PORT-AU-PRINCE, HAÏTI
I.
From the rising of the sun to its sudden drop into the sea, this has
been a funny day in Haïti, our first land-fall. All night we had been
threading through the dangerous shoals and past the lower islands of the
Bahama group, until at last we turned into that great thoroughfare, the
Windward Passage between Cuba and Haïti, and finally were at rest in the
harbour of Port-au-Prince. Knowing that we were to make port this
morning, I was awakened very early by the delightsome expectation of the
sight of a green earth; and long before Little Blue Ribbons and Sister
had stirred with the spirit of a new day, I had scurried through the
corridor to my delicious salt tub. The ship lay very still. It but just
felt the finger-tips of the ocean's caress. A sweet, warm, gentle,
alluring air filtered in through the open port-hole and permeated my
body with the delicious intoxication of summer. I threw myself into the
bath with every pore a-quiver for its cool refreshment, and as the briny
water spread its arms about me, I looked out upon the sea, where my
first tropical sunrise burst upon me. It was such a businesslike
performance that I laughed right in old Sol's face, and splattered water
at him through the port-hole; it served him right for being so
abominably prosaic. Five minutes before his appearance, there was not
the slightest indication in the sky that anything was about to happen,
no fireworks, no signals, no red lights, nothing but the dull blue sky
of early morning. When, all at once, a bright red tip peeps over the
water, and in three minutes the big, round ball is on hand, ready for
business, whereupon he blazes away _fortissimo_ from the start. It was
rude and ill-mannered of him to intrude upon my bath, but it seemed to
be his way with the ladies, so I fled to find Sister and Wee One in
wildest joy, on their knees in bed crowding their pretty heads together
for a peep at the wonderful land about them. The ship had swung to her
anchor, and lay bow-on to Port-au-Prince, while to starboard was a range
of lofty mountains which clambered and struggled and budded and
blossomed into the white sky of morning.
The sudden call of Summer, the eternal loveliness of warmth, the
expansion of the soul from out the chill of ice and snow, into the bliss
of laughing seas and delicious sunlight; the sight of green, graceful
palms bending their stately heads to the summons of the morning, the
merry wavelets frolicking, splashing, laughing, calling to
us,--Summer--Summer--Summer--was all so intoxicating that, had the
choice been possible, who knows but we would have bartered our very
souls, with but little hesitancy, for a lifetime of such sensation!
There was something akin to emancipation in the pile of airy frocks
which lay waiting for Sister and Little Blue Ribbons, and if our fingers
hadn't been all thumbs, and if we hadn't been on our knees half the time
in the berth, peering out from the port-hole, we could have donned the
summer glories a full hour sooner, and might have been on deck in the
open with all the sweets of the early tropical morning about us. But,
what could one do but look and marvel, when the sea about us was
swarming with tiny boats, laden with treasures of the deep and of the
forest? What would you do, now, tell me, if, after long dreaming of the
Islands of the Blest, you suddenly awakened to find them really true,
and your own dear self in the midst of them? Why bless your heart! You
would have looked, and laughed, and wondered, just as we did, and have
been for ever dressing, too.
[Illustration: THE LANDING-PLACE Port-au-Prince, Haïti]
Long, long ago, when I was a "Little Sister," my boon companion had a
parrot given her, and one day it screamed horribly and bit me, and ever
after I held a vengeful spirit for the whole parrot family. But that
morning at Haïti--ah! that first soft morning, when the jabbering black
Haïtiens came to us with corals and parrots and strange, freaky fruits,
a fierce fancy possessed me to buy a parrot. Of course, the morning was
to blame for it. I was really not a free agent. It was a delusion that,
somehow, if I bought the parrot, the summer would be thrown in with
it. But dear, sensible Sister, my judge and jury and supreme court on
all occasions, thought it a foolish idea, so we didn't nod "yes" through
the port-hole; we only shook our heads and laughed. But the parrot man
didn't have time to answer back, for, before he knew it, a newcomer
bumped into the bow of his skiff and made him very angry; so he gave way
in short order, for the late arrival didn't carry any parrots or coral,
or anything to sell; it carried a very tall, black man, who stood
immovably in the centre of the craft. "Oh! Come, Sister, I know it's the
President, it must be!" He wore a tall silk hat, with an ancient
straight brim, and a black frock coat and a terribly solemn expression.
But we were mistaken after all; it was only the health officer. We were
sure one of those rollicking waves would spill him over, but, alas, the
shiny old stovepipe rose and fell with the precision of a clock and
nothing happened, and we were so disappointed! Then it disappeared up
the ladder, and we buttoned up a bit more and were dressed at last.
II.
Port-au-Prince is as daintily hidden away in the folds of the mountains,
as a lace handkerchief in the chatelaine of a beautiful woman. There
seemed to be nothing left undone by Nature to make it, in point of
location, a chosen spot, hidden from the curious world: a realm of bliss
for lovers to abide in. Port-au-Prince was once called the "Paris of the
West Indies;" that is, when the French were its masters and the blacks
their slaves. It is not so now, for when the blacks revolted and drove
their masters from the land, the death-knell of civilisation was
sounded. It is the capital of the Black Republic of Haïti, the paradise
of the negro, where to be black is the envied distinction; where the
white man can scarcely hold property without confiscation in some form;
where the negro is the high-cockalorum. Yes, it was called Paris, but
that was long, long ago. Poor little town! It is now the forlornest,
dirtiest little rag-a-muffin in the whole world, still trying to strut a
bit, but in truth a ridiculous caricature of civilisation.
[Illustration:
Copyright, 1901, by Detroit Photographic Co.
WAITING FOR CUSTOMERS Port-au-Prince, Haïti]
As we approached land, the character of the place was indicated by
the boats lying at anchor, and by those which clung, like a forlorn
hope, to the rickety old piers along shore. They were the most
dilapidated, nondescript lot of craft I have ever seen.
The "fort" at the harbour entrance was in a state of collapse, and about
big enough to shelter a basket of babies. The Haïtien "man-of-war"
anchored near the shore was an absurd old iron gunboat with rusty stacks
and dishevelled rigging, painted in many colours and temporarily
incapacitated because of leaky boilers and broken engines. The rest of
the "Haïtien Navy," _i. e._, another old rusty gunboat, was lying
neglected and half sunken near by. The pier where we landed was so
shattered by time and water that I had to pick my way very carefully in
order to keep from falling through. On shore, we were at once surrounded
by a mob of jabbering Haïtiens, speaking--well, it's hard to say just
what. It started out French and ended in an incomprehensible jargon,
intelligible only to the delicate Haïtien ear. As we picked our way
along the tumble-down pier, between piles of coral which had been
recently removed from the shoal water near shore (in order that small
boats could land at the piers), the tatterdemalion Haïtiens escorted us
to the city, under a tumble-down archway, into tumble-down
Port-au-Prince, to find waiting for us at the other side of this water
gate an assortment of vehicles which I find it quite impossible to
describe. They had had an earthquake in Port-au-Prince the preceding
October, and those carriages looked as if they had passed through the
whole shocking ordeal. The horses, not as high as my shoulder, were
simply animated bones,--"articulated equine skeletons" somebody
said--harnessed with ropes and strings and old scraps of leather, to
what were once "carriages," all of antiquated patterns,--anything from a
cart to a carryall; and to the enormous Americans, who doubled up their
precious knees in order to sit inside, they seemed like the veriest
rattletraps for dolls. Off they moved, the whole wobblety procession, to
the cracking of native whips and howls of the admiring vagabonds. The
white dust blew about us, and the sun beat down upon our heads, and we
were in the Tropics indeed. I do not know whether it was the result
of seasickness, or what it was, but everything in Haïti looked crooked.
Sister said that the Mother Goose "Crooked Man" must have come from
Haïti, and I agreed with her.
[Illustration: THE "COACHES" Port-au-Prince, Haïti]
III.
We preferred to walk up into the town,--not because we were more
merciful than those who had wobbled and rattled and jiggled on before
us, but because we thought it would be a little more Haïtien than if we
drove. We might have taken the tram, but it was more fun to watch it
hitch its precarious way along after its stuffy, rusty, leaky little
"dummy" engine, down through the crooked streets, than to jerk along
with it. The only sensible thing to do was just to stand there within
the ruins of a one-time beautiful city and look about us. It was the
worst, the forlornest, the most mind-forsaken place of which you can
conceive. Earthquakes had cracked and tumbled down some of the best
buildings, fire had destroyed many others, and the remains had been left
as they had dropped, under the blistering sun, to crumble away into
dust; and thronging in and through the ruins like black ants about their
downtrodden dwelling, were swarms of rag-tag human beings whom I call
such merely because no species of "missing link" has yet been recognised
by our anthropologists.
It was an official building before which we were standing, and as we
were about to move on to a shadier spot, the guards, or the soldiers, or
whatever one might call them, approached and presented arms under the
crooked arch, and disappeared noiselessly within the inner court. This
barefooted squad, some ten strong,--negroes of all shades of
blackness,--were equipped in gorgeous red caps. Yes, they all had caps,
and muskets, every one of them; the remaining parts of the uniform,
unessential parts, were eked out with linen dusters and old rags which
happened to be lying around handy. I don't see why they should have
bothered about having the dusters, but I suppose it was traditional.
[Illustration: MAIN BUSINESS STREET OF THE CAPITAL OF THE REPUBLIC OF
HAITI
Port-au-Prince, Haïti
Copyright, 1901, by Detroit Photographic Co]
Just as we approached the main street under a blazing sun, there came
toward us two chariots, with wheels eight or ten feet high, harnessed
each to a mixture of tiny, woebegone donkeys and mules, about the size
of hairpins, going at full speed with the true negro love of display,
for the benefit of the strangers. The charioteers wore shirts and
tattered hats, and yelled like wild hyenas at the poor, astonished
mules. "Hurrah for Ben Hur!" we shouted, and the triumphant victor
rattled ahead in a cloud of dust. Then we went on to the next
performance, a Haïtien officer strutting past, bedecked with gold lace
and buttons, and great cocked hat, well plumed, and barefooted. There
was no use being serious; we couldn't be. We were in the midst of an
_opera bouffe_, with negroes playing at government, with the
happy-go-lucky African savage fully possessed of his racial
characteristics, fondly imagining himself a free and responsible man;
and it was one, long pitiful laugh for the poor black children who were
taking themselves in such dead earnest.
IV.
It was not to imitate Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith in the least that we said
we must find a white umbrella, and yet even had we wished to imitate
Mr. Smith, could we have followed in the way of a more delightsome
traveller? It was simply because we were conscious that a white
umbrella, with a soft green lining, is a necessary adjunct to life in
the tropics. It is in harmony with its environment, because it is almost
a necessity; and being such, we were not to be dissuaded from our
desire. So, with that definite intent to our steps, we started to find
the white umbrella.
Was every one else hunting for one, too, that the crowd was all going in
our direction,--surely not! No sun could ever blaze strongly enough to
penetrate those woolly tops. We go on a little farther, and then we
begin to understand from a wave of odours sweeping over us that it's to
market we're going with all the rest; and so for the time we are led
from the purpose of the morning.
The stench grows more pronounced; we become a part of a black host, with
babies, children, men, women, and donkeys crowding into the square,
where a long, low-tiled market-building and its surrounding dirty
pavement becomes the kitchen for the whole of Port-au-Prince; a place
where filthy meats and queer vegetables and strange fruits are sold,
and where all manner of curious, outlandish dishes are being concocted.
The black women crouching on the ground over little simmering pots and a
few hot coals, jabbering away at their crouching neighbours, were more
like half-human animals than possible mothers of a republic. And in
amongst the women were the babies, rolling around on bits of rags,
blissfully happy in their complete nakedness. But there was something
about those black, naked babies which seemed to dress them up without
any clothes. Does a naked negro baby ever look as bare to you as a naked
white baby?
Stopping a minute, where a louder, noisier mob of women were busy over
their morning incantations, my eye chanced to dwell for a second longer
than it should have done, on a pudgy little pickaninny, which was lying
in its mother's lap, kicking up its heels, with its fat little arms
beating the air in very much the same aimless manner that our babies do.
Seizing upon my momentary interest in the youngster, its mother caught
up the wiggling, naked thing, and with all the eloquence of a language
of signs, contrasted her naked baby with what seemed to her the regal
splendour of my white shirt-waist. For an instant I weakened and caught
at my pocketbook mechanically, but, as I did so, I glanced up just
quickly enough to see her ladyship give a laughing wink to one of her
neighbours, as much as to say: "Jest see me work 'em!"--and I caught the
wink in time to turn the solemn face into a crooning laugh, when, with
the worst French I could muster,--and that was a simple matter,--I told
the mother her baby was all right. It didn't need any clothes; I was
just wearing them because it was a sort of habit. People would be lots
more comfortable in Haïti without them. For a minute, those black,
beseeching eyes had had me fixed, but, fortunately for our further peace
of mind, I looked once too many times.
The air was thick with horrible smells and horrible sounds as well. We
became a target for begging hands, and "Damn, give me five cents," was
every second word we heard. Where the poor creatures ever learned so
much English, would be difficult to say, but it was well learned. Over
the black heads, over the little cooking breakfasts, over the endless
procession of donkeys, carrying sugar-cane and coffee and all sorts of
stuff from off somewhere we didn't know about, to the market we did know
about--there arose an arch which was even more barbaric than the naked
babies and their half-naked mothers. It was just the thing for the
market--it fitted in with the smells; it was something incredibly
hideous and archaic. It was not French, it was purely an African
creation, made of wood, in strange ungraceful points and ornamented with
outlandish coloured figures; and yet it was an arch, and we ought to
forgive the rest.
But the white umbrella! were we never to begin our search? We left the
market and took the shady side of the street. But, being a party of
four, we all wanted to do different things, yet, being a very congenial
party of four, we went from one side of the street to the other, as one
or the other happened to catch sight of something novel; thus, back and
forth, zigzag, we made for the white umbrella.
Laddie, in far-off America, had been promised stamps; in fact he had
been promised almost the limit of his imaginary wants, if he would only
stay with Grandmamma by the sea, and not mind while we were off for the
Islands; so it was not only a white umbrella which kept us moving on up
the sunny streets, but Laddie and his stamps. Thus the post-office
stepped in where the white umbrella should have been ladies' choice.
A nondescript following conducted us to the post-office, where we met a
very different type of man. The officials spoke such beautiful French
that we became at once hopelessly lost in our idioms. When the Creole
postmaster discovered our self-appointed escort of ragamuffins crowding
the entrance to the office, his black eyes flashed for a second, and
some terrible things must have been said to the crowd, which we did not
understand, for the office was emptied in short order. Here, we thought,
was the true Haïtien; the market-people were the refuse.
[Illustration: A PUBLIC FOUNTAIN
Port-au-Prince, Haïti]
Another zigzag, and we stopped in at a _pharmacie_ to ask about the
white umbrella. We were met by another Haïtien, a courteous, delightful
gentleman, the chemist of Port-au-Prince, a man of rare charm and
courtly manner. He gave Little Blue Ribbons and Sister some pretty
trinkets as souvenirs, at the same time pointing the way to a shop
very near, where without fail we could find--you know! Ah! But between
that shop and us there was--well, what to call it I find it hard to say,
for it certainly wasn't a soda-water fountain, or an ice-cream haven,
but into it we went, all of us, and we sat down, while Daddy ordered
wonderful things for us to drink, and we had real ice, too; and in my
glass there was more than the limes and sugar and ice, which Sister was
sipping. There was certainly something more than mere lime-juice in my
glass, for I didn't care, after taking one taste, nearly so much about
the umbrella as I did before, and Daddy was so relieved. We sat there
very contentedly for quite awhile, but the little girls grew restless
and said we must go on to something else, so gathering up the fragments
of our Northern energy, we were out in the street again.
A sleepy, honest little donkey, loaded with baskets of very diminutive
bananas, came our way. With malice aforethought, we made a raid to the
extent of three pennies' worth. The keeper sold reluctantly, for he said
we would surely die, if we ate bananas and walked in the sun. So we
walked in the sun and ate bananas, and didn't die; no, indeed not. We
lived to be very thankful for those bananas, as you shall hear later.
And then we went on past the guard-house, where the slumbering army
dozed by their stacks of rusty muskets; past unnumbered hammocks, out of
which long black legs hung in listless content; on past the sellers and
buyers of coffee who stood marking the weights of enormous sacks, swung
on huge, antiquated scales; on past the women, crouching over their
stores of pastry, fruits, sweets,--on to the shop where at last we found
the white umbrella, with a green lining, and then there was peace in the
family for awhile!
V.
I could not tell you her name, for she did not tell us, and somehow we
didn't think to ask for it. She reminded us of Guadeloupe, our Mexican
maid, who had carried Laddie in the soft folds of her _rebozo_ so many
sweet days through the paradisiacal gardens of old Córdova. Shall I ever
forget the music of her voice, when, with Laddie snuggled closely to
her, she would stand in the early evening (amidst the flowers and the
rich, ripe fruits which seemed to be waiting for her touch), and say, in
a voice like a soft lute: "_Mira la luna, Guillermo!_" And his big,
brown eyes would turn from the face of the gentle Guadeloupe to where
her hand pointed to the high, sailing moon, throwing its silvery kisses
upon the willing earth below. The Creole and the Mexican were
affinities, although with seas between them. One was Guadeloupe, the
other--what shall we call her; Florentine? Proserpine? What mattered a
name! We were content.
We had been strolling along away from the shops, out to where the
tramway came to an abrupt end; out to where the level country took to
its heels up the hillsides and went scampering off into the deep green
mountains. Out beyond the President's palace, whose one-time glories
were not yet quite effaced by the sad fortunes of Haïti, to where a row
of houses, evidently homes of the Haïtien "Four Hundred," hidden away
behind high French gateways and walls, were dropped from the glare of
the white sun under glistening leaves of heavy foliage. Deep red, red
flowers high in the tops of the trees hung like drops of blood over the
crumbling, broken fountains. A sad little marble Cupid, with his bow and
quiver gone, was still pirouetting in stony glee over a stained and
dried-up basin. The gateway--her gateway--a wonder in chiselled stone
and blossoming work of iron, was all but hidden by a mass of heavy,
tangled vines. The white umbrella paused; we stood enchanted before the
outspreading garden, and, while there, she of the wondrous face came
down the steps of the mansion and out into the garden toward us. Down
the path she came with a swift and graceful movement, not walking but
gliding; her garments fell from her in loose, sweeping lines of grace.
As she approached us, a delicate pink flush spread over her olive face,
while with an exquisite charm,--in most perfect French,--she invited us
in to the cool seclusion of her veranda. She was the colour of a
hazel-nut. Her hair hung in two long, glorious braids, and it was just
half-inclined to wave in sweet caresses about her oval face. Her eyes
were of a radiant brilliancy, and, as she spoke, the light from them
broke full upon us like something sudden and unlooked-for. She was
straight as a cypress, and her head was set with the poise of a young
palm-tree.
Her family came out to meet us,--the brothers and sisters,--they were
all very much at ease, but none of them had the charm of our hostess.
Our conversation amounted to very little; it was one of the times when
words seemed a bit out of place, particularly so with the sudden demand
upon our slumbering French verbs. But she was forgiving, and we were
appreciative, and the time passed delightfully.
In the corner of her garden, there was a little out-of-door school,
whither she led us to hear verses and songs by the solemn-eyed Haïtien
_noblesse_, and we listened, as it were, to the remnant of a once
brilliant people in its last feeble efforts to resuscitate the memories
of courtly ancestors. It did not seem credible that there could exist
any relation between these intelligent children, this brilliant young
goddess, and the half-human beings crouching over their sizzling pots in
the market-place.
VI.
This is the way it read:
"HOTEL-CASINO BELLEVUE
Champ de Mars--Port-au-Prince.
DIRIGÉ PAR FRÄULEIN J. STEIN, DE BERLIN
Chambres garnies, avec ou sans pension.
Bassin-douche--Jardin d'agrèment.
Table d'Hôte de 8 à 9 hs--de 1 à 2 hs--de 6 à 7 hs.
Salon de Lecture--Billard--Piano, etc.
Journaux français, allemands, americaines et anglais.
Cette établissement jadis si bien connu, somptueusement remis à
neuf, se recommande aux voyageurs et aux residents par le confort
d'un hôtel de 1er ordre et par les divertissements que sa situation
et ses dépendances offrent au public."
You know there are some things in this world of uncertainties of which
one is sure. One is sure of certain things without ever having seen
them--something like the pyramids; one takes them for granted. Just how
it came about that we took the "Hotel-Casino Bellevue" for granted it
would be difficult to say, but we did. It was the one established fact
about Port-au-Prince. It had been passed from one to another before we
made port that the "Hotel Bellevue" was the _summum bonum_ of Haïti.
Thither, never doubting, we faced about at high noon, following the
small brother of our lustrous Creole beauty, and we found it, the Hotel
Bellevue, as did others.
Little Blue Ribbons, Sister, and I were placed--dumped into--three
waiting chairs on the white veranda. And then Daddy disappeared, with
others, all with the same air of confidence, to order dinner--it was to
be dinner, you know, for did not the card say: "_Table d'Hôte de 1 à 2
hs?_"--of course it did. And we all had those little cards and they were
all alike. They were our souvenirs.
Why the Hotel Bellevue hadn't any shade-trees in front; why it was so
glaringly hot and dusty and brazen-faced, we didn't see. Oh, yes! It was
on account of the "Bellevue"--out to the ocean! "_Dirigé par Fräulein
Stein_;" that was it. She didn't like trees; she wanted the "Bellevue."
She had chopped down the trees--we knew she had. "_Dirigé par Fräulein
Stein_"--we didn't care for Fräulein Stein at all.
Some one on the other side of the veranda drops down an awning, and we
drop the awning on our side. Blue Ribbons takes off her hat, and Sister
wonders what keeps Daddy so long. I think of Fräulein Stein. She's in
there, of course; that's why he's so long. That's why all the other men
stay so. She is another Circe.
Here he comes. He looks mildly happy.
"It's ordered. I ordered it in German first, then French, and then
Fräulein Stein,"--but there he hesitated.
"Yes, it's Fräulein Stein, of course," I reply. "What did she have to
say?"
"No, it wasn't Fräulein Stein at all," he answers, "it was Fräulein
Stein's manager; he's a Norwegian, so of course he speaks English
fluently."
"What did you order?" Sister asks. Then Daddy looked a bit sad.
"I couldn't order just what I thought you'd like of course, because they
didn't have it, but I did the best I could. Let me see--I think the
first was sardines. I thought after the bananas you'd need a kind of
appetiser, so I ordered sardines first, and some other stuff,--and
turkey."
"Turkey? Oh, Daddy, this is not Thanksgiving Day!"
"No, it's not Thanksgiving, but there was something said about turkey,
and I thought we might as well have what the others ordered."
We didn't think we cared much for turkey, but we weren't hungry enough
to argue, so we let the bill of fare go at that, and started out to
investigate the premises. Ever since we had been at the Hotel Bellevue,
we were unconsciously aware of curious droning sounds. We scarcely
noticed them at first, for they were not aggressive,--they were merely
persistent, like the sleepy humming of insects. They fitted in with the
white light and the hot stillness of noonday. But, after waiting for
Daddy, and thinking about Fräulein Stein, the sounds became more
distinct; they grew more insistent. The people on the other side of the
veranda quieted down, and there wasn't so much chattering as there had
been when we first arrived at the Hotel Bellevue. No, it was much
quieter. As the voices ceased with the spreading of the scorching
noonday light on the dry walks and the denuded garden,--its few, stiff
little lonesome shrubs gasping for water,--the sounds grew to a positive
delirium.
We stole out into the "_jardin d'agrément_." If I could only glorify
that back yard I would,--indeed, from my heart I would! But "_es hat
nicht sollen sein_!" It was not La Bellevue there! Oh, no! It was not!
There was a little gutter running through the yard, and there was some
slimy liquid in the gutter which might once have been water. But the
ducks didn't mind; they waddled around in the puddles just the same. By
the cook-house, a Witch of Endor was browning some coffee over an open
fire. Out of respect to the cook, I say she was browning the coffee. She
was indeed browning the coffee with a vengeance; she was burning it
black--fairly to cinders. Around with the ducks was _the_ turkey. He was
the master of that back yard, but alas! he was having his last fling! He
did not know it, nor did we; we knew soon after.
[Illustration: Copyright, 1901, by Detroit Photographic Co.
A WEST INDIAN AFRICA
Port-au-Prince, Haïti]
But what right had we to be in the back yard of the Hotel Bellevue? If
we didn't find the gutter agreeable to our over-refined sensibilities
why not go where it was "Belle"? But there were those sounds and we were
keen on the trail. We should not be thwarted by a flock of waddling
ducks. It was evidently from a neighbour's the sound came, so, picking
our steps carefully over a heap of rubbish and broken bottles and
discarded ducks' feet and hens' feathers, we peeped through a crack in
the high board fence and saw in the neighbouring yard one portion of a
family party; another crack revealed more, and, putting them together,
we counted some eight or ten very serious people sitting around a large
oval table, singing a curious chant,--if one dare call it such,--some of
them; the others were shaking curious little gourd rattles in time with
the monotonous recitative. The "Witch of Endor" tells us that the
neighbours are celebrating the birth of twins. Deliver us from triplets!
How far are we from the voodoo and all the savagery of Africa?
There was a glory in that hotel back yard after all. But, to tell the
truth, we didn't discover it until some one behind us, black and
half-naked, made a murderous assault upon the turkey. He, the turkey,
screaming awful protest, flew into the merciful arms of a
breadfruit-tree which hung its great leaves in a sadly apologetic
manner over the scene of coffee-burning and waddling ducks. To stand
under a breadfruit-tree which was doing its noblest to forget its
environment--well, one ought to forgive much, and we did, until we
learned that even the breadfruit wasn't ready done--it had to be cooked.
At last the cloth was laid and the table set, and Little Blue Ribbons
unfolded her napkin, and we all did the same, for Little Blue Ribbons
seldom makes a mistake. She is a proper child, and had hitherto fed on
proper meat. Then we chatted and sat there,--and sat there and chatted.
Presently, when we had talked it all over,--the market and the Creole
beauty, and everything else,--we stopped talking and just sat there
thinking. Sister had some bananas left, and she graciously suggested
that fruit before dinner was in good form, so we each took a banana and
sat longer.
There was nor sight nor sound of Fräulein Stein, nor of any one
belonging to the Stein family. We and our fellow travellers were the
silent occupants of the high-ceilinged dining-room. Noon had long since
gone with the morning,--one o'clock, and still no signs of life.
One-thirty,--from out the silent courtyard, after an hour and a half
waiting; from out the back kitchen, near the duck puddle and the
breadfruit-tree, there appeared a negro in solemn state. He had been
dressing. I suppose he was the one we had been waiting for. He wore an
ancient long-tailed coat with brass buttons, a white waistcoat, and very
clean trousers--and shoes, too--and a flower in his buttonhole, and he
carried in his hand,--yes, dear ones, he carried in his hand (only in
one hand, for the other one was needed for purpose of state)--he carried
in his hand one small plate of sardines, our appetisers, which had been
neatly arranged in two tiny rows of six each. A menial of lower order
followed with the bread, enough for one hungry man, and it fell to the
first and nearest table. We were hopelessly distant from the sardines
and the bread. The solemn head waiter avoided us. We thought we must
have offended him. The sardines continued to pass us. Soon a dish of
smoking yams was carried on beyond. We knew then that his Majesty had us
in disfavour. The "spirit of '76" arose; we would have sardines or
perish. We raided the serving-room. Sister captured a whole box of
sardines and I a loaf of bread. We waylaid a boy with coffee, took the
pot, hunted up sugar, ran into a black woman, who was handing in a few
boiled yams, seized all she had and sat down to the finest meal ever
spread: yams, sardines, bread, and black coffee. At two-thirty, a faint
odour of turkey hovered over the dining-room, but we didn't care for
turkey; we had said so from the first, and besides, we had known that
turkey in his glory. Sardines we had not despised, and we had sardines.
And then the bananas helped out, and so did the bread and the bitter
coffee. I would not have had the dinner other than it was--no, not for
all the waiting; it was all so in keeping with the whole crazy country.
Fräulein Stein never appeared. I do not think there was a Fräulein
Stein, or ever had been. She was just made up, along with the "_table
d'hôte_" and the "_chambres garnies_" and the "_douche_" and the
"_jardin d'agrément_." But in a feminine way we laid it up against
Fräulein Stein,--that meal and the trees,--and we always shall. For
who else do you think could have cut down the trees?
[Illustration: COURTYARD OF THE AMERICAN LEGATION
Haïti]
There seemed to be a sort of stupefaction over the whole establishment.
I know the poor creatures did the very best they knew how, but they
didn't know how,--that was the trouble. It didn't occur to them to cook
a lot of yams at one time; they cooked enough for one or two, and when
those were ready, they cooked some more for somebody else. You can
imagine the length of time required for such a meal. But then there's
nothing much else to do in Haïti, and why not be willing to wait for
dinner?
Out of respect to the courtly "_pharmacien_" and to our lovely
Proserpine, there's not to be one word more about the "Hotel Bellevue,"
and not a word more about anything else in poor little Port-au-Prince;
but I could not help wishing that some day dear old Uncle Sam would come
along and give Haïti a good cleaning up, and whip them into line for a
time at least; but Heaven deliver us from ever trying to assimilate or
govern such a degenerate and heterogeneous people. Alas, for that ideal
Black Republic, where every negro was to show himself a man and a
brother!
As we were leaving for ship, the Haïtien daily paper was issued--a
curious little two-page sheet, some eighteen inches square, printed in
French, _Le Soir_--and in it appeared this pitiful paragraph, which
seemed in a way to be the hopeless lament of Haïti's remnant for the sad
condition of things in this beautiful island:
"The Americans who arrived this morning are visiting our city. But what
will they see here to admire? Where are our monuments, our squares, our
well-watered streets? We blush with shame! They can carry back with them
only bad impressions; there is nothing to please or charm them, except
our sunny sky, our starry nights, and the exuberance of nature."
Is it possible that the writer of those lines had forgotten the Lady
Proserpine?
[Illustration: A MILL FOR SAWING MAHOGANY
Haïti]