The Fortunate Isles: Life and Travel in Majorca, Minorca and Iviza

On reaching the first houses of Deyá, we stopped the carriage, and alighting, climbed the easy ascent to the church. Halfway up the slope a French artist was painting, filling in his canvas with a delicate mosaic of heliotropes and pinks and purples.

He was enthusiastic about the pictorial quality of his surroundings. "Deyá," he declared, was "un paradis pour les peintres."

When we peeped into the church Mass was being celebrated, and from the dusk of the interior the eyes of young communicants looked gravely at us from under their white wreaths.

Amid the clustered houses halfway down the hill a quaint old building proclaimed itself the Casa Consistorial. A worm-eaten stair led to the town hall. The iron-barred door of the dungeon opened at a touch, revealing its abandonment to the base uses of a lumber-shed. As far as we could see, the sole person in charge of the municipal chambers of Deyá was a year-old infant who occupied a low chair in the wide-roofed porch. He, however, maintained a magisterial dignity of demeanour throughout our cursory inspection of the premises.

As we left the valley the lofty crags and olive-clad slopes of Miramar rose about us. Their appearance was already familiar, and it was with a positive thrill of pleasure that we saw them again. Across the smooth surface of the Mediterranean a liner was passing, and we wondered what impression the passengers would get of the island.

We reached the Hospederia to find that for the moment the solitude that in November we had found so attractive had vanished. Evidently some periodic household inspection was in process, for in the wide doorway women sat mending house-linen, and children clinging to their skirts glanced shyly at us.

Fernando was absent, but Netta remembered us, and brought a large glass jug of the matchless Miramar water out to the mirador overhanging the sea just beyond the house whither Pepe had already carried our lunch.

Valldemosa was looking lovely in the fresh green beauty of spring, when an hour later we drove through its steep streets. The terrace gardens of the old Carthusian monastery were sweet with bud and blossom; and on the road beneath, a couple of bearded brown-robed Franciscan monks, treading softly on sandalled feet, gave us greeting.

As we left the gorge whose precipitous sides rose high overhead, an eagle, clearly outlined against the azure sky, gave the finishing touch to the wild beauty of the spot.

After the soul-inspiring grandeur of the everlasting hills, the plain, in spite of its luxuriant verdure, seemed tame; and even Palma appeared almost uninteresting. But it must be admitted that we were approaching it by the back way – by the kitchen entrance, so to speak – and in strict justice Palma should be entered by the front door, which is the port.

We had been invited to the palace of one of the noble Majorcan families to witness the passing of the Holy Thursday procession, and as we walked into Palma in the early evening, signs of preparation for the ceremonial were in evidence. Strangely clad figures, looking supernaturally tall in their long robes and high pointed hoods, were advancing towards the city. And their odd garb and masked faces gave them the appearance of beings strayed from out the dread days of the Spanish Inquisition.

By the gate of Santa Catalina one of the masked men – his face-covering thrown back – was having a heated argument with a consumero respecting a demand for payment of duty on the tall candle he carried. And within the gates like figures were to be seen all advancing towards some given point.

Outside the walls, where the buildings were comparatively new, the weirdly garbed shapes had seemed anachronisms, with more than a hint of the fancy dress carnival about them; but once within the walls of the ancient city, its narrow streets and tall closely shuttered dwellings made fitting setting for their mediæval guise.

In the streets ladies wearing mantillas and the costumes of black brocaded satin that they reserve for religious ceremonials were hastening, rosaries in hand, from one church to another. It is the custom to visit as many churches as possible on Holy Thursday. One lady we knew told us she had entered twenty-two that day.

Just opposite the old palace on whose balconies we were placed was one of the five churches through which the procession was to pass. In the roadway beneath, people had already gathered in expectation of its approach, and as we waited a sound of distant music, monotonous, penetrating, reached us. Then the town drummers, led by a small body of mounted civil guards (who defiled to a side and rode on to await their exit from the farther door of the building) appeared, and still vigorously plying their drum-sticks, marched into the church.

Very few members of the clergy were to be seen. The participants in the solemnity were almost entirely laymen. Representatives of many municipal bodies took part in the procession. There were civic authorities who carried a well-brushed silk hat in one of their white-gloved hands and a lighted candle in the other: doctors, members of the Red Cross Society, the town band, firemen, police, boys from the orphanage, old men from the workhouse – all evidently proudly conscious of the importance of their position.

At intervals a platform supporting one of the fine carved images from the Cathedral was borne by. When the beautiful effigy of the Crucified Christ from the Church of La Sangre – that exquisite statue to whose flowing hair so many women have gloried to contribute their tresses – was carried past, the expectant crowd fell upon its knees before it.

To our untutored eyes a striking feature of the observance was the long succession of masked penitents, who, bearing tall lighted candles, walked in a double line. The hue of their robes varied from almost bright blue to the more effective black and white. Some were handsomely embroidered, others plain. Two of the men were laden with chains; and one at least trod the cobble stones with naked feet, in public fulfilment of a vow taken in a time of impending danger.

Most of the penitents held lace-edged handkerchiefs to protect the candles from the warmth of their hands; but in spite of the precaution certain of the candles already showed signs of softening. Many of the processionists bore emblems of the Passion, and one group as it entered the church broke into a mournful chant.

One of the observances of the function appeared to be the distribution of sweets. It was curiously incongruous to see the masked figures drop comfits into outstretched hands. We noted one pause before a pretty pink-clad señorita, who with her dueña was standing opposite our balcony, and signing to her to open the silver chain-bag she held, he poured into it a great handful of sugared almonds, to her blushing satisfaction.

The ceremony was imposing, touching, full of affecting suggestion; but even as we looked we could not help regretting that night had not fallen. Then the sight of a long sequence of quaint figures bearing the tall lighted tapers through the sombre crooked streets of the old town would have been much more impressive.

XXIII
OF FAIR WOMEN AND FINE WEATHER

The first thing that impresses the traveller regarding the inhabitants of Majorca is the prevalence of good-looking young men and of pretty and graceful young women. Legend tells that in long-past days the people of Majorca were induced to make a treaty with the Dey of Algiers, by whose terms they yearly paid him a tribute of a hundred virgins, on condition that he restrained his piratical hordes from molesting the island. One feels that the Dey had an eye for beauty, for in these favoured isles to be handsome seems to be the rule, not the exception.

While young the Majorcan women are charming after a peculiarly feminine fashion. Compared with them French working women of the same class are hard of feature and masculine and ungainly of form. Their features are refined, their complexions clear, their feet slender, their hands small, shapely, and well-cared for. When I mentally compared the condition of their hands with those of the rough toil-hardened hands of the women of the British working classes, I wondered if the substitution of charcoal for coal and of olive oil for grease in cooking could account for their better preservation.

To rise to the admired standard of aristocratic Majorca a man should look as though he had never done a day's work in his life. His hands should be soft, his skin untanned. A youth who had been yachting declared regretfully that on his return to Palma he was so brown that none of the girls would look at him!

To judge from a letter written to the Palma paper, La Almudaina, by a Majorcan on board an Italian liner bound for the Argentine, the delicacy and fine modelling of Majorcan hands would seem to be locally recognized and even gloried in.

"What a misfortune," lamented the Voyager, "that the Italians have feet and hands so large, and fingers so twisted. Oh, hands of my country, with slender fingers and blushing nails, how my eyes feel home-sick to look upon you!"

Women of all classes wear long skirts, which on being daintily held up reveal natty petticoats; and all show a pleasing taste in footgear. Boots are cheap in Majorca, and the servant maid or the work-girl on their Sunday afternoon promenade on the Borne will wear smart shoes of patent leather or high-heeled boots of cream-hued kid.

Nothing more charming or more suitable for everyday wear than the native head-dresses – a mantilla of black lace for the mistress, a rebozillo of white muslin for her maid – could possibly be devised. While for gala occasions, such as a bull-fight, the white lace blossom-bedecked mantilla is positively captivating. And one sincerely regrets that, in Palma at least, the hat is gradually making its way. The ladies who lead Palma fashion wear hats, and where they lead others hasten to follow.

A positive thrill of excitement runs through fashionable Palma when notice is received of the approaching visit of a milliner or costumier from Paris or Madrid. The hotel where the private view of the new season's styles is held is thronged with eager buyers. When the cream of the stock has been secured, the enterprising adventurer disposes of the skim milk to the second-rate local shops, and sets sail with full pockets. The pity is that, with both the tradition and the usage of so picturesque a national custom for guidance, matrons who themselves rigidly adhere to the mantilla should, doubtless from the best possible motives, condemn their young daughters to wear hats.

Even at the best the prevalent mode in hats was ugly, and possibly the choice in Palma was limited, but it must be admitted that in the matter of hat selection their customary refinement of taste appeared occasionally to have deserted the Palma mothers. It was sad to see the nice modest face of a young girl overshadowed by a huge erection of green or red felt that was trimmed with a wild scurry of dishevelled plumage – a style of headgear that might not have looked out of place in the Old Kent Road, but which looked hopelessly incongruous over the grave expectant eyes of a young Majorcan lady.

Contrasted with the life of an English maiden, which is full of varied employments and endless social entertainments, the existence of a Majorcan young lady would appear to be needlessly lacking in interests.

She does not ride, or shoot, or golf, or cycle, or play tennis or croquet, or do gardening, or smoke cigarettes. She has little concern with politics, and she is content to leave the care of the poor to an efficient staff of clergy.

She has been carefully and thoroughly educated. She has probably had a special governess to teach her English, another for French or Italian. The private chaplain may have instructed her in Spanish, and she probably has a good knowledge of classical music.

But, her course of study over, there seems little left for her to do. In the morning she goes to Mass; later she performs miracles of intricate embroidery. In the afternoon she drives out, in winter always in a closed carriage, and nearly always in the same direction, which is westwards towards Ben Dinat. Sometimes the carriage stops, and the occupants, alighting, take a little promenade; then, re-entering the carriage, drive back to the tall old palace in some narrow street in the city. After Mass on Sundays she strolls on the Borne; from four o'clock till sunset she may promenade on the ramparts or on the mole. That is the substance of a Palma girl's exercise, and everywhere she goes her footsteps are carefully shadowed by those of her dueña.

Private dances, musical evenings, afternoon "At Homes," private theatricals, are almost unknown. There are plenty of house-parties, especially in summer, when the family is living at one or other of its country seats; but those gatherings are usually confined to relatives. Then there are the infrequent bull-fights; and occasionally a dance is given at the fashionable club, the Circulo Mallorquin– a festivity that begins at four o'clock in the afternoon and ends at eight o'clock in the evening.

Sometimes the wife of the Captain-General gives an evening reception; or the rare function of a real ball sends a flutter through the higher circles of the island. Then and then only does the aristocratic Majorcan maiden permit her graceful shoulders to be seen. Frequently, carefully chaperoned, she goes to a theatre, and sits in the family box throughout the interminable waits between the acts. At the Carnival, which occupies three afternoons in the week preceding Lent, she can appear on a balcony or in a carriage on the Borne; and even, such is the abandon of that time of licence, go to the extreme length of exchanging repartee in the form of confetti or paper streamers with an admiring foe.

Yet already there are signs of the far-reaching influence of an English queen. Certain of the noble families have young English ladies to teach their language to their daughters, and the few Majorcans we heard speaking English in Palma spoke it beautifully. Nowadays a Majorcan lady is not ashamed to admit that she dislikes bull-fights. A few years ago such an admission would have been accounted the rankest heresy. And Palma residents say they can tell the girls who have English governesses – they always walk so quickly!

And here I may say that any young English lady, of good family and of the Roman Catholic religion, who is so adventurous as to journey to Majorca to fill a post as companion or governess can do so with the assurance of meeting with every possible consideration. She will not get a large salary, for money has a higher value in Majorca than in Britain, but she will be treated like a princess. I know of one case where a Palma family, who had engaged an English governess, went to the trouble and expense of having a bedroom specially decorated and furnished for her, after a high-art chamber pictured in the Studio, that the expected guest might feel more at home than if her room had been fitted up in the native fashion.

To our emancipated way of thinking there was something curiously mediæval in the careful chaperonage to which the lovely and graceful Majorcan girls were subjected. And the scrupulous separation of the sexes seemed to argue distrust, of the maidens as well as of the men.

Matrimony is a popular institution in Majorca, and when a damsel has reached a marriageable age an eligible suitor is rarely awanting. It is when that suitor has cast the glad eye upon the lady of his choice that matters would appear to proceed after an unsatisfactory and yet most conspicuous fashion.

Suppose Don Sebastian desires to pay court to a lady whom he has seen taking her carefully chaperoned walks, he writes a letter asking her permission to do so. If the reply is in the negative the matter ends. If it is in the affirmative the Don puts on his cloak, which is frequently picturesquely lined with scarlet, and hies himself to the palace of his inamorata, but in place of boldly knocking at the front door and being ushered into one of the reception-rooms, he takes up his position beneath the balcony on which she is most likely to take the air.

When the object of his desire appears – and you may be certain the dueña is close at hand – the lady looks down, the lover gazes up, and only those who have put the matter to the test can judge how physically harassing it is to breathe impassioned nothings to someone who is suspended above your head.

At this stage the matter halts for a period that sometimes runs into years – for in these restful latitudes even the course of true love moves slowly. Then, permission having been asked and granted, Don Sebastian may accompany the lady and her chaperon in their walks for a period approaching six months. When this point is reached, the parents of Don Sebastian, carrying a handsome present, which most frequently takes the form of a ring, call on the guardians of the lady, and, their consent to the prospective union having been gained, the suitor is at length admitted to the house, and the public cease to see his love-lorn figure beneath the balcony. Even when matters have crawled to this advanced stage the visits of the Don are merely ceremonious calls, paid strictly under the watchful eyes of the dueña. And I am told it is not until the night before the wedding that he is favoured with an invitation to dine at the home of his bride.

In order to impart the proper aspect of romance to this oft-played balcony scene, the actors ought to be, and often are, young and graceful. When they are otherwise it is only too easy to give a ludicrous rendering of the drama.

During our early months at the Casa Tranquila we sometimes, in the evenings, passed a tall house, from a balcony on whose third storey a plump lady would be shouting down coy replies to the blandishments of an elderly swain who had to stand out in the middle of the road in order to see his sweetheart. After a time both balcony and street were vacant; presumably the suitor had been admitted inside. Then a to-let bill appeared on the balcony. The little romance had evidently ended happily, and the mature lovebirds had built a nest elsewhere.

Our six months' experience of the Balearic Isles fostered the belief that we had discovered the ideal winter climate. Perhaps we had chanced upon an abnormally fine season, though I question that; but certain it is that from the middle of October, when we entered the bay and saw Palma looking celestial in the rosy light of dawn, until the second week in January, the weather was perfect.

Spain is proverbially sunny. Against England's 1,400 and Italy's 2,300 annual hours of sunshine, Spain offers 3,000. With this grand allowance of sunshine the Majorcan heat is temperate. Statistics show that during the Balearic summer the thermometer rarely rises above 90° Fahr., while in winter it seldom falls below 40° Fahr. A gentleman who has passed his life in Palma told us that twice only had he seen snow fall – once when he was twelve year old, and again a few years ago.

Except for a sultry day or two in the end of October the atmosphere was only pleasantly warm. Week succeeded week when the sea reflected a sky of cloudless glowing azure, when the air was soft and yet exhilarating, and we could both walk and bask with pleasure.

Rain never comes before it is welcome in Majorca. Sometimes the welcome waits long before it is claimed.

When after an unbroken succession of days or weeks, or it may be months, of unbroken fine weather, one is awakened by the sound of rain falling in torrents on the tiled roofs, it is to rejoice with the knowledge that the thirsty crops are already drinking in the moisture, that the diminished store in the wells is being replenished, that your oranges are swelling, and that your lemons will soon lose the hardness of the nether millstone and become available for lemonade.

There is no hesitation about Majorcan rain. It does not play at being wet; it is simply drenching. And when rain comes, no man, however distinguished the uniform he wears or elevated his position (he may even be mounted on a panniered mule), hesitates to carry an umbrella. Consumeros, carbineers, farm labourers, postmen, all shelter under them. Nobody thinks it funny to meet a solemn policeman carrying a sword, a revolver, and an umbrella.

After the middle of January the weather changed. The temperature fell, and for nearly a fortnight cold winds raged. Warm wraps were brought out of the trunks where they had hitherto lain, and in the evenings a wood fire became a much appreciated luxury.

It was curious to note how speedily even this only comparatively cold weather made its malign influence felt on a people accustomed to warmth and sunshine. Colds and coughs abounded. Most of our Majorcan acquaintances appeared to suffer. As one lady said resignedly, "It is the tribute we must pay to winter."

Even the Boy spent several days in bed with a cold, reading all the French and Spanish novels he could beg or borrow, and comforting himself with the reflection that had he been well the weather for the first time during the winter would have made it impossible for him to paint outside.

Yet, had three months of sunshine not made us critical, we would never have grumbled at these few days of cold wind. Adopting unconsciously the local opinion of the weather, I found myself commiserating the Squire and his Lady, who had recently arrived from England.

"What a pity you didn't come earlier than you did. There was no bad weather till you came."

"But we've had lovely weather!" the Lady said, opening wide eyes of surprise. "Why, we've been out long walks every day. It isn't really cold, and there's only been one shower, and that fell at night."

Remembering our British standard I was dumb.

Though Majorca was free from fog, sometimes on an absolutely windless morning a light mist would envelop Palma and the smoke from the works in the Calle de la Fábrica would hang heavy in the still air. Then the Boy would hasten to say that we might be in Bradford – a town, by the way, that he knows only by repute. But with the rising of even the faintest breeze the highest spires of the Cathedral would appear out of the mist as though, through some supernal agency, they were suspended in mid-air. Then gradually, as if a veil were being slowly drawn aside, the city would again become visible.

With early February our radiant weather returned, and heads were shaken, for the young crops showed sign of wilting under the long-continued drought. Over a period of fifteen days the churches sent up special petitions for rain – petitions that must have been echoed in the heart of every man that owned a "possession," or farmed a patch of ground, or even rented a garden plot.

We were at Sóller when for two days and two nights the rain fell incessantly, soaking the parched soil and transforming the dry torrentes into raging rivers. Then it suddenly ceased, leaving us with the glory of snow-tipped mountains seen against a glowing blue sky.

Late in March and early in April rain again fell, delaying the annual ceremony of the Swearing to the Flag, but making the spindling corn fill out in a magical fashion and the beans that had begun to shrivel and blacken become erect and juicy. When we left Majorca on the last day of April all fears of the fate of the crops had been removed; figs and vines were budding, almond-trees were luxuriant in foliage, and the far-spreading meadows were covered with grain that gave promise of a rich harvest.

We had thought vegetables and fruit so cheap that it astonished us to hear the natives declare that now prices would fall – that it was through the past two successive dry summers that they had risen so high!

Residents told us that for nine months out of the year the weather in Palma might be relied upon to be delightful, but that during the three hot months – which were July, August, and September – the moist, damp heat was very relaxing. Then it is that the aristocracy, temporarily vacating their sombre palaces in the narrow streets, remove their entire establishment to one or other of their country seats, while people of smaller social importance flock to their villas at the Terreno, or Porto Pi, or Son Rapiña, or even to modest cottages at our little Son Españolet.

To us there seemed something funny in the notion of people having coast residences that were within a twopence-halfpenny car-drive of their town homes. But it is undoubtedly pleasant to live in a land where, by a change of locality entailing, at the most, a two hours' drive, one can avoid any extreme of either heat or cold.