It will perhaps be thought strange that a town so comparatively easy of access as Palma, and possessing so much to attract the artist and the antiquarian, should be so little known to the world at large. Yet if we reflect how small a distance from the beaten track will suffice to deflect ninety-nine per cent of the travelling public, it is no subject for wonder that Majorca is still an unknown isle.
A certain number of travellers pass through Palma on their way to and from Algiers, but the island in general is as yet barely aware of the existence of the tourist, and he is quite a recent institution even in Palma itself, where the opening of the Grand Hotel three years ago may be said to have inaugurated a new era.
Viewed in the light of a tourist resort the old town is so far behind the times that she brings me in mind of some old-fashioned châtelaine who with dignity offers her guests of her best, without in any way altering her mode of life to suit the standard of modern requirements. I can recall but two shopkeepers in Palma who knew any language but Spanish, and at the Bank a special clerk is hastily summoned if an Englishman chances to enter the door. An English church—the earliest sign of a recurring visitors’ season—is as yet only represented by a mission-room in the suburb of Santa Catalina, where the Church of England service is read every Sunday by a Wesleyan minister.
To the globe-trotter it will come as a surprise to find that he is no longer under the world-wide ægis of Thomas Cook, and that that name by which he has hitherto conjured conveys nothing whatever to a Majorcan official. The foreigner who visits the remoter villages of the interior is still looked upon as something of a curiosity; he will have to drive in native carriages, live on native food, and bid a temporary farewell to that cosmopolitan standard of comfort provided for all who travel the world’s highways. But he will at least be sure of one thing—an unfailing welcome by an island race noted for its charming manners.
I think the courtesy of the natives is one of the first things to strike the new-comer in Palma. Many a time as we rambled about the labyrinthine streets of the town did a Spanish lady come out of her way to ask if she could be of any use in directing us; in any difficulty you may apply without hesitation to one of the common soldiers with which the town swarms, and with all the instinct of a well-bred man he will immediately do his utmost to be of assistance, nor would his own colonel more deeply resent the inference of inferiority conveyed by the offer of a tip.
The bow with which a native gentleman asks you to enter his patio and photograph what you will is only equalled by that of the peasant who rises from table at a wayside cottage to ask the passing stranger to be seated and to share his meal.
In a country where manners cease to form a distinction between the classes social intercourse becomes easy and natural. A market-woman will enter the democratic tram, dragging with her an unmanageable and overflowing basket, and the gentleman seated next her will without hesitation accept half of it on his knees, hand it after her when she rises, and raise his hat as she turns to thank him. There is neither thought of condescension on his part nor of presumption on hers.
School attendance is not compulsory in Majorca, and many of the peasants with whom we came in contact were wholly illiterate; yet in no instance had the proverbial twopence extra for manners been spared in their education. I remember how when talking to a muleteer we once regretted our inability to speak Spanish more fluently.
“Ah, but the Señora speaks well!” he said quickly; “think how difficult I should find it if it was I who had to learn her language!” And an old man chimed in, “And I, Señora, cannot even write!”