That an inkpot was upset over it she herself records in dramatic narration, but her account of the affair goes to show that she had neither part nor lot in bringing about the accident; her hair stands on end with horror as she recalls the scene....
She was being shown the library collected by Cardinal Despuig, uncle to the then Count of Montenegro, when the house-chaplain volunteered to show her the precious map—the gem of the collection. Spreading it on a table he unrolled the beautiful illuminated parchment—whereon large cities share the Sahara with equally large savages mounted on camels; but the vellum was reluctant to remain flat, seeing which, a servant placed a full inkstand upon a corner of the map to keep it open. But alas! its weight was insufficient! The scroll gave a crack—a leap—and lo! it was again rolled up, with the inkstand inside!
Horror and confusion reigned; the chaplain fainted away; the servants were petrified—and then, losing their heads, dashed up with sponges, brooms, and pails of water, and fell upon the map with zeal so fatal that kingdoms, oceans, isles, and continents were overwhelmed in common ruin.
George Sand declares she was not even touching the table at the moment of the catastrophe—but adds prophetically that she quite supposes the blame of it will to all time be laid at her door. The map was subsequently restored by skilful hands to nearly its pristine glory, and is now to be seen under glass in the house of the Count of Montenegro at Palma.
The big monastery-church of Valldemósa contains little of interest beyond some good marble mosaics, and hanging on the wall is a curious apparatus not unlike a pool-marker, with lettered pegs that fit into holes—the talking board used by the silent monks when they wished to communicate with one another.
From Valldemósa an hour’s drive brings one to Miramár, the large estate purchased in 1872 by the Archduke Louis Salvator. Before arriving at the house itself one passes the roadside hospedéria, kept up—with true Majorcan hospitality—by the lord of the manor for the benefit of travellers: free quarters for three days, with firing, salt, and olives, are offered to all comers, and the woman in charge cooks the food that visitors bring with them. This hospice makes an excellent centre from which to explore the north coast of the island, and good walkers would discover countless delightful rambles amongst the pinewoods that clothe the cliffs down to the water’s edge.
The Archduke’s own house is a plain building standing 2,000 feet above sea-level; the name Miramár—Sea View—has attached to the site ever since the thirteenth century, when Don Jaime II.—acting on the recommendation of Rámon Lull, his seneschal—founded a college there. Never was a name better deserved; like a silver mirror the placid Mediterranean lies outspread below one, its motionless surface flecked with tiny fishing boats; dark, fir-clad cliffs slope precipitously to the sea, and far below lies the red rock Foradada like some gigantic saurian in the blue water. Look-out points, or Miradórs, are constructed in various parts of the grounds, commanding glorious views; and perched upon a rocky spur lower down the hill is a tiny chapel, recently built, dedicated to St. Rámon Lull. One of its foundation stones was brought from Bougie in Algeria—where the saint met his death by stoning—and another from San Francisco, in memory of the missionary Juan Serra, the Majorcan founder of the Pacific city.
For the last eight years the Archduke has not resided at his Majorcan home, greatly to the regret of the people; the house is uninhabited, but is shown to visitors by the caretaker.
Its chief interest consists in the entirely native character of its contents; everything in the house is Majorcan—the thick, soft matting on the floors, the string-seated rocking-chairs and the fat stools of stuffed basket-work; the handsome brass braziers and the carved four-post bedsteads; the inlaid chests and cabinets, and the splendid collection of faïence ware, of which the owner is a connoisseur. Majorcan too is the vulture in the garden—a fierce, brown bird, who hisses at visitors, and jumps wrathfully from branch to branch of the aviary in which he has lived for seventeen long years.