IV.
TAM!—tam!—tamtamtam! … The spectacle is interesting from
the Batterie d'Esnotz. High up the Rue Peysette,—up all the
precipitous streets that ascend the mornes,—a far gathering of
showy color appears: the massing of maskers in rose and blue and
sulphur-yellow attire. … Then what a degringolade begins!—
what a tumbling, leaping, cascading of color as the troupes
descend. Simultaneously from north and south, from the Mouillage
and the Fort, two immense bands enter the Grande Rue;—the great
dancing societies these,—the Sans-souci and the Intrépides.
They are rivals; they are the composers and singers of those
Carnival songs,—cruel satires most often, of which the local
meaning is unintelligible to those unacquainted with the incident
inspiring the improvisation,—of which the words are too often
coarse or obscene,—whose burdens will be caught up and re-echoed
through all the burghs of the island. Vile as may be the motive,
the satire, the malice, these chants are preserved for
generations by the singular beauty of the airs; and the victim of
a Carnival song need never hope that his failing or his wrong
will be forgotten: it will be sung of long after he is in his
grave.
… Ten minutes more, and the entire length of the street is
thronged with a shouting, shrieking, laughing, gesticulating host
of maskers. Thicker and thicker the press becomes;—the drums
are silent: all are waiting for the signal of the general dance.
Jests and practical jokes are being everywhere perpetrated; there
is a vast hubbub, made up of screams, cries, chattering,
laughter. Here and there snatches of Carnival song are being
sung:—"
Cambronne, Cambronne;" or "
Ti fenm-là doux, li doux,
li doux! " … "Sweeter than sirup the little woman is";—this
burden will be remembered when the rest of the song passes out of
fashion. Brown hands reach out from the crowd of masks, pulling
the beards and patting the faces of white spectators. … "
Moin
connaitt ou, chè!—moin connaitt ou, doudoux! ba moin ti d'mi
franc!" It is well to refuse the half-franc,—though you do not
know what these maskers might take a notion to do to-day. …
Then all the great drums suddenly boom together; all the bands
strike up; the mad medley kaleidoscopes into some sort of order;
and the immense processional dance begins. From the Mouillage to
the Fort there is but one continuous torrent of sound and color:
you are dazed by the tossing of peaked caps, the waving of hands,
and twinkling of feet;—and all this passes with a huge swing,—a
regular swaying to right and left. … It will take at least an
hour for all to pass; and it is an hour well worth passing. Band
after band whirls by; the musicians all garbed as women or as
monks in canary-colored habits;—before them the dancers are
dancing backward, with a motion as of skaters; behind them all
leap and wave hands as in pursuit. Most of the bands are playing
creole airs,—but that of the
Sans-souci strikes up the melody
of the latest French song in vogue,—
Petits amoureux aux plumes
("Little feathered lovers"
*).
Everybody now seems to
know this song by heart; you hear
children only five or six years old singing it: there are pretty
lines in it, although two out of its four stanzas are commonplace
enough, and it is certainly the air rather than the words which
accounts for its sudden popularity.
[_]
*
”Petits amoureux aux plumes,
Enfants d'un brillant séjour,
Vous ignorez l'amertume,
Vous parlez souvent d'amour; …
Vous méprisez la dorure,
Les salons, et les bijoux;
Vous chérissez la Nature,
Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!
"Voyez làbas, dans cette église,
Auprès d'un confessional,
Le prêtre, qui veut faire croire à Lise,
Qu'un baiser est un grand mal;—
Pour prouver à la mignonne
Qu'un baiser bien fait, bien doux,
N'a jamais damné personne
Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!"
[Translation.]
Little feathered lovers, cooing,
Children of the radiant air,
Sweet your speech,—the speech of wooing;
Ye have ne'er a grief to bear!
Gilded ease and jewelled fashion
Never own a charm for you;
Ye love Nature's truth with passion,
Pretty birdlings, bill and coo!
See that priest who, Lise confessing,
Wants to make the girl believe
That a kiss without a blessing
Is a fault for which to grieve!
Now to prove, to his vexation,
That no tender kiss and true
Ever caused a soul's damnation,
Pretty birdlings, bill and coo!