Behind the roomy wooden house in which I occupied an apartment there was
a small garden-plot surrounded with a hedge strengthened by bamboo
fencing, and radiant with flowers of the _loseille-bois_--the creole
name for a sort of begonia, whose closed bud exactly resembles a pink
and white dainty bivalve shell, and whose open blossom imitates the form
of a butterfly. Here and there, on the grass, were nets drying, and
_nasses_--curious fish-traps made of split bamboos interwoven and held
in place with _mibi_ stalks (the mibi is a liana heavy and tough as
copper wire); and immediately behind the garden hedge appeared the white
flashing of the surf. The most vivid recollection connected with my trip
to Grande Anse is that of the first time that I went to the end of that
garden, opened the little bamboo gate, and found myself overlooking the
beach--an immense breadth of soot-black sand, with pale green patches
and stripings here and there upon it--refuse of cane thatch, decomposing
rubbish spread out by old tides. The one solitary boat owned in the
community lay there before me, high and dry. It was the hot period of
the afternoon; the town slept; there was no living creature in sight;
and the booming of the surf drowned all other sounds; the scent of the
warm strong sea-wind annihilated all other odors. Then, very suddenly,
there came to me a sensation absolutely weird, while watching the
strange wild sea roaring over its beach of black sand,--the sensation of
seeing something unreal, looking at something that had no more tangible
existence than a memory! Whether suggested by the first white vision of
the surf over the bamboo hedge,--or by those old green tide-lines on the
desolation of the black beach,--or by some tone of the speaking of the
sea,--or something indefinable in the living touch of the wind,--or by
all of these, I cannot say;--but slowly there became defined within me
the thought of having beheld just such a coast very long ago, I could
not tell where,--in those child-years of which the recollections
gradually become indistinguishable from dreams.
Soon as darkness comes upon Grande Anse the face of the clock in the
church-tower is always lighted: you see it suddenly burst into yellow
glow above the roofs and the cocoa-palms,--just like a pharos. In my
room I could not keep the candle lighted because of the sea-wind; but it
never occurred to me to close the shutters of the great broad
windows,--sashless, of course, like all the glassless windows of
Martinique;--the breeze was too delicious. It seemed full of something
vitalizing that made one's blood warmer, and rendered one full of
contentment--full of eagerness to believe life all sweetness. Likewise,
I found it soporific--this pure, dry, warm wind. And I thought there
could be no greater delight in existence than to lie down at night, with
all the windows open,--and the Cross of the South visible from my
pillow,--and the sea-wind pouring over the bed,--and the tumultuous
whispering and muttering of the surf in one's ears,--dream of that
strange sapphire sea white-bursting over its beach of black sand.
V
Considering that Grande Anse lies almost opposite to St. Pierre, at a
distance of less than twenty miles even by the complicated windings of
the national road, the differences existing in the natural conditions of
both places are remarkable enough. Nobody in St. Pierre sees the sun
rise, because the mountains immediately behind the city continue to
shadow its roofs long after the eastern coast is deluged with light and
heat. At Grande Anse, on the other hand, those tremendous sunsets which
delight west coast dwellers are not visible at all; and during the
briefer West Indian days Grande Anse is all wrapped in darkness as early
as half-past four,--or nearly an hour before the orange light has ceased
to flare up the streets of St. Pierre from the sea;--since the great
mountain range topped by Pelée cuts off all the slanting light from the
east valleys. And early as folks rise in St. Pierre, they rise still
earlier at Grande Anse--before the sun emerges from the rim of the
Atlantic: about half-past four, doors are being opened and coffee is
ready. At St. Pierre one can enjoy a sea bath till seven or half-past
seven o'clock, even during the time of the sun's earliest rising,
because the shadow of the mornes still reaches out upon the bay;--but
bathers leave the black beach of Grande Anse by six o'clock; for once
the sun's face is up, the light, levelled straight at the eyes, becomes
blinding. Again, at St. Pierre it rains almost every twenty-four hours
for a brief while, during at least the greater part of the year; at
Grande Anse it rains more moderately and less often. The atmosphere at
St. Pierre is always more or less impregnated with vapor, and usually an
enervating heat prevails, which makes exertion unpleasant; at Grande
Anse the warm wind keeps the skin comparatively dry, in spite of
considerable exercise. It is quite rare to see a heavy surf at St.
Pierre, but it is much rarer not to see it at Grande Anse.... A curious
fact concerning custom is that few white creoles care to bathe in front
of the town, notwithstanding the superb beach and magnificent surf, both
so inviting to one accustomed to the deep still water and rough pebbly
shore of St. Pierre. The creoles really prefer their rivers as
bathing-places; and when willing to take a sea bath, they will walk up
and down hill for kilometres in order to reach some river mouth, so as
to wash off in the fresh-water afterwards. They say that the effect of
sea-salt upon the skin gives _boutons-chauds_ (what we call "prickly
heat"). Friends took me all the way to the mouth of the Lorrain one
morning that I might have the experience of such a double bath; but
after leaving the tepid sea, I must confess the plunge into the river
was something terrible--an icy shock which cured me of all further
desire for river baths. My willingness to let the sea-water dry upon me
was regarded as an eccentricity.