MARTINIQUE—ST. PIERRE—MUSCULAR FEMALES—FEVER—GRANDE
RUE—TAMARIND AVENUE—SAVANNA—SKETCHING FROM NATURE—BOTANICAL
GARDENS—MOUNTAIN CABBAGE PALM—THE GREAT TROPICAL
FALLACY—WATERFALL—THE LAKE—MUSEUM—A FORSAKEN GARDEN—TO MORNE
ROUGE—COUNTRY LIFE—THE CALVARY.
“Here the pilgrim may behold
How the bended cocoa waves
When at eve and morn a breeze
Blows to and from the Carib seas,
How the lush banana leaves
From their braided trunk unfold;
How the mango wears its gold,
And the sceptred aloe’s bloom
Glorifies it for the tomb.”
The above lines, appropriate enough for any West India isle, yet for me
associate themselves with Martinique more than with any other. It may be
because I lingered long enough to know that island better than the rest,
or it may be because the remembrance of a certain ride across the rich
country—a ride ever memorable as the most beautiful I had ever enjoyed,
and which must be described later on—abides with me as a practical lesson
in botany by nature herself.
It was late in the afternoon when we anchored off St. Pierre—the chief
town in Martinique. The character of the island had not seemed quite
so broken and romantic as Dominica, there was more low table-land and
more cultivation, but the mountain range, with its grand pitons looking
out over the clouds, gave promise to the expectant imagination of many
beautiful scenes.
From the roadstead, we saw in front of us houses thickly massed together
and extending round the bay. Close behind the town, on the eastern
side, rose a precipitous hill, crowned with waving sugar-cane, and its
deep-wooded side dotted with white villas. Towards the north, a broad
ravine, through which a river ran, divided the town into two parts,
and beyond rose the soft uplands, green with cane, and stretching to
the delicately coloured hills which reached the high mountains in the
background. On our right, the coast line was varied with rock, hill, and
valley, and on one summit a large white statue stood out conspicuously
against the green foliage; on our left, the palm-fringed shore, with here
a solitary house, and there a little white village, ran northwards in a
gently undulating line.
On landing at St. Pierre the traveller finds himself the object of a
popular demonstration; he is assailed by a swarm of stalwart women, some
of whom dispossess him of his book, umbrella, or whatever he may be
carrying, whilst others, after a short fight among themselves, seize on
the luggage, toss great portmanteaus and boxes on to their heads with
the greatest of ease, and amid shouts of laughter rush off with loud
cries, “A la douane! à la douane!” It is useless to protest that you
want to carry such and such a thing yourself, you may recapture it for
a second, but it is lost again; everything goes aloft on female heads
and shoulders, and to avoid a similar fate yourself you follow in the
wake of the flying Amazons and arrive at the Custom House. Then a strict
inspection ensues, after which the luggage is remounted and a procession
is formed to the hotel.
We—one other passenger and myself—had been advised to go to the Hôtel
des Bains, so when our porters said of course “les Messieurs” were going
to the “Hôtel Micas,” we answered of course not. Eventually we made out
from the extraordinary Creole patois, that the former hotel was closed,
and that its proprietor had opened the latter. We soon arrived there, and
it looked clean and comfortable, but the landlord was “désolé,” there
was not a single vacant room; “would the gentlemen be satisfied with a
billiard table for to-night, then to-morrow——?” This offer was declined,
and finally we found rooms in the Hôtel du Commerce, a place of very
second-rate pretensions, but with a very obliging proprietor.
The first few days of my sojourn in this “Faubourg St. Germain of the
tropics”—as the French love to call it—were certainly depressing. The
heat was great, the food very indifferent, and the rain almost incessant.
Much stress has been laid on the streams of clear, crystal water which
here run through the streets. I should call them gutters, and, after
one has seen the use to which they are put—the houses being entirely
free from what we consider the most necessary requirements—the crystal
romance is dissipated. Fortunately, owing to the slope of the streets and
the ample supply of water which is brought down through fine aqueducts
from the mountains, the flow is swift, and thus the gutters are kept
pretty clean. Otherwise, the town of St. Pierre would be unbearable,
as even now it rivals Cologne in the number of its smells. Under such
conditions, it is not surprising that the stranger feels the effects of
an “acclimatizing fever,” as they here designate it.
Morning after morning I awoke dull, listless, and tired, and with all
sorts of pains and aches in my limbs, but as the day advanced health
returned and fever was forgotten.
St. Pierre is not a cheerful town even on its sunniest days; the streets
are narrow, with side-walks of infinitesimal dimensions, the old stone
houses, with heavy outside shutters, are gloomy and comfortless,
no bright verandahs attract the eye, and the roofs are dingy with
moss-covered tiles. But the outskirts are more attractive, and the road
to the Botanical Gardens particularly so. Passing up the Grande Rue
towards the north, we see shops and stores filled with gay-coloured
foulards, straw hats, finery of all sorts, and an excess of gold
ornaments. On the left is the Batterie d’Esnoty, with a few seats under
the shady trees, and affording a fine view over the sea. Farther on,
some fine mangoes overshadow a heavy fountain, and soon our road turns
off eastward before reaching the bridges which cross the intersecting
river. We follow its left bank under a beautiful avenue of tamarinds,
whilst on our right is the Savanna or public park. And here commences
picturesque Martinique. Down below in the wide rocky ravine flows the
brawling stream, alive with dusky “blanchisseuses,” whose methodical beat
on the smooth stones with the clothes they are washing, keeps time with
their patois songs. White houses rise in tiers over the opposite bank,
their gardens filled with many bright flowers, and crowning all are
clusters of palms and ceiba groves. Across the Savanna rises the mountain
screen that shades the town; its steep side a perfect network of hanging
vines. Here and there a mango has gained a precarious footing, its dark
green dome contrasting well with the crimson blaze of a neighbouring Bois
Immortelle;[12] and these lofty trees look like out-stretched arms on
which is hung a close-textured mantle of flowering creepers. Far up, at
the head of the cultivated river-valley, rise the mountains, whose dark
gorges, veiled by almost constant mist, are arched by the most brilliant
rainbows.
In a few steps after leaving the Savanna, the Botanic Gardens are gained.
At the time of my first visit the road outside was lined with cadets
from the French training ship “Flore,” who were sketching a handsome
Traveller’s Tree—_Ravenala speciosa_—which grew near the entrance. A
crowd of little urchins hovered about them, and it was very amusing to
hear their outspoken opinions on the efforts of the different artists,
who worked away with perfect composure. Several times afterwards I met
the young scholars eagerly acquiring, under able tuition, that most
desirable accomplishment—sketching from nature.
The Botanical Gardens are delightfully situated in a wide ravine through
which a stream flows. Terraces have been cut out of the sides, and
winding walks and avenues lead to pretty scenes and charming outlooks.
Art here has done much in laying out the grounds and forming the
various rills, fountains, and waterfalls, but nature has supplied a
very beautiful site. Particularly beautiful is one avenue of “Palmistes
Royals,”[13] whose perfectly straight grey stems, ending in a light
green shaft and crowned with a leafy diadem of dark green spreading
leaves, form an aisle of living Corinthian pillars, seventy or eighty
feet in height. This magnificent species of palm reminds me of an
article which appeared in the June number of “Belgravia,” 1878, entitled
“The Great Tropical Fallacy.” In it the writer declares that “waving
sugar-cane, graceful bamboos, spreading tree ferns, magnificent palms,
&c., may be found at Kew, but not in the tropics.” He also says “a true
fern can scarcely be seen through the foul mouldering fronds that cling
around its musty stem.”
The amusing article certainly would dispel “The Great Tropical Fallacy,”
if it was true, but it can only have been written as a joke, as the
writer adds that he has “lived for years in the tropics, but never yet
beheld an alligator, an iguana, a toucan, or an antelope in their wild
state. Scorpions do not occur.” It is an undoubted fact that these
creatures—with the exception of scorpions—do not frequent the streets
of towns or villages, nor are they much addicted to highway travelling,
but had the writer ever visited “the bush,” or walked in the “country,”
I think he would have hesitated before making such a statement, that is,
supposing he has the full use of his eyesight and has lived where these
animals exist.
As regards the palm, it is true that cocoa-nut trees, especially when
blighted, are not very imposing; but there are many other splendid
species, and to depreciate the mountain cabbage-palms is to be guilty
of high treason against the princes of the forest. They are simply
wonderful. To admire them it is not necessary to be a pantheist, or one
of those to whom a forest is a cathedral, each tree a missionary, and
every flying creature a sacred spirit; one who bows down at the sight of
a daisy or buttercup, and kneels before an oak as the wild Indian does
before his ceiba. For these palms are so matchless in grace, so simple
and yet so stately, that they lend an indescribable air of dignity to any
spot where they may chance to grow.
To return to the garden. Leaving the palm avenue one comes suddenly upon
a beautiful waterfall rushing down a steep rock amidst a mass of hanging
grasses, ferns, and waving cannas. A little way below it runs into the
heart of a garden-wilderness rich with bamboos, plantains, thickets of
tangled vines, and fragrant coffee trees. Here shrubs and trees are more
cultivated than flowers, but the former with their brilliant blossoms
save the place from the monotonous effect of a too prevailing green.
Gloxinias and primulas are scattered over the sloping banks, and overhead
are interlaced the branches of various trees. The bright flowers of the
“Flamboyant,”[14] form a red canopy which vies in richness with the
large crimson blossoms of the mountain rose.[15] Here may be seen South
Sea Island bread-fruit, cinnamon from Ceylon, and sandal-wood from the
Marquesas. That tree with bunches of wax-like and pear-shaped fruit is a
Eugenia;[16] its trunk is a perfect fernery, and its branches are hung
with parasites. Next to a stilted pandanus rises a tall “poui” with
saffron flowers, and beyond are the long white trumpets of a datura.
Close at hand is the much prized persimmon of Japan, having a wood like
ebony, and a reddish-yellow fruit. The ground is everywhere strewn with
the red beads of an erythrina, and occasionally the large uneatable fruit
of a species of inga comes down with a thump, that a passer by, if hit,
would not soon forget.
Perhaps the prettiest spot in the garden is a small lake fed by a slender
fall, whose water trickles down a moss-covered rock through ferns
and drooping grasses. The three tiny islets are fringed with arums,
heliconias, and bamboos, amongst which are scattered dark glossy green
and gold-marbled crotons, purple dracœnas, and crimson hybiscus blossoms.
In the centre of each stands a “Traveller’s Tree,” like a gigantic fan,
surrounded with a few flowering shrubs and graceful plantains. But here
as elsewhere, there is an air of neglect, the shady walks are full of
weeds, the stone seats under the trees are damp and green, a broken canoe
half full of water lies on the yielding bank, the few remaining tree
labels are illegible, and, in a word, the gardens are not tended as they
deserve. Their charm seems to have vanished with their novelty, as they
are seldom visited by the inhabitants, and the funds granted for their
maintenance are insufficient.
Within the grounds there is a building which contains a small natural
history museum, and the native products form a very interesting
collection. There is also an interior nursery-garden, where some delicate
orchids and rare exotics are reared.
A primitive people these French Creoles must be, as a printed notice
strictly prohibits bathing in the small fountains in this inside garden.
Unhappily the people appear disinclined even to walk in the pleasant
grounds, and the casual visitor feels that a time may come when the few
labourers will be withdrawn and a “Forsaken Garden” realised:
“Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not;
As the heart of a dead man the seed plots are dry;
From the thicket of thorns when the nightingale calls not,
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.
Over the meadows that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song,
Only the sun and the rain come hither
All year long.”[17]
One of the pleasantest drives from St. Pierre is to Morne Rouge. The
village is situated high up in the hills, and near it and cut out of a
rocky wall is a celebrated grotto dedicated to “Our Lady of Lourdes.”
Morne Rouge is one of the localities which the negroes say is at certain
seasons visited by the celebrated Dominican Friar, Père Labat, who
arrived in Martinique in 1693. He is said to appear in the guise of a
lambent flame.
The road thither passes the Botanical Gardens, and for some distance is
lined with country houses standing in pretty grounds. It was in one of
these villas that the Empress Joséphine was born. The hedges and banks
are covered with blue flowers of the “ipomæa” and the buff-coloured
“thumbergia,” whose dark brown eye attracts the attention of numerous
humming birds.
The houses for the most part look cool, but comfortless and devoid of
privacy. The foliage of the tall trees shades them, but the bare trunks
leave an uninterrupted view into the interior. Here, one sees Madame in
a very airy costume enjoying her early coffee; there, Monsieur in his
dressing-gown lounges on a long cane chair.
Grass is conspicuous by its absence, but rich and gaudy flowers are in
abundance. Tall yuccas guard the entrance, and the lavender spikes of
the “petrœa” cluster over the verandahs. Many varieties of “dracœna” are
scattered about, their slender stems and bending blades contrasting well
with the showy hybiscus and the bright green bananas. In each garden
one sees a tall clavija, like a giant papau, and with panicles of the
fragrant white flowers beloved by Creoles. Thick stone walls surround
some of the villas, but tropical nature heeds no such barriers. Creepers
of every hue fling themselves over, then catching the hanging air-roots
scramble up to the tree-tops and mingle their blossoms with those of
their more lofty brethren. Among the numerous trees with hanging pods,
the “rosary bean”[18] is very prominent, as the curled and split pod
displays the bright red seeds within. Gradually the houses are left
behind, and the road becomes more steep and winding. The high banks are
thickly carpeted with begonias, both pink and white. From a neighbouring
hill a high waterfall—caused by a deflected stream—descends and turns the
wheel of a sugar-mill situated at its foot.
At last we reach the village of Morne Rouge. A long straggling street
with pretty cottages and gardens. From trellis-work hang great
granadillas, fruit which is only palatable when cunningly compounded with
sugar, ice, and wine. The life around is simple, but full of colour,
and picturesque. Old women spin in the doorways. Mothers, with bright
kerchiefs round their heads, watch their children playing in the road.
The children themselves, often only dressed in a plain suit of gold
earrings, have fresh, happy faces, brighter and ruddier by far than
those in the hot town below. Round the fountain are groups of girls with
water-jars poised on their heads, and in the bright sunshine each touch
of red and blue in their dress shines out clearly and effectively. From
this fountain a beautiful view is obtained seaward, but from the higher
Calvary there is a more extended landscape. The prayer-stations leading
to the chapel stand between hybiscus hedges, and are surrounded with
roses, lilies, azaleas, and palms. The little shrines contained terra
cotta representations of the Passion, but the protecting glass was broken
and the figures were defaced. Within them green lizards played at hide
and seek, and humming birds searched the flower-offerings that had been
thrust through the torn grating.
The view from the top is worth the climb. On one side a mass of
undulating hills sweeps off to the sea; through the intervening pasture
land a winding stream threads its way, and here and there a cottage is
seen half buried in clumps of palms and bamboos, and with its cane patch
or banana grove. The lofty “pitons” form the background. Below us lies
the village, and extending westward towards St. Pierre are cane-covered
hills, fertile valleys, and a broad cultivated plain, squared like a
chess-board by the dividing palm rows. Beyond rises the glittering blue
sea far into the sky, white sails catch the sunbeams, and nearer is the
dark line of anchored ships. On rare occasions—one of which favoured
me—rounded masses of fleecy clouds of intense brilliancy float over
land and sea, and pour down such a flood of light that the panorama is
illuminated. The white glare is almost painful, but the strong sea-breeze
soon drives the wandering rain-heralds back to the mountains, where they
wreathe themselves round the higher peaks and lie like snow-drifts in the
hollows between the summits. And thus the scene changes from sunshine to
shade, from rest to storm, and from light to darkness, each a life-phase
typical in itself, but not more significant than the solemn Calvary above
us in its bright frame of green trees and flowers.