"CA-ARMINE! Carmine!"
"Oui, madame!"
"Petit garçon, venez donc!"
The high piping quaver of Madame Hardy's voice followed by the soft
padding sound of bare feet on the tile flagging, the cooing of pigeons
in the cote in the court below, the ever-present cool gurgling sound of
the fountain splashing in the pool, are the only sounds that break the
somnolence of midday in Le Grand Hotel de la Paix. The soft caress of
the trade winds that careen the palm crests bears the breath of the
vanilla blossoms and bougainvillea that festoon the rail of the balcony.
A pair of lizards, flashes of green flame, chase each other in the white
noon sunshine, or freeze into immobility in a moment of alarm. The shops
are closed for siesta and the whole town dozes away the golden hours
from eleven till two. There is no hurry. To-morrow will be time enough.
_Le bon Dieu_ is prodigal with his sunshine and rain. Food is to be had
for the picking. A thatch is shelter enough and clothes are but a
convention, not a necessity. Surely there is no hurry! _Mais non,
missie!_
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. Pelée.
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 Trinité.
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.
The numerous illustrations and thumbnail sketches in the present volume
are from photographs taken during our wanderings in Martinique and other
islands of the Antilles. They give some hint of the alluring beauty that
greets one on every hand. The passing years seem powerless to change the
simple character of these ease-loving Creole folk or the green islets of
which they are so justly proud.
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.