Seen from the bay, the little red-white-and-yellow city forms but one
multicolored streak against the burning green of the lofty island. There
is no naked soil, no bare rock: the chains of the mountains, rising by
successive ridges towards the interior, are still covered with
forests;--tropical woods ascend the peaks to the height of four and five
thousand feet. To describe the beauty of these woods--even of those
covering the mornes in the immediate vicinity of St. Pierre--seems to me
almost impossible;--there are forms and colors which appear to demand
the creation of new words to express. Especially is this true in regard
to hue;--the green of a tropical forest is something which one familiar
only with the tones of Northern vegetation can form no just conception
of: it is a color that conveys the idea of green fire.
You have only to follow the high-road leading out of St. Pierre by way
of the Savane du Fort to find yourself, after twenty minutes' walk, in
front of the Morne Parnasse, and before the verge of a high
wood,--remnant of the enormous growth once covering all the island. What
a tropical forest is, as seen from without, you will then begin to feel,
with a sort of awe, while you watch that beautiful upclimbing of green
shapes to the height of perhaps a thousand feet overhead. It presents
one seemingly solid surface of vivid color,--rugose like a cliff. You do
not readily distinguish whole trees in the mass;--you only perceive
suggestions, dreams of trees, Doresqueries. Shapes that seem to be
staggering under weight of creepers rise a hundred feet above
you;--others, equally huge, are towering above these;--and still higher,
a legion of monstrosities are nodding, bending, tossing up green arms,
pushing out great knees, projecting curves as of backs and shoulders,
intertwining mockeries of limbs. No distinct head appears except where
some palm pushes up its crest in the general fight for sun. All else
looks as if under a veil,--hidden and half smothered by heavy drooping
things. Blazing green vines cover every branch and stem;--they form
draperies and tapestries and curtains and motionless cascades--pouring
down over all projections like a thick silent flood: an amazing
inundation of parasitic life.... It is a weird and awful beauty that you
gaze upon; and yet the spectacle is imperfect. These woods have been
decimated;--the finest trees have been cut down: you see only a ruin of
what was. To see the true primeval forest, you must ride well into the
interior.
The absolutism of green does not, however, always prevail in these
woods. During a brief season, corresponding to some of our winter
months, the forests suddenly break into a very conflagration of color,
caused by the blossoming of the lianas--crimson, canary-yellow, blue,
and white. There are other flowerings, indeed; but that of the lianas
alone has chromatic force enough to change the aspect of a landscape.