Chapter 6

Girl Wearing the Rebosillo“The country girls still retain the pretty muslin coif orrébosillo....”(page27)

“The country girls still retain the pretty muslin coif orrébosillo....”

(page27)

Ivizan Hound“These dogs can boast a longer pedigree than any dogs under the sun, for they are descended from the hunting dogs of the old Egyptians....”(page29)

“These dogs can boast a longer pedigree than any dogs under the sun, for they are descended from the hunting dogs of the old Egyptians....”

(page29)

By midday all will have been sold, and the market square given up to tall, cadaverous-looking dogs that saunter round the deserted stalls and pick up what fragments remain. Gaunt, listless, and apparently starving, these dogs of Palma attract the attention of every new-comer; and thanks to a fellow-guest at the Grand Hotel, our own interest in them was specially aroused. This Swiss scientist had come to Majorca to study the domestic animals of the island, and the result of his researches had proved a theory he had long held—that somewhere on the shores of the Mediterranean would be found descendants of the dogs of ancient Egypt.

This island breed, known locally as Iviza dogs—but dubbed by the unappreciative foreigner “degenerate greyhounds” and “pariahs”—can boast a longer pedigree than any dogs under the sun, for they are descended from the much-prized hunting dogs of the old Egyptians. Introduced ages ago by Greek or Phœnician colonists, they are now peculiar to the Balearics, where they are found in great numbers.

They are the size of a large greyhound, with smooth coats usually yellow and white. Nothing will fatten them: the pampered favourite of a great house is as lean as his scavengingconfrèreof the market-place, and, like him, he wears a look of melancholy weariness not unfittingan old, old race that has existed since the dawn of history. The chief characteristic of the breed is their long, pointed ears, which when pricked stand stiffly erect, and never droop as do those of the somewhat similar hounds imported from Algeria and Morocco. These ears, with the long, narrow muzzle, give the dogs a striking resemblance to the jackal-headed god Anubis of Egyptian sculpture.

They are mild, timid creatures, quite useless as watchdogs, but popular as pets, and—like their original ancestors—much valued for purposes of the chase. Landowners keep them for coursing hares and rabbits, of which they catch extraordinary quantities; and so devoted are the dogs to this sport that those belonging to peasants on large estates have frequently to be hobbled, and are seen wearing steel bracelets on their fore and hind leg, connected with a light chain.

Another interesting relic of a bygone race is seen in the survival in the Balearics—so our Swiss professor pointed out—of the Greek type of horse familiar to travellers who have seen the statues of Balbus—père et fils—in the Naples Museum. These animals are not very common, but here and there one comes across a horse differing utterly from the prevailing Andalusian type. Round and compact, often black in colour, and with stiff mane and tail, these horses have a remarkably arched crest and a slightly convex outline of nose—the profile of head and neck being represented rather by the segment of a circle than by the right angle formed at theapex of the skull by the lines of the slender Spanish horse.

Mules are largely used in the Balearics, Majorca being especially celebrated for its breed. They are big, handsome animals, unusually docile, owing to the gentle treatment they receive, and a good pair of carriage mules is more sought after and more valuable than is a pair of the best Continental horses. Nearly all the carriages of the Palma gentry are drawn by fast-trotting mules, and towards evening a perfect procession ofgalarétaswends its way westward along the sea road, each with its match pair of strong, sure-footed beasts that make nothing of the hills to be encountered.

Half an hour’s drive along this road brings one to the wooded knoll beyond Santa Catalina, on which stands the old castle of Bellver, a well-preserved thirteenth-century fortress, whose yellow walls rise above the surrounding pines, foursquare and stately. In olden days it was used as a residence by the Kings of Majorca—in later times it served as a state prison—and now it stands empty, the last use it was put to having been as an astronomical station for the English expedition which went out to Palma in 1905 to observe the solar eclipse. From the grounds round the castle a most lovely view of the town is obtained through the pine-trees, and it is amongst these woods that a new hotel is now beingbuilt, to be opened this year under the name of Hotel Victoria. It will be under the same management as the Grand Hotel in Palma, and being connected with the town by a service of trams it will no doubt prove extremely popular with visitors who prefer life amid country surroundings.

A mile or so beyond Bellver we come to the little harbour of Porto Pi, the mouth of the creek guarded by an old Moorish signal tower, now converted into a lighthouse, though still used for signalling purposes.

It is not till we get beyond Porto Pi that we reach the real country and find ourselves amongst olives and asphodel; and here the Spanish ladies descend from their carriages and stroll bareheaded along the road—the only form of exercise in which they indulge. The Majorcan roads are upon the whole very good, though dusty in dry weather; and they are kept in far better repair than one would be led to expect from watching the leisurely procedure of thePéon caminéro, who brings stones and earth upon the scene in small basketfuls, moistens them with a watering-pot, and stamps them in patiently with a small rammer. When, however, he has occasion to spread road metal in greater quantities he takes a high hand with the public, and procuring large boulders he arranges them on alternate sides of the road, so as to compel passing vehicles to drive over the fresh stone; he is considerate enough to remove these stumbling-blocks at nightfall, but it is a ludicrous sight to see a whole string of smart carriages twisting in and out of these obstacles as if in a driving competition, in obedience to the arbitrary behest of the road-maker.

Patio in Bellver Castle“The Castle of Bellver is a thirteenth century fortress, and has a circularpatiowith an upper and lower colonnade.”(page31)

“The Castle of Bellver is a thirteenth century fortress, and has a circularpatiowith an upper and lower colonnade.”

(page31)

In the Garden of Raxa“At the château of Raxa the grounds are laid out in Italian fashion, with orange and cypress terraces, and splendid flights of marble steps.”(page35)

“At the château of Raxa the grounds are laid out in Italian fashion, with orange and cypress terraces, and splendid flights of marble steps.”

(page35)

The almost universal type of native carriage is thegalaréta, a light-running covered vehicle, in appearance not unlike a baker’s cart on four wheels. The hinder part is entered from the rear, and is seated like a wagonette; there is a window on either side, and another dividing it from the broad hooded seat in front on which the driver sits.

To the foreigner these covered carriages appear intensely uncomfortable; if he be above the medium height his head comes in irritating contact with the roof; he can see hardly anything of the landscape from the windows, and he never ceases to marvel at the natives who can pack themselves in incredible numbers into one of these little-eases and emerge unruffled and cheerful at the end of a long drive. Yet it must be admitted that in its own country thegalarétapossesses several distinct advantages over the open carriage; its occupants are indifferent to sun and rain, and can protect themselves from both dust and wind; on the hottest summer’s day a draught can be created by lowering the glasses and drawing the Venetian shutters with which each window is fitted, while upon the homeward drive the chilly night air can be as easily excluded.

Like all Southerners the Majorcans dread the change of temperature that takes place at sundown, and towards evening they wrap themselves in cloaks and mufflers, while the fearless foreigner sits out on a terrace toenjoy the sunset and is extremely indignant at waking next morning with a sore throat.

In a land where the new-born year is so amazingly precocious it is difficult to remember that in England he is still in his white swaddling clothes; by the end of January the plain around Palma is decked with miles of almond orchards in full bloom, their faint scent filling the air and their laden branches covering the country with billowy white masses. The wind has forestalled the date of the Carnival, and his last night’s Battle of Flowers has flung deep drifts of snowy confetti upon the sprouting wheat beneath the trees. But there are still snow-caps on the blue hills away to the north, and a sudden rattling storm of hail reminds us that even in Majorca Spring is not yet fully enthroned.

By February a vast expanse of young wheat has clothed the land in a garment of the crudest Pre-Raphaelite green—almost startling in its intensity when seen in contrast with sea or sky.

By the first week in March new potatoes and green peas are in the market, the orchards are knee-deep in beans, and the whole island is fragrant with bean blossom. In the carob groves—where the knotted trunks and twisted limbs of the old trees cast strange shadows on the swaying corn—are purple anemones, pink gladiolus, and a blue shimmer of honey-scented grape-hyacinths.

The long days of unbroken sunshine are now devoted to excursions into the surrounding country, and visitorsbegin to leave the town in which they have wintered and to roam further afield.

A favourite drive is to the neighbouring Château of Raxa, a country seat belonging to the Count of Montenegro, where the grounds are laid out in Italian fashion with orange and cypress terraces, stone vases and statues, and splendid flights of marble steps. Roses, violets, freesias, and heliotrope were in full bloom in the gardens on March 3rd, and the women engaged on the orange harvest handed down to us branches heavy with fragrant golden fruit. Oranges are nothing accounted of in Majorca, and lemons are looked upon as so far below all price that they are given one for the asking, any idea of payment being vigorously scouted.

The road to Raxa runs for many miles through a red plain given up to olive culture; whether it is the soil of Majorca that is responsible for the extraordinary grotesqueness of the olive-trees I cannot say, but they resemble nothing I have ever seen in other lands. Stretching away in quaint perspective on either hand are distorted grey forms suggestive of an enchanted forest; many of the old trees stand on a kind of tripod formed by the splitting and shrinking of their own trunk; here a hoary veteran of many centuries has wound himself into an excellent imitation of a corkscrew; a group of twisted crones appears to gossip together with uplifted hands, while two sprawling wrestlers are locked as in a death-struggle in each other’s arms. Here squats a gnarled mass like nothing so much as a gigantic toad;there a boa-constrictor twines itself in folds about its prey, and an antediluvian monster stoops to examine with interest the strange human insect that has adventured itself within reach.

So endless are the variations of form assumed by these extraordinary trees, so fascinating is each fresh discovery, that one wanders on and on, like children in a bewitched wood, and a determined effort of will is required to tear oneself away from such a scene and return to the carriage awaiting one on the prosaic high-road.

The same weird olive groves will be found on the way to Alaró, a small inland town lying at the foot of the mountains, near which are the ruins of the castle—famous in Majorcan history—which one morning in March we set out by rail to visit.

Majorcan trains are not fashionable in their hours, and it was little after daybreak that we steamed out of the Palma station and glided away through richly cultivated fields of beans and wheat, where pleasant homesteads stood embowered in almond orchards and fat yellow lemons bobbed over the garden walls. As the line approaches the mountains the country becomes wilder and more open; vast undulating expanses of stony red ground are being slowly ploughed by mule teams, and miles upon miles of fig-trees cast a white shimmer over the plain—their leafless branches so pale as in the distance to resemble blossoming orchards. The dark glistening green of carob groves contrasts vividly with the feathery grey of the olive, and as a background to the scene a dark belt of pine-trees crowns the red slope and stands out in brilliant relief against the indigo blue ranges of the Sierra.

Curious Olive-Tree“...an antediluvian monster stoops to examine the strange human insect that has adventured itself within reach.”(page36)

“...an antediluvian monster stoops to examine the strange human insect that has adventured itself within reach.”

(page36)

Gate-Tower at Alaró Castle“One enters the precincts of the old fortress of Alaró through a Moorish gate-tower with a curious double archway....”(page38)

“One enters the precincts of the old fortress of Alaró through a Moorish gate-tower with a curious double archway....”

(page38)

Within an hour we descend at Consell and change to the branch line forming the connection with Alaró; a small tram was awaiting us outside the station, and this proved to be the branch line. No road was in sight, but the tram lines vanished into an endless perspective of beanfields, and through these we were slowly drawn by two horses harnessed tandem fashion. Our only fellow-travellers in the tiny front compartment—reserved for the rich who could afford to pay threepence—were a couple of buxom market-women, most deeply interested in our appearance.

Quaint things happen so easily in Majorca that we were not much surprised on reaching Alaró when the tram conductor got down, shouldered our camera and the heavy luncheon basket, and without a word marched away towards the village inn as though it were his business in life to conduct strange ladies there. Setting rocking chairs for us among the wine barrels, he lit a cigar and proceeded to assist in the saddling of the two donkeys that had been ordered overnight for our ascent to the castle of Alaró. One was a riding donkey for my companion, the other a pack animal to carry our impedimenta, its pack saddle being furnished with panniers andfitted with the native breeching strap—a wooden contrivance shaped like a Cupid’s bow, which fits across the donkey’s hind legs and rubs off all the hair.

Away we started in brilliant sunshine with an old man and a boy in attendance, and turning into a narrow track between stone walls we followed a babbling torrent through carob and orange gardens and began to wind up the hillside by a steep zigzag path. Innumerable sheep-bells tinkled among the olive yards, and the voice of a herdsman rang out in a Gregorian chant from far up the heights where he tended his goats among holm oak and pine. Sheer above us towered the perpendicular red scarp of the cliff on which the castle stands, a small white speck upon its edge theHospedériaof the summit.

A couple of hours’ stiff climb brings one to the back of the cliff, and scaling a rough rock staircase one enters the precincts of the old fortress through a Moorish gate tower with a curious double archway—the outer arch being round-headed and the inner one pointed.

Like a great wedge of cheese with straight cut sides does the cliff of Alaró stand out into the plain; its perpendicular front rises sheer in a terrific precipice, its only approach a steep ascent commanded by a fortified tower. Small need to be told that by assault the castle was impregnable; but it was subdued by siege and starvation in 1285, when Alfonso the Beneficent of Aragon warred with Jaime II. of Majorca. What followed the surrender of Alaró is known to every Majorcan; the Conqueror, exasperated by the vain but most gallant defence of the castle, had its two governors burnt alive at the stake in the presence of his whole army.

Curious Olive-Tree“Many of the old olive trees stand on a kind of tripod formed by the splitting and shrinking of their own trunk.”(page35)

“Many of the old olive trees stand on a kind of tripod formed by the splitting and shrinking of their own trunk.”

(page35)

Curious Olive-Tree“...running a nightmare race with each foot rooted to the ground.”(page35)

“...running a nightmare race with each foot rooted to the ground.”

(page35)

So perished the heroes Cabrit and Bassa, leaving their names to be handed down through the centuries as the names of men who died loyal to their king at a time when the greater part of the island had gone over to the usurper.

When Majorca again came into the hands of the legitimate line the ashes of the canonised heroes were placed in an urn and deposited beneath an altar in Palma Cathedral, where they remain to this day; and every succeeding generation hears from childhood up the stirring tale of how the two patriots fought and how they died.

The little oratory of Our Lady of Refuge stands upon the summit of the cliff, and no doubt originated as the chapel of the fortress. Subsequently it became a renowned sanctuary, and attached to it, as is usual in Majorca, is a smallhospéderia, or hostelry, where pilgrims and visitors can obtain a night’s shelter. The view from this point is worth coming far to see; unrolled like a map at one’s feet, far, far below, is the great southern plain, from the Bay of Palma on the west, where the dark mass of the cathedral still shows just visible above the faint haze enveloping the city, to the glittering Bay of Alcúdia upon the far east coast. All the cities of the plain—Inca, Benisalém, La Puebla, Múro, and Lluchmayór, lie outspread before us. Behind us, range upon range, are the wooded slopes of the Sierra, the topmost peaks still crowned with snow; threads of quicksilver flash down the mountainsides, and valley, plain, and hill alike areenveloped in a grey sea of olive-trees, dwarfed by distance to the semblance of lavender bushes.

Some idea of the height of the rock on which we stand is obtained by dropping a stone over the edge; peering over the abyss as we lay full length on the ground we launched a small boulder into space, and, watch in hand, timed its descent.

“One, two, three,” the seconds ticked away, and still the stone fell, though to our eyes it appeared already to have reached the olive groves; “four, five, six,” and not till now did a dull crash come up from below to tell us that the stone was at its journey’s end. We arose cautiously and walked back along the very centre of the cliff, feeling in every nerve that were we to stumble nothing could save us from covering fully thirty feet in our fall and disappearing over the edge of the precipice.

Rejoining our donkeys, we set off on our downward ride. Midway we were overtaken by a party of boisterous young men who tore down the mountainside laughing and shouting, gave us a breathless good-day in passing, and vanished with giant strides down a precipitous shortcut, apparently intent on breaking their necks. We looked on aghast, but our guides evidently considered it no abnormal way of descending a mountain.

“Going downhill no one is old,” says the island proverb reassuringly; no doubt the subsequent stiffness of our own knees was the result of not having gone down sufficiently fast.

The Palma carnival differs so greatly from that function as celebrated on the Riviera as to be worthy of mention. There the tourist element and its accompanying ostentation of wealth are the most conspicuous features of the performance. Here, in Palma, all this is wholly lacking, and the carnival has retained its native character to a truly refreshing degree. It is essentially a people’s festival, with hardly a foreigner present.

From three o’clock in the afternoon till late at night the whole town isen fête; all the shops are shut, and the shop people sit in merry groups before their doors; the balconies overlooking the Borne are crowded, and the wide Borne itself is a seething throng of people on foot sauntering up and down, and chaffing one another in high good-humour.

The troops—of which five or six thousand are quartered at Palma—send a large contingent to the crowd of holiday-makers; infantrymen in long, blue coats, crimson trousers, and bright green gloves, mingle with pretty girls in kerchief andrebosillo, whose hair is powdered thick with coloured confetti. Here is an old peasant, come in from the country, wearing under his hat a handkerchief wound round his head in the style of his Catalonian ancestors; his wife has donned her gayest shawl, and has brought the baby, who chuckles with delight at the festive scene and wears a funny little straw hat shaped like a Saracen turban trimmed with scarlet pompoms.

Tiny maidens of four and five are costumed as grandladies, and walk about, quaintly dignified, with proudly trailing train and flaunting fan, in rich brocade skirts and velvet bodices, with long, white gloves, and hair elaborately dressed with flowers and high tortoise-shell combs. A party of Arabs, draped in white sheets and armed with spears, lead about an unfortunate comrade disguised as a dancing bear, who is vigorously kept up to his part throughout the day; and small boys, dressed as Pierrots, or rejoicing simply in the disguise afforded by a pasteboard nose and a high falsetto voice, caper unrestrained through the crowd.

Towards evening a couple of hundred carriages turn out into the streets; galarétas, landaus, dogcarts, and wagons form into line and follow each other in slow procession round and round the Borne. The smart barouche and pair of the Captain-General is preceded by a humble donkey-cart, and followed by a heavy countrycharretteoverflowing with clowns. Every one is dressed according to taste, and every one is free to throw things at every one else. The imperturbably correct coachman of a stylish turn-out gets hit on the nose by an egg-shell stuffed with confetti; the gentleman seated beside him—who wears a mask and an amazing tow-wig—replies with a well-directed volley, and a furious fusillade ensues, the enemy coming up to the very windows of the galarétas to pour in a deadly fire among the occupants.

Mounted officers, armed with paper rockets, do battle with the people in the balconies, who, in return, hail down missiles and torrents of confetti upon theirassailants. Eggshells fly in showers from carriage to carriage, smashing upon any head they meet with. On the wide Place Weyler the confetti lie so thick that the square resembles some cathedral floor—tinted by stained glass windows, and the carriages and horses are so tangled up in coloured streamers that they appear to have broken through a great rainbow spider’s web and carried it bodily away with them.

By eight o’clock the Carnival is a thing of the past, and the gay, good-humoured crowd is in full retreat, thoroughly tired out.

And at midnight the stars look down upon a sleeping city, whose stillness is only broken by the sonorous chant of the watchmen going their rounds with lantern and staff. The familiar cry—so associated with Palma—again rings out beneath our windows:—

“Alobado sea el Señor! Las doce—y sereno!”(Praised be the Lord! Midnight, and a clear sky!)

“Alobado sea el Señor! Las doce—y sereno!”

(Praised be the Lord! Midnight, and a clear sky!)

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