Part 1 (1/2)
Two Years in the French West Indies.
by Lafcadio Hearn.
PREFACE
During a trip to the Lesser Antilles in the summer of 1887, the writer of the following pages, landing at Martinique, fell under the influence of that singular spell which the island has always exercised upon strangers, and by which it has earned its poetic name,--_Le Pays des Revenants_. Even as many another before him, he left its charmed sh.o.r.es only to know himself haunted by that irresistible regret,--unlike any other,--which is the enchantment of the land upon all who wander away from it. So he returned, intending to remain some months; but the bewitchment prevailed, and he remained two years.
Some of the literary results of that sojourn form the bulk of the present volume. Several, or portions of several, papers have been published in HARPER'S MAGAZINE; but the majority of the sketches now appear in print for the first time.
The introductory paper, ent.i.tled ”A Midsummer Trip to the Tropics,”
consists for the most part of notes taken upon a voyage of nearly three thousand miles, accomplished in less than two months. During such hasty journeying it is scarcely possible for a writer to attempt anything more serious than a mere reflection of the personal experiences undergone; and, in spite of sundry justifiable departures from simple note-making, this paper is offered only as an effort to record the visual and emotional impressions of the moment.
My thanks are due to Mr. William Lawless, British Consul at St. Pierre, for several beautiful photographs, taken by himself, which have been used in the preparation of the ill.u.s.trations.
L. H.
_Philadelphia, 1889._
A TRIP TO THE TROPICS.
PART ONE--A MIDSUMMER TRIP TO THE TROPICS.
I.
... A long, narrow, graceful steel steamer, with two masts and an orange-yellow chimney,--taking on cargo at Pier 49 East River. Through her yawning hatchways a mountainous piling up of barrels is visible below;--there is much rumbling and rattling of steam-winches, creaking of derrick-booms, groaning of pulleys as the freight is being lowered in. A breezeless July morning, and a dead heat,--87 already.
The saloon-deck gives one suggestion of past and of coming voyages.
Under the white awnings long lounge-chairs sprawl here and there,--each with an occupant, smoking in silence, or dozing with head drooping to one side. A young man, awaking as I pa.s.s to my cabin, turns upon me a pair of peculiarly luminous black eyes,--creole eyes. Evidently a West Indian....
The morning is still gray, but the sun is dissolving the haze. Gradually the gray vanishes, and a beautiful, pale, vapory blue--a spiritualized Northern blue--colors water and sky. A cannon-shot suddenly shakes the heavy air: it is our farewell to the American sh.o.r.e;--we move. Back floats the wharf, and becomes vapory with a bluish tinge. Diaphanous mists seem to have caught the sky color; and even the great red storehouses take a faint blue tint as they recede. The horizon now has a greenish glow, Everywhere else the effect is that of looking through very light-blue gla.s.ses....
We steam under the colossal span of the mighty bridge; then for a little while Liberty towers above our pa.s.sing,--seeming first to turn towards us, then to turn away from us, the solemn beauty of her pa.s.sionless face of bronze. Tints brighten;--the heaven is growing a little bluer, A breeze springs up....
Then the water takes on another hue: pale-green lights play through it, It has begun to sound, Little waves lift up their heads as though to look at us,--patting the flanks of the vessel, and whispering to one another.
Far off the surface begins to show quick white flashes here and there, and the steamer begins to swing.... We are nearing Atlantic waters, The sun is high up now, almost overhead: there are a few thin clouds in the tender-colored sky,--flossy, long-drawn-out, white things. The horizon has lost its greenish glow: it is a spectral blue. Masts, spars, rigging,--the white boats and the orange chimney,--the bright deck-lines, and the snowy rail,--cut against the colored light in almost dazzling relief. Though the sun s.h.i.+nes hot the wind is cold: its strong irregular blowing fans one into drowsiness. Also the somnolent chant of the engines--_do-do, hey! do-do, hey!_--lulls to sleep.
..Towards evening the glaucous sea-tint vanishes,--the water becomes blue. It is full of great flashes, as of seams opening and reclosing over a white surface. It spits spray in a ceaseless drizzle. Sometimes it reaches up and slaps the side of the steamer with a sound as of a great naked hand, The wind waxes boisterous. Swinging ends of cordage crack like whips. There is an immense humming that drowns speech,--a humming made up of many sounds: whining of pulleys, whistling of riggings, flapping and fluttering of canvas, roar of nettings in the wind. And this sonorous medley, ever growing louder, has rhythm,--a _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ timed by the steamer's regular swinging: like a great Voice crying out, ”Whoh-oh-oh! whoh-oh-oh!” We are nearing the life-centres of winds and currents. One can hardly walk on deck against the ever-increasing breath;--yet now the whole world is blue,--not the least cloud is visible; and the perfect transparency and voidness about us make the immense power of this invisible medium seem something ghostly and awful.... The log, at every revolution, whines exactly like a little puppy;--one can hear it through all the roar fully forty feet away.
...It is nearly sunset. Across the whole circle of the Day we have been steaming south. Now the horizon is gold green. All about the falling sun, this gold-green light takes vast expansion.... Right on the edge of the sea is a tall, gracious s.h.i.+p, sailing sunsetward. Catching the vapory fire, she seems to become a phantom,--a s.h.i.+p of gold mist: all her spars and sails are luminous, and look like things seen in dreams.
Crimsoning more and more, the sun drops to the sea. The phantom s.h.i.+p approaches him,--touches the curve of his glowing face, sails right athwart it! Oh, the spectral splendor of that vision! The whole great s.h.i.+p in full sail instantly makes an acute silhouette against the monstrous disk,--rests there in the very middle of the vermilion sun.
His face crimsons high above her top-masts,--broadens far beyond helm and bowsprit. Against this weird magnificence, her whole shape changes color: hull, masts, and sails turn black--a greenish black.
Sun and s.h.i.+p vanish together in another minute. Violet the night comes; and the rigging of the foremast cuts a cross upon the face of the moon.