truly
primitive establishments that cause one to ponder the eternal question
as to which comes first—the tourist or the inn. The problem regarding
the hen and the egg is itself not more elusive than the vicious circle
in which one becomes involved when dwelling on this subject. It is
highly improbable that the accommodation at Santagný will undergo any
improvement until visitors have shown some sign of wishing to come to
the town; it is equally improbable that visitors will show any signs of
wishing to come to Santagný until the accommodation has been improved.
I must admit that the supper passed off in comparative style. We sat in
a small, whitewashed room downstairs—our driver and a soldier also
supping there at another table—and in place of the bell of
conventionality we clapped our hands between the courses, which
consisted of an excellent omelette, a dish of meat and rice, and oranges
sliced with sugar. Our hostess’s attentions were somewhat spasmodic
owing to the periodical raids she made on certain small boys whose noses
were flattened on the window-pane, and at whom she dashed out very
suddenly—belabouring such as came under her hand with a large market
basket. In the outer room a guitar was being strummed, and the voices of
the men sitting drinking there broke out now and then in a resonant
chorus. All this was very nice and native; but when we went upstairs to
our bedrooms it was still very native—only not so nice.
Three small and stuffy cubicles opened off the landing at the head of
the stairs; the only one that obtained any light or air was the end one,
which had a small window in the outer wall of the house, but—as if to
compensate for this advantage—it lacked a door, the privacy of its
occupant being dependant upon a flimsy curtain that fluttered airily to
and fro in the doorway. Each cubicle contained a bed, a chair, and a
straw mat on the floor; and outside, on the landing, stood one small
washstand, with a set of toilet appliances destined to be shared by all
the occupants of the bedrooms. That the centre room was already engaged
was evident from an unmistakably masculine snore that proceeded from it.
Horses munched loudly in a stall below, and the petulant voices of
dreaming pigs rose to the skies from an adjoining farmyard. Even our
driver—who never considered his duties at an end until he had personally
inspected our sleeping quarters for the night—expressed disapproval at
the prospect, although his sympathetic shrugs plainly intimated that as
we had made our beds so must we lie upon them. I speak figuratively, for
as a matter of fact our beds were not made at all, though we had been
more than two hours in the house.
Amidst such unpromising surroundings did we eventually retire for the
night, waking to find that our neighbour of the middle room had most
opportunely taken himself off in the small hours of the morning, leaving
us in sole possession of the washstand, so that our toilet was
accomplished in comparative safety, and with no other interruption than
the sudden appearance of our hostess on her way upstairs to fetch a
sausage from the attic. It is but fair to say that this was the only
_fonda_ we met with in the whole of our wanderings that was so primitive
in its arrangements.
On going down to breakfast our hostess presents us each with a thick
tumbler containing a species of strong, brown broth, very nourishing, I
should suppose, for an invalid; swelling with pride, she reveals the
fact that the strange beverage we are drinking is _tea_—and it is
doubtless on the strength of this compliment to our nationality that she
presently tenders us a bill for fourteen pesetas—ten shillings and
sixpence—a sum not overwhelming in itself, but absurdly high according
to the standard of charges current in Majorcan inns.
Five pesetas—four shillings—a day for each person is the recognised
charge for board and lodging at all the best _fondas_ in Majorca. At a
little hotel, such as that of Sollér or Alcúdia, one’s _pension_ may run
as high as six or even seven and a half pesetas; but these are the
outside prices; and one’s driver’s food—for which one is expected to pay
while on tour—should never exceed two pesetas a day.
At small native inns an arrangement as to terms should always be made on
arrival. Particularly is this the case in out-of-the-way villages where
strangers are rarely seen, and where the innkeeper will occasionally
endeavour to make a profit out of all proportion to the accommodation
provided for his guests. This sharp dealing is so little in keeping with
the character of the average Majorcan that I can only explain it by
quoting the people’s own saying, to the effect that there is not room
for honour and profit in the same pocket. I think that the opportunity
offered of enriching themselves easily at the expense of well-to-do
foreigners proves too great a temptation for certain _fondistas_ who
have lost the finer feelings possessed by their compatriots not engaged
in trade.
Quitting Santagný we drove on to Felanitx, a pretty little town
surrounded by low hills whose crests are occupied by many windmills
frantically waving their arms on the sky line. Windmills are everywhere.
Some stand singly upon barrow-like mounds crowned with cactus tangles,
others are massed upon ridges in the gregarious manner characteristic of
Majorcan corn mills. All have either six or eight sails, which gives
them a very full-bodied appearance; and some are furnished with tail
feathers, and resemble large dragon-flies that have interrupted their
whirring flight to settle for an instant with outspread gauzy wings upon
a little tower of dazzling whiteness. An old miller leans out of a
little upper window in one of the mills, filling it up so completely
that we wonder if he will ever get back again.
“_Buena vista!_” we call up to him as he watches us from his lofty
perch.
“Ah, yes!” he replies, looking far out over the sunny landscape, “from
here one sees all the world!”
It is in truth a very lovely world upon which he looks down this bright
March morning. The almond orchards are streaming down the hill slopes
and invading the town in torrents of young spring verdure; the houses
are screwing up their eyes in the sunshine, even the tiniest windows
being half built up with slabs of freestone, while many are closed
entirely. Old women sit at their doorways plaiting and spinning, and
greet us cheerfully as we pass, and leaving the town we take a pretty
road through pine and heath, almond and olive, arbutus and carob, and
set out to visit the old castle of Santuíri. Within half an hour of our
destination the carriage halts, and a rocky goat-path leads us to the
summit of the crag upon which the ruins stand.
Santuíri was one of the great mediæval burgs of Majorca, and is in far
better preservation than either of its fellows of Alaró or Pollensa. In
the fifteenth century its walls were strengthened against an expected
attack of the Moors, and much of these defences still remains.
Proud, and most desolate, is this old sentinel of the southern coast.
Buzzards hang in mid-air beneath the battlements—brown specks against
the dim blue plain below; sheep graze amongst spurge and St. John’s wort
on the grassy knolls within the fortress. The old gray walls are trimmed
with golden patches of coronilla and crowned with a _chevaux-de-frise_
of bristling aloe spikes. A narrow path cut in the face of the crag, and
unprotected by any parapet, leads to the machicolated gate tower; above
your head there are slits for boiling oil, and at your back is sudden
death in the shape of a precipice, with nothing to break your fall but
the fixed bayonets of some huge aloes rooted in the crevices of the
cliff below. Assuredly it was well to be on good terms with its lord
when craving admittance to the Castle of Santuíri.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_All the windmills have either six or eight sails, and some
are furnished with tail-feathers._”
(page 51)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Santuiri was one of the great mediæval burgs of Majorca,
and is in better preservation than either of its fellows of
Alaró or Pollensa._”
(page 52)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A twin height across a little valley is occupied by the Oratorio of San
Salvadór—the shrine of a wonder-working Madonna whose fame dates from
the Middle Ages, and who is visited annually by thousands of pilgrims
from all parts of the island.
To this shrine we ascended in the afternoon, the latter part of the
route being a steep hillside, clothed with prickly pear and a sweet-
smelling dwarf gorse, up which we slowly toiled on foot, the zigzag path
marked out with twelve stations of the Cross, depicted in faïence tiles
upon freestone pillars. Attached to the Oratorio upon the summit is a
large _hospedéria_ containing some forty bedrooms, built for the
reception of pilgrims; the four brown-frocked friars who minister to the
wants of visitors were busily engaged in sawing timber in the entrance-
hall amidst a litter of fresh shavings, and one of them interrupted his
work to take us into the adjoining chapel. In pitch darkness we groped
our way to a niche at the back of the high altar, and were shown by the
light of a match a little old stone statue—the Blessed Virgin of San
Salvadór—only second in power to Our Lady of Lluch.
A special room is set aside for the votive offerings presented to her:
the walls are thickly hung with uniforms, children’s garments, and
bridal gowns; there are toys and medals, and stacks of crutches; there
are rows of photographs of the Virgin’s _protégés_, who attribute their
escape from accident and illness to her shielding power; there are crude
childish representations of fires, shipwrecks, thunderbolts, runaway
horses, and all the perils that humanity is heir to. Some of the ex-
votos date from the attack of the Moors in 1737; others come from far
countries—such as the one “promised to Our Lady in the fire of
Santiago.”
One of the most pathetic offerings that I saw at another Majorcan shrine
was a thick plait of long black hair—“promised to Our Lady” on such and
such a date, doubtless by some soul in sore need. The belief in
miraculous intervention as an answer to personal sacrifice is deeply
ingrained in the islanders, and is, I should imagine, a source of much
consolation to them.
After buying a few rosaries and ribbons bearing the name of Our Lady of
San Salvadór we walked to the end of a hill-spur where stone seats
invite the wayfarer to rest before beginning the steep descent. The sun
was setting, and the scene before us recalled some Egyptian evening in
its strength of colouring; far beneath us lay the great dim plain with
its white towns, wrapped in the violet mists of sunset and melting away
into the transparent blues and purples of the distant sierra. The roofs
and walls of the Oratorio and the pine-trees upon the hilltop stood out
in inky relief against a sky stained with orange and crimson, fiery lake
and scarlet; the clouds were black, glowing coals backed with gold—the
whole heavens were aflame in conflagration.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The old grey walls of Santuiri are trimmed with golden
patches of coronilla and crowned with a_ chevaux de frise _of
bristling aloe spikes_.”
(page 52)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Far beneath us lay the great plain, wrapped in the violet
mists of evening.... The Oratorio de San Salvador will
for ever be associated with the most beautiful sunset we ever
witnessed in Majorca._”
(page 54)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Long after the glory had faded away a pure, brilliant glow illuminated
the sky and lighted us on our homeward way, and we returned to Felanitx
with the memory of San Salvadór for ever associated in our minds with
the most beautiful sunset we ever saw in Majorca.
* * * * *
On March 15th we left Felanitx and continued our journey across the
great southern plain. The road to Manacór runs along a low ridge and
commands extensive views on either hand; asphodels fringed the wayside,
and every patch of waste ground displayed the Spanish colours in gay
yellow daisies and a tiny scarlet ranunculus, the Adonis vernalis. The
weather was glorious; a shower during the night had laid the dust and
cleared the air, and blue cloud-shadows chased merrily across the
landscape.
“_Bon dia tengan!_” comes in cheerful greeting from the fields where
groups of peasant women, in big straw hats, ply their hoes among the
wheat. When they found we wished to take a photograph of them their
amusement was unbounded, and their merry laughter was quite infectious.
Unceasing is the care of the crops, and unremitting is the labour
bestowed upon the land before it assumes that market-garden-like
neatness that is the ideal of the Majorcan peasant. Centuries of
cultivation have converted much of the land into rich, productive soil,
but a glance at a recently reclaimed field shows one the difficulties
with which the original cultivator has to contend, difficulties that
would surely daunt a less stout-hearted race. Slabs of bed-rock and
countless myriads of loose stones cover the surface of the ground: by
blasting and patient excavation a certain proportion of these are
removed, and the intervening patches of earth are dug by hand, the first
harvest being represented by a scanty crop of wheat sprouting in the
interstices of the rock paving. The second or third year it will perhaps
be possible to drive a narrow sharp-pointed ploughshare between the
stones, lifting it briskly out of the ground when the shaft mule is
brought up with a jerk by a more than usually stubborn boulder. Each
year hundreds of tons of loose stone are collected and disposed of in
one way or another; some are stacked in cairns among the crops and go by
the name of _clápers_; others are carried with infinite toil to the
boundaries of the field and built into a dry wall a yard or more thick—
coped with the masses of rock that work up through the soil almost as
quickly as they are removed from the surface; others again are thrown
into great stone reservoirs built for the purpose and filled to the brim
with blocks big and little. Gradually the plague of stones begins to
abate. What one generation has begun, a future one will accomplish, and
eventually the land will assume the appearance of a rich alluvial plain,
and Dame Nature will put on as benevolent a smile as though she had
proposed from the very first to bountifully reward the industrious
peasant.
But always there will be miles upon miles of beautifully built stone
walls to tell a different tale. Truly may it be said of the Majorcans,
as of their Catalonian forefathers—that from stones they produce bread.
All the morning we drove, and by noon we had passed the town of Manacór
and were descending towards the sea through a silent, sun-steeped land
of rock and asphodel. Asphodels surrounded us for miles, their starry
sceptres swaying in the wind and shining like silver where the sunlight
struck through them. It is strange that no southern artist has painted
us a Madonna of the Asphodels.
Down by the seashore stands a small group of freestone houses called the
Port of Manacór, and after lunching at the _fonda_ we set off on foot to
visit the famous stalactite caves close by. There is nothing in the
surface of the surrounding country to suggest the existence of vast
subterranean caverns; the guide simply leads the way across the wide
moor to a walled enclosure, where, half concealed by boulders and scrub,
a flight of rock steps leads down to the _Cuevas del Drach_—the Dragon
Caves of Manacór.
Armed with acetylene lanterns we descend, and plunge into a perfect
labyrinth of halls and passages; some of the scenes are very beautiful;
there are “cascades of diamonds”—frozen falls that sparkle like hoar
frost in the sun—and wonderful statuesque formations under fretted
canopies fringed with glittering icicles; there are myriads of
stalactites hanging from the roof, some snow-white and thorny, others
like pink glass, that ring musically when struck with a stone. There is
an immense cavern where one sits down to rest; weird shadows cast by the
lamps dance upon the walls, and falling drops of water tinkle loudly in
the silence. There are precipices and bottomless pits—into which the
guide tosses stones—and atmospheric lakes, into which one is liable to
walk unawares—the surface of the water being invisible to the sharpest
scrutiny. There are bright blue pools, crystal clear, in the depths of
which stalagmites appear like white sea-anemones and seem to mirror back
the pendant bosses of the roof. One may walk for miles and not have seen
all, but the heat in these caves is trying to many people, and one is
not sorry to come out into the cold upper air after spending an hour or
two in a temperature of nearly 90 degrees Fahrenheit.
Many years ago some Spaniards were lost for days in the Drach caves, and
the spot is still shown where in their despair they scratched upon the
walls: _No hay esperanza_—There is no hope!
In the caves of Arta, people are said to have entered who have never
been seen again, alive or dead.
The little inn at the _Puerto de Manacór_ is a typical Majorcan _fonda_.
Our rooms were floored with cheerful red tiles, and the walls were
almost awe-inspiring in their spotlessness; it is a popular saying that
on Saturdays the Majorcans whitewash everything within reach. From our
windows—furnished with wooden shutters in place of glass—we looked down
upon a vine-covered pergola and a little bright blue bay encircled by a
snow-white beach. Our beds were good, and the bed-linen excellent—the
lace-trimmed pillow-cases and beautifully embroidered monograms
testifying to the skill with which the women ply their needle. Supper
was served on the first-floor landing, and consisted of fish, omelette,
chicken and rice, and dessert; and at nine o’clock our hostess mounted
the stairs to inform us that there would be no milk for our morning
coffee unless some could be procured from Manacór (an hour distant)—the
local dairy being inconsiderate enough to have two fine kids at the
moment.
She bade us a friendly good-night, and as an afterthought pointed out
that being in the country here, it was the custom to empty bedroom
basins out of the window. We promised to avail ourselves of the
permission, and retiring, were gently lulled to sleep by the rhythmic
breathing of the tide below.
* * * * *
It is strange to hear of snow and frost at home while we are living in a
long succession of June days. Under a cloudless expanse of blue—unbroken
save by a transparent white moon in the eastern sky—did we leave the
_Puerto_ on the morning of March 16th. Retracing the road to Manacór, we
drove through tracts of pine wood and rosemary, and at midday reached
Arta—an oriental-looking town of white houses and palm-trees—the
_Yartan_ of the Moors, in whose day it was an important colony. Their
principal mosque was converted by the Conqueror into the great church
that stands upon the hillside and with fortress-like walls and wide-
arched upper gallery dominates the town. Crowning the same hill is the
wall-encircled church of San Salvadór, used in olden times as a refuge
for non-combatants during Saracen attacks, and in more recent days as a
lazaretto in time of pestilence—which led to its being pulled down and
rebuilt about a hundred years ago.
In the vicinity of Arta are to be found certain tumuli of unknown
origin, that correspond more or less to those monuments of a pre-
historic race which exist in most of the islands of the Mediterranean.
In a deserted olive-yard—where the poisonous _solanum sodomacum_ trailed
its miniature yellow and green melons among the stones and big, pale
periwinkles grew—we came upon the _Clápers de Gegants_, or Giants’
Cairns. A ring wall of large stones weighing several tons apiece had
evidently existed at one time; but most of the blocks had fallen in, and
the central mound—whether watch tower or burial tumulus—was a mere chaos
of stones and brambles. To any one who has seen the far finer megalithic
monuments of Minorca, no Majorcan remains will appear of much
importance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Arta is an oriental-looking town of white houses and
palm trees—the Yartan of the Moors._”
(page 60)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Groups of peasant women were plying their hoes among
the wheat_....”
(page 55)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
From Arta it is a pretty drive to the castle of Cap de Péra, an old
fortress with portcullised gateway and peaked Moorish battlements,
around which one can walk on a narrow ledge laid on stone brackets.
Prickly pear and masses of crimson and white stocks run riot within the
walls and cluster about the little chapel of the summit. Beyond the
castle the road winds by a steep ascent to the lighthouse of the Cap de
Péra—built upon the extreme eastern point of the island, whence a
splendid view is obtained, the low coastline of Minorca being dimly
discernible far out at sea.
At nine o’clock the following morning we set out for the stalactite
caves of Arta—said to be the most wonderful ones in the world, with the
exception of certain caverns in New South Wales. For an hour and a half
we descended towards the coast through a plain of fig orchards and
palmetto clumps—the latter portion of the route being a mere cart-track
of surprising badness—and finally drew up under a grove of picturesque
old _Pinus maritima_ near the seashore—the finest trees we had yet seen
in an island where good timber is rare.
Fifteen minutes’ walk along a cliff path, with a turquoise blue sea
below, and the scent of pines and gorse filling the warm air, and we
come to the entrance to the caves. A great cleft opens in the face of
the cliff overhead—a natural ante-chamber to the caves, supported by
Herculean pillars of live rock, and to this we ascend by a long flight
of massive stone steps, as though to the portals of some grand old
Egyptian temple. Following our guide we pass through an iron _grille_
and descend through cool depths of grey rock till we seem to have
reached the very heart of the hills.
So strange is the under world through which one is led for the next two
hours that at times one doubts whether it is not all a dream. Now we
wander through lofty halls hung from roof to floor with stony curtain
folds, where tall stalagmitic palm-trees stand in groups—their rugged
stems hard as marble, white as though bleached by long confinement in
these sunless caves. Now we seem to be exploring a coral world in the
depths of the sea, and half expect to meet startled fishes darting
hither and thither among the fantastically sculptured grots and low-
fretted arches through which we creep. Now we enter the great hall of
columns, and wait in darkness upon a high rock-platform, while our
invisible guide busies himself below with Bengal lights. Suddenly a
vista of gigantic columns leaps out of black space, monstrous shadows
retreat into a perspective of infinite extent, and—as though in some
strange operatic scene—we find ourselves standing in a great vaulted
crypt, Gothic in its indescribable richness of architectural detail,
Egyptian in its gigantic proportions and massive grandeur. Still larger
is the great cavern known as the Cathedral, the roof of which attains a
height of a hundred and fifty feet; so weird and grand beyond belief is
the effect created by this vast interior when lighted up—so wonderful is
the mimicry of hangings and sculpture—so regular the slender turrets and
fretted pinnacles that enrich the structure, that it is difficult to
realise that the scene before one is Nature’s own handiwork.
Wending our way down the Devil’s Staircase we next descend to a spot
below sea-level to visit the “lost souls”—a company of black and burnt-
up looking little figures seated beside a salt-water pool that goes by
the name of the Styx. Endless is the imagery suggested by the stalactite
formations; some resemble isolated statues, others intricate groups of
Hindu gods. There is an organ with musical pipes, there are strange
echoes that live far away among the rock caverns of the roof, and huge
lurking shadows that—startled by the light of our lanterns—glide swiftly
out of their recesses and disappear into the darkness ahead. But always
we return to the aisles of ghostly columns that distinguish these caves
from all others I have ever seen.
Questioned as to the presumed age of these columns our guide throws up
his hands in despair, and, leading us to a small stalagmite in process
of formation, shows us a couple of copper _sous_ embedded in its glassy
surface; it is twenty years since they were placed there, and in that
time the stalagmite has risen to the rims of the coins and they are now
fixed in their place by the most delicate silver film. Allowing fifteen
_sous_ to the inch, a rough computation sets the rate of growth of this
particular stalagmite at something between three and four thousand years
to the foot—a period doubtless considerably exceeded in the case of the
larger columns.
The gem of the whole collection is the great palm-tree that stands alone
in one of the outer courts. There are others that equal it in girth—its
stem measures little more than three feet in diameter—but its splendid
shaft ascends flawless, joint above joint of white coral-like
stalagmite, till it unites with the roof sixty or seventy feet above the
level of the floor. Since the world was young it has stood in these
Halls of Silence—a silence of æons, broken only by dropping water and
occasional earthquake shocks that have flung masses of stalactite to the
ground. These horizontal rings in its stem may have been deposited in
the days of palæolithic man; while that joint was being formed Babylon
and Nineveh rose and passed away, and the Pharaohs in long procession
filed across the world’s stage and vanished.
The falling drop has now finished its work and has shifted to another
spot where it has begun the base of a second column. Some day the
capital of this one also will be completed....
It is a glimpse into Eternity that appals one.
* * * * *
On March 18th we left Arta. A hum and a buzz in the street proclaimed it
Sunday morning, and on emerging from our inn we found a couple of
hundred people—including two Civil Guards and all the elders of the
place—assembled to see us off. This interest was centred less in
ourselves than in our victoria, for to people whose only notion of a
carriage is the Spanish one of the baker’s-cart pattern, the sight of so
long, low, and altogether remarkable looking a vehicle was of thrilling
interest. It was probably the first ever seen in this part of the
island, and had it been a motor-car it could not have made a greater
sensation. Beasts of burden bolted at so novel an apparition, mules in
carts swerved violently; children would drag their small brothers and
sisters half a mile across country to catch a glimpse of us, and we
brought whole village populations running to their doors.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_A cliff path with the turquoise-blue sea below leads to the
entrance to the caves of Arta_....”
(page 61)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_At the port of Andraitx fishermen in red Phrygian caps
were mending their nets_....”
(page 67)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stepping into our carriage with a gracious and comprehensive bow to the
throng around, we were whirled away at a gallop down the crowded street,
and quitting the town we struck out for Santa Margarita on our return to
Palma. Long processions of country carts were returning from Mass, with
men and women seated upon sacks at the bottom of the vehicles; but the
fields were deserted save for an occasional swineherd tending his beasts
among the carob groves.
Near Sineu we passed a large corral of young mules with their mothers;
so proudly do these quaint, long-eared infants follow the handsome black
mares that one is irresistibly reminded of the inquiry put by an
interested listener to the man who was boasting of his mother’s beauty—
“C’était donc Monsieur votre père qui n’était pas beau?”
The night was spent at Sineu, and returning to Palma the following
morning we settled down at the Grand Hotel for a week before starting on
our second driving tour, which was to introduce us to the North-western
corner of the island.
* * * * *
For the next few days the weather behaved as badly as it occasionally
will do in southern lands where its reputation is at stake. The Palma
natives became first apologetic, then exasperated;—“Fie, for shame!”
screamed an old woman angrily, addressing the rain from her shop door
where we had taken shelter in a downpour—“Fie, for shame! What, then,
will the English ladies think of us!”
But the spirit of perversity had entered into the Spring; she sprinkled
snow upon the mountains, and kept the mail-boats imprisoned at
Barcelona; she drenched the shivering population till the very swallows
sat disconsolately on the clothes lines, drooping their wet wings; and
she persisted in making such ugly threatening faces that it looked as if
we should never start for Andraitx at all. Reason certainly pointed to
our remaining at Palma; we were warm and comfortable at the Grand Hotel—
we got far better food than we ever did on our travels, and the Dark-
room itself was more commodious than might be our future quarters in
some village _fonda_. On the other hand time was passing, and we had yet
much to see; finally we decided to risk all and to go.
The heavens were black with clouds when we set off on the morning of
March 27th, but before we had been gone half an hour our lucky star
shone out, and the weather executed a complete _volte-face_ such as one
is led to believe any climate but our own would be ashamed of. Brilliant
sunshine dried up the puddles with that amazing rapidity peculiar to
porous soils, and the day suddenly decided to be quite, quite fine.
So excellent may be the results obtained from flying in the face of
Providence—if only it be done at the right moment.
Merrily our little horses jingled along the splendid _carretera real_—
the royal road—that leads to Andraitx; now we follow the coastline and
catch glimpses of blue waves and fringes of white foam between the stems
of the pine-trees; now we turn inland among the olive groves—where the
old trees pirouette airily or stand with feet gracefully crossed upon
the hill slopes, amidst pink and white cistus and bushes of wild
mignonette. In three hours we reach Andraitx, where the carriage road
terminates, and having no further use for our victoria we send it back
to Palma, with instructions to meet us the next day but one at the
village of Estallenchs beyond the mountains.
Andraitx, the old Andrachium of the Romans, is a prosperous-looking town
lying in a green valley of almond orchards; most of the inhabitants are
sea-faring folk, and down by the shore—five miles distant—we found a
little colony of houses where fishermen in red Phrygian caps were
mending their nets until the gale should abate. It was assuredly no day
to put out to sea so long as white foam was running up the face of the
cliffs, driven by a wild west wind.
The church of Andraitx is one of the oldest in the island; it stands
upon rising ground above the town, its great blank walls plain—even in a
land of plain exteriors; and beside it stands the fine old Possession-
house of _Son Mās_, said to date back to the time of the Moors. The
Possession-houses of Majorca were originally the country seats of the
Spanish nobility; once inhabited by the great landowners, they have now
descended to the level of farmhouses and have become the residence of
the principal tenant farmer upon the estate, who goes by the name of the
Amo, or master. These fine old buildings usually stand in the centre of
some large property, and are almost invariably fortified and adapted to
stand a siege.
Very picturesque is the straggling yellow pile of _Son Mās_, with its
high walls and machicolated tower. Passing under a heavy stone archway
we cross a large courtyard, where pigeons are stepping through stately
minuets upon a vine pergola, and ascend by a flight of steps to a broad
open gallery, supported on pillars, that runs along the front of the
house. We are shown the spacious kitchen and living rooms of the present
occupants, and are then led through suite after suite of disused
apartments—whitewashed, stone-flagged, shuttered, given up to bats and
cobwebs. In the rooms occupied by the Señor, when on rare occasions he
pays a visit to his estate, are a few pieces of the old furniture—some
wooden chests, such as take the place of wardrobes in Majorcan
households, a carved bedstead, and a few old paintings—fast going to
decay. Soon there will be nothing save the stone scutcheon in the
courtyard to preserve the memory of the founder of _Son Mās_.
Behind the house is an enormous reservoir containing a water supply that
would outlast any conceivable siege to which the inhabitants might be
subjected. The cement roof of the tank forms a wide terrace—some ninety
by thirty feet—and two well-shafts, thickly lined with maidenhair fern,
give access to the water.
A winding staircase leads to the summit of the old watch-tower, where
from an open _loggia_ under the roof the besieged could hurl down
missiles upon the foe before the gate. In an unguarded moment I
attempted the ascent of this tower, and never shall I forget the
sensation of that climb; losing sight of my feet from the very start—my
head being always three turns higher up the steps—and momentarily
expecting to stick fast for good, I thrust myself in spirals up the
narrowest corkscrew stairs it has ever been my fate to encounter.
Judging by my own sensations I should guess the staircase to have
measured nine inches in width—but it is possible it may have been rather
more.
As we sat at supper that evening there came a knock at the door and the
_Alcalde_ was announced; a shy little man fingering a felt hat slipped
into the room and made us a low bow; he was the Burgomaster, come to pay
his respects and to inquire if we had all we wanted. While entirely
appreciating the kindness that prompted his visit we could willingly
have dispensed with it, on account of the immense exertion required to
express ourselves in Spanish at all, and the impossibility of doing so
as we should wish. We gathered that he was placing himself and all he
possessed at our disposal, and we did our best to rise to the occasion;
but sentiments of gratitude are sadly lamed by a limited vocabulary. We
tried to improve our position by asking if he could speak French, and
expressing our disappointment when he negatived the question. The
interview was punctuated by rather painful silences—and it was with a
certain sense of relief that we saw our friendly visitor bow himself out
again on being assured there was nothing he could do for us.
All that night a terrific storm raged. Mingled with the rattling of hail
and the crash of thunder came the sound of the _Sereno_ hammering at the
house door to wake the _fondista_, and shortly afterwards we heard the
latter come upstairs and pound lustily upon the door of an adjoining
bedroom; some señor had to be called to catch the diligence, which—
according to Spanish custom—leaves Andraitx at the extraordinary hour of
two o’clock in the morning.
By the time we had finished breakfast the sun was shining hotly once
more, and we were able to start for San Telmo. Seated in a small
_carreta_—a very light skeleton cart on two wheels, with rush mats
spread over the bars of the bottom and sides—we set out at a foot’s pace
to visit the old castle on the coast, an hour and a half distant. For a
mile or so one ascends by a very steep mountain road, but after crossing
the _col_ this road deteriorates into the roughest of cart tracks,
winding down to the sea through a valley of pine-trees, olives, and
carobs.
A country road in Majorca may mean anything—from a tract of bedrock
scattered with loose stones of any size, to a soft, uneven hill-path,
barely wide enough for a wheeled vehicle to pass. Short of coming to
actual steps, a _carreta_ is expected to follow anywhere where a pony
can obtain a footing, and many a time did the bumps and lurches to which
we were subjected recall George Sand’s driving experiences in the year
1838.
Speaking of what is now one of the finest roads in the island she
narrates in lively French how in her day the journey was perilously
accomplished—“with one wheel on the mountain and one in the ravine....
The jolting is indescribable ... yet however frightful a concussion the
driver receives, he sings all the time in a loud voice—only breaking off
to bestow curses upon his horse if the animal hesitates for an instant
before plunging down some precipice or climbing some rock wall.... For
it is thus one proceeds—ravines, torrents, quagmires, ditches, hedges,
all present themselves in vain—one does not stop for so little. Besides,
it is all part of the road; at first you think you must be
steeplechasing for a wager, and you ask your driver what possesses him.
This is the road, he replies. But that river? It is the road. And this
deep pit? The road. And that bush also? Always the road.... _A la bonne
heure!_ And all that remains for you to do is to commend your soul to
God and to contemplate the landscape, while awaiting death or a
miracle.”
Descending from the _carreta_ shortly after starting, to lighten the
load of the floundering pony, I had at first persuaded the stout
proprietor to follow my example; but within a very short time he had
climbed in again, observing with a loud gasp that the way was long. It
was not the first time he had been to San Telmo; only a year ago he had
driven two English ladies there, and they too had had a camera, and on
the way it fell out of the cart and was lost. To this day he could
remember their lamentable cries of “La máquina, la máquina!” But five
days later it was picked up by an old man, who thought it was a bomb and
carried it home very cautiously. The ladies were very pleased—oh yes,
they gave him more than a day’s wages for it.
The little castle of San Telmo was built in the sixteenth century for
the protection of Andraitx. It stands on a rocky prominence by the
seashore, and is in good preservation, its barrel-vaulted dining hall
serving as a workshop for the old man who lives there. From the flat
roof of the tower, where rusty cannon still occupy the embrasures, one
looks down upon a pretty beach, where long green waves, lit up by the
sun, break gently upon the sand, and great conch shells are sometimes
found amongst the foam fringes of the surf. Some three hundred yards out
from the shore is the low turtle-backed rock Pentaleu, where the
Conqueror first set foot on quitting his storm-tossed galley; and
screening the northern side of the little bay are the bare grey flanks—
dreaded by sailors—of the Dragonéra, Majorca’s westernmost outpost. A
lighthouse occupies the knife-like ridge of the summit, and cutting
along through the Freu—the narrow strait between the island rock and the
mainland—comes a little white steamer, the Barcelona boat, bringing a
welcome cargo of mails after a silence that has lasted more than a week.
The following morning, March 29th, we set out for Estallenchs, our
cavalcade consisting of one riding mule and a sturdy donkey to carry the
luggage. No expedition could have offered a greater contrast to our tour
of the preceding week than did this journey across the mountains. On the
southern plain a whole day’s march of thirty miles is accomplished in a
morning’s drive; in the Sierra we take four hours to cover a distance of
twelve miles. Up and down among the hills winds the mule track; now we
are high above the lapis lazuli sea, on a mountain path knee deep in
palmetto fans and the red-velvet flower of lentiscus bushes; now we
descend to a torrent bed hemmed in by great grey cliffs scarred with red
scarps where part of the hillside has broken off and poured like an
avalanche into the bed of the valley. Now we enter the pine woods where
the white allium and many orchises grow, and the air is fragrant with
rosemary and gorse. Further on we come to a winding rock staircase cut
in the face of the cliff, down which, our guide tells us, it is not safe
to ride; the only surprising thing is that any animal except a goat
should be expected to descend it; and here our baggage donkey
distinguished himself by slipping down and lying motionless, but quite
unhurt, till he was unloaded and dragged on to his legs again.
A rough cart track winds for some way into these lonely hills, and we
meet timber carts descending with loads of fir-trees, the mules
stumbling and sliding on their haunches down the steep hillside—the
heavy two-wheeled carts, with powerful brakes on, crashing and jolting
behind them over boulders and tree-stumps.
As we approach human habitations again, traces of cultivation once more
appear; small terraces are levelled on the mountain side and planted
with almond-trees, from which our men snatch handfuls of young milky
nuts in passing—a universal habit that has given rise to the sarcastic
proverb, “The laden almond-tree by the wayside is sure to be bitter.” At
last, after a long and fatiguing descent by shallow paved steps, we come
in sight of Estallenchs—a pretty village nestling in a fold of the
hills, backed by cliffs, grey peaks of sun and shadow; in front a valley
opening down to the sea, with hill slopes clothed in almond, olive, and
fir.
The inn is a very humble building, and does not even entitle itself a
_fonda_. The master of the house was absent, and the old woman left in
charge spoke no Spanish; we spoke no Majorcan, and by way of
facilitating conversation she suddenly sent an urgent message to the
village doctor, who arrived post haste, thinking that some accident had
befallen the English señoras. Somewhat dashed at finding us both
uninjured and in good health, he yet conversed with us very pleasantly
in our attic chamber, offered to show us the place, translated various
requests for us, and before leaving ordered our dinner. Thanks to his
ministrations we lacked for nothing that night, the only hitch occurring
at bedtime, when our best efforts to obtain candles resulted in a dish
of olives being set before us.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“... _the pretty village of Estallenchs, backed by great
grey cliffs, and with a valley in front opening down to the sea_.”
(page 74)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The light streaming through the great outer door
revealed the usual spotless interior of a Majorcan house._”
(page 75)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The following morning a cheerful jingle of bells announces the arrival
of our good Pépé and the victoria; the approach to the inn being too
narrow for a carriage to pass, our belongings are carried up to the main
road and there bestowed upon the box. Village dames look on from their
doorways and nod affably, and one of them invited us to come in while
waiting for the carriage to be packed, and took the deepest interest in
our proceedings when we proposed photographing her room—only regretful
that her floor was not yet covered with the tiles she showed us stacked
in readiness. The only light streamed through the great stone archway of
the outer door, and revealed the usual spotless interior of a Majorcan
house, the walls snowy with repeated coats of whitewash. Good string-
seated chairs and stools were ranged neatly round the room, and on the
shelves stood the graceful water-jars in daily use among the people.
Boxwood spoons and forks hung in a rack by the chimney corner, and over
a clear fire of almond-shells upon the hearth bubbled a pot of bean
soup; nothing would content the good housewife but that we should taste
it—and most excellent it was. Everything about the place was tidy and
exquisitely clean.
You might search in Majorca for a long time I fancy before you would
find a slattern.
The scale of wages in the island is low—a labourer rarely earning more
than eighteen pence a day; but there is every sign of general
prosperity. The necessaries of life are very cheap, and a well-built
stone house can be obtained in country villages at a rental of from two
to three pounds a year.
The drive from Estallenchs to Bañalbufár is—from the point of view of
scenery—one of the finest in the island; high above the sea runs the
road, following every curve of the rugged coast; dark, fir-crowned
cliffs tower overhead, and mountain ranges in splendid perspective jut
out into the blue Mediterranean. Headland upon headland, point upon
point—each intervening bay outlined with a semicircle of snow-white
foam—they stretch back to where the faint blue battering-ram of the
Dragonéra is still dimly visible in the haze of distance.
Perched on a rock pinnacle above the sea stand the yellow walls of an
old watch tower; these towers, or _ataláyas_ as they are called, were in
olden days tenanted by coastguards, who from their lofty eyries watched
the sea and gave the alarm to the countryside when any suspicious sail
appeared on the horizon; a system of smoke-signals was in use by which
the movements of a hostile fleet could be communicated to all the other
_ataláyas_ along the coast and to the inhabitants of the interior.
Bañalbufár is a small village built upon a mountain slope high above the
sea, chiefly noticeable for the marvellous terracing of the surrounding
hillsides; the terraces are so narrow and the walls so high that seen
from below the effect is that of an unbroken stone wall several hundred
feet in height, while from a little distance they resemble a gigantic
flight of curved steps or an inverted amphitheatre upon the hillside.
Vines and tomatoes are largely grown by the industrious inhabitants.
Down by the sea, in the cavernous recesses of overhanging rocks, are
some curious corn mills, to which one descends by a steep paved path,
the tiny mountain stream that works the mills raging and sluicing
alongside in a polished aqueduct at such prodigious speed that upon
touching the water your hand receives a smart blow.
Here upon a small headland below the village we ate our luncheon, among
clumps of purple stock and bushes of bright green spurge—devouring the
while a week’s budget of letters that Pépé had brought out with him;
after which we rejoined our carriage and began the long ascent of the
Col that lay between us and Palma. Like a snake does the white road wind
in loops up the mountain side; the _Pinus maritima_ clothes the hill
slopes to the very summit, but rarely attains an even respectable size.
In this respect Majorca differs strikingly from Corsica, where grand
forests of Laricio pine flourish in the rockiest of soils. Natural
timber is indeed a feature entirely lacking in the greater part of
Majorca, owing to the fact that whenever it is in any way possible to
utilise the ground it is devoted to the more profitable culture of the
olive and almond.
Leaving the mountains behind us we presently pass Esporlás, with its
rushing stream bordered by Lombardy poplars, and its great cloth
factory, where hanks of dyed cotton are hanging out to dry; and soon
after reaching Establiments—a trim and prosperous townlet nine
kilometres from Palma—the rain comes down in torrents. We meet flocks of
drenched sheep, and tilted country carts returning from market, each
carter fast asleep inside, with his head on a pile of sacks and a
blanket drawn up to his chin, leaving all responsibility to the
sagacious mule who steps aside to let us pass. The wheat fields are
dripping, the wet air is heavy with the scent of flowering may, and
Palma itself is spanned by a bright rainbow. Let it rain! we are back in
comfortable quarters once more!
* * * * *
On the 2nd of April we went to spend a few days at Sollér—the one
inevitable expedition for all visitors to Palma. By the most direct
route the drive only occupies three hours, but it is best to make a
_détour_ by way of Valldemósa and Miramár, so as to include the
beautiful scenery of the north coast.
Long and straight and flat is the road to Valldemósa, the cornfields on
either side decked out with blue borage, gladiolus, and pink allium, and
bordered with a fringe of flaring yellow daisies—the kind known in
English gardens as annual chrysanthemums. A brilliant touch of colour is
given by a row of bright vermilion flower-pots, set out on the snow-
white parapet of a country house; but actual flower gardens are as
lacking among the homesteads of Majorca as among those of most southern
lands—and the peasants would no doubt marvel greatly at the sentiment
which induces an English cottager to allot so much valuable space to
flowers when he might devote it to the utilitarian onion or the
practical potato.
A couple of hours’ drive brings one to the foot of the mountains, and
passing through a fine gorge the road ascends to the village of
Valldemósa, perched upon a saddle among the hills. It was here that in
the sixteenth century Santa Catalina was born—the pious maiden who on
her walks used the leaves of the olive and lentisk as rosaries, and who
from her cell heard mass being celebrated in Palma Cathedral, ten miles
distant; but Valldemósa’s chief claim to fame lies in her great
Carthusian monastery, a huge yellow pile occupying the ridge above the
village. Originating as the summer palace of the Moorish rulers of
Majorca, the great building was subsequently used as a residence by the
kings of Aragon, and it was not till the year 1400 that it fell into the
hands of the monks; fortified, restored, and added to at various times,
the monastery eventually covered an enormous area of ground, and
sufficient still remains to amaze us at the lavish style in which twelve
Carthusian friars and their Father Superior were housed.
When the monastery was suppressed in 1835, the Spanish government made
over the newer wing of the building to private persons, and nine
Majorcan families occupy the monks’ old quarters to this day. Very
charming are these monastic residences, entered from the cool,
whitewashed cloisters; each set of rooms is quite secluded from the
rest, and each has its small terrace garden to the south, where lemon-
trees bask in the sunshine, screened by the high walls that divide each
monk’s territory from that of his neighbour on either side. From the low
parapet in front one looks out over a steep declivity of orange groves
and ranges of hills stretching down to the gorge—the gate of the plains.
It was in one of these apartments that George Sand passed the winter
when she visited the island with her two children in the year 1838,
accompanied by the invalid Chopin. The accommodation provided for one
Carthusian friar—three good-sized rooms and a kitchen on the ground
floor, with as many bedrooms above stairs—afforded ample living room for
the party of four; but the winter proved bitterly cold, and all the
comforts of a northern home were lacking in an island where open
fireplaces are unknown, and a brazier filled with charcoal is the only
means of warming a room. At great expense an iron stove was brought up
to Valldemósa and installed in one of the rooms, where it smelt
abominably. In other matters the unfortunate strangers were no happier;
the grand piano—imported from France—gave such endless trouble at the
Palma customs that they would willingly have had it sunk in the harbour—
but even that was not permitted. It was only after protracted wrangling
that it was finally liberated upon the payment of four hundred francs.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_It was here that George Sand passed the winter when
she visited the island with her two children in 1838, accompanied
by the invalid Chopin._”
(page 80)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The mountain ranges stretch back in splendid perspective
to where the faint blue battering-ram of the Dragonéra is
dimly visible in the distance._”
(page 76)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The attitude of the Valldemósans too was anything but pleasant or
conciliatory to the French exiles; the expulsion of the monks was too
recent for them to have become reconciled to the occupation of the
monastery by lay residents, and they looked with intense suspicion on
these foreigners who never came to church and who scandalised society by
allowing a little girl of nine to roam the country attired in rational
costume.
There were doubtless faults on both sides; if the peasants regarded
George Sand as a heathen, she looked upon them as uncharitable and
bigoted barbarians, and she contrasts the result of their so-called
religion with the abomination of desolation of philosophy in which—as
she ironically remarks—her own children were brought up.
Life in Majorca seems to have offered few attractions to the foreigner
in those days; setting aside the difficulties of transit—difficulties
rendered doubly trying in the case of an invalid—the discomfort of the
pig-boat by which one came to Palma, and the shocking state of the
roads, to which I have previously alluded—setting all this aside, the
very character of the islanders seems to have been radically different
when George Sand sojourned amongst them from what it is now. According
to her, the Majorcans were dirty and impertinent; they cheated one
shamelessly at every turn; they were calculating, selfish, and utterly
heartless where their own interest was concerned; letters of
recommendation to twenty Palma residents would hardly suffice to prevent
a stranger from wandering homeless about the town on arrival; and if any
luckless foreigner presumed to complain of the treatment he received, or
so much as ventured to express disapproval at the presence of scorpions
in his soup, a torrent of indignation and contempt descended on his
head.
Now our own impressions of the Majorcans differed so wholly from the
above description that it is difficult to realise that the writer was
referring to the same people. Our experience of the island was, however,
necessarily a brief and superficial one—and though I have endeavoured
faithfully to record all that befell us on our travels I am open to the
charge of having taken too _couleur-de-rose_ a view, or—in the more
pithy Minorcan phrase—of having unconsciously resembled “the ass of
Moro, who was enchanted with everything.”