Chapter I: Foreword: "CA-ARMINE! Carmine!"

"Oui, madame!"

"Petit garçon, venez donc!"

The high piping quaver of Madame Hardy's voice followed by the soft padding sound of bare feet on the tile flagging, the cooing of pigeons in the cote in the court below, the ever-present cool gurgling sound of the fountain splashing in the pool, are the only sounds that break the somnolence of midday in Le Grand Hotel de la Paix. The soft caress of the trade winds that careen the palm crests bears the breath of the vanilla blossoms and bougainvillea that festoon the rail of the balcony. A pair of lizards, flashes of green flame, chase each other in the white noon sunshine, or freeze into immobility in a moment of alarm. The shops are closed for siesta and the whole town dozes away the golden hours from eleven till two. There is no hurry. To-morrow will be time enough. _Le bon Dieu_ is prodigal with his sunshine and rain. Food is to be had for the picking. A thatch is shelter enough and clothes are but a convention, not a necessity. Surely there is no hurry! _Mais non, missie!_

So we found life in Fort-de-France, Martinique. The same childlike, care-free, laughing spirit that so wholly captivated the artist soul of Hearn four decades since weaves its spell about the traveler of to-day.

Since those happy days a generation ago that he described with such lyric grace the world at large has changed, become smaller, more disillusioned, and in the island itself an occasional hurricane and the terrible disaster of St. Pierre in 1902 have wrought havoc unspeakable; yet the buoyant hearts of these Creole folk sing as of yore, among the flower-decked ruins of the city that Hearn loved so well, the new St. Pierre that lies under the brooding shadow of Mt. Pelée.

Change comes slowly in the tropics. Nature's prodigality is no great incentive to ambition and one finds in this wrinkled emerald of an island set in a sparkling sapphire sea welcome relief from the stress of our northern life with its insistent activity. It is as though one were in a great greenhouse; the crowding mountain sides are rank with exuberant greenery. Every ravine has its bounding rivulet of crystal water gleaming like a silver thread woven into the rich pattern of verdure. Constant breezes temper the heat and frequent short showers wash the air free of dust. The atmosphere is brilliant, as Hearn painted it.

The same people are there--French, Madagascans, Caribs, Senegalese, Chinese, Portuguese--all mingled in a Creole type different from any and bearing qualities of all. Tall, slim, graceful, especially the women, with lovely heads, thin lipped and deep eyed, with skins of every conceivable shade of white, yellow, brown, and red. Long waving raven hair tied smartly in their bright "madrases," with little clothing to hamper them, they are the picture of grace. They still wear the "Josephine" gown, the vast flowing skirts of which they gather up and tuck under their arms to-day exactly as Hearn described.

We visited again and again the grim ruin of St. Pierre, now overgrown with a rank growth of flowers and vines, a sorry spectacle. High on the cliff above the town, dominating the scene of ruin, stands the lovely marble statue of the Virgin, all that remained intact in the great cathedral that fateful day.

The peculiar nature of the devastating wave of steam and red-hot gas which wiped out thirty thousand people in a few minutes, left the front and rear walls standing and crushed and demolished the side walls of the stone buildings which made up the greater portion of the city. These walls, battered and crumbling, still stand, mute evidence of the city's size and former beauty. Within these standing walk new homes are springing up, giving a weird effect as though in this fecund climate the very houses were coming back to life.

The roads which thread the island like a net are constantly cared for. Winding in and out and ever upward to dizzy heights, they lead through impenetrable jungle, thickets of bamboo and giant tree ferns, affording from occasional open spaces glimpses of shadowy ravines and bounding torrents hemmed in by farther peaks in serried ranks that beggar description, descending again toward the western side through mile upon mile of soft gray-green waving cane, till one comes at last to the blue Atlantic beating itself into froth upon the sands at Trinité.

French k the only language--a Creole French different from any on earth, sweet and musical to listen to. The innate courtesy one meets everywhere, even in the interior where strangers are rare, is most delightful. One shakes hands with everyone one meets, though it be a half dozen times in a forenoon, and even the smallest purchase cannot be made without an exchange of courtesies that would do credit to a diplomat. Along the country roads the women carriers with huge panniers on their heads will always greet you in their soft, high-keyed voices with, "Bon jou', missie," that lingers like a sweet savor and prejudices one forever in favor of these pleasant folk.

The numerous illustrations and thumbnail sketches in the present volume are from photographs taken during our wanderings in Martinique and other islands of the Antilles. They give some hint of the alluring beauty that greets one on every hand. The passing years seem powerless to change the simple character of these ease-loving Creole folk or the green islets of which they are so justly proud.

We sailed away eventually with our minds and hearts full of many new and delightful friendships and a great yearning to stay, or at least to some day be a "revenant" and come back to this lovely island that Hearn has immortalized in the pages that follow.

ARTHUR W. RUSHMORE.

FORT-DE-FRANCE Martinique, F. W. I. _December, 1922_