XV.
March 5th.
… THE streets are so narrow in this old-fashioned quarter
that even a whisper is audible across them; and after dark I hear
a great many things,—sometimes sounds
of pain, sobbing, despairing
cries as Death makes his round,—sometimes, again, angry words,
and laughter, and even song,—always one melancholy chant: the voice
has that peculiar metallic timbre that reveals the young negress:—
"Pauv' ti Lélé,
Pauv' ti Lélé!
Li gagnin doulè, doulè, doulè,—
Li gagnin doulè
Tout-pàtout!"
I want to know who little Lélé was, and why she had pains "all over";—
for however artless and childish these creole songs seem, they are
invariably originated by some real incident. And at last somebody
tells me that "poor little Lélé" had the reputation in other years of
being the most unlucky girl in St. Pierre; whatever she tried to do
resulted only in misfortune;—when it was morning she wished it were
evening, that she might sleep and forget; but when the night came
she could not sleep for thinking of the trouble she had had during the
day, so that she wished it were morning. …
More pleasant it is to hear the chatting of Yzore's childlren across
the way, after the sun has set, and the stars come out. … Gabrielle
always wants to know what the stars are:—
—"Ça qui ka clairé conm ça, manman?" (What is it shines like
that?)
And Yzore answers:—
—"Ça, mafi,—c'est ti limiè Bon-Dié." (Those are the little lights
of the Good-God.)
—"It is so pretty,—eh, mamma? I want to count them."
—"You cannot count them, child."
—"One-two-three-four-five-six-seven." Gabrielle can only count up to
seven. "Moin peide!—I am lost, mamma!"
The moon comes up;—she cries:—"Mi! manman!—gàdé gouôs difé
qui adans ciel-à! Look at the great fire in the sky."
—"It is the Moon, child! … Don't you see St. Joseph in
it, carrying a bundle of wood ?"
—"Yes, mamma! I see him! … A great big bundle of wood!" …
But Mimi is wiser in moon-lore: she borrows half a franc from her
mother "to show to the Moon." And holding it up before the
silver light, she sings:—
"Pretty Moon, I show you my little money;—now let me always have
money so long as you shine!" *
Then the mother takes them up to bed;—and in a little while
there floats to me, through the open window, the murmur of the
children's evening prayer:—
"Ange-gardien
Veillez sur moi;
* * * *
Ayez pitié de ma faiblesse;
Couchez-vous sur mon petit lit;
Suivez-moi sans cesse." …
I can only catch a line here and there. … They do not sleep
immediately;—they continue to chat in bed. Gabrielle wants to
know what a guardian-angel is like. And I hear Mimi's voice
replying in creole:—
—"Zange-gàdien, c'est yon jeine fi, toutt bel." (The guardian-angel
is a young girl, all beautiful.)
A little while, and there is silence; and I see Yzore come out,
barefooted, upon the moonlit balcony of her little room,—looking
up and down the hushed street, looking at the sea, looking up
betimes at the high flickering of stars,—moving her lips as in
prayer. … And, standing there white-robed, with her rich dark
hair loose-falling, there is a weird grace about her that recalls
those long slim figures of guardian-angels in French religious prints. …
[_]
* "Bel laline,
moin ka montré ti pièce moin!—ba moin làgent
toutt temps ou ka clairé!" … This little invocation is
supposed to have most power when uttered on the first appearance
of the new moon.
[_]
† "Guardian-angel,
watch over me;—have pity
upon my weakness; lie down on my little bed with me: follow me
whithersoever I go." … The prayers are always said in French.
Metaphysical and theological terms cannot be rendered in the
patois; and the authors of creole catechisms have always been
obliged to borrow and explain French religious phrases in order
to make their texts comprehensible.
