There is so much revolution and class war going on in all parts of the world that I believe that it will be of interest to American readers to know how fascist conquest, communist and anarchist invasion, and the bloodiest war yet on record affect a peaceful town. By a town, I mean its people. I knew all of them, their means and aspirations, their politics and philosophy, their ways of life, their ties of blood, their friendships, their deep-seated hatreds and inconsequential animosites. Because Santa Eulalia is on an island, the inhabitants were unable to scatter and flee, and therfore I was able to better to observe them and to know what happened to them as I shared their experience.

The town was very much like any American seabord town except that the various races there had had six thousand years in which to be blended, and consequently the population was more homogenous. Also the young men did not, as a rule, leave the island to seek their fortune elsewhere. Enough generalities! I feel self-conscious in writing about my dear friends with such objectivity. I loved them and their animals and the shadows of the trees that fell upon their houses. They divided their last pesetas and red wine and beans and gay spirit with me. I got away, and they did not. Their land is dying. Mine is not. This book is a debt I owe them.

Just before sunrise, the main street of Santa Eulalia and the countryside, spread fanlike behind it, began to awake. There was nothing reluctant or violent in the awakening, merely a few familiar sounds which seemed to accompany the heightening of the colors of the dawn. In front was the sea on which a few fishing boats were moving, too, in a leisurely fashion, leaving geometric wakes. The shutters scraped as Antonio raised them in the act of opening the cafŠ at Cosmi's hotel, Ferrer's donkey brayed, and because of the rumble of an iron-wheeled cart or the footsteps of an approaching fishermen the village dogs who had been sleeping in the dust of the roadway cocked their ears, stood up, stretched and walked in a dignified way to the sidewalk. Capitan, the oldest, bravest and most battered, was a sort of mastiff who belonged to Sindik, a village carpenter, one of the hardest working men in Santa Eulalia and comparatively poor. Sindik had a gift for bonesetting and healing which kept him constantly in demand in all parts of the island, but because he unerstood only dimly the miracles he seemed to perform he considered that he had no right to accept money on account of an ability he possessed through no effort or merit of his own. Carpentry he had learned by painful apprenticeship, so he was willing to be paid for that, but he liked best to make large cartwheels and the huge devices by which mules, walking blindfolded in circles, pulled up water from wells to irrigate the fields. The men who needed cartwheels and waterwheels were no over-prosperous but they were not in a perpetual hurry, like the builders, so Sindik preferred to work for them and never got rich or even well-to-do. Later I shall have to tell you how his oler son, as hard working as his father but nor very bright, was shot by a firing squad and fell back dead against a haystack, the base of which was soaked with blood. Not now. Let's not think of it now, for if my friends in Santa Eulalia have had misfortunes and have been ruined and destroyed, before that for many years they had a wonderful life. I have never seen a better life anywhere, a life more suited to human limitations and capacities, a rhythm more in accord with beneficent natural surroundings, a verdant sub-tropical landscape and the sea.

The carpenter's old dog Capitan had his morning meal in the rear of Cosmi's, just after Antonio had opened the front shutters, built a wood fire in the range in the kitchen, put on the coffee urn, and set out the scraps from the previous night's meal at the hotel. Antonio was hard of hearing and undemonstrative. He never petted the dogs and seldom spoke to them, neither did he ever forget that they liked to eat. Franco and Fanny, both males, strange to say, were the hotel dogs and the only ones Capitan, the fighter would allow to be near him while he was eating.

This is not a dog story, and still the fate of the men and women is inextricably interwoven with that of their dogs and there are strays skulking fearfully in deserted alleys all over Spain who once got regular meals and had a name and a master.

In the happy days of Santa Eulalia, the moon shone over the land without the chill in the air that elsewhere makes the night inhospitable, an from May until November the men sat long hours after dinner in front of the cafŠs, drinking anis, cognac, cazalla, or beer or the strong re wine of the country. They talked, argued, sang songs from Valencia or Aragon or native to Ibiza, ranging in mood from nostalgia to ribaldry. I can hear now as I write (and I wih I could not), their voices in a favorite refrain.

Petaquita meua My little cigarette box, Que buida qu'estas How empty you are! Que buida qu'estas Pero dem  es Diumenge But tomorrow is Sunday Ya tu rempliras Then you'll br filled/ Ya tu rempliras

Vint menus cinq fon quinze 20 minus 5 make 15. Quinze menus cinq fon dao 15 minus 5 make 10. Dao menus cinq fon cinq 10 minus 5 make 5. Y cinq fon dao And 5 make 10, Y dao fon vint And 10 make 20.

There is much in that song evocative of the character of Santa Eulalia and of Spain, the wistful attitude toward that which has contributed to pleasure, the acknowledgement of temporary material insufficiency with hope expressed immediately afterward, a joy in speculative patterns which expand and contract so effortlessly. The same feelings, translated into terms of national finance, defense or self -government, have chaotic results. They make for agreeable citizes but not zealous ones, brave soldiers who are born to lose a fight bravely.

Sindik, bonesetter and carpenter, was not to be found in front of cafŠs on moonlit nights. He worked with an application that vibrated in his little shop, from six in the morning until noon and from two-thirty until seven, and he slept hard at night. It was his nature to work, actually to toil without remission, and there were several others in the village whose inner forces impelled them to constant exertion, as if they were afraid to stop. Pedro, a jovial mason's helper, had an uncontrollable energy. It was gospel in Santa Eulalia that if one drop of rain fell, work was off until the next day. Pedro was the first on every job and the last to quit. Other terrific workers were Ferrer, Pep Salvador (brother of Cosmi and Antonio), Jose of Can Josepi, Guarapi¤ada the P.T. Barnum plus Patrick Henry of the town. You shall hear much more of all of these, but just now I am trying to convey that a lot of har work, just like American hard work, went on in Santa Eulalia coincidentally with the most artistic and successful near-idleness ever achieved by pleasure-loving and luck folk. It was the blend of everything that was charming and inspiring.

Cosmi's hotel was closed by Cosmi himself between two and three in the morning and was opened by Antonio, his older brother, an hour later. The hard-working men were friendly with the easy-going ones, and neither envied the other. The most indolent, my dear friend Guillermo, the blacksmith, or Toniet Pardal, the fisherman, was expressing himself in indolence as Ferrer or Pedro in work. Nature furnished labor for those who needed it and food for those who did not. The poorest man in town was Jaume, another carpenter, who was poor because his wife had a child every year and he never could get money up enough ahead to buy a lathe. Jaume did not starve, but he did not eat well and his children were dirty and ragged but otherwise pretty good kids. I am unlucky at dice, and the only times I wanted to lose in Santa Eulalia was when Jaume was in the game. (The stakes were drinks for the crowd, total cost about four cents, U. S.) Instead, Jaume almost always got stuck. I don't mean that Jaume gambled extensively, or drank as much as his more prosperous neighbors. He came into Xumeu's place, the nearest caf‚, about twice a day in good weather. Still, Jaume asked me one of the hardest questions I have ever been confronted with. Five minutes before a gunboat was about to shell the town he said to me, in a bewildered but not hysterical tone:

Jaume was not hit, neither was his wife, nor any of his ragged children. Be reassured. No sad parts are coming for a long time in this story. The severest damage done by that particular bombardment was to the roof of the house of a wealthy retired Swiss whose last house had been destroyed in Russia and who had come to Santa Eulalia, as I had, to find tranquility.

Most of the Ibicenca women were healthy and strong, with eyes alive and a ready smile, and because long centuries of custom had defined their lines of conduct they were able to be quickly friendly without being sexually sly. Their native costume, which occasional stray painters have made hideous, was becoming to them as good healthy women and was worn by nearly all of them who worked out-of-doors because it covered them from head to foot, several thicknesses, and kept their skin pure white in spite of Ibiza's strong sun. Catalina, who worked at Cosmi's, was one of the whitest and prettiest, a blue eyed daughter of the Phoenicians who had once inhabited this island. The loveliest brunette, I think, was the daughter of Pere des Puig (pronounced Pooch) a dry farmer on a rocky terraced hill who played the accordion for dances in order to earn an extra duro each week. As he played he wore an unchanging expression of deep melancholy on his face but I think that it was not because he had to work so hard to support his large family. He was lonely. He lived too far back on the hillside to see or talk with men on week days and on Sunday he had to sit apart from them, up on the stage of the local theatre, and play tunes which everybody had heard until they were tired of them. His slow smile indicated a broad sense of humor which he seldom had a chance to exercise. Pere des Puig was not driven to work by any inner necessity. He would have liked better being idle but he was fon of his seven daughters and he managed to dress them well and a little quaintly when they went to school. It was a beautiful family because, although Pere did not know it, his nimbe hands were as beautiful as his eldest daughter's remarkable face.

In the very early morning Pere des Puig would feed his animals, hobble his sheep, stake out his goat, smear a large slab of home-made dark bread with olive oil, hitch up his mule and drive to the seashore , a mile distant all down hill, for a load of seaweed to use as fertilizer. As he bumped over the stony road, perched on his iron-rimmed two-wheel cart, he would eat the bread and oil and look out over the dawn-colored sea with about the same expression of melancholy that he wore Sunday evenings in the dance hall. At the same time, in the backyard of Cosmi's hotel the three dogs, Capitan, Franco, and Fanny, would be eating the scraps Antonio had set out for them.

This was a time of day when the town belonged to those who later might have seemed the most unfortunate, the old women who had to work outside their homes and the young girls whose prospects were so poor that they had to make them poorer by working as servants. In Santa Eulalia the women were glad to work in the fields. They loved the fragrance of alfalfa, their backs were supple enough to bend for hours over sweet-potato vines. Wheat, corn and melons they understood, and nearly every family had some land of its own. Working in other folks kitchens was the last resort.

Catalina, who worked at Cosmi's, was as I have mentioned, one of the loveliest girls in town. She had slate-blue eyes and honey-colored hair, perfect wrists and ankles, rare still in Spain a pleasing voice, and a complete ignorance of everything that a women does not need to know. About five o'clock she would come in through the back gate which was never locked or even closed and say good morning to old Antonia Masear, her companion in drudgery.

The Royalty Hotel, on the northwest corner of the public square, was intended for the aristocracy and transient foreigners, and had an atmosphere entirely different from Cosmi's. In its backyard stoo the most beautiful palm tree on the island, and in order that the ugly structure which served for a hotel might be built, the best small specimen of Moorish architecture on the island had been torn down.

Far along the shore, among the worn and pocketed ledges, could be seen, before sunrise, a strange figure of a man, Plat‚, nicknamed the Admiral. He would have a short fishing rod or a staff in his hand and he knew where the fish and the small octopi would be lurking and feeding. No one knew the shores or the hills as Plat‚ did. Each mushroom, plant or herb was his familiar friend. He had long shaggy hair and a long unkempt beard, both of which he had shaved clean once a year, in midsummer. His legs and arms were thin, his voice a resonant bass, his face was tanned and wrinkled, except for his large dark blue eyes almost hidden by his shock of hair. He laughed, grinned and talked to himself when he was alone. In company he was silent until the wine begain to work on him. Then he sang wild Moorish songs (he knew Spanish, French, Catalan, Italian and Arabic well) and accompanied himself on the table or bar with the heel of his hand in imitation of African drums. I have heard him walking home drunk in the brightest moonlight, carrying on a reproachful and defensive conversation aloud, one voice in Spanish, the other in French, sometimes softly and persuasively, often reaching an angry crescendo so that two of his selves would be bellowing at each other.

At dawn with his trousers legs rolled up above his diminutive knees, he would be wlking along the rocks at the water's edge, around the point which sheltered the harbor to the north, or the other way from town, by the mouth of the small river, looking for his breakfast. He did not catch all the fish or the poulpes that he saw, but chose them as if the Mediterranean were his market, and its produce were laid out for him. Fish, mushrooms, wild strawberries, wild leeks, wild asparagus formed his steady diet. He did odd jobs just often enough to keep himself in wine, and tended a few flower and vegetable gardens because he was the best gardener in the Balearic Islands and was proud of his skill. Because of him, the backyards of Cosmi's and the Royalty were not like other backyards but were luxuriant with flowers - dahlias, golden glow, phlox, petunias, asters, small orange and lemon trees, all planted by Plat‚. They would grow for him almost like performing animals. There were many gardens in town, nearly every house had flowers growing near it, but Plat‚ had absorbed all the arts of the Moors in his long stay in Africa and had learned from the French how to trim and take care of trees.

When I first wnet to Santa Eulalia, I hired a house for a friend who was coming and asked Plat‚ if he would make a garden in front of it. He refused, politely but firmly, and later that day Cosmi told me why. The land had formerly been Plat‚'s own. In fact, Plat‚ had been one of the largest landowners in the town, years back. It seemed that he had had a wife of whome he was very fond, and the wife ha developed some ailment that had baffled not only the island doctor's (of whom the least said the better) but doctors on the mainland as well. Plat‚ had worried until he was ill, too, and had spent a fortune trying to cure her. After she died, Plat‚ started drinking and gambling until he had lost everything he had left. He was unhappy and morose to the point of madness until the remains of his property and money were gone. Then suddenly he became aloof and merry. He moved into a little shack not larger than eight feet by four, on the top of the hill beside the church, slept on straww, fished for his meals and worked only when he needed wine, maybe six hours a week. One of the jobs he would consent to do now and then was to fetch bundles of rosemary for kindling fires, and each morning the fragrant smoke of rosemary would pervade the town.

Old friends! Beloved island of Ibiza! My chosen town! How can I believe that you are of the past, cut off from me as irrevocably as the legendary days of the Moors, the camps of the Romans, the settlements of Carthaginians, Phoenicians, Iberians, all lost in the mirrors of history? You are not all dead, my former comrades. There are dawns in unending series to come, and the rising moon will lift the identical shape of Ibiza from the darkened sea. Shall I ever find your equal or your equivalent? Can I survive another transplantation? Shall I be always saying, "Those were the good old days. They have been destroyed." Or can I keep those scenes a while by re-enacting them, with a pin on the discs of my brain, until they are worn and emit false tones and eventually are discarded?

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