Castle like wall with gatewayTHE ROMAN GATEWAY, ALCUDIA
When we had reached the broad Roman road that led directly to the old walled city of Alcudia, our way led between countless ranks of great fig-trees—their spreading branches now bare and grey. So many were they, and so wide an area did they cover, that, if we hadnot seen figs growing in profusion at other parts of the island, we could almost have believed that all the figs in Palma came from Alcudia.
Our driver was a genial man who had emigrated and made his money inBuenos Ayres, and while still young had been able to follow the worthy native custom and return with his savings to his native district, where he was now comfortably settled, farming his own bit of land and driving his own pony-trap.
When we asked his advice as to where we might stay at Alcudia, he said there were two hotels at the port, which is a mile beyond the old city. The Hotel Miramar was the larger. But the proprietors of the Fonda Marina were friends of his own. They were very nice people. He could heartily recommend them. And here I may say that one of the many nice features of the Majorcans is that they are almost invariably on friendly terms with each other. If a shopkeeper happens to be out of the commodity a buyer wants, he will put himself out of his way to direct the customer to a brother vendor.
Alcudia is a curiously old city—far older even than Palma, they claim. It has a distinct inner wall—Moorish—and many substantial traces of an outer one—Roman. Entering by the gate of San Sebastian—near which a much-chipped wooden figure of the saint is sheltered in a netting-protected niche in the wall—we drove through the corkscrewy streets and out by a gate on the farther side.
Before coming we had decided not to stay in the ancient city. Its sanitary condition was supposed to be doubtful, and we had failed to hear of an inn there. But when we had driven through the picturesque Roman gateway and past the antique cross beyond, we looked back, and the place seemed so enticingly old-world, so like a habitation out of another century than ours, that we felt sorry we had made no real endeavour to find a lodging within its walls. However, the recollection that we would have to start about 3 a.m. in a smallboat to get on board the Minorca steamer reconciled us to the prospect of living as close as possible to the harbour.
The Fonda Marina was an attractive-looking new house built at the very edge of the bay. As we drove up, the host and hostess, recognizing our driver, hastened out to welcome him. Before marrying and settling down as hotel-keepers, the husband had been a steward on South American steamers, and the wife had been cook to the former proprietors of thefonda. Both were pleasant, frank country folk, and terms were quickly arranged.
"We would like to stay here till the boat for Minorca calls to-morrow night. Can you take us for threepesetasa day?" we asked.
"For threepesetaseach?" the host inquired dubiously, as though he thought we had suggested his accepting that sum for the trio. "If for threepesetaseach—yes, surely."
So, to the evident satisfaction of everybody concerned, the easy bargain was concluded.
The Fonda Marina was particularly bright and airy. Its windows overlooked the great Bay of Alcudia, from which, in olden times, expeditions were wont to sail for Africa and the Levant. These were the days when the kings of Spain built whole fleets from wood grown in Majorcan forests.
There was a drawing-room whose three windows each commanded a totally different point of view. It had a good balcony, and was lit by home-made acetylene gas. Our rooms, which were clean and comfortable, faced seawards. With a very long rod one might almost have fished from their windows. A more enticing summer residence could hardly be imagined.
Our hostess had promised that in a few minutes luncheon would be ready. And it was with lively curiosity that we awaited its appearance. The two Dromios had entertained us for the same sum; and we were interested to see how the catering of the Fonda Marina would compare with that of their caravansary.
Seating ourselves in one of the large halls downstairs, we waitedthe turn of events. The mistress of the house had disappeared into the kitchen, whence frizzling sounds expressive of hurried cooking smote cheerily upon our expectant ears.
Presently a slim, dark-eyed young maid, Consuelo by name, hastened out bearing an armful of plates which she proceeded to set at intervals round a large baize-covered table near us. Then she added thick glass tumblers, a tall jug of water, and a large rye loaf.
"I say," said the Boy, "there aresixplates. We're evidently expected to dine with the family. That'll be fun."
But his hopes of a treat were disappointed by Consuelo reappearing to invite us into a neat little dining-room whose existence we had not suspected. There we found a table nicely spread for three, with the elaborately monogrammed linen one sees in every Majorcan home, good cutlery, a bottle of red wine, and a siphon of soda-water.
When we had taken our places our host himself placed before us a large dish ofarroz—the excellent native stew of rice mixed with anything savoury in the form of fish, flesh, fowl, or vegetable that happens to be at hand.
Fried fish followed—fresh out of the sea, and so delicious of flavour that we were inclined to question whether those caught in the bay of Pollensa could possibly be better.
While we were eating it, the hostess came in to ask what we would have next—whether we would prefer an omelet or cutlets. We unanimously chose omelet, and in a hand-clap one, hot and buoyant, was on the table. Oranges and apples and black coffee completed the menu.
During the meal, the solicitude of the family to see that we lacked nothing that would conduce to our comfort was almost embarrassing. The door of our dining-room stood open, and although the host and Consuelo, who served us, did not actually remain in the room they were continually passing the door with anxious eyes turned on our proceedings. And when a dish was removed theseñorawould come in person to inquire if it had been to our liking.
The climax came when the only child of the house—Cristobal, a dear brat of five—in his desire to see the eccentric strangers eat, crept stealthily up the staircase and stationed himself on his knees just opposite the open door of the dining-room, gazing down through the banisters at us.
This ingenious little manœuvre was discovered by his father. There ensued a sound resembling applause, and young hopeful was borne off, howling, to be comforted in the kitchen.
Immediately after luncheon the Man walked back towards Alcudia to sketch the view of the sea-gate of the old city, that had struck him when we drove through. And, left to our devices, the Boy and I went boating.
A jolly, flat-bottomed punt belonging to thefondawas moored close at hand, and just across the blue and silver water lay an enticing stretch of lovely white sand. Behind it rose a bank of low shrubs overtopped by tall pines whose foliage had been so cropped that at a little distance they bore a striking resemblance to cocoanut palms. Beyond the flat expanse of land rose a line of mountains that glowed warm heliotrope and pink in the strong sunshine.
The still water was so clear that we could see every grain of the sand, every spray of seaweed, beneath. And as we drifted over the lagoon we felt as though the intervening decade had slipped back and that we were once again on the coral strand of the Pacific Islands.
I had heard that beautiful and, sometimes, very rare shells were to be found in the Bay of Alcudia. So, getting the Boy to put me on shore, I wandered along by the edge of the water looking for them. But my quest proved of little avail. Shells there were, it is true, but they were very small, very fragile, and almost colourless; most, indeed, were pure white and nearly transparent. I have gathered shells in many parts of the world, and I confess I was disappointed. Still, it was the only point on which Alcudia did not far exceed any expectations I had formed of it. The comparative failure of my search must have been owing to the long continuance of calmweather. As the Mediterranean is almost tideless, it is only after a storm that wave-borne treasures are usually to be found washed up on her beaches.
Perhaps I may not have looked in the right spot, though I did wander a long way round the shore in the direction of the Albufera—the tract of marshy land where rice is cultivated. So far, that I was glad when the Boy, by skilful navigation, succeeded in avoiding the many sandbanks and could run the punt in and, picking me up, row me over to thefonda.
The Man was awaiting our return, and after taking a cup of tea we walked eastwards along the coast towards an old Moorish tower that we had seen from the distance.
The sun had set. It was in the mysterious half-light of the gloaming that we mounted the steps leading to the door and found it open at a touch. Within all was darkness. The flame of a match revealed chambers showing that the tower had evidently been a home as well as a place of defence. One had evidently been the living-room of the Moorish tenants, for almost half the floor-space was occupied by the wide chimney-corner, where a host might have gathered round the blazing logs. I never see an ancient dwelling without experiencing a keen desire to know what manner of folks were the first to kindle a fire on the deserted hearth.
Feeling our way up the worn stairway, we reached a floor with more empty and silent apartments. Two or three broken steps led to a cunning opening placed exactly over the front entrance. Besiegers essaying to storm the door must have fallen easy victims to the alert watchers above; and that wide hearth had room to heat an amazing lot of water. At either side of the opening were embrasures into which the defender of the fortress might dart after he had aimed his missile—scalding water, arrows, heavy stones, or whatever the fashion of his time in projectiles chanced to be.
Mounting yet higher, we found ourselves standing in the open air, on a flat circular roof overlooking the wide bay. On one side of the roof were two chambers and a draw-well.
The view from the top of this ancient Moorish tower was grand. The sun had long set, but the sky still held a thousand glorious hues that were reflected in the sea. No craft moved on the surface of the water, and not a living being was in sight on land. The whole lovely world seemed to belong to us. Allured by the romantic beauty of the spot, we lingered until the colour had faded and the sky had become so dark that we had to stumble our wayfonda-wards over the rough field-track, vowing to return on the morrow to see the place by daylight.
Supper was waiting when we got indoors—half-a-dozen fried eggs served with fried potatoes, cutlets, cauliflower and cheese. A home-made sausage, a mould ofmembrillojelly, fruit and coffee—anoutrécombination perhaps, but it was all very tempting and nicely cooked, and we enjoyed it.
Another of our charming Balearic days had ended. And so, as Pepys would say, to bed.
Our wonderful luck in weather continued. We awoke to yet another perfect morning. Immediately after breakfast the Man set off to sketch one of the countless curious antique Moorish wells—known asnorias—used for the irrigation of the crops: wells whose chains of earthenware jars are worked by the motive power supplied by mules that, yoked to a long shaft, keep walking in a circle. The mule needs no guide, as the rein, which is tied to the beam overhead, at intervals gives a gentle tug in the required direction.
It was oddly pathetic to see the patient brutes, their eyes blindfolded by having straw saucers fastened over them plodding steadfastly round and round, while from the ceaseless filling and emptying of the chain of jars the water gushed in a miniature waterfall into the trenches dug between the long lines of growing vegetables. In this fertile plain near the sea, the crop at this mid-winter season appeared to consist mainly of cabbages andcauliflowers. And when we saw those grown at Alcudia we knew where the mammoth cabbages that had dominated Pollensa market had been reared.
Mule walking a circular track lifting waterANORIANEAR ALCUDIA
The Boy had gone alone to do a sketch on the roof of the Moorish tower that had interested us on the previous night. As he sat working, there came a sound of steps ascending the crumbling stairs; and to his pleasure three pretty Majorcan girls appeared, come to fill their earthen water-jars at the old draw-well on the roof, a well that even after the lapse of hundreds of years still continued to yield an abundant supply of pure water. The girls were exactly the figures required to complete the sketch. So to their gratification and his own benefit the Boy put them in.
In the afternoon, the Man and I walked the easy mile to Alcudia, and wandered about the quaint old town, climbing both the inner and the outer walls, wishing we knew more of its history, and lamenting that our limitations of language kept us ignorant of the meaning of these extensive and variant lines of fortifications. So we made no exhaustive inquiries, but prowled about and drew our own rough conclusions as to the relative values of the Roman and Moorishmanner of building and defence.
Coming upon a handsome and imposing church, we went in. It was dark and silent. Straying through the outer building, which had a vast Moorish dome, we entered a curious and beautiful inner church, whose sides were lined with the nearest approach to private boxes that we had ever seen in a sacred edifice.
Returning to the outer church, we were looking at the decorations in the dimness of the side chapels. The Man had struck a match to enable us to see a grotto that was rendered still more obscure by half-drawn curtains. The sound echoing through the silence brought a lad, who was evidently intensely interested in the church and its possessions. Lighting a tall candle, he drew aside the curtains, and with something of the pride of ownership in his manner revealed to us the Christmas tableau of the scene in the stable at Bethlehem.
His glory in the display was so evident that we did not remark on the contempt for perspective that had represented the Virgin and Child as giants, and the worshipping kings and shepherds as merely pigmies; nor did we venture to hint that anything in the nature of an anachronism marked the presence of a gay satin cushion at Mary's feet.
The lad's soul was evidently in the work of the church. When we thanked him, and the Man offered him a coin in recognition of the willing services he had rendered us, he at first refused to take it; then, when we insisted, accepted and immediately put it into the collection-box marked "For the High Altar."
Our landlord had spoken of the remains of a Roman amphitheatre that was in the district; and finding that we were interested, he volunteered to pilot us thither. And, indeed, without his escort we would never have found the place, for it lies in the heart of a farm, the way to which leaves the main road half-way between the old city and her port.
A commonplace path between stone walls led to the farm-house, whose quite ordinary exterior gave no suggestion of the strange tracks of bygone races that lay hid in the ground all about. Having asked and obtained the permission that enabled us to trespass, we passed on and reached a rocky slope which bore signs of having at some time been used as a quarry.
To our unskilled eyes nothing seemed to promise that our surroundings would prove other than the usual Majorcan farm placed on a particularly rocky bit of country.
Our guide, who had been walking in advance, stopping suddenly, pointed to the ground at his feet.
"There!" he said.
And looking, we saw that we were standing on the top step of a barely distinguishable semicircle that had been roughly hewn in the rock. With a beautiful disrespect for age, a stone dike had been built right across the seats. I think we counted six rows above and five below the wall. And in the arena flourishing almond-trees had rooted deep in the once blood-stained soil. A hole in the ground allowed a peep into a cavern where the wild beasts used in the combats had been housed.
But the ground held other secrets. In the solid rock that rose above the sides of the amphitheatre there were many graves—once sealed; now, having been desecrated by bygone generations of Moors, merely slits gaping to the skies.
About four years earlier a strange finding had taken place within a few paces of the farm-house. An untouched Roman grave had been discovered; and our guide, who had been present at the opening, described the scene in language so graphic, and accompanied by such dramatic gesture, that we had not the smallest difficulty in following the most minute detail.
He told us how, when the hermetically sealed top stone had been lifted away, the complete body of a woman, apparently young, lay before them, as she had been placed two thousand years before, witha necklace of gold round her throat, earrings in her ears, rings on her fingers. And how, as they looked in awed silence, the body that throughout these ages had maintained a semblance of humanity, had before their eyes slowly crumbled into undistinguishable dust.
A rocky shore with watch-towerCIUDADELA SEEN FROM THE SEA
The weekly steamer from Barcelona to Minorca was due to call at the port of Alcudia at 3.30 a.m. We went to bed, but not to sleep, for half a dozen intending passengers, five of them commercial travellers, had arrived by diligence from La Puebla, and thefondaechoed with unwonted noise.
When, about three o'clock, we went downstairs, the large hall was brilliantly lit, and men muffled in big cloaks and scarves were gulping glasses of hot coffee before leaving the shelter of a roof. In the public room beyond, some harbourmen and one of the never-absent carbineers sat smoking.
A nondescript being—faded red cap on head, bare feet thrust into hempen sandals—summoned by the landlord, appeared from the outer darkness and, shouldering our baggage, passed out into the night. We followed, and walking by faith, at length found ourselves standing on the pier, the unseen water lap-lapping at our feet, an increasing group of fellow-voyagers gathering about us.
Out of the dense blackness a boat with a lantern burning dimly at her prow crept beneath us and paused. Some one lit a match, revealing a short flight of steps leading to the water. Descendingwith fumbling feet, we reached the elusive craft below.
A curious company we were, vague, indefinable, all closely packed together, and all silent. A priest, a party of commercial travellers, and a gaunt Moorish-looking being, who was wrapped from his head—on which, as we afterwards saw, he wore, probably to save bother in packing, a wide feltsombrerowith a jaunty yachting cap set a-top—to his naked ankles, in a great white blanket.
There was no moon, and the paling stars gave but little light as the two boatmen, standing up facing the bow, moved the heavily laden boat across the smooth swart water. Urged on with strong, unswerving strokes, the boat moved away from the invisible land, the while we sat dumb, motionless.
I was just thinking that in something of these attitudes of utter and hopeless despair might the unwilling passengers of Charon endure the last dread journey across the Styx, when the Boy, who was sitting next to me, whispered, "Don't we look exactly as though we were shipwrecked people adrift on the ocean?"
Then the bulk of theMonte Toroloomed vaguely ahead, and as our bow neared the accommodation ladder the elder boatman, abandoning his oar, began collecting his fees of fivepence each (dos reales) for piloting us over the bay.
The illusion had vanished. We were everyday human beings once more.
Before we left London a Spanish friend had strongly advised us to travel second-class in Balearic Island steamers. He said the second saloon accommodation was justly popular with those who knew, because, first-class passengers being few, it was better placed and more commodious.
The Man has cherished a lifelong theory that when journeying by sea the best accommodation is not too good. But on this occasion of our crossing from Majorca to Minorca, as the weather was still tranquil, he allowed himself to be persuaded to put our friend's advice to the test. And the experience of that night was so eminentlysatisfactory that it not only added to our immediate comfort but saved us much money in the future.
When crossing from Barcelona our first-class cabins, which were small and had thwart-ship berths, had been situated in the stern. The second-class cabin on theMonte Toro, which I shared with the only other lady passenger, was large, airy, and as gay as ivory paint, brass rods, and scarlet draperies could make it. It was right amidships too, had two port-holes, and berths that for comfort could scarcely have been improved upon.
The lighter with a load of pigs being still on the way, the decks of the smart little steamer were quiet. A pet donkey, covered with a scarlet blanket, was tethered under the sheltering boat deck; a glint of gold lace in the galley revealed the captain warming himself by the cook's fire.
When I entered the cabin labelled "Señoras," a pretty girl in a pink petticoat was standing before the mirror engaged in exaggerating the bulk of her abundant dark hair by padding it out with quite unnecessary "rats" and cushions into twice its natural proportions.
Lying down, I fell asleep to the lullaby grunting of the pigs that were being hauled on board. When I awoke it was daylight, and a glance through a port-hole showed that we were nearing a flat coast.
The pretty pink petticoat had already gone on deck, and putting on a cloak and hood, I followed to join my people in a sheltered corner of the promenade deck, from where we surveyed the coast that we were approaching with the deliberate rate of speed that characterizes Balearic Island steamers.
The general aspect of Minorca, the flat country, the white houses, the windmills, vividly recalled our first glimpse of Guernsey as we had approached it early one winter morning many years ago.
Ciudadela, which is the oldest city in the island, was the capital in the time of the Moors. It was to the rulers of Ciudadela that King Jaime sent his demand for the submission of Minorca. From ourplace on deck we could see Cape Pera, the eastern point of Majorca, twenty miles distant, where the young King and his knights kindled the huge bonfires that, by alarming the Moors into the belief that a hostile army lay encamped there ready to invade them, gained him a bloodless subjection. Ciudadela, which was the seat of a bishop in 423, is still the ecclesiastical capital of Minorca, though Mahón has long superseded her in all else.
The sea is rarely smooth on the Minorcan coast. It was within a short distance of Ciudadela that, not many days later, theGeneral Chanzy, bound from Marseilles to Algiers, was wrecked with the loss of every soul on board with the solitary exception of one young man, whose escape was surely the most marvellous on record.
As we lay to outside the very narrow entrance to the harbour, the fivecomerciantes, who were preparing to go on shore, eyed askance the tossing cockleshells of boats that were advancing ready to convey them to land. By taking the motor-car that ran the twenty-eight miles connecting Ciudadela with Mahón, which is on the opposite extreme of the island, they would save three precious hours. With the prospect of a charming sail along the coast before us we did not envy them.
After a protracted delay the boats succeeded in approaching near enough to the accommodation ladder to enable the commercial men to embark. And they were off, clutching at the sides of the little boats, as with rueful faces they joggled shorewards over the choppy waves.
Our chilly friend of the enveloping blanket and the naked ankles, who was a deck passenger, had, as the Man reported, spent the night perched on a grating over the engine-room—a situation where he would surely be warm enough. Where he performed his toilet no one knows, but as we neared Port Mahón he appeared transformed from a shivering bundle into a dandy. Neat black socks covered his ankles, and his brown coat, orange shirt, and green velveteen trousersrevealed a nice taste for colour. His yellow-white blanket had disappeared, but he still wore his two hats.
Meanwhile the pigs, whose lamentations had rent the silence of the night, were being hauled, pulled, jerked, pushed, and dumped along the deck, over the side, and into the lighter that was to take them ashore, as they went raising their voices in shrill protest. As the Boy remarked, quoting Uncle Remus, "These pigs know whar dey come from, but dey don' know whar they gwine!"
As theMonte Torosteamed slowly round the low cliffs that seemed to descend sheer into deep water, so little sign of broken beach or of outlying reef was there, we could see how through the ages the restless sea had nibbled and gnawed at the edges of the cliffs, which in many places were deeply honeycombed, and even hollowed into caves.
There were no first-class passengers. The accommodation reserved for them just over the screw was vacant. Third-class included an interesting quartette of stubby Spanish soldiers, and one slim naval stoker, whose flexible movements and sportive bonhomie were in striking contrast to the stolid immobility of his companions. Possibly the stoker felt more at home on shipboard. Certainly he had all the life of the party; for while the others muffled their heads in shawls, and squatted on their carefully spread cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, he was never still, helping an overburdened young mother by shouldering her small boy and taking him round to visit the pet donkey, making friends with the ship's dog, or playing good-humoured tricks upon the others.
The sky was flecked with white clouds—the first we had seen for many days—and the houses scattered over the flat and almost treeless table-land were all white—gleamingly white, after the old russet towns of Pollensa and Alcudia. Here and there we could see one of the great beehive-like heaps of stones that the sailors have christened "watch-towers." Though Majorca was only twenty miles distant, we already felt in a new world.
There was something oddly familiar in the nip of the air. And while we breakfasted on a satisfying "home" meal of omelet, ham, hot buttered toast, and coffee, we recalled what we had heard of the lingering effects of British rule in Minorca, and felt inclined to give it the credit of the breakfast, even though the ham was served raw, and decanters of wine and jars of wooden toothpicks jostled our coffee-cups.
When we again went on deck there were signs that the short voyage was approaching its end. The bearded mate of theMonte Toro, who had made the trip in a red nightcap, had, with a toothpick behind his ear, appeared in a uniform cap, though he retained his velveteen coat. And the most stolid-looking of the soldiers, producing a comb and a tube of pomade, proceeded to make quite an elaborate toilet on deck. Still seated on his outspread handkerchief, he combed and recombed his hair, and greased it with extreme thoroughness; though it must be admitted that when it came to washing he contented himself with a cursory dipping of his hands in the water-bucket. His face he left to Nature.
The pride of Port Mahón is its three-mile-long harbour. As we steamed up its length the trim fortifications recalled certain of our own naval and military stations, notably Portsmouth. But never did Portsmouth show such a glory of scarlet-blossomed aloes as burned on the face of these fortified rocks.
Our first impression of Mahón was one of unexpected brilliance. Until we were well up the harbour the town was invisible. Then, as it came in sight with its dazzlingly white red-roofed buildings perched high on the crest of the brown serrated rock, the unexpected picturesque beauty of the scene filled us with surprise and delight.
Already the military influence that is so noticeable a feature of Mahón coloured the scene. Boats manned by soldiers were rowing to and from the forts on the opposite shore. Soldiers were standing on the quay as we stepped down the gangway—for, happily, there is noneed to land by small boats in a harbour of such accommodating depth. And as we followed the porter bearing our luggage up the rough twisted slope of the Calle Vieja—that old street whose haphazard construction is so different from the carefully planned new ones—we passed a group of officers going down. Throughout our stay in Mahón I do not believe we ever glanced up or down a street that was not enlivened by the glamour of a uniform.
There isn't a river or even a stream on the entire island, yet, in spite of the apparently limited supply of fresh water, the whole effect of the town, with its green shutters, red-tiled roofs, its pavements and carefully whitened houses, is that of extreme cleanliness. To judge by results, the pail of whitewash must be almost an equal factor in a Minorcan housewife's daily task with a broom or a duster. During our few days in Mahón we became quite accustomed to seeing women touching up the street fronts of their dwellings with a whitewash brush.
Minorca is said to be rarely visited by tourists, consequently it offers but small choice of hotels. The one we had been recommended to try—the Fonda Central—was a favourite stopping-place with commercial travellers. There could be no doubt of that. Their iron-clamped chests of samples lumbered the passages and stairway. Their sprightly presence filled the large principal table in the dining-room.
At a hotel that is popular with these gentlemen of the road the cooking is said to be certain to be good. At the Fonda Central it could scarcely have been excelled. The proprietor, a reverend-lookingseñor, superintended it in person. And his efforts on their behalf were heartily appreciated by his guests, the summons to a meal at the Fonda Central invariably falling on eagerly expectant ears.
"Arrozto-day?" I overheard one guest inquire as he entered the dining-room for luncheon. And having received an affirmative reply, he sat down, adjusted his napkin, grasped his spoon, and awaitedits appearance with an expression of anticipatory satisfaction.
The rooms were scrupulously clean, the table service brisk and punctual. Yet the house was hardly one that could be recommended to ladies. Owing to the popularity of the hotel, all the available space had been turned into sleeping accommodation; there was no sitting-room proper. One of our bedrooms that faced the street and had two good writing-tables made us partly independent, and we had a side table to ourselves at meals, but I was the only woman in a company that numbered over two dozen.
The beds were comfortable, but there were no bells in the rooms. When our chamber-man wanted to attract our attention, he did it by clapping his hands loudly in the corridor outside our doors. And when we wanted anything the Boy went downstairs and demanded it.
Going out to explore the town, we could not help noticing certain of the lingering effects of the British occupations which came to an end early in the last century. The windows almost invariably had the regulation English window sashes, and many of them showed white lace curtains or little muslin window blinds; and the front doors opened into passages, not into eitherpatiosor sitting-rooms, as in Majorca.
The British craving for sweets seemed to have proved infectious. At the hotel luncheon we had been agreeably surprised by the appearance of a sweet course, and the shop windows revealed a tempting array of bon-bons and of jams and pickles, commodities in which Majorca is sadly deficient. And one grocer had quite a number of tins of Crosse & Blackwell's Scotch oatmeal. Tobacco pipes, which are seldom seen in Majorca, were both in use and displayed for sale.
Wandering up and down in the short January afternoon we came upon many odd nooks and steep streets that had a picturesque character all their own. From the top of the quaint Calle de San Roque we got an extensive view inland, with Monte Toro, some eleven hundred feet, the higher of the two Minorcan hills, in the distance.
Busy narrow streetCALLE SAN ROQUE, MAHÓN
Down by the curve of the bay we found the Alameda, a charming little Italian-garden-like promenade, where on summer evenings Mahón society assembles. It must be pleasant and shady there under the trees by the cool water. Even in winter it was attractive, with its close-cropped low hedges and great clumps of the vivid scarlet-blossomed aloes.
Just beyond the Alameda is a great cistern, from which is drawn much of the water for supplying the town. And from that point mules toil patiently up the rock-sided slopes, laden with barrels of water for the solace of thirsty folks.
Next morning, while breakfasting, we arranged our plans for the day. The Man was bent upon going at once to sketch the town as we had first seen it from the harbour. The Boy and I agreed to ramble about during the morning; and after luncheon we all arranged to go in search of some of the famous stone monuments, respecting whose origin nobody appears to have been able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.
But before breakfast was ended the sky had become darkly overcast. We reached our rooms to find hail tapping with ice-tipped fingers at the window panes, to see lightning flashing, and to hear the rattle of thunder.
Our plans perforce being modified, we waited indoors until the storm had abated a little, then sought theAteneo Cientifico Literario y Artistico, of whose existence the landlord had told us. The town, which has many cultured inhabitants, boasts three Athenæums. Two are for the use of the general public. The third, which we visited, is said to be the centre of literary and artistic Mahón, and is something of the nature of a club.
The Museum is open to the townsfolk only on stated days. This did not happen to be one of those days. It was to the fact that we were foreigners that we owed our instant admission. And while the storm raged without, we enjoyed a private view of the many interestingthings in theAteneo, notably the old ware and natural history specimens.
A very fine private collection of marine flora is housed in the Museum, but it is shown only when specially inquired for, and we were unfortunate in calling at a time when the custodian of the keys chanced to be absent.
Among the pictures and drawings was a merciless but irresistibly amusing caricature of what had presumably been the English Governor of the date, riding upon a donkey. The nice young lad who was showing us round blushed a little when he saw us examine it. Though he did not say so, we felt that he would have liked to apologize to us for its intrusion in the show; but our withers were unwrung.
The members of theAteneowere delightfully cosmopolitan in their interests. Besides the current Spanish papers the snug reading-room showed a comprehensive array of contemporary literature, from theGraphic, theStudio,Review of Reviews, andHarper's Weekly, to French, German, Belgian, Italian, and South American journals.
When we left theAteneothe hail had ceased; and though the wind was still high, the Man hurried off to see what he could make of his subject, while the Boy and I strolled into the vegetable market.
The big open enclosure in the middle was empty. Round the covered sides women were sitting beside their little heaps of fruit and vegetables. After the prolonged drought from which the island was suffering, it was perhaps only natural that the supply of fresh vegetables should be limited. But with the recollection still vivid in our memory of the mountains of green cabbages that we had seen at Pollensa market, the stock appeared especially meagre.
The cactus, a shrub whose existence is almost independent of moisture, flourishes on the dry rocky soil, and the specimens of its fruit that, prepared in some way, were served at dinner on the previous night, seemed larger and much finer than any we had seen in Majorca. But even at its finest the prickly pear is hardly a thing to pine for.
One thing that struck us as a particularly charming survival of English tastes was the discovery of cut flowers—chiefly little clusters of roses—for sale on several of the stalls. And one woman offered us sturdy pansy roots for planting. Up to this period of our stay in Palma I had never seen either cut flowers or flower-plants offered for sale in the market, though, indeed, we saw them later.
The wind had been steadily increasing. It would have been decidedly more comfortable to pass the afternoon indoors, but we were determined to seek some of the countless prehistoric remains with which Minorca is lavishly sprinkled. And after an unavoidable delay we started. The delay, be it explained, was caused by waiting for the cleaning of the Boy's boots. The service in the Fonda Central had certain limitations. It did not brush boots. The night before, the Boy had put his outside his bedroom door, and had taken them in in the morning untouched. Before lunch he sent them downstairs with special instructions that he wanted them cleaned at once. But when luncheon was over and we were ready to go out there was no sign of the boots.
Inquiries brought plausible promises of their return in ten minutes—in five minutes—at once. But still they failed to put in an appearance. At length a peremptory demand for their return clean or dirty sent Pedro flying down the street, to hasten back triumphantly bearing the cleaned boots. They had been sent to a shoemaker's to be brushed!
From the deck of the steamer as we rounded the coast we had caught many passing glimpses of the great stone heaps calledtalayots, and imagining that they would be easily found, we rashly set off, without either guide or direction, in search of them.
After walking a little way along the San Luis road, which we had taken partly by chance, and partly, I think, because there the wind would be at our backs, we saw in the distance a largetalayot, and rejoiced at having so quickly come within easy reach of what we were looking for. Our rejoicing was premature, for when we sought a path that would lead us there we failed utterly to find it. On eitherside of the long straight road were high walls a yard thick, enclosing small stony fields. Beyond these were walls, and yet again walls. It was our first near view of Minorcan country, and the impression was one of stones, stones, and yet more stones—stones absolutely without limit.
The attitude of the few olive-trees within sight showed the prevalence of the north wind. They bent away from that direction, their foliage twisted awry, looking exactly like people cowering before a blast that has blown their cloaks over their heads.
The gale was waxing stronger.Ourcloaks were blown over our heads, but still we struggled on. A peasant boy, on being interrogated, directed us to proceed farther, then take a road to the left. Hopefully following his instructions, we "gaed and we gaed," like the classic Henny-penny, until we ultimately found ourselves entangled in a maze of these same thick walls of stone.
And a maddeningly ingenious maze it proved. For as we wound about, thetalayotappeared to dodge us, sometimes popping up before us, sometimes lurking behind; often seeming comparatively near, more often looming at a wholly unexpected distance away, and always encircled by these impenetrable gateless walls of stone.
Finally, leaving me on the lee-side of a wall—it wasn't really the lee-side: in such a wind there is no lee side; but they thought it was the lee-side—the men departed, determined to scale the offending obstacles and to get there somehow. After a time the Boy returned to free me from the brambles round which the tempest had twisted my veil and chiffon scarf, holding me prisoner; and to report that, after some climbing, the Man and he had succeeded in reaching thetalayot, and that they thought if I didn't mind some rough scrambling Imightmanage to get there.
So ten minutes later, breathless, wind-tossed and earth-stained, with torn gloves and scratched boots, I too reached the goal of our desires, to find it nothing but an immense heap of stones, with notrace of opening or any apparent reason for existence.
The Man, who, in spite of the decided opposition offered by the elements, had succeeded in scaling the top of thetalayot, declared it to be merely a greatly magnified cairn, and there and then announced his adoption of Dr. Guillemand's theory that the primary reason for the origin of these much-disputed heaps was simply the need for clearing the fields of stones. I must confess that to me the really interesting thing regarding these vast memorials of a vanished race is the fact that, while everybody is free to conjecture, no one, not even the wisest, can boast the smallest knowledge of their meaning.
Just behind thetalayot, separated from it by certain thick walls, stands another relic of prehistoric times in the shape of ataula, or table stone—one huge slab placed horizontally on the top of a massive upright stone. And while the Man held on to something with one hand and tried to sketch with the other, I sheltered from the blast on the farther side.
It was curious to see flowers blooming even in these conditions. Amongst the loose stones at the base of thetaulathe periwinkle was in bloom. On the patch of stone-littered soil we had crossed we noticed some small lilac daisies, their heads bent close to the ground. And all about the broad tops of the maze of stone dykes clambered the curious and beautiful clematis-like creeper that delights to luxuriate in the most arid position it can secure, and is said to pine away and die when transplanted to a garden.
The sole incident of our return journey was the sudden appearance of a cap, which, floating high in air, advanced towards us round a corner towards which we were battling.