the town as with a raised highway—one might almost say a common, so incredibly vast are the earthworks within the walls. Hither the townsfolk ascend at evening to enjoy the sea breeze and the glorious view over land and sea. Cows graze peacefully along the ramparts, surrounded by children at play; and wheeling flights of pigeons execute aerial manœuvres overhead, while squads of new recruits march unendingly backwards and forwards from morning to night in the dry bed of the moat below, and the bastions re-echo the sharp words of command.
The moat on the eastern side is devoted to rope-making, and there men are seen walking backwards all day long, spinning as they go, and the dull thud of heavy mallets is heard as they beat out the bundles of esparto grass.
“… the Plaza del Mercádo, lying in the shadow of the old hexagonal tower of San Nicolas, and flanked by the great balconied house of the Zafortéza family.”
(page 12)
“At intervals along the ramparts stand ancient sentry boxes of weathered sandstone. …”
(page 11)
On the southern ramparts overlooking the harbour and immediately beneath the cathedral, is the broad terraced walk that forms Palma’s most beautiful promenade. At intervals along the low parapet stand ancient sentry-boxes of weathered sandstone, and one looks past them out to sea, with a bird’s-eye view of the harbour and its shipping backed by the white suburb of Santa Catalina and the pinewoods of Bellver. Above us rise clustered houses, with here and there a group of slender palm-trees leaning from some garden, and crowning all stands the great cathedral, rich with pinnacles and flying buttresses, and turning to the harbour a cliff-like face of sandstone deep tanned by centuries of sun and sea.
Small wonder that the townspeople love to stroll on their beautiful Muralla de Mar. It is probably the only portion of the ramparts that will survive the work of destruction now proceeding—for the doom of the fortifications is sealed. The last part they played in history was during the Spanish war of succession in 1715, when Palma hotly espoused the cause of the Austrian archduke and was reduced by General Aspheld with an army of 10,000 men. Modern science has rendered the old walls useless as a defence—modern hygiene considers them an undesirable barrier to fresh air.
And so they are to go.
For the last thirty years the work of pulling them down has proceeded with but occasional pauses from lack of funds. Already a wide breach has been made on the side next the sea; to the north a large section of the moat has been filled in and converted into a square with gardens; and workmen are now engaged in throwing down the eastern walls. The outer casing of masonry is being gradually stripped off and the vast earthworks shovelled into the moat. To the onlooker it seems as if ants had been set to remove a mountain as he watches one trolley-load of rubbish after another slide down to the glacis below without making the slightest perceptible difference.
Yet it is only a question of a few years before walls and moat alike shall have vanished. Gone will be the old entrance gates with their scutcheons and turrets and their deep archways of black shadow where lurks the douanier watching for his prey. Gone will be the bridges with their ceaseless stream of passengers plying to and from the town. Gone—alas! will be one of Palma’s most picturesque features.
A cheerful scene greets the eye of the stranger who starts out on a voyage of exploration the morning after his arrival at the Grand Hotel. Facing him, as he emerges into the street, is the Plaza del Mercádo, lying in the shadow of the old hexagonal tower of the church of San Nicolas, and flanked by the great balconied house of the Zafortéza family. If it happen to be a Saturday morning a busy throng is congregated on the square; the ground is strewn with displays of glass and crockery, of coarse green and brown pottery and graceful waterjars, while the sellers of young orange-trees, of toys and jewellery, of cheap rocking chairs and folding trestle bedsteads, vie with one another in attracting the attention of possible purchasers.
“The patio in some houses is merely a plain courtyard enclosed by whitewashed walls, with perhaps a clump of bananas growing in the centre.”
(page 14)
“Long flights of steps lead to the higher part of the town, some broad and shallow, the playground of innumerable boys. …”
(page 13)
Long flights of steps lead to the higher part of the town—some broad and shallow, the playground of innumerable boys; others steep and so narrow that the tall houses almost meet overhead.
The cobbled streets of the oldest and most aristocratic quarters of Palma resemble ravines, and are barely wide enough to admit of the passage of the heavy two-wheeled carts that come lumbering through, scraping either wall with their axles and compelling foot passengers to seek the shelter of the nearest archway. An oriental atmosphere of mystery hangs about the massive, fortress-like walls of the great houses that tower on either side, turning to the outer world a blank and inscrutable face of reserve that offers not the faintest indication of the life existing within. External windows are represented by a few heavily-barred apertures high overhead, but if you chance to find the great nail-studded porte-cochère standing open you are at perfect liberty to go in and look about you.
The universal plan of all the better houses is that inherited from the Arabs—of a patio or open courtyard in the centre of the building, from which a staircase ascends to the dwelling rooms on the first floor. In some houses this patio consists of nothing more than a plain courtyard enclosed by whitewashed walls, with perhaps a clump of bananas growing in the centre; but in the palaces inhabited by the nobility and dating back some centuries the courtyard is frequently of great beauty and constitutes the chief architectural feature of the house.
The residence of the Oleza family in the Calle de Moréy has a fine courtyard in Rénaissance style; handsome pillars of red marble support the vaultings of the house, and the gallery that spans the marble staircase rests upon a wide flattened arch bearing the family coat of arms. The ground floor is devoted to stables, coach-house, and domestic offices, and in the court stands that characteristic feature of Moorish and Spanish patios—the well, from which the household draws its water supply. The bucket is lowered from a wrought-iron support in the form of a crozier, and on being brought up brimming its contents are upset into the font-shaped receptacle of stone close by, from which they flow through an orifice into the water jar placed on a slab below.
The palace of the Marquis de Vivot in the Calle Zavella is not as ancient as many another, dating as it does from the beginning of the eighteenth century only, but its patio is the largest in Palma and certainly one of the most beautiful. It is approached by fine portes-cochères and has in the centre a paved space where carriages stand at the foot of the great staircase. From eight beautiful marble columns spring the graceful arches that uphold the house, and in brilliant relief against the black shadows of the recess stands out the clear red of two immense oil-jars containing palms.
“In the court stands that characteristic feature of Moorish and Spanish patios—the well.”
(page 14)