Two Years in the French West Indies

ENDNOTES

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List of Illustrations

La Place Bertin (the Sugar Landing), St. Pierre, Martinique.

Itinerant Pastry-seller. "tourjours Content, Toujours Joyeux."

In the Cimetère Du Mouillage, St. Pierre.

In the Jardin Des Plantes, St. Pierre.

Cascade in the Jardin Des Plantes.

Departure of Steamer for Fort-de-france.

Statue of Josephine.

Inner Basin, Bridgetown, Barbadoes.

Trafalgar Square, Bridgetown, Barbadoes.

Street in Georgetown, Demerara.

Avenue in Georgetown, Demerara.

Victoria Regia in the Canal at Georgetown

Demerara Coolie Girl.

St. James Avenue, Port-of-spain, Trinidad.

Coolies of Trinidad.

Coolie Servant.

Coolie Merchant.

Church Street, St. George, Grenada.

Castries, St. Lucia.

'ti Marie (on the Route from St. Pierre To Basse-pointe.)

Fort-de-france, Martinique-(formerly Fort Royal.)

A Creole Capre in Working Garb.

A Confirmation Procession.

Manner of Playing the Ka

A Wayside Shrine, Or Chapelle.

Rue Victor Hugo (formerly Grande Rue), St. Pierre

Quarter of the Fort, St. Pierre (overlooking The Rivière Roxelane).

Rivière Des Blanchisseuses.

Foot of Pelée, Behind the Quarter Of The Fort.

Village of Morne Rouge, Martinique

La Montagne Pelée, As Seen from Grande Anse.

Arborescent Ferns on a Mountain Road.

'ti Canot.

The Martinique Turban, Or Madras Calende.

The Guadeloupe Head-dress.

Young Mulattress.

Plantation Coolie Woman in Martinique Costume.

Coolie Half-breed

Country-girl-pure Negro Race.

Capresse.

Old Market-place of the Fort, St. Pierre.-(removed In 1888).

Bread-fruit Tree.

Basse-terre St. Kitts.

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NOTAIRE à SAINT PIERRE, MARTINIQUE

Souvenir de nos promenades,-de nos voyages,-de nos causeries,-des sympathies échangées,-de tout le charme d'une amitié inaltérable et inoubliable,-de tout ce qui parle à l'ame au doux Pay des Revenants.

* * *

PREFACE

During a trip to the Lesser Antilles in the summer of 1887, the writer of the following pages, landing at Martinique, fell under the influence of that singular spell which the island has always exercised upon strangers, and by which it has earned its poetic name,-Le Pays des Revenants. Even as many another before him, he left its charmed shores only to know himself haunted by that irresistible regret,-unlike any other,-which is the enchantment of the land upon all who wander away from it. So he returned, intending to remain some months; but the bewitchment prevailed, and he remained two years.

Some of the literary results of that sojourn form the bulk of the present volume. Several, or portions of several, papers have been published in HARPER'S MAGAZINE; but the majority of the sketches now appear in print for the first time.

The introductory paper, entitled "A Midsummer Trip to the Tropics," consists for the most part of notes taken upon a voyage of nearly three thousand miles, accomplished in less than two months. During such hasty journeying it is scarcely possible for a writer to attempt anything more serious than a mere reflection of the personal experiences undergone; and, in spite of sundry justifiable departures from simple note-making, this paper is offered only as an effort to record the visual and emotional impressions of the moment.

My thanks are due to Mr. William Lawless, British Consul at St. Pierre, for several beautiful photographs, taken by himself, which have been used in the preparation of the illustrations.

... A long, narrow, graceful steel steamer, with two masts and an orange-yellow chimney,-taking on cargo at Pier 49 East River. Through her yawning hatchways a mountainous piling up of barrels is visible below;-there is much rumbling and rattling of steam-winches, creaking of derrick-booms, groaning of pulleys as the freight is being lowered in. A breezeless July morning, and a dead heat,-87° already.

The saloon-deck gives one suggestion of past and of coming voyages. Under the white awnings long lounge-chairs sprawl here and there,-each with an occupant, smoking in silence, or dozing with head drooping to one side. A young man, awaking as I pass to my cabin, turns upon me a pair of peculiarly luminous black eyes,-creole eyes. Evidently a West Indian....

The morning is still gray, but the sun is dissolving the haze. Gradually the gray vanishes, and a beautiful, pale, vapory blue-a spiritualized Northern blue-colors water and sky. A cannon-shot suddenly shakes the heavy air: it is our farewell to the American shore;-we move. Back floats the wharf, and becomes vapory with a bluish tinge. Diaphanous mists seem to have caught the sky color; and even the great red storehouses take a faint blue tint as they recede. The horizon now has a greenish glow, Everywhere else the effect is that of looking through very light-blue glasses....

We steam under the colossal span of the mighty bridge; then for a little while Liberty towers above our passing,-seeming first to turn towards us, then to turn away from us, the solemn beauty of her passionless face of bronze. Tints brighten;-the heaven is growing a little bluer, A breeze springs up....

Then the water takes on another hue: pale-green lights play through it, It has begun to sound, Little waves lift up their heads as though to look at us,-patting the flanks of the vessel, and whispering to one another.

Far off the surface begins to show quick white flashes here and there, and the steamer begins to swing.... We are nearing Atlantic waters, The sun is high up now, almost overhead: there are a few thin clouds in the tender-colored sky,-flossy, long-drawn-out, white things. The horizon has lost its greenish glow: it is a spectral blue. Masts, spars, rigging,-the white boats and the orange chimney,-the bright deck-lines, and the snowy rail,-cut against the colored light in almost dazzling relief. Though the sun shines hot the wind is cold: its strong irregular blowing fans one into drowsiness. Also the somnolent chant of the engines-do-do, hey! do-do, hey!-lulls to sleep.

..Towards evening the glaucous sea-tint vanishes,-the water becomes blue. It is full of great flashes, as of seams opening and reclosing over a white surface. It spits spray in a ceaseless drizzle. Sometimes it reaches up and slaps the side of the steamer with a sound as of a great naked hand, The wind waxes boisterous. Swinging ends of cordage crack like whips. There is an immense humming that drowns speech,-a humming made up of many sounds: whining of pulleys, whistling of riggings, flapping and fluttering of canvas, roar of nettings in the wind. And this sonorous medley, ever growing louder, has rhythm,-a crescendo and diminuendo timed by the steamer's regular swinging: like a great Voice crying out, "Whoh-oh-oh! whoh-oh-oh!" We are nearing the life-centres of winds and currents. One can hardly walk on deck against the ever-increasing breath;-yet now the whole world is blue,-not the least cloud is visible; and the perfect transparency and voidness about us make the immense power of this invisible medium seem something ghostly and awful.... The log, at every revolution, whines exactly like a little puppy;-one can hear it through all the roar fully forty feet away.

...It is nearly sunset. Across the whole circle of the Day we have been steaming south. Now the horizon is gold green. All about the falling sun, this gold-green light takes vast expansion.... Right on the edge of the sea is a tall, gracious ship, sailing sunsetward. Catching the vapory fire, she seems to become a phantom,-a ship of gold mist: all her spars and sails are luminous, and look like things seen in dreams.

Crimsoning more and more, the sun drops to the sea. The phantom ship approaches him,-touches the curve of his glowing face, sails right athwart it! Oh, the spectral splendor of that vision! The whole great ship in full sail instantly makes an acute silhouette against the monstrous disk,-rests there in the very middle of the vermilion sun. His face crimsons high above her top-masts,-broadens far beyond helm and bowsprit. Against this weird magnificence, her whole shape changes color: hull, masts, and sails turn black-a greenish black.

Sun and ship vanish together in another minute. Violet the night comes; and the rigging of the foremast cuts a cross upon the face of the moon.

Morning: the second day. The sea is an extraordinary blue,-looks to me something like violet ink. Close by the ship, where the foam-clouds are, it is beautifully mottled,-looks like blue marble with exquisite veinings and nebulosities.... Tepid wind, and cottony white clouds,-cirri climbing up over the edge of the sea all around. The sky is still pale blue, and the horizon is full of a whitish haze.

... A nice old French gentleman from Guadeloupe presumes to say this is not blue water-he declares it greenish (verdatre). Because I cannot discern the green, he tells me I do not yet know what blue water is. Attendez un peu!...

... The sky-tone deepens as the sun ascends,-deepens deliciously. The warm wind proves soporific. I drop asleep with the blue light in my face,-the strong bright blue of the noonday sky. As I doze it seems to burn like a cold fire right through my eyelids. Waking up with a start, I fancy that everything is turning blue,-myself included. "Do you not call this the real tropical blue?" I cry to my French fellow-traveller. "Mon Dieu! non," he exclaims, as in astonishment at the question;-"this is not blue!"...What can be his idea of blue, I wonder!

Clots of sargasso float by,-light-yellow sea-weed. We are nearing the Sargasso-sea,-entering the path of the trade-winds. There is a long ground-swell, the steamer rocks and rolls, and the tumbling water always seems to me growing bluer; but my friend from Guadeloupe says that this color "which I call blue" is only darkness-only the shadow of prodigious depth.

Nothing now but blue sky and what I persist in calling blue sea. The clouds have melted away in the bright glow. There is no sign of life in the azure gulf above, nor in the abyss beneath-there are no wings or fins to be seen. Towards evening, under the slanting gold light, the color of the sea deepens into ultramarine; then the sun sinks down behind a bank of copper-colored cloud.