A MEMORY OF MARTINIQUE
"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 revenus, en qui je
n'aye remarqué une grande passion d'y retourner."--LE PÈRE
DUTERTRE, _writing in 1667_.
A few insignificant little photographs are lying on the desk before me.
Some of them are blurred; some of them are out of focus. They have been
for many months packed away among bundles of other photographs of a
similar character, moved from their corner in the library amongst the
books of travel, only to be occasionally dusted by the indifferent
housemaid and packed away again out of sight.
Days come and days go, and things move on in uniform measure, and life
glides silently away from us, and one day passes much as does the day
before; and we plan and work and hope, and we build to-day upon the
assurances of yesterday and to-morrow; and, although we know that there
are times when love can be crushed out of a life, yet we base our hope
upon the eternal fixedness of love; and, although constantly face to
face with the mutability of all created things, we build upon the
eternal stability of matter. We hope by reason of an undying faith in
those we love; we build upon a belief in the immutability of the
everlasting hills; and we go on building and hoping until, with some,
there comes a day when the soul burns out, and the everlasting hills
crumble to ashes, and loving and building is no more, and there is never
loving or building again in the same way.
* * * * *
Much as we touch the sacred belongings of the beloved dead, do I now
bring forth from their lonely hiding-place the few photographs of St.
Pierre and the fascinating shores of Martinique, which we took last
winter, as we cruised through the Windward Islands.
[Illustration: ST. PIERRE AND MT. PELÉE BEFORE THE ERUPTION
Martinique
Courtesy of Professor T. A. Jaggar, of the Geological Department of
Harvard University]
Having but just read the terrible tidings from Martinique that St.
Pierre has been utterly destroyed by volcanic eruption, and the fair
island left an ash-heap, these one-time insignificant little pictures
become at once inexpressibly dear to me; and I have been sitting here
for a long, long time, looking first at one and then at another, with a
tenderness born of sorrow and love.
Say what you may of the futility of a love which clings to places, it is
nevertheless a passion so deeply rooted in some natures that neither
life nor death seem able to cause its destruction. There is no reasoning
with love; it is born to be, to exist, and why we love there is no
finding out. Strange, this wonderful loving which comes to you and me!
Not alone the love we lavish upon God's creatures; upon father, mother,
sister, brother, husband, wife, and children, and the whole world of
humankind; but upon all of God's handiwork: His trees, His flowers, His
dear brown soil, His hills, His valleys, His broad, sweeping plains, His
high, loftily crested peaks, His lonely byways, where shy birds and
soft-footed beasts hold high carnival the livelong day.
Beloved as are all of God's creatures, there are for each one of us a
few, a very few, souls without whom loving would seem to pass away.
Beautiful as is the great earth, there are chosen spots upon it for you
and for me, to which our thoughts revert with an infinite tenderness;
and were such sweet abiding-places suddenly to be blotted from the
earth, it would seem to us as though beauty had died for ever.
Such a treasure-house was St. Pierre to me. In the midst of islands,
each rivalling the other in loveliness, Martinique had a claim for
homage which none other possessed. Its charm was felt even far out to
sea, as its lofty headlands, with terrible _Pelée_ looking over, struck
a bold pace for the lesser isles to follow.
As we approached the still, deep harbour,--although the hour was late
for landing,--we were so permeated by the puissant fascination of the
place, that, against the protests of old wiseacres aboard, we
nevertheless took the first available small boat, lured into the arms of
St. Pierre by her irresistible summons.
And what was that summons? Who can tell?
[Illustration: ST. PIERRE AND MT. PELÉE AFTER THE ERUPTION
Martinique
Courtesy of Professor T. A. Jaggar, of the Geological Department of
Harvard University]
The same hand beckoned us which has for generations been beckoning other
children of men; other children who have gone there to live and die
content; the same that beckoned old Father Dutertre hundreds of years
ago. Children's children have been born there, and have grown old and
withered, and have gone the way of all the earth, and _La Pelée_, the
giantess, has slept for generations, and the children had quite
forgotten that the day might come when she would awaken. _La Pelée_ was
slumbering, oh! so gently--so peacefully, that far-away night, when we
first wondered at her beauty--and we, too, forgot! For did not her
children say that she would never waken more?
The soft, blue hills said, "Come!" The lonely peaks, beyond, said,
"Come!" And the little city waved its pretty white hand to us with
"Come!" in every motion; and the sweet-voiced creole lads, who rowed us
in, smiled, "Come!" and what could we do?
And then, when we entered the little city, it was so snug and clean, and
it was all so different, so different. How can I explain it to you?
There was, as it were, a homogeneousness about the people which was not
apparent in the other islands. Here was a people whose sires had sprung
from the best blood of France, from a race of great men and women; here
the question of colour had been more harmoniously worked out; and we
felt at once that we were amongst those whose ancestors had learned,
through the streaming blood of kings and princes, the principles of
Liberty, Equality, and Justice.
The people said, "Come!" and we answered, and long, long into the night
we were following the summons.
Then it was that _La Pelée_ was fair, and she lay so still, so still,
that the children forgot--if they ever really knew--that very beautiful
women can sometimes be very wicked--only "sometimes," for there are so
many beautiful good women.
But the children loved _La Pelée_; she was beautiful, and she took her
bath so gently, away amongst the clouds and mist of the morning.
* * * * *
As I look again in the unchanging photograph at the dark mountains and
the tiny white city, cuddled down by the sea, with its quaint
lighthouse and its old church, there rises a strange mist over my soul,
and a blur comes into my eyes, and I feel myself pressing the cold bit
of cardboard against my lips as I would the face of a beloved.
[Illustration: RUE VICTOR HUGO BEFORE THE ERUPTION
St. Pierre, Martinique
Courtesy of Professor T. A. Jaggar, of the Geological Department of
Harvard University]
It comes to me that once again there has gone from my life for eternity
that which can never return; just as the whole bright world can be
changed into darkness by the passing out of a soul we love; and we know
that, however much we long for its return, it can never come back; that
from that hour we tread the way alone. The silent spirit takes up the
light, falters a moment at the door, turning, smiles sweetly upon us,
and is gone, and we are left in a dark room. Oh! the love that we
mortals lavish in this world of ours!
There was about Martinique a sweetness, a translucent loveliness, an
unforgettableness which crept into the innermost fibre of my being. It
even seemed to creep into my blood and pulsate through my body with
every beat of my heart.
I listen now to the memories of my soul, and hear again the sweet, soft
voices of the creole girls and the quick, noiseless tread of the
carriers of water, fruits, and cacao coming down from Morne Rouge,
coming from the tender shadows which droop caressingly about the feet of
slumbering _Pelée_. And I can hear the cool trickle of the water from
the half-hidden fountain in a cranny of the wall; and I hear the rush of
the stream down from the mountainside, over stones as white as milk. And
sweet, shy flowers hang over high walls and nod to me; and from green
blinds in low, white mansions, I hear soft young voices, whispering and
laughing. A youth passes, as the blind opens, and he laughs and goes to
the other side of the street to beckon, and, oh! there it is again--the
old story.
And I go on and on, and I come to the _Rivière Roxelane_ where the women
are spreading their clothes to dry on the great rocks, and the river
tumbles along, and twists in and out with gentle murmurs, and the women
are washing and laughing.
[Illustration: RUE VICTOR HUGO AFTER THE ERUPTION
St. Pierre, Martinique
Courtesy of Professor T. A. Jaggar, of the Geological Department of
Harvard University]
And I go on to the palms, higher up, and some one brings me wild
strawberries from the cool mountains, and I sit down and pick them
from the basket and eat to my heart's delight; and I rest on the bridge,
so old, all covered with moss and flowers, and I look down into the
valley, where the city lies, and beyond where it dabbles its feet into
the blue sea. And the picture is framed in an oval of green, drooping
trees, and whispering vines, and deep-scented flowers.
* * * * *
It must have come--_the end_--just as the good priest was saying mass
down in the white church by the sea, and the creole girls had come from
the mountains with their sticks of palm--for salad--and had sold their
fruits in the market, and had gone with the fishermen to the good
priest; and the white church was crowded to the doors,--for the priest
was beloved, and the church had broad arms,--and the boys were chanting,
when--my God! where should the children escape? The fiery mountain back
of them and the deep sea before them and the air about them a sweeping
furnace!
"Children! Children!" I seem to hear the clear, ringing voice of the
old priest. "I commit your souls to God. Amen, amen."
The beautiful _Pelée_ burned out her wicked soul, the River Roxelane ran
dry, the dear, blue sky of morning was turned to hideous night, the
white city fell in blazing ruins, and now the everlasting hills lift
their scarred sides in grim desolation.
THE END.
INDEX
Andes Mountains, The, 67, 84, 137.
Aragua River, Venezuela, 145, 146.
Bank, The, Caracas, 106-111.
Blue Mountains, The, Jamaica, 197, 205.
Bolivar, 95.
Statue of, 84, 87.
Botanical Gardens, The, Martinique, 15, 20.
Botanical Gardens, The, Port of Spain, 15-34.
Ceiba-Tree, The, 16.
Coffee-Tree, The, 24.
Cabañas, Havana, 240.
Caracas, Venezuela, 64, 68, 73, 77, 79-124, 130.
Bank, The, 106-111.
Cathedral, The, 84, 87, 96-97, 103, 113, 118-120, 130.
Gran Hotel de Caracas, The, 80.
Gran Hotel de Venezuela, The, 81-84, 96, 114.
Market, The, 103, 106.
Military Band, The, 97-99.
Municipal Palace, The, 94-96.
Plaza, The, 117, 118.
Society of Caracas, The 122-124.
Square of Bolivar, The, 84, 87.
Caribbean Sea, The, 36, 151, 153, 159, 193.
Castro, Cipriano, 88-89, 96, 101, 121, 138, 152, 179.
Cathedral, The, Caracas, 84, 87, 96-97, 103, 113, 118-120, 130.
Ceiba-Tree, The, 16.
Cervera, Admiral, 180-182.
Cienfuegos, Cuba, 239.
Coffee-Tree, The, 24.
Curaçao, Island of, 139, 154, 156, 159, 176-179. _See also Willemstad._
El Caney, Cuba, 239.
Gran Hotel de Caracas, The, Caracas, 80.
Gran Hotel de Venezuela, The, Caracas, 81-84, 96, 114.
Great Venezuelan Railway, The, 139-142.
Gulf of Mexico, The, 239.
Gulf of Paria, The, 11, 64.
Havana, Cuba, 239.
Cabañas, 240.
Morro, The, 240.
Jamaica, Island of, 197, 208, 211-212.
Blue Mountains, The, 197, 205.
Kingston, 198, 205, 218, 221, 224-236.
Mandeville, 201.
Natives, The, 227-228.
Rio Cobre, 205.
Spanish Town, 211-212.
Kingston, Jamaica, 198, 205, 218, 221.
Parish Church, The, 224-236.
La Brea, Trinidad, 35, 42-59.
La Guayra, Venezuela, 64, 68, 69-72, 78, 101.
Lake of Valencia, Venezuela, 125, 145-146.
Mandeville, Jamaica, 201.
Margarita, Island of, 64.
Market, The, Caracas, 103-106.
Martinique, Island of, 248-264.
Botanical Gardens, 15, 20.
Mount Pelée, 255, 256, 263-264.
Rivière Roxelane, 260, 264.
St. Pierre, 248, 252.
Military Band, The, Caracas, 97-99.
Morro, The, Havana, 240.
Mount Pelée, Martinique, 255, 256, 263-264.
Municipal Palace, The, Caracas, 94-96.
Natives, The, of Curaçao, 160-163, 177-178;
of Jamaica, 227-228;
of Trinidad, 51, 56.
Orinoco River, The, 11, 64.
Parish Church, The, Kingston, 224-236.
Plaza, The, Caracas, 117, 118.
Port of Spain, Trinidad, 12.
Botanical Gardens, The, 15-34.
Queen's Park Hotel, The, 12-14.
Puerto Cabello, Venezuela, 78, 101, 125, 126, 129, 136, 151, 154, 156.
Queen's Park Hotel, Port of Spain, 12-14.
Rio Cobre, Jamaica, 205.
River Tuy, The, Venezuela, 144-145.
Rivière Roxelane, The, Martinique, 260, 264.
St. Pierre, Martinique, 248, 252.
San Juan Hill, Cuba, 239.
Santiago, Cuba, 239.
Society of Caracas, The, 122-124.
Southern Cross, The, 189-191, 193, 196.
Spanish Town, Jamaica, 211-212.
Square of Bolivar, The, Caracas, 84, 87.
Trinidad, Island of, 11, 16, 29.
Natives, The, 51, 56.
Valencia, Venezuela, 101, 125, 126, 136, 146.
Willemstad, Curaçao, 154, 160-184, 187.
Yucatan Channel, The, 239.