XII.
… SUNDOWN approaches: the light has turned a rich yellow;—
long black shapes lie across the curving road, shadows of
balisier and palm, shadows of tamarind and Indian-reed, shadows
of ceiba and giant-fern. And the porteuses are coming down
through the lights and darknesses of the way from far Grande
Anse, to halt a moment in this little village. They are going to
sit down on the road-side here, before the house of the baker;
and there is his great black workman, Jean-Marie, looking for
them from the door-way, waiting to relieve them of their
loads. … Jean-Marie is the strongest man in all the Champ-Flore:
see what a torso,—as he stands there naked to the
waist! … His day's work is done; but he likes to wait for the
girls, though he is old now, and has sons as tall as himself. It
is a habit: some say that he had a daughter once,—a porteuse
like those coming, and used to wait for her thus at that very
door-way until one evening that she failed to appear, and never
returned till he carried her home in his arms dead,—stricken by
a serpent in some mountain path where there was none to aid. …
The roads were not as good then as now.
… Here they come, the girls—yellow, red, black. See the
flash of the yellow feet where they touch the light! And what
impossible tint the red limbs take in the changing glow! …
Finotte, Pauline, Médelle,-all together, as usual,—with Ti-Clê
trotting behind, very tired. … Never mind, Ti-Clê!—you
will outwalk your cousins when you are a few years older,—pretty
Ti-Clê. … Here come Cyrillia and Zabette, and Fêfê and Dodotte
and Fevriette. And behind them are coming the two chabines,—
golden girls: the twin-sisters who sell silks and threads and
foulards; always together, always wearing robes and kerchiefs of
similar color,—so
that you can never tell which is Lorrainie
and which Édoualise.
And all smile to see Jean-Marie waiting for them, and to hear his
deep kind voice calling, "Coument ou yé, chè? coument ou kallé?
… (How art thou, dear?—how goes it with thee?)
And they mostly make answer, "Toutt douce, chè,—et ou?" (All
sweetly, dear,—and thou?) But some, over-weary, cry to him,
"Ah! déchâgé moin vite, chè! moin lasse, lasse!" (Unload me
quickly, dear; for I am very, very weary.) Then he takes off
their burdens, and fetches bread for them, and says foolish
little things to make them laugh. And they are pleased, and
laugh, just like children, as they sit right down on the road
there to munch their dry bread.
… So often have I watched that scene! … Let me but close my
eyes one moment, and it will come back to me,—through all the
thousand miles,—over the graves of the days. …
Again I see the mountain road in the yellow glow, banded with
umbrages of palm. Again I watch the light feet coming,—now in
shadow, now in sun,—soundlessly as falling leaves. Still I can
hear the voices crying, "Ah! déchâgé moin
vite, chè! moin lasse!"—and see the mighty
arms outreach to take the burdens away.
… Only, there is a change',—I know not what! … All vapory
the road is, and the fronds, and the comely coming feet of the
bearers, and even this light of sunset,—sunset that is ever
larger and nearer to us than dawn, even as death than birth. And
the weird way appeareth a way whose dust is the dust of
generations;—and the Shape that waits is never Jean-Marie, but
one darker; and stronger;—and these are surely voices of tired
souls. I who cry to Thee, thou dear black Giver of the perpetual
rest, "Ah! déchâgé moin vite, chè! moin lasse!"
