Two Years in the French West Indies

Part Two--Martinique Sketches:--

I. LES PORTEUSES II. LA GRANDE ANSE III. UN REVENANT IV. LA GUIABLESSE V. LA VÉRETTE VI. LES BLANCHISSEUSES VII. LA PELÉE VIII. 'TI CANOTIÉ IX. LA FILLE DE COULEUR X. BÊTE-NI-PIÉ XI. MA BONNE XII. "PA COMBINÉ, CHÈ" XIII. YÉ XIV. LYS

XV. APPENDIX:--SOME CREOLE MELODIES

ILLUSTRATIONS.

A Martinique Métisse (Frontispiece) La Place Bertin, St. Pierre, Martinique Itinerant Pastry-seller In the Cimetière du Mouillage, St. Pierre In the Jardin des Plantes, St. Pierre Cascade in the Jardin des Plantes Departure of Steamer for Fort-de-France Statue of Josephine Inner Basin, Bridgetown, Barbadoes Trafalgar Square, Bridgetown, Barbadoes Street in Georgetown, Demerara Avenue in Georgetown, Demerara Victoria Regia in the Canal at Georgetown Demerara Coolie Girl St. James Avenue, Port-of-Spain, Trinidad Coolies of Trinidad Coolie Servant Coolie Merchant Church Street, St. George, Grenada Castries, St. Lucia 'Ti Marie Fort-de-France, Martinique Capre in Working Garb A Confirmation Procession Manner of Playing the Ka A Wayside Shrine, or Chapelle Rue Victor Hugo, St. Pierre Quarter of the Fort, St. Pierre Rivière des Blanchisseuses Foot of La Pellé, behind the Quarter of the Fort Village of Morne Rouge Pellé as seen from Grande Anse Arborescent Ferns on a Mountain Road 'Ti Canot The Martinique Turban The Guadeloupe Head-dress Young Mulattress Coolie Woman in Martinique Costume Country Girl-pure Negro Race Coolie Half-breed Capresse The Old Market-place of the Fort, St. Pierre Bread-fruit Tree Basse-terre, St. Kitt's

A TRIP TO THE TROPICS.

Part One--a Midsummer Trip to the Tropics.

... A long, narrow, graceful steel steamer, with two masts and an orange-yellow chimney,--taking on cargo at Pier 49 East River. Through her yawning hatchways a mountainous piling up of barrels is visible below;--there is much rumbling and rattling of steam-winches, creaking of derrick-booms, groaning of pulleys as the freight is being lowered in. A breezeless July morning, and a dead heat,--87° already.

The saloon-deck gives one suggestion of past and of coming voyages. Under the white awnings long lounge-chairs sprawl here and there,--each with an occupant, smoking in silence, or dozing with head drooping to one side. A young man, awaking as I pass to my cabin, turns upon me a pair of peculiarly luminous black eyes,--creole eyes. Evidently a West Indian....

The morning is still gray, but the sun is dissolving the haze. Gradually the gray vanishes, and a beautiful, pale, vapory blue--a spiritualized Northern blue--colors water and sky. A cannon-shot suddenly shakes the heavy air: it is our farewell to the American shore;--we move. Back floats the wharf, and becomes vapory with a bluish tinge. Diaphanous mists seem to have caught the sky color; and even the great red storehouses take a faint blue tint as they recede. The horizon now has a greenish glow, Everywhere else the effect is that of looking through very light-blue glasses....

We steam under the colossal span of the mighty bridge; then for a little while Liberty towers above our passing,--seeming first to turn towards us, then to turn away from us, the solemn beauty of her passionless face of bronze. Tints brighten;--the heaven is growing a little bluer, A breeze springs up....

Then the water takes on another hue: pale-green lights play through it, It has begun to sound, Little waves lift up their heads as though to look at us,--patting the flanks of the vessel, and whispering to one another.

Far off the surface begins to show quick white flashes here and there, and the steamer begins to swing.... We are nearing Atlantic waters, The sun is high up now, almost overhead: there are a few thin clouds in the tender-colored sky,--flossy, long-drawn-out, white things. The horizon has lost its greenish glow: it is a spectral blue. Masts, spars, rigging,--the white boats and the orange chimney,--the bright deck-lines, and the snowy rail,--cut against the colored light in almost dazzling relief. Though the sun shines hot the wind is cold: its strong irregular blowing fans one into drowsiness. Also the somnolent chant of the engines--do-do, hey! do-do, hey!--lulls to sleep.

..Towards evening the glaucous sea-tint vanishes,--the water becomes blue. It is full of great flashes, as of seams opening and reclosing over a white surface. It spits spray in a ceaseless drizzle. Sometimes it reaches up and slaps the side of the steamer with a sound as of a great naked hand, The wind waxes boisterous. Swinging ends of cordage crack like whips. There is an immense humming that drowns speech,--a humming made up of many sounds: whining of pulleys, whistling of riggings, flapping and fluttering of canvas, roar of nettings in the wind. And this sonorous medley, ever growing louder, has rhythm,--a crescendo and diminuendo timed by the steamer's regular swinging: like a great Voice crying out, "Whoh-oh-oh! whoh-oh-oh!" We are nearing the life-centres of winds and currents. One can hardly walk on deck against the ever-increasing breath;--yet now the whole world is blue,--not the least cloud is visible; and the perfect transparency and voidness about us make the immense power of this invisible medium seem something ghostly and awful.... The log, at every revolution, whines exactly like a little puppy;--one can hear it through all the roar fully forty feet away.

...It is nearly sunset. Across the whole circle of the Day we have been steaming south. Now the horizon is gold green. All about the falling sun, this gold-green light takes vast expansion.... Right on the edge of the sea is a tall, gracious ship, sailing sunsetward. Catching the vapory fire, she seems to become a phantom,--a ship of gold mist: all her spars and sails are luminous, and look like things seen in dreams.

Crimsoning more and more, the sun drops to the sea. The phantom ship approaches him,--touches the curve of his glowing face, sails right athwart it! Oh, the spectral splendor of that vision! The whole great ship in full sail instantly makes an acute silhouette against the monstrous disk,--rests there in the very middle of the vermilion sun. His face crimsons high above her top-masts,--broadens far beyond helm and bowsprit. Against this weird magnificence, her whole shape changes color: hull, masts, and sails turn black--a greenish black.

Sun and ship vanish together in another minute. Violet the night comes; and the rigging of the foremast cuts a cross upon the face of the moon.

II.

Morning: the second day. The sea is an extraordinary blue,--looks to me something like violet ink. Close by the ship, where the foam-clouds are, it is beautifully mottled,--looks like blue marble with exquisite veinings and nebulosities.... Tepid wind, and cottony white clouds,--cirri climbing up over the edge of the sea all around. The sky is still pale blue, and the horizon is full of a whitish haze.

... A nice old French gentleman from Guadeloupe presumes to say this is not blue water--he declares it greenish (verdâtre). Because I cannot discern the green, he tells me I do not yet know what blue water is. Attendez un peu!...

... The sky-tone deepens as the sun ascends,--deepens deliciously. The warm wind proves soporific. I drop asleep with the blue light in my face,--the strong bright blue of the noonday sky. As I doze it seems to burn like a cold fire right through my eyelids. Waking up with a start, I fancy that everything is turning blue,--myself included. "Do you not call this the real tropical blue?" I cry to my French fellow-traveller. "Mon Dieu! non," he exclaims, as in astonishment at the question;--"this is not blue!"...What can be his idea of blue, I wonder!

Clots of sargasso float by,--light-yellow sea-weed. We are nearing the Sargasso-sea,--entering the path of the trade-winds. There is a long ground-swell, the steamer rocks and rolls, and the tumbling water always seems to me growing bluer; but my friend from Guadeloupe says that this color "which I call blue" is only darkness--only the shadow of prodigious depth.

Nothing now but blue sky and what I persist in calling blue sea. The clouds have melted away in the bright glow. There is no sign of life in the azure gulf above, nor in the abyss beneath--there are no wings or fins to be seen. Towards evening, under the slanting gold light, the color of the sea deepens into ultramarine; then the sun sinks down behind a bank of copper-colored cloud.

III.

Morning of the third day. Same mild, warm wind. Bright blue sky, with some very thin clouds in the horizon,--like puffs of steam. The glow of the sea-light through the open ports of my cabin makes them seem filled with thick blue glass.... It is becoming too warm for New York clothing....

Certainly the sea has become much bluer. It gives one the idea of liquefied sky: the foam might be formed of cirrus clouds compressed,--so extravagantly white it looks to-day, like snow in the sun. Nevertheless, the old gentleman from Guadeloupe still maintains this is not the true blue of the tropics

... The sky does not deepen its hue to-day: it brightens it--the blue glows as if it were taking fire throughout. Perhaps the sea may deepen its hue;--I do not believe it can take more luminous color without being set aflame.... I ask the ship's doctor whether it is really true that the West Indian waters are any bluer than these. He looks a moment at the sea, and replies, "Oh yes!" There is such a tone of surprise in his "oh" as might indicate that I had asked a very foolish question; and his look seems to express doubt whether I am quite in earnest.... I think, nevertheless, that this water is extravagantly, nonsensically blue!

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