This Trinidad baby had absurdly large eyes,—looked supernatural: the mother’s eyes magnified. She held up her little arms and I chose two rings. Then she talked to me in—Creole patois! It is the commercial dialect of the poor; and the Hindoos learn it well
Always truly,
Lafcadio Hearn.
There are palms here over 200 feet high. There are fish here of all the colours of marsh-sunset.
TO ELIZABETH BISLAND
Fort de France, Martinique, July, 1887.
Dear Miss Bisland,—Imagine yourself turned into marble, all white,—robed after the fashion of the Directory,—standing forever on a marble pedestal, under an enormous azure day,—encircled by a ring of tall palms, graceful as Creole women,—and gazing always, always, over the summer sea, toward emerald Trois Islets.
That is Josephine! I think she looks just like you, “Mamzelle Josephine,”—or Zefine, if you like.
I want to tell you a little story about her,—just a little anecdote somebody told me on the street, which I want to develop into a sketch next week.
It was after the fall of the Second Empire,—after France felt the iron heel of Germany upon her throat.