Part 7

Had my room been less accessible, or my sleep more profound, they might have knocked and called in vain, for although it was hardly nine o'clock, Fernando and Netta were deep in the slumber of the agriculturist in some unknown roof-chamber of the tall old house.

Although so isolated in position, Miramar is intimately connected with the romantic life-history of Ramon Lull--rake, recluse, scholar, fanatic, martyr, saint--what you will.

The father of Ramon Lull--the name is variously spelt: Raymund Lully in the English; Ramundo Lulio in the Spanish; and Ramon Lull in the Mallorquin, which has a bad habit of chipping the ends off words--was one of those brave young knights of Aragon who fought with their King during his invasion and conquest of Majorca. When that war had ended happily for all but the Moors, the parent Lull, in company with the other nobles who had supported King Jaime the Conquistador, was rewarded with an estate in Majorca. And there, about six years later, his son Ramon was born.

During his earlier manhood Ramon gave little hint of what he was ultimately to become. His behaviour was by no means sedate. Nay, more, it is on record that his love affairs were so numerous as to become a public scandal, which reached a climax on his riding on horseback into church in pursuit of a devout lady whom he madly adored.

The fatal illness of this lady, by awakening his conscience and rousing him to a sense of sin, changed the current of his thoughts, and after a period of self-accusation and contrition, he decided not only to lead a better life, but to spend that life in the reformation of others.

King Jaime, on being applied to, supplied the funds necessary for the carrying out of his project, and Lull erected a college at Miramar, where close by the house of the Archduke a fragment of the original chapel is still to be seen. His scheme was to teach thirteen monks Arabic, so that they could go forth as missionaries among the infidels. And Miramar, one of the most secluded spots on earth, as well as one of the most beautiful, he deemed a suitable place for study.

But the scheme failed. Why, the chroniclers do not say. Perhaps the students, being merely human, wearied of the restrictions of existence in that seminary perched on the hill-side between the mountains and the sea, and pined for company.

The project was abandoned. A later record speaks of King Sancho, grandson of the Conquistador, visiting Miramar in quest of relief from the asthma with which he was afflicted, and residing at the Arabic College.

Lull, nothing daunted by the defection of his pupils, alone put into execution his plan of carrying the truth into other lands. We hear of his preaching Christ in Africa and being rewarded with stripes. Then we are told of his travelling in the Holy Land. Later he appears in Paris, in Egypt, and even in England, writing books and teaching.

In spite of besetting dangers, Lull's life of study and propagandism lasted beyond the ordinary term of man. When he was an octogenarian, and probably weary of the struggle, he desired to quit the world in a blaze of glory; and, as the best means of attaining his end, returned to Africa, where earlier he had been received with contumely and severely beaten. There Lull met the fate he coveted: for continuing to preach openly and persistently, he was stoned to death at Bugia in June, 1315.

Some Genoese disciples who had begged for his bruised and broken body brought it tenderly back to his birthplace. We had seen the spot of its interment in the beautiful church of San Francisco, at Palma, a Gothic temple of the thirteenth century, that vies in antiquity with the Cathedral. One of the chapels in the transept to the left of the high altar gives sepulture to the aged martyr. The effigy shown is that of an old man lying on his side, as though to signify that his unwavering and indomitable spirit had at last gained rest.

We had spoken tentatively of Lull to Fernando, and Fernando had not only admitted a knowledge of the old-world frequenter of his slopes, but had volunteered to take us to visit his cave, a sanctuary high on the mountain-side above Miramar, where Lull was wont to go when he felt the need of seclusion. And at ten next morning we were waiting, expectant.

But at ten Fernando, just returned from his morning's work on the farm, was at breakfast. So we went to the _mirador_, below the Hospederia, and spent the minutes of waiting enjoying the view that, no matter how often we saw it, always wore a different aspect.

This morning, though the sun was shining on the sea and on the olives that covered the lower slopes, the higher peaks were obscured by filmy scarves of mist, and scarcely perceptible wisps were floating about the mountain sides, giving an air of mystery and grandeur to the lofty heights.

Then Fernando appeared wiping his moustached lips, which already held the inevitable cigarette. Under his guidance we moved along the highroad until we came to a gate where a cross fixed to the post betokened monastery ground. A sandalled monk passing by gave us grave greeting. There the ascent began at once, the path zigzagging about on the terraced slopes that were thickly planted with olives. The undergrowth was bright with the vivid green foliage and brilliant scarlet berries of the winter cherry.

Up and up we mounted, Fernando and the Boy walking lightly in advance, we others lagging a little behind, until we felt like birds seeking some mountain aerie; till looking down we saw nothing but a steeply shelving forest of tree tops, or looking up caught a glimpse of mist-obscured crags.

The path wound about along narrow ledges and up crazy, almost obliterated steps, until with the suddenness of a surprise the track branched off to a ledge on the right, and we saw, set in the face of the solid rock, a little wicket gate.

It was so long since the gate had been opened that it necessitated a strong effort on the part of Fernando's broad shoulders before it would consent to open.

Within, the unexpected awaited us. Set in the wall of the cave facing the door was an old bas-relief carving that had evidently marked the place of the altar before which the saint had been wont to worship. The passing of the centuries has gradually blurred the outlines of the carving: still we could see the form of the Virgin and Child, and the worshipping figure of an angel. Behind the group was a background of palms.

The wall still held a faint trace of fresco, and from the side hung the socket--in the shape of a bird--for an antique lamp.

There was something so attractive, and even homely, in the cave, that we required no great effort of imagination to fancy Lull choosing it as his hermitage, and escaping thither when he yearned for a space to be free from the society of the thirteen monks who so soon had tired of their task.

That raised ledge might have served for a couch; this stone seemed the right height for a seat; a small window hewn in the side admitted sufficient light did the recluse wish to study. In the wall was a natural basin, which to this day, except when long-continued drought has dried up all the watercourses, holds a supply of fresh water.

It seemed to us that Lull had chosen an ideal place of seclusion in the rock-dwelling set far up in the pure air, where no sound save the twitter of bird or the far-off murmur of the sea could break the solemnity of his thoughts.

Everything about the cave bespoke its antiquity. The trees that fronted the entrance were hoary with age and fringed with lichen. And on the hill-side above, amidst moss-grown trees and blooming heath, a tall cross had been erected in memory of the recluse whose haven it once had been.

There was yet another cave that Fernando had promised to show us; one of worldly, not of religious uses this time. It was the place where in not very remote ages smugglers concealed the contraband goods that they had succeeded in landing on the coast below. So, leaving the cell of Ramon Lull, we followed our guide, clambering higher and yet higher, and speedily getting into the dim twilight of forests that might have existed since the beginning of the world, so venerable were they, so thickly mossed and festooned with grey-green lichen.

The signs of foliage were of the scantiest. Many trees revealed no more than half a dozen leaves set at the extreme tips of the lichen-furred branches. And all about was a huddled waste of stones--the debris that collects at the base of great mountains. In these gloomy recesses where daylight never enters there was no indication of life--no flutter of startled bird, not even a scurrying beetle. All was still and weird.

On hastened the light-footed Fernando, and on we followed more ponderously, marvelling how he knew his way where we could see no trace of a path. Suddenly branching off to the right, over the rough rocks, he preceded us to where, low down amongst a tumbled heap of boulders, a slight crevice showed. Smiling, he glanced back at us, then bent down and disappeared. Close on his heels the Boy followed. And both had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving us gaping at the mouth of the exaggerated rabbit burrow that had seemingly swallowed them up. We, wisely, did not attempt to enter. The prospect of a rough scramble did not tempt us.

On his return to the surface the Boy described the interior of the cave as both wide and lofty. But I must confess the idea of the smugglers conveying their illicit cargoes from the beach all that distance up the steep mountain-side to store it in a cavern that was on the way to nowhere seemed absurd. It assuredly was inaccessible. And it spoke well for the vigilance of the carbineers that the _contrabandistas_ could find no more convenient place of concealment.

But had Majorca not been free from the bandit plague, what a glorious place that would have been for brigands in which to keep prisoned the rich foreigners they were holding for ransom!

In some such unattainable holes and crannies of the heights must the mountain Moors have existed during the two years that passed before their chief surrendered to the Conquistador.

Just beyond the smugglers' cave were the fragmentary remains of a monastery, so old and long deserted that the lichen-fringed trees had rooted as deeply within the ruined walls of its chambers as without in the forest.

Still further we went, keeping close on the heels of our untiring leader, for the track sloped downwards now and the going was easier. Once more we were in the region of trees that seemed alive, not merely fossilized and moss-grown.

Like a born guide, Fernando had reserved the most charming part of the excursion to the last. All unexpectedly he brought us to where, on an outjutting pinnacle of rock, the Archduke had erected a chapel. From the stone seats placed round its base we had an enchanting and yet more comprehensive view than ever before of the scene that, from whatever point we chanced to see it, never failed to give us a fresh thrill of delight.

And wasn't I glad to sit down!

We had felt so much at home at the Hospederia and so enthralled with this new world of steeps and silences that, when the last of our three days had come, we felt sincerely sorry to leave it.

In torrid summer weather, when the southern plains of the island lie baking in the sun, it would be impossible to imagine a more charming way of escape from the heat than to rest under the shades of leafy Miramar, or to sit at ease in one of the cunningly placed _miradors_ "looking lazy at the sea" and the everlasting hills.

But the law is inexorable. When his three days' free lodging has come to an end each guest must move on to make room for others. A wise provision; for, had it not been so ruled, the first travellers who filled these beds and ate at these tables would never have left the Hospederia--they would have been there yet!

Our next stopping-place was to be Sóller, a town that is envalleyed amid the highest mountains in the island. Sóller is ten miles distant from Miramar, and the question was how we were to get transported thither. At the Hospederia we were quite out of the way of traffic. Not even a diligence lumbered by.

Fernando, coming to our rescue, offered to negotiate with a farmer for the use of a cart. It was the ploughing season, the busiest time of the year for both men and mules, but he succeeded in arranging that we could have the loan of a conveyance of some kind at two o'clock that afternoon for ten pesetas.

The morning had been wet. Happily not with the drenching, torrential rain of these latitudes, but with an insinuating moisture reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands. Disregarding it, we made the most of the few hours at our disposal, seeking, and finding, fresh walks and wonders in our surroundings.

One thing I remember that specially interested us in the terraced olive plantations of Miramar, was the method of throwing a little stone bridge from one walled terrace to another across the bed of the river. There was no water in the channel, the bed was dry and mossy. As we looked up at the succession of bridgelets, each flanked on either side by short flights of stone steps, it seemed to typify the extreme of the elaborate and painstaking system of culture that prevails all over the island.

With appetites sharpened by the famed air of Miramar we had lunched off goats' milk, the toasted remains of our half cartwheel of rye bread, and something I had confidently expected would prove to be an omelet, but which turned out to be something entirely different. It was eatable, however, even delectable, and we devoured it to the last yellow fragment, then waited the arrival of our carriage.

It came at last. And as it drew up in front of the Hospederia we looked first at it, then at each other, in silent dismay.

In place of the roomy farm cart drawn by mules that we had expected to see, the conveyance was one of the gaily painted, two-wheeled cockleshells in which Majorcan farmers go a-junketing. It would have been an admirable vehicle for two people. Viewed as a means of carrying four with luggage, it at first sight seemed absolutely impracticable.

"Oh, it's all right; I'll walk," said the Boy, regardless of the fact that ten long miles of wet road lay between us and the Hotel Marina at Sóller.

Our luggage was as little as a party of three could be expected to require during a week's expedition, comprising as it did only one large portmanteau, a suit-case, some sketching materials, and a couple of rugs. Yet compared with the size of the conveyance it appeared of enormous dimensions.

Nothing daunted by the overwhelming bulk of his prospective load, the driver put the suit-case under the seat, propped the big portmanteau up on it, and invited me to get in. That done, allowing a modicum of space for himself, the carriage was full.

Obviously that plan would not do. Again we looked at each other in despair. Fortunately the driver was a man of resource. Hauling out the big bag, he wrapped it in a sail-like canvas cover, and, producing fragments of rope from all his pockets, proceeded to tie it on at the back of the cart. Running into the house, Netta brought more rope for its better security. With the load hanging behind, it seemed as though the tiny vehicle were already overweighted; but its capacity for endurance proved greater than we anticipated. The Man got in, the Boy got in, the driver also mounted. All three were jammed into a narrow seat for two. I was squeezed in somewhere at the back, and at last our journey began.

As we drove on the feeling of insecurity lessened; we forgot to expect the cart to tip up. Our mule proved himself a good goer, and we early learned to adapt ourselves to conditions--to lean forwards going uphill, to incline backwards when the way led downwards.

Though the mist still blurred the mountains the coast scenery was magnificent. The road, which lay half-way between sea and mountain-top, was bordered on either side by olive plantations. About three miles from the Hospederia it curved inwards into the most beautiful valley I had ever seen.

Houses that looked like nests, so thickly were they surrounded by luxuriant foliage, were scattered about the lower parts of the hills that on three sides rose steeply; on the fourth the land declined gently to the Mediterranean.

Here there were no jealous walls to hedge in the gardens. Oranges, lemons, and figs in full fruitage overhung the highway. Tall palms rose overhead, and down by a fountain women were washing. It was the village of Deyá, a sleepy nest seven miles from even a diligence, but, even seen through a blur of rain, a place of exquisite beauty.

"We must come back here."

"Yes, we'll come back----"

"And stay a month," we agreed, as we had done about so many charming spots that we had got just a glimpse of, and as we were fated to do about so many more before our sojourn in these lovely isles came to a close.

We would gladly have lingered to explore the beauties of Deyá, but the delay at starting had already encroached on the November afternoon, and the greater portion of our journey was yet to come. So the men, who had got down to walk through the village, remounted, and once more, huddled up together, off we joggled, out of the lovely valley and along a cliff-road where, among the grey-green olive-trees, girls in skirts of vivid scarlet were gathering the fallen fruit.

It was five o'clock and dusk was already falling when we descended the zigzag road leading into Sóller and, passing a picturesque old cross, turned into a modern-looking street planted on either side with trees.

"What I want to see now," I said, deliberately shutting my eyes to the scenery, "is a hotel with electric light, and a good fire, and German waiters, and French cookery."

"Don't be hateful," retorted the Boy. "But it doesn't matter; you won't see it. My only fear is that they won't be able to take us in."

The rain, which was now falling more heavily, had sent the townsfolk indoors. The only wayfarer in sight was a venerable gentleman who, as he sat astride a panniered donkey, protected himself from the rain with a large umbrella.

Turning with a final jolt, we drew up in front of the Hotel Marina, whose wide glass doors opened hospitably to receive us.

There was no question of lack of room, fortunately, but the dinner-hour was yet two hours ahead, and even the satisfaction derived from the omelet (which wasn't really an omelet) was already a vague memory. But we are people of resource. While I boiled the unfailing tea-kettle the men foraged, returning with provender in the shape of crisply toasted _bizcochos_ and _cocas_, and we had a cosy tea that enabled us to possess our bodies in patience until the dinner-hour.

The waiter who served us was German, the cookery revealed more than a suspicion of French influence, the electric light was brilliant, and there was a cheery fire. But even the Boy did not complain.

IX

SÓLLER

Though a longer acquaintance reveals many charming and wholly Majorcan characteristics, at first sight Sóller resembles a Swiss town, so closely do the high mountains encircle it. The likeness is emphasized when, as occasionally happens in winter, the double crest of the Puig Major is tipped with snow.

With the exception of Palma, Sóller was the only Balearic town in which we had slept. Half unconsciously we found ourselves putting them in comparison, to discover that while each is, after its own fashion, delightful, they are entirely dissimilar.

Palma, "compactly built together," stands, crowded a little, within its city walls, its feet lapped by the sea, a fertile plain behind it, while Sóller stretches itself at ease among its hills, with abundant elbow-room, in a fruitful orange grove. Water is a precious thing in Palma, where drinking-water in quaint Moorish stone jars is hawked through the streets, while a striking and refreshing feature of Sóller is the abundance of running water. It flowed--a little sluggishly perhaps, for the rains had not yet come--over the stony bed of the _torrente_; it gushed unchecked from the street fountains; it ran along cunningly contrived stone conduits and turned mills.

There are no rivers in Majorca. The beds of the _torrentes_ that ought to be rivers are often so dry that they resemble rough sun-baked roads. It was so many weeks since we had seen even a thread of running water that the sound of its flow was music in our ears. As a full and free supply of pure water is essential to the well-being of a town, one easily understands how Sóller has the advantage of Palma in health conditions. The absorbent soil of Sóller ensures freedom from rheumatism, and the old people remain hale and hearty to the close of lives that in many cases come within nodding distance of a century.

Perhaps it was owing to the absence of the military, or the want of a railway--though Sóller has one in the making--or of the close vicinity of a port, but to our cursory view Sóller appeared less gay, and its people seemed to lack the irresponsible smiling light-heartedness of Palma folks.

There were architectural differences also. To enter one of the better-class houses in the larger city one crosses a _patio_, or open courtyard, and having ascended a stair, knocks at a door; while in Sóller one steps directly from the street into a large hall, on either side of which, close to the wall, are set a long row of chairs all of similar design. Here visitors are received, and, as far as we could judge, penetrate no further.

Sóller has few of the flat roof-tops or windows that are so prominent a feature of the old Moorish capital, but Sóller has more chimneys; in the stillness of early morning the faint blue haze of wood fires overhangs the town.

Our first day at Sóller opened dull and grey. Much rain had fallen in the night. The streets were damp, the mountains mist-shrouded. The Boy and I felt depressed and cross. The Man, who had already discerned picturesque possibilities in the unique situation of the place, put a sketch-book in his pocket and went off in search of a typical subject. The Boy and I prowled about the narrow streets, allowing ourselves to be annoyed at everything--at the mud, at the Sunday crowds, and at the way they stared at us.

In the square before the church was a busy little market. At the corner of the square, near where one gets a lovely view of the _torrente_ overhung by the balconies of crooked old houses, some of the ramshackle vehicles that convey marketers to and from the port of Sóller were waiting.

"Let's go and have a look at the port," proposed the Boy. "Those people look at us as if we were wild beasts. And it will be better than hanging about here in the mud."

The shower that had been threatening all the morning was beginning to fall, so I agreed. Selecting the coach that seemed on the point of starting, we took our seats. A young couple, an old couple, and half a dozen market baskets overflowing with greenstuff, shared the interior with us. Three more people and several more baskets mounted to the box, and, just as the rain began to patter heavily on the canvas roof, we drove off, glad to have secured the temporary shelter.

The way from Sóller to its port seems to lie through an orange grove, so closely is it flanked on either side with gardens full of the shining leaves and golden fruit. It was sad to learn that a blight had attacked the crop in the lower part of the valley, and to see in one orchard a heap of trees, plucked up by the roots with the fruit still thick on the branches, waiting to be burnt.