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XXI
AMONG THE HILLS

March was more than half over; we had already reluctantly begun to measure our stay in the Fortunate Isles by weeks instead of months when we drove to Sóller to spend a few days with an English friend, who, with all the world to choose from, elects to make her home at Sóller.

When we left Sóller on our previous visit in early December, darkness had fallen long before we reached Palma, so the first half of this return journey was new to us. And as the day was beautiful, we sat luxuriously back in the open carriage and enjoyed it to the full. The shower that had fallen had greatly refreshed the land, and though more rain was eagerly hoped for, the almond-trees were heavy in leafage and thickly ruched with the green-velvet casings of the embryonic fruit.

During the winter we had noticed few wild birds. Now, amongst the olive-trees that lined the highway as we approached the rising ground, many were flying. A brightly plumaged bird with a crested head crossed our path like a flash of gold, and disappeared among the trees. It was the hoo-poo, the typical Balearic bird, known locally as the pu-put.

The highway between Palma and Valldemosa passes through a picturesque gulch. The road between Palma and Sóller climbs a considerable mountain, up whose steep sides the native makers of roads – surely the most ingenious in the world – have carried the path in a series of amazing zigzags, so that the view of the traveller varies incessantly. As we mounted higher and massive crags rose about us, we sometimes stopped the carriage to look down over the vast orchard that covers the plain, to where the far distant spires of Palma Cathedral showed against the sea.

As our altitude increased the air became colder. The wind that met us at the top was almost keen, and we were glad to rattle down the farther side of the hill up which we had climbed so slowly.

A few turns down the zigzag, a fine old cross, its carvings gnawed by the corroding tooth of time, stands overlooking the valley and the tawny-roofed houses of Sóller, as they lie surrounded by their orange gardens. A poor cottage was hard by, and while we paused to let the Man make a rapid sketch, two children, a boy and girl, crept nearer and nearer, until at last they grouped themselves in conventional attitudes at the foot of the cross. It did not require words to tell us that they must have posed in the foreground of many photographs of the same subject.

At the Hotel Marina, where our friend was staying, three good things awaited us – a gracious welcome, a glorious fire of almond shells, and a daintily spread tea-table.

In the evening we went to Son Angelats, a beautiful "possession" dating back to the Moorish occupation. Son Angelats nestles snugly into the side of the mountain, and all the year round it is bowered in roses of every shade and hue. The air was fragrant with the mingled odours of flowers innumerable; and when we walked down to Sóller through the gloaming the sweet essence of the blossoms accompanied us, for our hands were full of roses and violets.

As we strolled through the grounds I noticed what I thought was a blue bead lying on the path. Picking it up, I discovered it to be the seed of a small grassy-leaved plant new to me, but much used in Majorca for covering the sides of banks where grass refuses to grow. The seed, which was about the size of a pea, was of the pure deep blue of the sapphire.

The name of the plant the gardener declared to be convoladia. I spell the word phonetically. And when I asked what the appearance of the flower was, he made the incredible statement – and stuck to it – that the plant had none.

It is impossible to stay in Sóller without feeling the magnetic attraction of the Puig Mayor, which is higher than any mountain in the British Isles. A dozen times in an hour we found ourselves turning to see how it looked, for its aspect held the charm of exhaustless variety. One might leave it a purple shadow amid light-hued satellite hills and turn again a few minutes later to discover it rose-tipped and the others in shadow.

Next morning I looked out on a lovely scene. In the growing light of dawn the encompassing mountains showed clearly their outlines, unblurred save by a wanton wisp of mist that seemed too trivial to bear any meaning. But when my breakfast tray was brought in, rain was falling with the quiet persistence of rain that has come to stay. So we spent the morning indoors enjoying refreshing gossip, and refreshing peeps into English books, and in watching from the windows and balconies the ever-changing cloud effects on the mountains.

There were moments when the crest of the Puig Mayor rose majestic above a rolling fleece of vapour that blotted out all the lesser heights; and times when, though the clouds hung heavy over the town, and the few passers-by huddled beneath time-worn umbrellas, every red rock and cleft of the mountain glowed under a sun that shone for it alone. Or again the Puig Mayor itself might vanish, and some nearer height stand out against the wall of mist in unexpected beauty of contour – imposing only because of its temporary isolation.

In the afternoon the sky cleared a little and we ventured out. The Good Fairy, our hostess, who abounds in individualities that are as charming as they are original, possessed, by right of purchase, the fruit of a tree of sweet oranges. Her tree grew in an orchard on the outskirts of the town that is itself an orange garden. And hither we went to listen to the sweet clamour of the nightingales while eating the fruit we had plucked.

Among the glossy-green leaves Keats's "light-wingéd Dryads of the trees" were singing "of summer in full-throated ease." We would gladly have lingered long, but heavy rain again encompassed us; and we returned to the comforts of the hotel, reluctant to leave the melodious plot, but rejoicing for the sake of the islanders, in whose expectant ears the sound of the rain falling on their thirsty land must have been much more musical than the song of the immortal bird.

Next day was Palm Sunday – the children's day. Yet when we left the hotel in the morning and ventured out into the rain-washed streets, there was not a child in sight. Old people – grandmothers, formless figures muffled from forehead to ankle in black shawls, moved decorously along carrying folding stools; grandfathers, protecting their Sabbath garb with rose-coloured umbrellas of a silk so fine and antique that one longed to implore them not to ruin it by exposure to the weather, were hastening towards the church. But the narrow streets of the quaint old town were curiously empty of children.

To our uncomprehending eyes it appeared more the day of the grandparents than of the children. I blush now to acknowledge that, for the moment, we had forgotten that the day of the children is always, and in almost greater measure, the day of the grandparents also.

We entered the church to find both the outer absence of youth and the presence of the aged explained. Above even the pungent odour of incense, the savour of sweet flowers perfumed the air. The centre of the church was a seething mass of greenery. Tall spikes of palm arose like sword blades from out a forest of green branches – a forest that looked as though ruffled by a strong wind, so restless was its incessant motion.

Closer observance revealed the motive power to be a multitude of small boys who sat, closely packed together, on benches, holding aloft branches, many of which were wreathed with flowers. Most of the trophies showed the grey-green of olive – a shapely bough chosen with care from the family possession, with all the available blossoms of the garden twined about the stem. And many revealed ingenuity and artistic taste in the garlanding of the flowers. Certain of the palm fronds had a piece fixed athwart the tip to represent a cross. A proportion, happily but a small proportion, of the trophies carried struck the blatant note of artificiality, for in their case the palm frond was split and twisted into ornamental shapes, and out of all semblance of that they were supposed to represent. A few were travesties of Christmas-trees, for their fictitious branches were laden with silvered and gilt sweets, toys and trinkets, seemingly trivial, but doubtless owning a significance of their own.

Beside the rows of close-cropped dark heads moved priests and black-robed teachers. And on the outskirts of the throng hovered bigger boys, torn betwixt two opinions – whether it were better to continue to assert their claim to have reached an age exempt from such childish matters, or to yield to their natural desire to join the palm-bearers and have a place in the procession that was to follow.

One urchin, but recently advanced to the dignity of his first long trousers, held half-concealed a scrap of olive, to which he added by furtive gleanings from the fallen blossoms that littered the floor, garnering a battered, but still recognizable rose here, a gaudy marigold there, until he had achieved a trophy that, if not one to court careful examination, yet at a little distance presented quite a respectable appearance.

When the rose-red umbrellas had dripped themselves almost dry, and the branches supported by the hot hands of restless boys were waving faster than ever, the black-robed teachers and a nun, moving noiselessly amongst their pupils, began to marshal them into a double line.

Standing at the side, in company with grandfathers whose fine old weather-beaten faces gazed proudly intent at those who were to carry their names to succeeding generations, we watched as the little forest of branches, borne sedately, passed in front of the altar, and then moved in procession round the church. The smallest boys walked in front, and many of them were burdened with the care of umbrellas in addition to the proud glory of the decorated branch that wobbled in their tired hands; while boys of larger growth, unable to resist, yielded to a natural desire to shoulder their boughs as muskets.

Very few girls took an active part in the proceedings. The half-dozen who did belonged to the class that have hats for Sunday wear, and the palms they carried had cost money. Little girls whom fortune had denied the envied possession of either ugly hats or ornamental palms looked on with longing in their soft dark eyes as the favoured ones marched by.

When the complete circuit of the edifice had been made the palm-bearers moved to a side, and a band of clergy advancing paused just within the great doors, through which certain of their number had slipped outside.

Standing thus, their resplendent robes of purple and scarlet thrown into strong relief against the old wood of the door, the group began chanting. When they ceased there came from without the sound of answering voices. Again were the voices within raised in recitative. From outside came again the reply.

Then, reverberating solemnly through the deep silence that ensued, came the sound of a thrice repeated knock on the closed door. At the summons the wide doors were thrown open and the outside band admitted. Then, the symbol of the release of repentant souls from purgatory having been thus impressively enacted, the band, now chanting in unison, moved towards the high altar.

The ceremony of the blessing of the palms is a beautiful one, and one of which no child who has taken part can ever forget the meaning.

The last we saw of it was a hale old grandfather, who carried in his arms, under the shelter of his big rose-hued umbrella, a sleepy little boy, whose weary hand still grasped his flower-wreathed olive-branch as they took the path leading to the mountains.

The earnestly prayed for rain, when it did come, came in unstinted quantity. It had rained all night, and on Monday rain was still falling, but more softly – almost, one might say, reluctantly – on the little white-robed first communicants who, sheltered by the umbrellas of mothers or aunts, were threading their way delicately among the pools of water that lay as traps for their white-shod feet.

But the Majorcan climate is too beneficent to spoil the notable day for the young communicants. Before noon the clouds had drifted away from the mountains; and though the sun did not appear, the air was mild and balmy, and through the wonderfully absorbent nature of the Sóller soil the streets speedily became dry enough to enable the dainty white shoes to trip about almost without blemish.

And all day long, everywhere one looked, young girls, some in expensive raiment, others in evidently home-made garments, but all with long white veils flowing from their wreathed heads, moved sedately from house to house, accompanied by an admiring train of female relatives, as they paid visits of ceremony to all their friends.

And as for the boys! – words fail to tell of the glories of their harshly new suits, their shining patent leather boots, of their spreading collars, of the elaborate bow of gold embroidered white ribbon that decorated their left arms; or, greatest of all – of their self-importance.

They, too, had their public promenade, and paid their visits. They, too, had their attendant group of appreciative relatives. On meeting any friends the little party would pause, and the graceful ceremony of asking forgiveness for past misdeeds be gone through, when the young communicant, bending and kissing the hand of the elder, would say, "If I have ever done you any harm, forgive me now."

My men had gone off to see Biniaraix, a hamlet of brown houses grouped about the white tower of a church on the mountain-side, and to enjoy a reminiscent glance at Fornalutx, the quaint hill-town where, on our previous visit to Sóller, we had spent a well remembered afternoon.

So the Good Fairy and I, left to our own devices, passed the afternoon in rambling about this town of amazing contrasts. As I said before, Sóller is endowed with a curiously absorbent soil – a soil that acts as a charm in cases of inflammatory rheumatism and is prime factor in the remarkable longevity of the inhabitants. The roads were already so dry and pleasant to walk on that, but for the evidence of the torrente, which was a raging river, it would have been hard to credit that for two days and nights thrice-blessed rain had fallen without intermission. Snow covered the crest of the Puig Mayor and lay heavy on its shoulders, yet down in the valley the soft air was sweet with the fragrance of orange blossoms, and all about the golden or copper-coloured fruit hung in profusion on the trees. Truly Sóller is a place of piquant contrasts.

The trespasser is welcomed in Majorca. There are no notice-boards – except a few vedados to warn against hunting – no padlocked gates. So we wandered about, following bypaths that led from one small "possession" to another; and never, after we left it, returning to the highroad until it was time to return home.

That the Good Fairy is widely beloved was evident at every turn. Her diplomatic powers are great, but she had to exercise them all to avoid spending the afternoon indoors in the hospitable homes of her humble acquaintances, who, catching a glimpse of her as she passed, hastened out to entreat her to enter.

Living in this place of natural delight must be cheaper even than in Palma. One courteous dame took us all over her house, that we might see the views from her windows. The house, which was in the town, was a comparatively new dwelling in a good airy street. It had a large high-ceilinged zaguan– the entrance chamber that is a combination of hall and reception-room – from which opened a neat kitchen. A few steps up from the zaguan was a cosy parlour from which a stair led down to the terras. Above, on the first floor, were two bedrooms, and on the second floor two more, all well lit and affording exquisite views. Being in town the house had no garden; but the terras with its big jars of plants seemed a favourite place for taking the air.

When I indulged my curiosity by asking the rent, the good dame told us that for all this excellence she paid twenty-four dollars a year – less than five pounds; and the rent included taxes!

As we strolled farther afield the wealth of the land was heaped upon us. Our hands overflowed with the Balearic violets, that are the sweetest in the world, and the Balearic pansies, that are, I verily believe, the poorest. For pansies love a cold damp soil, and rarely flourish south of the River Tweed; and the Tweed is a far, far cry from these sun-loved isles.

We had sprays of orange blossom given us too, and ripe oranges, whose golden sides the beneficent sun had tanned to copper. And we sat in a garden and ate them, while the aged donor, who still possessed the fine features and limpid eyes of her bygone youth, talked to us, illustrating her stories by a pantomime of feature and gesture so expressive that even I, with my meagre knowledge of her language, could hardly fail to grasp their meaning.

In the kitchen of her house the wide hearth was almost shut in by a three-sided settle, whose seats were strewn with fleecy white sheepskins. On the kitchen shelves the native ware of brown, decorated in crude patterns of red and yellow, was arranged with unconscious artistic effect.

Mounting gradually higher, we rested at a point where the town lay open before us. Hills rose steeply behind us; in front the ground sloped down in terraces; and, far beyond, the fruitful gardens and russet houses of the town rose again towards the snow-crested mountains, or at one point fell gradually to the cleft beyond which showed the sea.

Becoming suddenly conscious that we had let the tea hour slip past unheeded, we were hastening back to the hotel, when, crossing the bridge that spans the torrente, we caught the promise of a sight that made us quickly return to the open space of the market square that we might obtain a less interrupted view. Over the roofs of the houses the snow-capped mountain summits, struck by some magic shaft from the hidden sun, glowed rose-red, and the unearthly beauty of the transfiguration held us mute and spell-bound.

The curious thing was, that though little groups of people stood gossiping in the market-place no one appeared to have eyes for this refulgence but ourselves. Seeing us standing gazing silently towards the mountains, they turned also to see what had attracted our attention, then turned away uncomprehending.

XXII
DEYÁ, AND A PALMA PROCESSION

The last lingering trails of rain-clouds had vanished and the sun shone from a cloudless blue sky when next day we drove off behind Pepe and his pair of white horses to picnic at Deyá, the curiously distinctive little town that perches on a hill betwixt mountain and sea, half-way between Sóller and Miramar.

The road was a good one, and as the way, though steep, was set in zigzag fashion, its ascent would have been easy but for the barbarous way in which, acting with the empty cunning of these would-be crafty island road-menders, someone had littered the road with lumps of stone, thus forcing the passing vehicle to act the ignominious part of road-roller by threading its way out and in over the newly mended parts. Sometimes the stones were so evilly placed as to impel us to venture perilously near the edge of the precipitous track.

It was a relief as we slowly mounted upwards to come upon the perpetrator of the crime in the very act of further blocking our path. Taken thus red-handed, he was not one whit dismayed, but complacently stepped aside to let us pass.

The opportunity was not one to be missed. Half drawing up and turning round on the box, Pepe launched towards him a few objurgations in trenchant Majorcan. And the Good Fairy, putting her head out of the carriage, added the weight of her gentle reproach.

"What is this you do?" she asked in her pretty Spanish. "Placing stones on the road to welcome the strangers! Is this the way you show them the delicacy of the Spaniard?"

Thus doubly reproached, the caminero stood transfixed; and our emotions having found vent, we drove on, leaving him with his hand raised to his brass-bound hat, his mouth open but speechless.

Having reached the summit, we began the descent, losing sight of our grand mountains, but gaining a glimpse of the Mediterranean, which glowed in that warm blue that makes one wonder – until one tries the temperature – why sea-bathing should be confined to the summer months.

The tawny-roofed houses of Deyá cluster on a high rock that rises like an island from out a sea of valley which is girdled by precipitous mountains. Streams in cascades were rushing down in a joyful pell-mell, the cherry-trees were heavy with blossom, and the pomegranates were opening their first delicate copper-tinted leaves as we drove along the highroad that follows the curve of the valley.

The attentive chef of the Marina had made us independent of fondas, and Pepe had promised to find us a good place to lunch in. So when he drew up at a path that branched off from the highway on the Miramar side of Deyá, we took our hamper, from which the neck of a bottle protruded alluringly, and started to explore it.

The path ended at a gate that opened into private grounds. In any other country the most presumptuous among us would have hesitated before invading the garden of unknown owners. But we were in the Fortunate Isles and the charm of their unconventionality influenced us. Walking in, we found some conveniently placed stone seats under the shade of a huge lemon-tree, and there we spread our feast of lamb cutlets, potato omelets, cakes and fruit.

The house, of one corner of whose quaintly terraced garden we had taken possession, appeared to be untenanted. Its windows were closely shuttered, its stable empty; but soon from the highest terrace an old head peeped at us. A little later it appeared on a terrace lower, then nearer still, the attached body becoming gradually more and more visible, until the owner appeared before us in the person of an aged woman whose frivolously abbreviated petticoats seemed incompatible with her sober face.

It was the caretaker, come not to warn us that we were intruding, but to urge us to leave the place we had chosen for one where there was a proper table and much water.

We resisted her enticements and she trotted off, her appearance a ludicrous combination of propriety and indecorum, with her serious face swathed in its black kerchief and her lavishly displayed light drab ankles.

She did not quite abandon us, however; and when the men had gone off to paint she returned, and was so evidently desirous that we would not leave before seeing the marvels of the garden, that we consented to allow her to show them.

And, indeed, the arrangement of the grounds revealed much ingenuity. The spot where she would have had us eat was a stone-built mirador, through a shallow cave, at whose back a mountain torrent had been induced to flow. As she had promised, there was both "a table" and "much water." In summer the suggestion of coolness imparted by even a trickle of water would be charming. Then, with the torrent rushing at breakneck speed, the effect was a little overpowering and the noise positively deafening. Our chosen place under the big lemon-tree might not be so extraordinary, but it had a placid charm that soothed while it did not detract from the matter in hand.

The nephew of our unconsciously serio-comic cicerone, in the person of a one-eyed calender– I beg his pardon, gardener – joined us to reveal fresh attractions of summer-house and rivulets, and of a grotto where, amid a perfect cascade of maidenhair-fern, a graceful statue of Our Lady of Lourdes was embowered. From every point the view was lovely, but I defy anybody to find a spot about Deyá that does not afford a lovely prospect.

When we left the place our lady of the stockings, eager to do something for the generous tip the Good Fairy had slipped into her hand, insisted on carrying our hamper. And during the remainder of our afternoon at Deyá, whether we went up hill or down dale, amongst the picturesque houses clustered on the church-crowned hill or through the gardens that lined the side of the river, we seemed always to be encountering her. Whether she was paying a round of visits to display her coin, or bound on an exhaustive shopping expedition to squander it, we did not know; but at every turn of the road we seemed to see the twinkle of those drab ankles.

One of the many charms of Deyá is the proximity of the sea, which laves the foot of its valley. Another is its delicious irregularity. I do not believe there are a half-dozen yards of straight road in Deyá. Every house has its own elevation, its individual bypaths. Another and an invaluable charm to artists is the manageable quality of its pictorial effects. The extensive grandeur of Miramar is almost unpaintable, but Deyá has a complete picture at every turn. We saw many in the course of that afternoon stroll. Women washing, men gathering oranges, a handsome woman in a petticoat of vivid scarlet leading a recalcitrant black goat: all ready for transference to canvas.

The hours flew past. Almost before we knew, dusk was falling and we were on our way back to where the snow-capped Puig Mayor presides over the wonderful Sóller valley.

We had been a little apprehensive, expecting a repetition of the somewhat hazardous morning journey. But the Good Fairy's appeal to the chivalry of the Spaniard had borne immediate result. Every stone had been laboriously removed from the path. So without hindrance we rattled gaily down into the valley, where lights were already twinkling through the dusk.

The final day of our visit to Sóller brought yet another experience of unusual interest. Our hostess had still another surprise in store for us. We had viewed the high mountains from beneath, now we were going to see them from the crest of one of their number.

Pepe took the reins in his skilled hands and guided the surefooted mules, who, for this expedition, replaced the white horses, up a perilous road that curved about the mountain-side, rising higher and ever higher until we looked down over the many terraces of olives into the valley that lay placidly basking in the afternoon sunshine.

Our ascent was necessarily very deliberate. As we wound slowly up we passed neither dwelling nor human being; and those of us to whom the way was new began to wonder why any road should have existed on so lonely a height. Then when we had got so high that it seemed as though an eaglet's aerie would be the most likely habitation, the road ended on a flat plateau, and we found ourselves driving into the outer courtyard of a farm-house so old and weather-beaten that in appearance it resembled the rocks and crags that surrounded it.

We alighted unnoticed. Doves were flying overhead. A dog greeted our advent with an interrogative growl; fowls clucked about unheeding. Pepe, rolling himself up in a striped blanket, curled up on the box to await the hour when it might be our pleasure to return. And we walked on, wondering if we had left the everyday world behind in the valley and had all unwittingly climbed to the palace of the sleeping beauty.

A stone-cast from the house was a mirador known to our conductress. Securely seated therein, poised right on the edge of the mountain-crest, we looked at the vast panorama. Crags rose high about us. Behind and above us towered an unfamiliar side of the Puig Mayor, its massive shoulders deep in drifted snow.

Far beneath, looking like some gaily coloured map when seen from that height, lay the port of Sóller with its lake-like harbour and pigmy headlands. And northwards spread the far-reaching sea, whose grandeur no altitude could dwarf.

The sensation of being above the world was gloriously exhilarating. When a bird flew overhead we almost felt as though we too had wings, and two lines from Davidson's Ballad of a Nun kept running through my mind:

 
"I am sister to the mountains now,
 And sister to the sun and moon."
 

Leaving the mirador, we wandered happily about the plateau. Among the grass a strange flower was blooming, and it seemed quite natural that this amazing location should boast a flower of its own. It was an orchid whose sugarloaf-shaped spike was covered with florets of dull purple, close-packed after the manner of a grape hyacinth. In many of the plants the flowers burst into a tuft at the top. It was strange and not pretty, but curiously in keeping with its isolated situation.

When we returned to the house Pepe, swathed in his blanket, was still deep in the slumber of the man of tranquil mind: but the mistress of the house was at hand. Approaching, she greeted us with grave courtesy. She had the remains of much beauty. The soft bloom of girlhood lingered on her matronly cheeks, and the retrospective look of one accustomed to deep solitude was in her fine dark eyes.

On her invitation we entered the house, whose tall sides surrounded an inner courtyard. One end of the big cool kitchen was partitioned off with high-backed settles, and right on the middle of the floor of the "cosy corner" thus formed a pile of logs was glowing. Looking up, we saw that overhead the roof contracted until it became a wide chimney, through which a glimpse of blue sky was visible. A gun hung on the whitewashed wall, and on one of the seats which was thickly spread with skins a shepherd lad was resting.

Returning to the mirador, we watched the sun sink in a golden glory over the misty blue sea. Then, lamenting the inevitable close of another perfect day, we drove back down the vagrant deviating way, feeling as though we had for a brief space been translated to a new and inspiring world.

It was with sincere regret that on the morning of Holy Thursday we bade the Good Fairy farewell and, with Pepe again as charioteer, started on our drive back by way of Deyá, Miramar, and Valldemosa to Palma, where we had an afternoon engagement.

The scenery of this coast road must rank with the finest in the world, and on that March morning it was looking its loveliest. There was no wind, and both sea and sky were of that deep warm azure that makes so fitting a background to Balearic Island vistas.