Stella. Emeric Bergeaud
we invite you to other spectacles? . . . Come to the shore in the evening, when the resplendent moon—that divine queen—takes hold of the heavens and shakes her diamonds into the sea; better still, climb one of our peaks, risen at the dawn of days. There you will feel your imagination exalt, and your spirit well over; there you can but kneel and pray in quiet ecstasy.1
These landscapes need no painter. Let us leave the virgin field to He whose skill we have no intention of challenging, but also let us hasten to say that it is in this ravishing country that we find sites more picturesque than those of Switzerland, romantic landscapes to make Italy envious, and curiosities far superior to the charms of Spain.
And—a remarkable thing—not one dangerous reptile, not one ferocious beast, not one enemy, even, exists to challenge man for the abundant fruits of his easy labor.
neque illum;
Flava Ceres alto nequicquam spectat Olympo . . . 22
Such is this marvelous island whose slave name was Saint-Domingue.
Marie the African
The young family, captive in Saint-Domingue, was made up of a mother and her two sons, still adolescents. By some peculiarity or picturesque trick of nature, the complexion of the younger son was the hue of faded mahogany, while that of the elder was closer to the shade of darkest ebony. Yet this difference in color did not rule out a certain family resemblance that made them, at first sight, recognizable as brothers.
Marie—the young mother—was black like her older son. She had reached that age where beauty becomes genuine without losing its charms. Her visage was melancholy and soft, with eyes reminiscent of the gazelle of her native land and a mouth set with shining pearls; her delicate and fine skin wore the polish of marble, thanks to the continual effects of her work in the fields. Such were the distinctive traits of this African face. The exposed shoulders of the young woman had the purity of classical models, and her flowing clothes left to guesswork the form that was paired with her graceful physiognomy.
When Marie landed in the colony, perhaps twenty years before the era in which our tale begins, the Colonist, her master, deigned to notice her. She was soon compelled to cede to his sultan’s whim, and thus was born a second son to share the tenderness of this enslaved mother.
The honor of having been the mistress of the Colonist brought with it no change in the fate of the young mother. She stayed constantly attached to the hoe, having periods of rest only when sickness occasionally came to seize, break, or somehow rip the tool from her hands. Her daily tasks were oppressive, and they left her barely enough strength at night to return to her shelter. Nonetheless, upon returning from the fields, she was still seen to be at work, making a modest meal for her sons, going to the river to fill their calebasses and hers, repairing their poor clothes. In short, she took charge of all the chores that could have added to her sons’ fatigue, as if she herself never tired, as if she were made of iron.
Oh, a mother! What fertile spring of devotion and love, what inexhaustible trove of heroic and sublime virtues! A mother is more than a woman, more than an angel. She is Providence itself, descended into the foyer of Man to receive him as he enters life, to warm him with her breath, to nourish him with her milk, to support this weak pilgrim’s first steps along the path of the world, to guide his childhood, to counsel him in youth, to love him, to idolize him at every age, and sometimes, to die for him as a second Redeemer.
The African woman and her sons worked together during the day, and night found them dutifully grouped around the boucan in the smoky hut where they all three lived. These short hours of respite, usually dedicated to free and frank conversation, were the only hours that really counted in the lives of these hapless souls who otherwise were condemned to live silently, trembling under the eye of the pitiless Colonist. A hidden observer—someone who might attend the daily supper of the young family at this moment when, released from their fetters, they were instantly delivered unto themselves like the beast of burden when unhitched from the plow or mill—would have been struck by the healthy glow of the African mother, seated between her two sons and presiding over this slaves’ meal. He would have seen the hideous mask of servility fall and the affecting creature of God reappear; he would have seen the woman as she had been made, formed by the paternal goodness of a God who did not create masters and slaves, but men.
Their dining room, we dare say, was nothing more than functional. The most necessary piece of furniture was missing: there was no seat for happiness. The room was only large enough to contain these three persons and their fire. What more was needed for vile slaves? Seated on the naked earth, grouped around the flame of the boucan, these guests of misfortune, once sated, began those innocent conversations with which they were used to distracting themselves from their troubles before seeking forgetfulness in sleep. Perhaps misery is the father to fable; it is nourished on illusions and takes pleasure in losing itself in the chase of quiet phantoms, all in order to flee sad reality. Thus stories became the consolation of the ajoupa. The imagination of the slave flies on fairy wings, as light as those of dreams, in pursuit of blissfulness that he knows not and possessions that he will never have!
One night, the conversation lasted longer than usual. It was the mother who spoke. This time she told a touching and true story that we have collected for the benefit of the reader:
“I was born very far from here,” she said to her sons, “in the bosom of joy and abundance. My father was the chief of a powerful tribe; my mother the daughter of a king. They both idolized me; I was their only child. My father, already an old man, soon began to think of my marriage prospects. He fixed his sights on a man who was worthy of both his trust and my love.
“Our union,” she continued, “took place under the happiest of auspices. Still at an age not far from childhood, I left the maternal roof laden with the gifts of my much-beloved parents. The spouse whom my father chose for me was an officer in his service; so handsome, young, and brave was he. Alas! If only he had lived longer! . . .”
A tear slid down the cheek of Marie the African; she wiped it away with the back of her hand, and continued: “Around the time of my marriage, the chief of a neighboring tribe declared war against my father. In those first moments we made many preparations and put ourselves on the defensive. But vigilance soon falls asleep in false security. After some time, the enemy presented himself unexpectedly at our door. Our resistance was weak; he seized our city by surprise and became the master of our days.
“My father was killed in the combat; my husband died valiantly at his side. I was, as was my mother, taken prisoner by our vanquishers; they sold us to traders of men, who sent us off on a ship to Saint-Domingue. The ship, or rather the floating prison where we were incarcerated and bound with chains, had something hideous about it that I will always remember. The space was not even as tall as I; the air entered in such small quantities that we suffocated; the days were lugubrious; an unbearable odor escaped from the sides of that infected cage.
“My mother was not strong enough to fight against such suffering; she succumbed two days after our embarkation. I survived by a miracle. My isolation and constant misfortune left my existence heavier than my chains. I resolved to free myself; but one cannot trick fate . . . My love of life came back to me in the first pains of childbirth—because, I neglected to say, I was pregnant and on the brink of becoming a mother.
“Your arrival in this world,” she continued, addressing her first son, “brought consolation to my heart; but it was difficult to keep you alive. During long hours, you let out muffled complaints without moving or crying. We thought that you were dying: you barely breathed. A few drops of water given out of pity were all that you drank during two days of agony. How did you leave that state without succor and despite the tainted air of our dungeon? This, perhaps, I will never be able to explain.
“Like a seed fallen from a tree, you took root thanks to a hidden Hand, unknown to men, that dug you a furrow in life. In spite of everything, you grew and my maternal joys took the place of bitter sorrows. Yet I regretted having given you life only to see you associated with my troubles. Alone on this earth, what would become of you after I was gone? This thought, born from the horror of