I.
… MORE finely than any term in our tongue does the French word
frisson express that faint shiver—as of a ghostly touch
thrilling from hair to feet—which intense pleasure sometimes
gives, and which is felt most often and most strongly in
childhood, when the imagination is still so sensitive and so
powerful that one's whole being trembles to the vibration of a
fancy. And this electric word best expresses, I think, that long
thrill of amazed delight inspired by the first knowledge of the
tropic world,—a sensation of weirdness in beauty, like the
effect, in child-days, of fairy tales and stories of phantom
isles.
For all unreal seems the vision of it. The transfiguration of
all things by the stupendous light and the strange vapors of the
West Indian sea,—the interorbing of flood and sky in blinding
azure,—the sudden spirings of gem-tinted coast from the ocean,
—the iris-colors and astounding shapes of the hills,—the
unimaginable magnificence of palms,—the high woods veiled and
swathed in vines that blaze like emerald: all remind you in some
queer way of things half forgotten,—the fables of enchantment.
Enchantment it is indeed—but only the enchantment of that Great
Wizard, the Sun, whose power you are scarcely beginning to know.
And into the life of the tropical city you enter as in dreams
one enters into the life of a dead century. In all the quaint
streets—over whose luminous yellow façades
the beautiful burning
violet of the sky appears as if but a few feet away—you see
youth good to look upon as ripe fruit; and the speech of the
people is soft as a coo; and eyes of brown girls caress you with
a passing look. … Love's world, you may have heard, has few
restraints here, where Nature ever seems to cry out, like the
swart seller of corossoles:—"
ça qui le doudoux?" …
How often in some passing figure does one discern an ideal
almost realized, and forbear to follow it with untired gaze only
when another, another, and yet another, come to provoke the same
aesthetic fancy,—to win the same unspoken praise! How often
does one long for artist's power to fix the fleeting lines, to
catch the color, to seize the whole exotic charm of some special
type! … One finds a strange charm even in the timbre of these
voices,—these half-breed voices, always with a tendency to contralto,
and vibrant as ringing silver. What is that mysterious quality in a
voice which has power to make the pulse beat faster, even when
the singer is unseen? … do only the birds know?
… It seems to you that you could never weary of watching this
picturesque life,—of studying the costumes, brilliant with
butterfly colors,—and the statuesque semi-nudity of laboring
hundreds,—and the untaught grace of attitudes,—and the
simplicity of manners. Each day brings some new pleasure of
surprise;—even from the window of your lodging you are ever
noting something novel, something to delight the sense of oddity
or beauty. … Even in your room everything interests you,
because of its queerness or quaintness: you become fond of the
objects about you,—the great noiseless rocking-chairs that lull
to sleep;—the immense bed (lit-à-bateau) of heavy polished wood,
with its richly carven sides reaching down to the very floor;—
and its invariable companion, the little couch or sopha,
similarly shaped
but much narrower, used only for the siesta;—
and the thick red earthen vessels (
dobannes) which keep your
drinking-water cool on the hottest days, but which are always
filled thrice between sunrise and sunset with clear water from
the mountain,—
dleau toutt vivant, "all alive";—and the
verrines, tall glass vases with stems of bronze in which your
candle will burn steadily despite a draught;—and even those
funny little angels and Virgins which look at you from their
bracket in the corner, over the oil lamp you are presumed to
kindle nightly in their honor, however great a heretic you may
be. … You adopt at once, and without reservation, those creole
home habits which are the result of centuries of experience with
climate,—abstention from solid food before the middle of the
day, repose after the noon meal;—and you find each repast an
experience as curious as it is agreeable. It is not at all
difficult to accustom oneself to green pease stewed with sugar,
eggs mixed with tomatoes, salt fish stewed in milk, palmiste pith
made into salad, grated cocoa formed into rich cakes, and dishes
of titiri cooked in oil,—the minuscule fish, of which a thousand
will scarcely fill a saucer. Above all, you are astonished by
the endless variety of vegetables and fruits, of all conceivable
shapes and inconceivable flavors.
And it does not seem possible that even the simplest little
recurrences of this antiquated, gentle home-life could ever prove
wearisome by daily repetition through the months and years. The
musical greeting of the colored child, tapping at your door
before sunrise,—"Bonjou', Missié,"—as she brings your cup of
black hot coffee and slice of corossole;—the smile of the
silent brown girl who carries your meals up-stairs in a tray
poised upon her brightly coiffed head, and who stands by while
you dine, watching every chance to serve, treading quite silently with
her pretty bare feet;—the pleasant
manners of the
màchanne who
brings your fruit, the
porteuse who delivers your bread, the
blanchisseuse who washes your linen at the river,—and all the
kindly folk who circle about your existence, with their trays and
turbans, their
foulards and
douillettes, their primitive grace
and creole chatter: these can never cease to have a charm for
you. You cannot fail to be touched also by the amusing
solicitude of these good people for your health, because you are
a stranger: their advice about hours to go out and hours to stay
at home,—about roads to follow and paths to avoid on account of
snakes,—about removing your hat and coat, or drinking while
warm. … Should you fall ill, this solicitude intensifies to
devotion; you are tirelessly tended;—the good people will
exhaust their wonderful knowledge of herbs to get you well,—will
climb the mornes even at midnight, in spite of the risk of snakes
and fear of zombis, to gather strange plants by the light of a
lantern. Natural joyousness, natural kindliness, heart-felt
desire to please, childish capacity of being delighted with
trifles,—seem characteristic of all this colored population. It
is turning its best side towards you, no doubt; but the side of
the nature made visible appears none the less agreeable because
you suspect there is another which you have not seen. What
kindly inventiveness is displayed in contriving surprises for
you, or in finding some queer thing to show you,—some fantastic
plant, or grotesque fish, or singular bird! What apparent
pleasure in taking trouble to gratify,—what innocent frankness
of sympathy! … Childishly beautiful seems the readiness of this
tinted race to compassionate: you do not reflect that it is also
a savage trait, while the charm of its novelty is yet upon you.
No one is ashamed to shed tears for the death of a pet animal; any
mishap to a child creates excitement, and evokes an immediate
volunteering of services. And this compassionate sentiment is
often
extended, in a semi-poetical way, even to inanimate
objects. One June morning, I remember, a three-masted schooner
lying in the bay took fire, and had to be set adrift. An immense
crowd gathered on the wharves; and I saw many curious
manifestations of grief,—such grief, perhaps, as an infant feels
for the misfortune of a toy it imagines to possess feeling, but
not the less sincere because unreasoning. As the flames climbed
the rigging, and the masts fell, the crowd moaned as though
looking upon some human tragedy; and everywhere one could hear
such strange cries of pity as, "
Pauv' malhérè!" (poor
unfortunate), "
pauv' diabe!" … "
Toutt baggaïe-y pou allé,
casse!" (All its things-to-go-with are broken!) sobbed a girl,
with tears streaming down her cheeks. … She seemed to believe
it was alive. …
… And day by day the artlessness of this exotic humanity
touches you more;—day by day this savage, somnolent, splendid
Nature—delighting in furious color—bewitches you more.
Already the anticipated necessity of having to leave it all some
day—the far-seen pain of bidding it farewell—weighs upon you,
even in dreams.
