The patois spoken by the peasants is a dialect composed of the old Catalonian tongue alloyed with a strong dash of Provençal French, and it bears very little resemblance to the Spanish of Castile, which became the language of the educated classes after the union of Ferdinand and Isabella. The latter is, however, the tongue taught in the schools, and the stranger who can speak “castelláno” will find himself understood throughout the Balearic Islands, barring by a few of the older and more illiterate peasants.
The people of Palma are so little accustomed to Spanish-speaking foreigners that some of the shopkeepers cannot be brought to mention the price of an article to their customers, but persist in counting out the required sum into their own hand and exhibiting it in dumb show—to the exasperation of a certain German lady who objected to being “treated like a child.”
The shopping expeditions of more or less speechless tourists must necessarily be productive of many a laughable incident, yet I never saw a native betray the slightest amusement at the mistakes committed; I have indeed had my hand wrung with heartfelt sympathy by a good woman to whom I was struggling to explain myself.
The chief shopping centre for visitors is perhaps the Platería—a narrow street occupied by working silver-smiths—where gold and silver chains are measured off and sold by the palm, and bits of old enamel and peasant jewellery, in the shape of antique pendants and crosses, are displayed in the little windows. Amongst the most fascinating objects are clusters of silver-gilt buttons set with amethyst and garnet, such as are worn by the countrywomen on fête days, and dozens of minute silver charms representing baskets, lanterns, tubs, and other familiar objects, reduced to the scale of a mouse’s belongings; while hanging everywhere, of all sizes and shapes, are the silver chain purses used by every Majorcan, and exported by the thousand—to be sold at double the price by fashionable jewellers in London.
Few foreigners leave Palma without a souvenir in the form of a piece of old-fashioned faïence or majolica—the latter an imitation of the Arab lustre ware—manufactured at the neighbouring fabrique, along with the pretty glazed tiles, originally introduced from Valencia, with which the Majorcans face the steps of their staircases. Other local industries include lace-making and embroidery, basket-weaving, the plaiting of complicated string seats and backs to the native chairs, tanning and shoemaking—in which latter branch a large export trade is carried on with South America. Shoes are cheap, and it is quite noticeable how neatly shod the Majorcans of all classes are.
The Majorcans are good workers, and their charges moderate. The scale of wages is low, but so is the cost of living, and it would be difficult to find a more contented and prosperous-looking race than these islanders.
Extreme cleanliness is one of their most salient characteristics; they are noted too for their good looks, and it is indeed rare to find a plain face among them; and this, combined with a sensible, cheerful expression and a natural talent for effective colouring in dress, renders them a remarkably picturesque and attractive people. The country girls still retain the muslin coif, or rebosillo, which once formed the universal female headgear, but in Palma this has given way to a handkerchief worn somewhat far back on the head over beautifully dressed hair.
Scarlet skirts are much in vogue among the working classes, but, on the whole, soft half-tones are preferred to the primary colours, and a crowd of market-women presents a gay kaleidoscopic scene in which lemon-yellows, sage-greens, salmon-pinks, brown-reds, and turquoise blues are worn side by side with charming and harmonious effect.
In the early morning the big market-place in the upper town is the rendezvous of countless housewives, bargaining busily, basket on arm, for the day’s provisions. Under the long arcades bordering the cobbled square are installed the sellers of fruit and vegetables, with plaited ropes of garlic, pans of fresh olives, strings of scarlet capsicums and bitter tomatoes, hampers of newly picked oranges, bunches of pale Majorcan dates and still paler bananas, and masses of figs turned out en bloc from big rush baskets lined with leaves. A neighbouring booth supplies flat fig cakes stuffed with almonds and aniseed, and slices of dark red Carne de Membrillo—an excellent quince preserve, in consistency like damson cheese.