And the multicolored clamoring stream rushes by,--swerves off at last
through the Rue des Ursulines to the Savane,--rolls over the new bridge
of the Roxelane to the ancient quarter of the Fort.
All of a sudden there is a hush, a halt;--the drums stop beating, the
songs cease. Then I see a sudden scattering of goblins and demons and
devilesses in all directions: they run into houses, up alleys,--hide
behind door-ways. And the crowd parts; and straight through it, walking
very quickly, conies a priest in his vestments, preceded by an acolyte
who rings a little bell. _C'est Bon-Dié ka passé!_ ("It is the
Good-God who goes by!") The father is bearing the "viaticum" to some
victim of the pestilence: one must not appear masked as a devil or a
deviless in the presence of the Bon-Dié.
He goes by. The flood of maskers recloses behind the ominous
passage;--the drums boom again; the dance recommences; and all the
fantastic mummery ebbs swiftly out of sight.
X
Night falls;--the maskers crowd to the ball-rooms to dance strange
tropical measures that will become wilder and wilder as the hours pass.
And through the black streets, the Devil makes his last Carnival-round.
By the gleam of the old-fashioned oil lamps hung across the
thoroughfares I can make out a few details of his costume. He is clad in
red, wears a hideous blood-colored mask, and a cap of which the four
sides are formed by four looking-glasses;--the whole head-dress being
surmounted by a red lantern. He has a white wig made of horse-hair, to
make him look weird and old,--since the Devil is older than the world!
Down the street he comes, leaping nearly his own height,--chanting words
without human signification,--and followed by some three hundred boys,
who form the chorus to his chant--all clapping hands together and giving
tongue with a simultaneity that testifies how strongly the sense of
rhythm enters into the natural musical feeling of the African,--a
feeling powerful enough to impose itself upon, all Spanish-America, and
there create the unmistakable characteristics of all that is called
"creole music."
--"Bimbolo!"
--"Zimabolo!"
--"Bimbolo!"
--"Zimabolo!"
--"Et zimbolo!"
--"Et bolo-po!"
--sing the Devil and his chorus. His chant is cavernous, abysmal,--booms
from his chest like the sound of a drum beaten in the bottom of a
well.... _Ti maillelà, baill moin lavoix!_ ("Give me voice, little
folk,--give me voice!") And all chant after him, in a chanting like the
rushing of many waters, and with triple clapping of hands:--"_Ti
marmaille-là, baill moin lavoix!_"... Then he halts before a dwelling
in the Rue Peysette, and thunders:--
--"_Eh! Marie-sans-dent!--mi! diabe-là derhò!_"
That is evidently a piece of spite-work: there is somebody living there
against whom he has a grudge.... "Hey! Marie-without-teeth! look! the
Devil is outside!" And the chorus catch the clue.
DEVIL.--"_Eh! Marie-sans-dent!_"...