Read Ebook: Two years in the French West Indies by Hearn Lafcadio Rushmore Arthur W Illustrator

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La Montagne Pel?e Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas Old Sugar Mill, St. Kitts Belle Fontaine, Martinique St. Pierre To-day Suzanne Cimeti?re du Mouillage, St. Pierre Road to Morne Rouge St. Pierre--Street Among the Ruins The Empress Josephine The Quay, Bridgetown Bridgetown, Barbadoes Country Road, Barbadoes The Lion or Gun Hill, Barbadoes The Devil's Door, Martinique The Road to St. Pierre Fort-de-France Les Porteuses Cathedral, Fort-de-France Home from Market, St. Pierre Le Calvaire A Wayside Shrine Pitons du Carbet Fort-de-France Les Blanchisseuses La Pel?e The Cathedral, St. Pierre Ruins, St. Pierre Armistice Day, Fort-de-France Market, Fort-de-France Creole Women Didier Springs

FOREWORD

"CA-ARMINE! Carmine!"

"Oui, madame!"

"Petit gar?on, venez donc!"

So we found life in Fort-de-France, Martinique. The same childlike, care-free, laughing spirit that so wholly captivated the artist soul of Hearn four decades since weaves its spell about the traveler of to-day.

Since those happy days a generation ago that he described with such lyric grace the world at large has changed, become smaller, more disillusioned, and in the island itself an occasional hurricane and the terrible disaster of St. Pierre in 1902 have wrought havoc unspeakable; yet the buoyant hearts of these Creole folk sing as of yore, among the flower-decked ruins of the city that Hearn loved so well, the new St. Pierre that lies under the brooding shadow of Mt. Pel?e.

Change comes slowly in the tropics. Nature's prodigality is no great incentive to ambition and one finds in this wrinkled emerald of an island set in a sparkling sapphire sea welcome relief from the stress of our northern life with its insistent activity. It is as though one were in a great greenhouse; the crowding mountain sides are rank with exuberant greenery. Every ravine has its bounding rivulet of crystal water gleaming like a silver thread woven into the rich pattern of verdure. Constant breezes temper the heat and frequent short showers wash the air free of dust. The atmosphere is brilliant, as Hearn painted it.

The same people are there--French, Madagascans, Caribs, Senegalese, Chinese, Portuguese--all mingled in a Creole type different from any and bearing qualities of all. Tall, slim, graceful, especially the women, with lovely heads, thin lipped and deep eyed, with skins of every conceivable shade of white, yellow, brown, and red. Long waving raven hair tied smartly in their bright "madrases," with little clothing to hamper them, they are the picture of grace. They still wear the "Josephine" gown, the vast flowing skirts of which they gather up and tuck under their arms to-day exactly as Hearn described.

We visited again and again the grim ruin of St. Pierre, now overgrown with a rank growth of flowers and vines, a sorry spectacle. High on the cliff above the town, dominating the scene of ruin, stands the lovely marble statue of the Virgin, all that remained intact in the great cathedral that fateful day.

The peculiar nature of the devastating wave of steam and red-hot gas which wiped out thirty thousand people in a few minutes, left the front and rear walls standing and crushed and demolished the side walls of the stone buildings which made up the greater portion of the city. These walls, battered and crumbling, still stand, mute evidence of the city's size and former beauty. Within these standing walk new homes are springing up, giving a weird effect as though in this fecund climate the very houses were coming back to life.

The roads which thread the island like a net are constantly cared for. Winding in and out and ever upward to dizzy heights, they lead through impenetrable jungle, thickets of bamboo and giant tree ferns, affording from occasional open spaces glimpses of shadowy ravines and bounding torrents hemmed in by farther peaks in serried ranks that beggar description, descending again toward the western side through mile upon mile of soft gray-green waving cane, till one comes at last to the blue Atlantic beating itself into froth upon the sands at Trinit?.

French k the only language--a Creole French different from any on earth, sweet and musical to listen to. The innate courtesy one meets everywhere, even in the interior where strangers are rare, is most delightful. One shakes hands with everyone one meets, though it be a half dozen times in a forenoon, and even the smallest purchase cannot be made without an exchange of courtesies that would do credit to a diplomat. Along the country roads the women carriers with huge panniers on their heads will always greet you in their soft, high-keyed voices with, "Bon jou', missie," that lingers like a sweet savor and prejudices one forever in favor of these pleasant folk.

We sailed away eventually with our minds and hearts full of many new and delightful friendships and a great yearning to stay, or at least to some day be a "revenant" and come back to this lovely island that Hearn has immortalized in the pages that follow.

ARTHUR W. RUSHMORE.

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.

L.H.

A TRIP TO THE TROPICS

A MIDSUMMER TRIP TO THE TROPICS

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.

... 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 sunset ward. 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.

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.

Morning of the third day. Same mild, warm wind. Bright blue sky, with some very thin clouds in the horizon,--like puffs of steam. The glow of the sea-light through the open ports of my cabin makes them seem filled with thick blue glass... It is becoming too warm for New York clothing...

Certainly the sea has become much bluer. It gives one the idea of liquefied sky: the foam might be formed of cirrus clouds compressed,--so extravagantly white it looks to-day, like snow in the sun. Nevertheless, the old gentleman from Guadeloupe still maintains this is not the true blue of the tropics!

... The sky does not deepen its hue to-day: it brightens it;--the blue glows as if it were taking fire throughout. Perhaps the sea may deepen its hue;--I do not believe it can take more luminous color without being set aflame... I ask the ship's doctor whether it is really true that the West Indian waters are any bluer than these. He looks a moment at the sea, and replies, "yes!" There is such a tone of surprise in his "oh" as might indicate that I had asked a very foolish question; and his look seems to express doubt whether I am quite in earnest... I think, nevertheless, that this water is extravagantly, nonsensically blue!

... I read for an hour or two; fall asleep in the chair; wake up suddenly; look at the sea,--and cry out! This sea is impossibly blue! The painter who should try to paint it would be denounced as a lunatic... Yet it is transparent; the foam-clouds, as they sink down, turn sky-blue,--a sky-blue which now looks white by contrast with the strange and violent splendor of the sea color. It seems as if one were looking into an immeasurable dyeing vat, or as though the whole ocean had been thickened with indigo. To say this is a mere reflection of the sky is nonsense!--the sky is too pale by a hundred shades for that! This must be the natural color of the water,--a blazing azure,--magnificent, impossible to describe.

The French passenger from Guadeloupe observes that the sea is "beginning to become blue."

And the fourth day. One awakens unspeakably lazy;--this must be the West Indian languor. Same sky, with a few more bright clouds than yesterday;--always the warm wind blowing. There is a long swell. Under this trade-breeze, warm like a human breath, the ocean seems to pulse,--to rise and fall as with a vast inspiration and expiration. Alternately its blue circle lifts and falls before us and behind us;--we rise very high; we sink very low,--but always with a slow long motion. Nevertheless the water looks smooth, perfectly smooth; the billowings which lift us cannot be seen;--it is because the summits of these swells are mile-broad,--too broad to be discerned from the level of our deck.

Mid-day.--The splendor of the sky is weird! No clouds above--only blue fire! Up from the warm deep color of the sea-circle the edge of the heaven glows as if bathed in greenish flame. The swaying circle of the resplendent sea seems to flash its jewel-color to the zenith.

Clothing feels now almost too heavy to endure; and the warm wind brings a languor with it as of temptation.... One feels an irresistible desire to drowse on deck;--the rushing speech of waves, the long rocking of the ship, the lukewarm caress of the wind, urge to slumber;--but the light is too vast to permit of sleep. Its blue power compels wakefulness. And the brain is wearied at last by this duplicated azure splendor of sky and sea. How gratefully comes the evening to us,--with its violet glooms and promises of coolness!

All this sensuous blending of warmth and force in winds and waters more and more suggests an idea of the spiritualism of elements--a sense of world-life. In all these soft sleepy swayings, these caresses of wind and sobbing of waters, Nature seems to confess some passional mood. Passengers converse of pleasant tempting things,--tropical fruits, tropical beverages, tropical mountain-breezes, tropical women.... It is a time for dreams--those day-dreams that come gently as a mist with ghostly realization of hopes, desires, ambitions.... Men sailing to the mines of Guiana dream of gold.

The wind seems to grow continually warmer; the spray feels warm like blood. Awnings have to be clewed up, and wind-sails taken in;--still, there are no whitecaps,--only the enormous swells, too broad to see, as the ocean falls and rises like a dreamer's breast....

The sunset comes with a great burning yellow glow, fading up through faint greens to lose itself in violet light;--there is no gloaming. The days have already become shorter.... Through the open ports, as we lie down to sleep, comes a great whispering,--the whispering of the seas: sounds as of articulate speech under the breath,--as of women telling secrets....

Fifth day out. Trade-winds from the south-east; a huge tumbling of mountain-purple waves;--the steamer careens under a full spread of canvas. There is a sense of spring in the wind to-day,--something that makes one think of the bourgeoning of Northern woods, when naked trees first cover themselves with a mist of tender green,--something that recalls the first bird-songs, the first climbings of sap to sun, and gives a sense of vital plenitude.

... Evening fills the west with aureate woolly clouds,--the wool of the Fleece of Gold. Then Hesperus beams like another moon, and the stars burn very brightly. Still the ship bends under the even pressure of the warm wind in her sails; and her wake becomes a trail of fire. Large sparks dash up through it continuously, like an effervescence of flame;--and queer broad clouds of pale fire swirl by. Far out, where the water is black as pitch, there are no lights: it seems as if the steamer were only grinding out sparks with her keel, striking fire with her propeller.

Sixth day out. Wind tepid and still stronger, but sky very clear. An indigo sea, with beautiful white-caps. The ocean color is deepening: it is very rich now, but I think less wonderful than before;--it is an opulent pansy hue. Close by the ship it looks black-blue,--the color that bewitches in certain Celtic eyes.

There is a feverishness in the air;--the heat is growing heavy; the least exertion provokes perspiration; below-decks the air is like the air of an oven. Above-deck, however, the effect of all this light and heat is not altogether disagreeable;--one feels that vast elemental powers are near at hand, and that the blood is already aware of their approach.

All day the pure sky, the deepening of sea-color, the lukewarm wind. Then comes a superb sunset! There is a painting in the west wrought of cloud-colors,--a dream of high carmine cliffs and rocks outlying in a green sea, which lashes their bases with a foam of gold....

For two days there has been little conversation on board. It may be due in part to the somnolent influence of the warm wind,--in part to the ceaseless booming of waters and roar of rigging, which drown men's voices; but I fancy it is much more due to the impressions of space and depth and vastness,--the impressions of sea and sky, which compel something akin to awe.

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