It comes to me that once again there has gone from my life for eternity that which can never return; just as the whole bright world can be changed into darkness by the passing out of a soul we love; and we know that, however much we long for its return, it can never come back; that from that hour we tread the way alone. The silent spirit takes up the light, falters a moment at the door, turning, smiles sweetly upon us, and is gone, and we are left in a dark room. Oh! the love that we mortals lavish in this world of ours!
There was about Martinique a sweetness, a translucent loveliness, an unforgettableness which crept into the innermost fibre of my being. It even seemed to creep into my blood and pulsate through my body with every beat of my heart.
I listen now to the memories of my soul, and hear again the sweet, soft voices of the creole girls and the quick, noiseless tread of the carriers of water, fruits, and cacao coming down from Morne Rouge, coming from the tender shadows which droop caressingly about the feet of slumbering Pelée. And I can hear the cool trickle of the water from the half-hidden fountain in a cranny of the wall; and I hear the rush of the stream down from the mountainside, over stones as white as milk. And sweet, shy flowers hang over high walls and nod to me; and from green blinds in low, white mansions, I hear soft young voices, whispering and laughing. A youth passes, as the blind opens, and he laughs and goes to the other side of the street to beckon, and, oh! there it is again—the old story.
And I go on and on, and I come to the Rivière Roxelane where the women are spreading their clothes to dry on the great rocks, and the river tumbles along, and twists in and out with gentle murmurs, and the women are washing and laughing.