XI.
WHILE Cyrillia is busy with her canari, she talks to herself or
sings. She has a low rich voice,—sings strange things, things
that have been forgotten by this generation,—creole songs of the
old days, having a weird rhythm and fractions of tones that are
surely African. But more generally she talks to herself, as all
the Martiniquaises do: it is a continual murmur as of a stream.
At first I used to think she was talking to somebody else, and
would call out:—
—"Épi quiless moune ça ou ka pàlé-à?"
But she would always answer:—"Moin ka pàlé anni có moin" (I am
only talking to my own body), which is the creole expression for
talking to oneself.
—"And what are you talking so much to your own body about,
Cyrillia?"
—"I am talking about my own little affairs" (ti zaffai-moin). …
That is all that I could ever draw from her.
But when not working, she will sit for hours looking out of the
window. In this she resembles the kitten: both seem to find the
same silent pleasure in watching the street, or the green heights
that rise above its roofs,—the Morne d'Orange. Occasionally at
such times she will break the silence in the strangest way, if she
thinks I am not too busy with my papers to answer a question:—
—"Missié?"—timidly.
—"Eh?"
—"Di moin, chè, ti manmaille dans pays ou, toutt piti, piti,—ess
ça pàlé Anglais?" (Do the little children in my country—the
very, very little children—talk English?)
—"Why, certainly, Cyrillia."
—"Toutt piti, piti?"—with growing surprise.
—"Why, of course!"
—"C'est drôle, ça" (It is queer, that!) She cannot understand it.
—"And the little manmaille in Martinique, Cyrillia—toutt
piti,piti,—don't they talk creole?"
—"'Oui; mais toutt moune ka pâlé nègue: ça facile." (Yes; but
anybody can talk negro—that is easy to learn.)
