V.
The road on through the village is too beautiful to leave; we must go farther, deeper down among this strangely silent, mysterious people; and we drive on to where the palms meet over our heads, and we get glimpses of the blue and green Gulf beyond, and some one tells us—or have we dreamed it?—that, farther on, we shall come to the Big White House, and we wonder if we are really ourselves, or some one very unreal out of a book.
Surely we shall soon awake and rub our eyes and find that we have just been asleep in the library corner, and that we never reached the Leper House, and never heard the whispering of Hindoo feet; that it was all a daydream, a sweet heavenly dream, made long by some good fairy; but, no, we look at one another, and it must be true, for we hear the waves lapping the beach near by, and the brown, naked coolie babies look wonderingly at us, and we jog along under the fitful showers and sun, and Blue Ribbons raises the white umbrella, and Sister looks ruefully at the sad, discouraged, rain-bespattered ribbons, so it must be real.
Yes, real; and yet to see the Big White House, now visible through the mangoes, and know that within its walls live victims of the most awful disease of all time,—a disease whose origin is lost in the dim vistas of antiquity,—to come thus unexpectedly, in the twentieth century, upon a manifestation of the “sins of the fathers” of thousands of years, we cannot make it seem real to us. Had we been off in the South Seas, sailing toward Molokai, or had we been looking over the hills of Galilee, it might have seemed more probable. But to find a leper settlement here, not three miles from a thickly peopled modern city,—a settlement which must be a constant and deadly menace to society,—was beyond my powers of credence.
I remember so well, in reading Stevenson’s account of his visit to the leper settlement in the Sandwich Islands, that I wondered how he dared go among them, for even so great an object as the vindication of Father Damien, and lo, here we were, without any warning, almost in the midst of the same plague. Although fully aware that leprosy did exist, just as we know that the moon must have form and solidity, it still seemed an uncertain, far-removed possibility,—in a way half-legendary, half fact, a tradition of the far East, a memory of the days of the Holy One of Nazareth; not a tangible awful reality, to be met and battled with all the force of modern knowledge. I could not convince myself that within a stone’s throw were lepers whom we might see, to whom we might speak, and I wondered if it would be safe to enter the enclosure. All this time we drew nearer to the gateway, while the white house in the centre of a large, shady park, fenced in by high iron pickets, seemed to us like the great Cross on Calvary, raised for the sins of the world.
In various parts of the yard, inside that fence, groups of men are sitting on the grass under the shade of great trees. It is white noon. It cannot be possible that these men, lolling about and visiting together, are lepers, for, from a distance, they bear no signs of disease about them. They look like the rest of the people we have been amongst all day. They are mostly Hindoos (some with a touch of negro blood), very dark of skin, and apparently in good health, that is, viewed at a distance. I must confess that a terrible feeling comes over me as the man of the family—for here we are at the gate, with the horse’s head facing the sad white house—suggests that we enter the enclosure. I remember how it was said that the lepers in olden time must cry out: “Unclean!” “Unclean!” and that he whose garments but swept the shadow of one thus afflicted must undergo a long purification before he could be allowed intercourse with the world once more.
As these old stories recur to my memory, and beseech me for my life not to take so great a risk,—but how long it takes to tell it all!—a big, jolly-faced black gatekeeper quiets my apprehensions by saying that we would not be exposed to the least danger whatever; that some of the labourers and attendants have been employed to work among the lepers for years with no bad results. With this comfortable assurance of a doubtful safety from the gateman, the driver whips up, and we move on into the yard, and up the avenue to the hospital, made gruesome by horrid buzzards perching on its roof and eaves in grim expectancy.
But it is the coming closer into the deep shade which reveals to us its true significance. From without, this white house is long and low and restful to the eye, and the trees bending over it, with clinging arms, seem to breathe only life and beauty, and the white-coated men here and there under the shade are the labourers resting during the still noon hour.
But a nearer approach and a closer acquaintance changes the whole scene. Was it upon such wrecks of life that the gentle Saviour gazed in pitying love? These are not men; they are pieces,—parts of men, hung together by the long-suffering cord of life.
The first leper we see near at hand seems to take an interest in us. The others we have passed lie around in a dull, listless way. I presume they see us, but they evidence no concern other than keeping in the shade. But this leper—I hardly know how to designate him—has more life in him than the others; he is walking about and nods to us as we pass. He has strange, unnatural ears; they are twice the normal size and have nodules on the outer edge. His face is swollen into mushroom-like patches, and deeply seamed by ridges, and yet the skin has apparently the same appearance it had in a state of health, except a little grayer and more lifeless looking. Another patient hobbles toward us, and we find that he is walking on stumps of feet, without toe. We throw some pennies to another group, and the one nearest the coin picks it up by making a scoop of his flipper-like palm. His fingers are gone, only little points are left, as if they had been whittled off with a jack-knife. An old man looks at us with one eye, the other eye, eaten away by the relentless advance of the disease, has commenced to run out. These are only the moderately sick patients.
As we drive nearer to the hospital, a dozen or so horrible-looking creatures crowd to the end of an upper gallery and stand there, leaning out over the railing, a ghastly picture of misery. I scarcely dare look at them, their faces have been so mutilated by the disease; and others worse there are inside, whom the heroic Sisters—Romish and Protestant—care for and comfort until the living hideous death is at an end and life begins.
We move slowly along up the drive, and come quite near to the great archway which leads into the courtyard. There we call to the cabby to stop, and the tall man, who is never afraid of anything, gets out, and his leaving the carriage becomes, unwittingly to us, a signal for the poor lepers to approach. One hurries away from his companion—an emaciated, becrutched Hindoo—and comes to within a few feet of us, and just as he does so, our protector turns to me and says: “Did you ever think I would find myself talking to a leper just three feet from me?” and, interesting as the experience is, I recoil within myself for fear that the money which we want to give them may necessitate a closer proximity than we desire. But the unfortunate victim understands the situation and keeps his distance, while the tall man coming back to us, stands there with one foot on the carriage-step, still turning toward the leper.
By a certain sort of mental telepathy, I know that he cannot say good-bye without leaving some word of cheer for the poor fellow, and just what to say, how to say it, how to express a wish which we know can never be fulfilled, makes a moment’s very embarrassing silence. If you had ever been in the presence of such a living, unpitying death, such a picture of horrible hopelessness, and felt it your duty to make the burden easier by some word of cheer, when you had all things—life, health, and happiness—about you, and he only the refuse of a rotten body, if you must presume to tell such a martyr to be brave and all that sort of thing, when you know that his absolutely uncomplaining silence is greater bravery than you, in all your health and vigour, know how to comprehend—well, I tell you it’s no use! However optimistic by nature, it’s hard to find the words. Why, even a parson would be dumb!
And so he lingers there uneasily. He looks at the two dear little sweet-faced maidens at my side, so white and clean and fresh and young, and then at the gray, misshapen, mutilated silent figure before him, living his lonely death of agony each day, and says, with a choke, “Good-bye,”—that is all. Tell me, what would you have said?
END OF VOLUME I.
INDEX
Botanical Garden, The, St. Pierre, [228], [235-236], [254], [257], [264-270].
Boulevard, The, St. Pierre, [233].
Cape Hatteras, [27], [29].
Capot, Martinique, [270].
Casa Blanca, San Juan, [144].
Castle, The, Charlotte Amalie, [179-185].
Cathedral, The, Santo Domingo, [90-105].
Ceiba-Tree, The, [288].
Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, [164-196].
Castle, The, [179-185].
Columbus, Christopher, [97-105], [288].
Columbus, Diego, [98].
Coolies of Trinidad, [279-281], [292-297].
Coolie Village, The, Port of Spain, [292-297].
Fer de Lance, The, Martinique, [248], [252-253], [269-270].
Grand Hotel, The, St. Pierre, [237-238].
Grande Anse, La, Martinique, [270].
Gros Morne, Martinique, [270].
Gulf Stream, [29].
Hotel Casino Bellevue, Port au Prince, [66-79].
Leper House, The, Port of Spain, [298-307].
Marigot, Martinique, [270].
Martinique, Island of, [197-271].
Capot, [270].
Fer de Lance, [248], [252-253], [269-270].
Grande Anse, La, [270].
Gros Morne, [270].
Marigot, [270].
Morne Rouge, [236], [270].
Mount Pelée, [236], [270], [274].
Natives, The, [205], [210-215], [254-263].
Rivière Roxelane, [266], [273].
Morne Rouge, Martinique, [236], [270].
Morro Castle, San Juan, [128], [153].
Mount Pelée, Martinique, [236], [270], [274].
Natives, The, of Martinique, [205], [210-215], [254-263];
of St. Thomas, [193-196], [210];
of Trinidad, [275-276], [285-286].
Ozama River, [85], [86], [112], [118-122], [163], [288].
Plaza, The, San Juan, [140], [148-150].
Ponce de Leon, [154-156];
Square of, San Juan, [153-160].
Port au Prince, Haïti, [35], [42-80], [84], [89].
Hotel Casino Bellevue, [66-79].
Port of Spain, Trinidad, [275-307].
Coolie Village, The, [292-297].
Leper House, The, [298-307].
Savannah, The, [287-291].
Quay, The, San Juan, [134-136].
Rivière Roxelane, Martinique, [266], [273].
St. Croix, Island of, [189].
St. John, Island of, [189], [190].
St. Pierre, [205], [216], [219], [220-245], [246], [273].
Botanical Garden, The, [228], [235-236], [254], [257], [264-270].
Boulevard, The, [233].
Grand Hotel, The, [237-238].
St. Thomas, Island of, [164], [186], [189], [190].
Natives of, [193-196], [210].
San Salvador, [33].
San Juan, Puerto Rico, [124-161], [163].
Casa Blanca, [144].
Morro Castle, [128], [153].
Plaza, The, [140], [148-150].
Quay, The, [134-136].
Square of Ponce de Leon, [153-160].
Santo Domingo, [84-123], [173].
Cathedral, The, [90-105].
Savannah, The, Port of Spain, [287-291].
Southern Cross, The, [219].
Square of Ponce de Leon, San Juan, [153-160].
Trinidad, Island of, [275-307].
Coolies, The, [279-281], [292-297].
Natives, The, [275-276], [285-286].
Windward Passage, [29], [35].
| Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: |
|---|
| her persisent whisper=> her persistent whisper {pg 235} |
| Hayti=> Haïti {pg 310} |