John Greenleaf Whittier - "Narrative and Legendary Poems: Barclay of Ury, and Others"

John Bursey - "Project Gutenberg Dumas Commentary"

Various - "Washington Square Plays"

Marietta Holley - "Samantha on the Woman Question"

Two Years in the French West Indies

L >> Lafcadio Hearn >> Two Years in the French West Indies



Transcribed by: Richard Farris [rf7211@hotmail.com]



TWO YEARS

IN THE

FRENCH WEST INDIES

By LAFCADIO HEARN

AUTHOR OF "CHITA" ETC.

ILLUSTRATED





"_La façon d'être du pays est si agréable, la température si
bonne, et l'on y vit dans une liberté si honnête, que je n'aye
pas vu un seul homme, ny une seule femme, qui en soient
revenues, en qui je n'aye remarqué une grande passion d'y
retourner._"-LE PÈRE DUTERTRE (1667)



À MON CHER AMI
LEOPOLD ARNOUX
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'âme 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.

L. H.
_Philadelphia, 1889._




CONTENTS

PART ONE--A MIDSUMMER TRIP TO THE TROPICS

PART TWO--MARTINIQUE SKETCHES:--

I. LES PORTEUSES
II. LA GRANDE ANSE
III. UN REVENANT
IV. LA GUIABLESSE
V. LA VÉRETTE
VI. LES BLANCHISSEUSES
VII. LA PELÉE
VIII. 'TI CANOTIÉ
IX. LA FILLE DE COULEUR
X. BÊTE-NI-PIÉ
XI. MA BONNE
XII. "PA COMBINÉ, CHÈ"
XIII. YÉ
XIV. LYS

XV. APPENDIX:--SOME CREOLE MELODIES (not included in this
transcription)




ILLUSTRATIONS.

A Martinique Métisse (Frontispiece)
La Place Bertin, St. Pierre, Martinique
Itinerant Pastry-seller
In the Cimetière 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
Fort-de-France, Martinique
Capre in Working Garb
A Confirmation Procession
Manner of Playing the Ka
A Wayside Shrine, or Chapelle
Rue Victor Hugo, St. Pierre
Quarter of the Fort, St. Pierre
Rivière des Blanchisseuses
Foot of La Pellé, behind the Quarter of the Fort
Village of Morne Rouge
Pellé as seen from Grande Anse
Arborescent Ferns on a Mountain Road
'Ti Canot
The Martinique Turban
The Guadeloupe Head-dress
Young Mulattress
Coolie Woman in Martinique Costume
Country Girl-pure Negro Race
Coolie Half-breed
Capresse
The Old Market-place of the Fort, St. Pierre
Bread-fruit Tree
Basse-terre, St. Kitt's





A Trip to the Tropics.





PART ONE--A MIDSUMMER TRIP TO THE TROPICS.




I.



... 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.



II.


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 (_verdâtre_).
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.



III.


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,
"_Oh_ 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."



IV.


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.

... Ten A.M.--Under the sun the sea is a flaming, dazzling
lazulite. My French friend from Guadeloupe kindly confesses this
is _almost_ the color of tropical water.... Weeds floating by, a
little below the surface, are azured. But the Guadeloupe
gentleman says he has seen water still more blue. I am sorry,--I
cannot believe him.

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 white-caps,--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....



V.


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.



VI.


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....

Even after dark the touch of the wind has the warmth of flesh.
There is no moon; the sea-circle is black as Acheron; and our
phosphor wake reappears quivering across it,--seeming to reach
back to the very horizon. It is brighter to-night,--looks like
another _Via Lactea_,--with points breaking through it like stars
in a nebula. From our prow ripples rimmed with fire keep fleeing
away to right and left into the night,--brightening as they run,
then vanishing suddenly as if they had passed over a precipice.
Crests of swells seem to burst into showers of sparks, and great
patches of spume catch flame, smoulder through, and disappear....
The Southern Cross is visible,--sloping backward and sidewise, as
if propped against the vault of the sky: it is not readily
discovered by the unfamiliarized eye; it is only after it has
been well pointed out to you that you discern its position. Then
you find it is only the _suggestion_ of a cross--four stars set
almost quadrangularly, some brighter than others.

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.



VII.


Morning over the Caribbean Sea,--a calm, extremely dark-blue sea.
There are lands in sight,--high lands, with sharp, peaked,
unfamiliar outlines.

We passed other lands in the darkness: they no doubt resembled
the shapes towering up around us now; for these are evidently
volcanic creations,--jagged, coned, truncated, eccentric. Far
off they first looked a very pale gray; now, as the light
increases, they change hue a little,--showing misty greens and
smoky blues. They rise very sharply from the sea to great
heights,--the highest point always with a cloud upon it;--they
thrust out singular long spurs, push up mountain shapes that have
an odd scooped-out look. Some, extremely far away, seem, as they
catch the sun, to be made of gold vapor; others have a madderish
tone: these are colors of cloud. The closer we approach them, the
more do tints of green make themselves visible. Purplish or
bluish masses of coast slowly develop green surfaces; folds and
wrinkles of land turn brightly verdant. Still, the color gleams
as through a thin fog.

... The first tropical visitor has just boarded our ship: a
wonderful fly, shaped like a common fly, but at least five times
larger. His body is a beautiful shining black; his wings seem
ribbed and jointed with silver, his head is jewel-green, with
exquisitely cut emeralds for eyes.

Islands pass and disappear behind us. The sun has now risen
well; the sky is a rich blue, and the tardy moon still hangs in
it. Lilac tones show through the water. In the south there are
a few straggling small white clouds,--like a long flight of
birds. A great gray mountain shape looms up before us. We are
steaming on Santa Cruz.

The island has a true volcanic outline, sharp and high: the
cliffs sheer down almost perpendicularly. The shape is still
vapory, varying in coloring from purplish to bright gray; but
wherever peaks and spurs fully catch the sun they edge themselves
with a beautiful green glow, while interlying ravines seem filled
with foggy blue.

As we approach, sun lighted surfaces come out still more
luminously green. Glens and sheltered valleys still hold blues
and grays; but points fairly illuminated by the solar glow show
just such a fiery green as burns in the plumage of certain
humming-birds. And just as the lustrous colors of these birds
shift according to changes of light, so the island shifts colors
here and there,--from emerald to blue, and blue to gray.... But
now we are near: it shows us a lovely heaping of high bright
hills in front,--with a further coast-line very low and long and
verdant, fringed with a white beach, and tufted with spidery
palm-crests. Immediately opposite, other palms are poised; their
trunks look like pillars of unpolished silver, their leaves
shimmer like bronze.

... The water of the harbor is transparent and pale green. One
can see many fish, and some small sharks. White butterflies are
fluttering about us in the blue air. Naked black boys are bathing
on the beach;--they swim well, but will not venture out far
because of the sharks. A boat puts off to bring colored girls on
board. They are tall, and not uncomely, although very dark;--
they coax us, with all sorts of endearing words, to purchase bay
rum, fruits, Florida water.... We go ashore in boats. The water
of the harbor has a slightly fetid odor.



VIII.


Viewed from the bay, under the green shadow of the hills
overlooking it, Frederiksted has the appearance of a beautiful
Spanish town, with its Romanesque piazzas, churches, many arched
buildings peeping through breaks in a line of mahogany, bread-
fruit, mango, tamarind, and palm trees,--an irregular mass of at
least fifty different tints, from a fiery emerald to a sombre
bluish-green. But on entering the streets the illusion of beauty
passes: you find yourself in a crumbling, decaying town, with
buildings only two stories high. The lower part, of arched
Spanish design, is usually of lava rock or of brick, painted a
light, warm yellow; the upper stories are most commonly left
unpainted, and are rudely constructed of light timber. There are
many heavy arcades and courts opening on the streets with large
archways. Lava blocks have been used in paving as well as in
building; and more than one of the narrow streets, as it slopes
up the hill through the great light, is seen to cut its way
through craggy masses of volcanic stone.

But all the buildings look dilapidated; the stucco and paint is
falling or peeling everywhere; there are fissures in the walls,
crumbling façades, tumbling roofs. The first stories, built with
solidity worthy of an earthquake region, seem extravagantly heavy
by contrast with the frail wooden superstructures. One reason
may be that the city was burned and sacked during a negro revolt
in 1878;--the Spanish basements resisted the fire well, and it
was found necessary to rebuild only the second stories of the
buildings; but the work was done cheaply and flimsily, not
massively and enduringly, as by the first colonial builders.

There is great wealth of verdure. Cabbage and cocoa palms
overlook all the streets, bending above almost every structure,
whether hut or public building;--everywhere you see the splitted
green of banana leaves. In the court-yards you may occasionally
catch sight of some splendid palm with silver-gray stem so barred
as to look jointed, like the body of an annelid.

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