Part 9

And scarcely less rare than such sudden deaths are instances of failure to appear on time. In one case, the employer, a St. Pierre shopkeeper, on finding his marchande more than an hour late, felt so certain something very extraordinary must have happened that he sent out messengers in all directions to make inquiries. It was found that the woman had become a mother when only half-way upon her journey home.... The child lived and thrived;--she is now a pretty chocolate-colored girl of eight, who follows her mother every day from their mountain ajoupa down to the city, and back again,--bearing a little trait upon her head.

Murder for purposes of robbery is not an unknown crime in Martinique; but I am told the porteuses are never molested. And yet some of these girls carry merchandise to the value of hundreds of francs; and all carry money,--the money received for goods sold, often a considerable sum. This immunity may be partly owing to the fact that they travel dining the greater part of the year only by day,--and usually in company. A very pretty girl is seldom suffered to journey unprotected: she has either a male escort or several experienced and powerful women with her. In the cacao season--when carriers start from Grande Anse as early as two o'clock in the morning, so as to reach St. Pierre by dawn--they travel in strong companies of twenty or twenty-five, singing on the way. As a general rule the younger girls at all times go two together,--keeping step perfectly as a pair of blooded fillies; only the veterans, or women selected for special work by reason of extraordinary physical capabilities, go alone. To the latter class belong certain girls employed by the great bakeries of Fort-de-France and St. Pierre: these are veritable caryatides. They are probably the heaviest-laden of all, carrying baskets of astounding size far up into the mountains before daylight, so as to furnish country families with fresh bread at an early hour; and for this labor they receive about four dollars (twenty francs) a month and one loaf of bread per diem.... While stopping at a friend's house among the hills, some two miles from Fort-de-France, I saw the local bread-carrier halt before our porch one morning, and a finer type of the race it would be difficult for a sculptor to imagine. Six feet tall,--strength and grace united throughout her whole figure from neck to heel; with that clear black skin which is beautiful to any but ignorant or prejudiced eyes; and the smooth, pleasing, solemn features of a sphinx,--she looked to me, as she towered there in the gold light, a symbolic statue of Africa. Seeing me smoking one of those long thin Martinique cigars called _bouts_, she begged one; and, not happening to have another, I gave her the price of a bunch of twenty,--ten sous. She took it without a smile, and went her way. About an hour and a half later she came back and asked for me,--to present me with the finest and largest mango I had ever seen, a monster mango. She said she wanted to see me eat it, and sat down on the ground to look on. While eating it, I learned that she had walked a whole mile out of her way under that sky of fire, just to bring her little gift of gratitude.

IX

Forty to fifty miles a day, always under a weight of more than a hundred pounds,--for when the trait has been emptied she puts in stones for ballast;--carrying her employer's merchandise and money over the mountain ranges, beyond the peaks, across the ravines, through the tropical forest, sometimes through by-ways haunted by the fer-de-lance,--and this in summer or winter, the season of rains or the season of heat, the time of fevers or the time of hurricanes, at a franc a day!... How does she live upon it?

There are twenty sous to the franc. The girl leaves St. Pierre with her load at early morning. At the second village, Morne Rouge, she halts to buy one, two, or three biscuits at a sou apiece; and reaching Ajoupa-Bouillon later in the forenoon, she may buy another biscuit or two. Altogether she may be expected to eat five sous of biscuit or bread before reaching Grande Anse, where she probably has a meal waiting for her. This ought to cost her ten sous,--especially if there be meat in her ragoût: which represents a total expense of fifteen sous for eatables. Then there is the additional cost of the cheap liquor, which she must mix with her drinking-water, as it would be more than dangerous to swallow pure cold water in her heated condition; two or three sous more. This almost makes the franc. But such a hasty and really erroneous estimate does not include expenses of lodging and clothing;--she may sleep on the bare floor sometimes, and twenty francs a year may keep her in clothes; but she must rent the floor and pay for the clothes out of that franc. As a matter of fact she not only does all this upon her twenty sous a day, but can even economize something which will enable her, when her youth and force decline, to start in business for herself. And her economy will not seem so wonderful when I assure you that thousands of men here--huge men muscled like bulls and lions—-live upon an average expenditure of five sous a day. One sou of bread, two sous of manioc flour, one sou of dried codfish, one sou of tafia: such is their meal.

There are women carriers who earn more than a franc a day,--women with a particular talent for selling, who are paid on commission--from ten to fifteen per cent. These eventually make themselves independent in many instances;--they continue to sell and bargain in person, but hire a young girl to carry the goods.

X

... "_Ou 'lè mâchonne!_" rings out a rich alto, resonant as the tone of a gong, from behind the balisiers that shut in our garden. There are two of them--no, three--Maiyotte, Chéchelle, and Rina. Maiyotte and Chéchelle have just arrived from St. Pierre;--Rina comes from Gros-Morne with fruits and vegetables. Suppose we call them all in, and see what they have got. Maiyotte and Chéchelle sell on commission; Rina sells for her mother, who has a little garden at Gros-Morne.

... "_Bonjou', Maiyotte;--bonjou', Chéchelle! comment ou kallé, Rina, chè!_"... Throw open the folding-doors to let the great trays pass.... Now all three are unloaded by old Théréza and by young Adou;--all the packs are on the floor, and the water-proof wrappings are being uncorded, while Ah-Manmzell, the adopted child, brings the rum and water for the tall walkers.

... "Oh, what a medley, Maiyotte!"... Inkstands and wooden cows; purses and paper dogs and cats; dolls and cosmetics; pins and needles and soap and tooth-brushes; candied fruits and smoking-caps; _pelotes_ of thread, and tapes, and ribbons, and laces, and Madeira wine; cuffs, and collars, and dancing-shoes, and tobacco sachets.... But what is in that little flat bundle? Presents for your _guêpe_, if you have one.... _Jesis-Maïa!_--the pretty foulards! Azure and yellow in checkerings; orange and crimson in stripes; rose and scarlet in plaidings; and bronze tints, and beetle-tints of black and green.

"Chéchelle, what a _bloucoutoum_ if you should ever let that tray fall--_aïe yaïe yaïe!_" Here is a whole shop of crockeries and porcelains;--plates, dishes, cups,--earthen-ware _canaris_ and _dobannes_; and gift-mugs and cups bearing creole girls' names,--all names that end in _ine_: "Micheline, Honorine, Prospérine" [you will never sell that, Chéchelle: there is not a Prospérine this side of St. Pierre], "Azaline, Leontine, Zéphyrine, Albertine, Chrysaline, Florine, Coralline, Alexandrine."... And knives and forks, and cheap spoons, and tin coffee-pots, and tin rattles for babies, and tin flutes for horrid little boys,--and pencils and note-paper and envelopes!...

... "Oh, Rina, what superb oranges!--fully twelve inches round!... and these, which look something like our mandarins, what do you call them? Zorange-macaque!" (monkey-oranges). And here are avocados--beauties!--guavas of three different kinds,--tropical cherries (which have four seeds instead of one),--tropical raspberries, whereof the entire eatable portion comes off in one elastic piece, lined with something like white silk.... Here are fresh nutmegs: the thick green case splits in equal halves at a touch; and see the beautiful heart within,--deep dark glossy red, all wrapped in a bright net-work of flat blood-colored fibre, spun over it like branching veins.... This big heavy red-and-yellow thing is a _pomme-cythère_: the smooth cuticle, bitter as gall, covers a sweet juicy pulp, interwoven with something that seems like cotton thread.... Here is a _pomme-cannelle_: inside its scaly covering is the most delicious yellow custard conceivable with little black seeds floating in it. This larger _corossol_ has almost as delicate an interior, only the custard is white instead of yellow.... Here are _christophines_,--great pear-shaped things, white and green, according to kind, with a peel prickly and knobby as the skin of a homed toad; but they stew exquisitely. And _mélongènes_, or egg-plants; and palmiste-pith, and _chadèques_, and _pommes-d'Haïti_,--and roots that at first sight look all alike, but they are not: there are _camanioc_, and couscous, and _choux-caraïbes_, and _zignames_, and various kinds of patates among them. Old Théréza's magic will transform these shapeless muddy things, before evening, into pyramids of smoking gold,--into odorous porridges that will look like messes of molten amber and liquid pearl;--for Rina makes a good sale.

Then Chéchelle manages to dispose of a tin coffee-pot and a big canari.... And Maiyotte makes the best sale of all; for the sight of a funny _biscuit_ doll has made Ah-Manmzell cry and smile so at the same time that I should feel unhappy for the rest of my life if I did not buy it for her. I know I ought to get some change out of that six francs;--and Maiyotte, who is black but comely as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon, seems to be aware of the fact.

Oh, Maiyotte, how plaintive that pretty sphinx face of yours, now turned in profile;--as if you knew you looked beautiful thus,--with the great gold circlets of your ears glittering and swaying as you bend! And why are you so long, so long untying that poor little canvas purse?--fumbling and fingering it?--is it because you want me to think of the weight of that trait and the sixty kilometres you must walk, and the heat, and dust, and all the disappointments? Ah, you are cunning, Maiyotte! No, I do not want the change!

XI

... Travelling together, the porteuses often walk in silence for hours at a time;--this is when they feel weary. Sometimes they sing,--most often when approaching their destination;--and when they chat, it is in a key so high-pitched that their voices can be heard to a great distance in this land of echoes and elevations.

But she who travels alone is rarely silent: she talks to herself or to inanimate things;--you may hear her talking to the trees, to the flowers,--talking to the high clouds and the far peaks of changing color,--talking to the setting sun!

Over the miles of the morning she sees, perchance, the mighty Piton Gélé, a cone of amethyst in the light; and she talks to it: "_Ou jojoll, oui!--moin ni envie monté assou ou, pou main ouè bien, bien!_" (Thou art pretty, pretty, aye!--I would I might climb thee, to see far, far off!)

By a great grove of palms she passes;--so thickly mustered they are that against the sun their intermingled heads form one unbroken awning of green. Many rise straight as masts; some bend at beautiful angles, seeming to intercross their long pale single limbs in a fantastic dance; others curve like bows: there is one that undulates from foot to crest, like a monster serpent poised upon its tail. She loves to look at that one,--_joli pié-bois-là!_--talks to it as she goes by,--bids it good-day.

Or, looking back as she ascends, she sees the huge blue dream of the sea,--the eternal haunter, that ever becomes larger as she mounts the road; and she talks to it: "_Mi lanmé ka gadé main!_" (There is the great sea looking at me!) "_Mâché toujou deïé moin, lamnè!_" (Walk after me, O Sea!)

Or she views the clouds of Pelée, spreading gray from the invisible summit, to shadow against the sun; and she fears the rain, and she talks to it: "_Pas mouillé moin, laplie-à! Quitté moin rivé avant mouillé moin!_" (Do not wet me, O Rain! Let me get there before thou wettest me!)

Sometimes a dog barks at her, menaces her bare limbs; and she talks to the dog. "_Chien-a, pas mòdé moin, chien--anh! Moin pa fé ou arien, chien, pou ou mòdé moin!_" (Do not bite me, O Dog! Never did I anything to thee that thou shouldst bite me, O Dog! Do not bite me, dear! Do not bite me, _doudoux!_)

Sometimes she meets a laden sister travelling the opposite way.... "_Coument ou yé, chè?_" she cries. (How art thou, dear?) And the other makes answer, "_Toutt douce, chè,--et ou?_" (All sweetly, dear,--and thou?) And each passes on without pausing: they have no time!

... It is perhaps the last human voice she will hear for many a mile. After that only the whisper of the grasses--_graïe-gras, graïe-gras!_--and the gossip of the canes--_chououa, chououa!_--and the husky speech of the _pois-Angole, ka babillé conm yon vié fenme_,--that babbles like an old woman;--and the murmur of the _filao_-trees, like the murmur of the River of the Washerwomen.

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 horn 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,--striken 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-Clé trotting behind, very tired.... Never mind, Ti-Clé!--you will outwalk your cousins when you are a few years older,--pretty Ti-Clé.... Here come Cyrillia and Zabette, and Féfé 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, "_Toutte douce, chè,--et ou?_" (All sweetly, dear,--and thou?) But some, overweary, cry to him, "_Ah! déchâgê 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! déchâgê 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 of 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 who cry to Thee, thou dear black Giver of the perpetual rest, "_Ah! déchâgé moin vite, chè!--moin lasse!_"

LA GRANDE ANSE

I

While, at the village of Morne Rouge, I was frequently impressed by the singular beauty of young girls from the north-east coast--all porteuses, who passed almost daily, on their way from Grande Anse to St. Pierre and back again,--a total trip of thirty-five miles.... I knew they were from Grande Anse, because the village baker, at whose shop they were wont to make brief halts, told me a good deal about them: he knew each one by name. Whenever a remarkably attractive girl appeared, and I would inquire whence she came, the invariable reply (generally preceded by that peculiarly intoned French "Ah!" signifying, "Why, you certainly ought to know!") was "Grande Anse."... _Ah! c'est de Grande Anse, ça!_ And if any commonplace, uninteresting type showed itself, it would be signalled as from somewhere else--Gros-Morne, Capote, Marigot, perhaps,--but never from Grande Anse. The Grande Anse girls were distinguishable by their clear yellow or brown skins, lithe light figures, and a particular grace in their way of dressing. Their short robes were always of bright and pleasing colors, perfectly contrasting with the ripe fruit-tint of nude limbs and faces: I could discern a partiality for white stuffs with apricot-yellow stripes, for plaidings of blue and violet, and various patterns of pink and mauve. They had a graceful way of walking under their trays, with hands clasped behind their heads, and arms uplifted in the manner of caryatides. An artist would have been wild with delight for the chance to sketch some of them.... On the whole, they conveyed the impression that they belonged to a particular race, very different from that of the chief city or its environs.

"Are they all banana-colored at Grande Anse?" I asked,--"and all as pretty as these?"

"I was never at Grande Anse," the little baker answered, "although I have been forty years in Martinique; but I know there is a fine class of young girls there: _il y a une belle jeunesse là, mon cher!_"

Then I wondered why the youth of Grande Anse should be any finer than the youth of other places; and it seemed to me that the baker's own statement of his never having been there might possibly furnish a clew. ... Out of the thirty-five thousand inhabitants of St. Pierre and its suburbs, there are at least twenty thousand who never have been there, and most probably never will be. Few dwellers of the west coast visit the east coast: in fact, except among the white creoles, who represent but a small percentage of the total population, there are few persons to be met with who are familiar with all parts of their native island. It is so mountainous, and travelling is so wearisome, that populations may live and die in adjacent valleys without climbing the intervening ranges to look at one another. Grande Anse is only about twenty miles from the principal city; but it requires some considerable inducement to make the journey on horseback; and only the professional carrier-girls, plantation messengers, and colored people of peculiarly tough constitution attempt it on foot. Except for the transportation of sugar and rum, there is practically no communication by sea between the west and the north-east coast--the sea is too dangerous--and thus the populations on either side of the island are more or less isolated from each other, besides being further subdivided and segregated by the lesser mountain chains crossing their respective territories.... In view of all these things I wondered whether a community so secluded might not assume special characteristics within two hundred years--might not develop into a population of some yellow, red, or brown type, according to the predominant element of the original race-crossing.

II

I had long been anxious to see the city of the porteuses, when the opportunity afforded itself to make the trip with a friend obliged to go thither on some important business;--I do not think I should have ever felt resigned to undertake it alone. With a level road the distance might be covered very quickly, but over mountains the journey is slow and wearisome in the perpetual tropic heat. Whether made on horseback or in a carriage, it takes between four and five hours to go from St. Pierre to Grande Anse, and it requires a longer time to return, as the road is then nearly all uphill. The young porteuse travels almost as rapidly; and the barefooted black postman, who carries the mails in a square box at the end of a pole, is timed on leaving Morne Rouge at 4 A.M. to reach Ajoupa-Bouillon a little after six, and leaving Ajoupa-Bouillon at half-past six to reach Grande Anse at half-past eight, including many stoppages and delays on the way.