Of all the country seats I saw in the Mauritius, those of Mr. Robinson and Mr. Barclay seemed to me the handsomest. The dwelling-houses are surrounded by parks and gardens tastefully laid out, where tropical flowers, shrubs, and trees (particularly beautiful palm-trees) are seen in close community with the European plant-world. In Mr. Robinson’s garden we had peaches as fine as any in Germany or France.
The houses of these two gentlemen stand in very advantageous contrast to the other houses in the island. The rooms are high and spacious, the arrangements very convenient; order and cleanliness reign every where.
These praises, unfortunately, can not be extended to the country houses of the Creoles. To speak frankly, I mistook most of the latter establishments for the dwellings of poor peasants. They are generally built of wood, are very small and low, and very much hidden by bushes; one would never believe that rich people are to be found living in these hovels.
The interior arrangements are quite in conformity with the exterior. The reception-room, and perhaps the dining-room, are passable; but the sleeping-rooms are so small that one or two beds and a few chairs fill them completely. And this in the Mauritius, a country where the heat is oppressive, and lofty and roomy apartments almost a necessity! To fill up the measure of inconvenience, many people have had the odd fancy of partly roofing their houses with white metal. The visitor who is unfortunate enough to be lodged in a room just under one of these roofs can form a lively idea of the sufferings endured by the unhappy captives of old in the lead-roofed prisons of Venice. Every time my unlucky destiny led me into such a house, I looked forward with terror to the night, which I was sure to pass in sleepless discomfort, burning with heat, and half stifled for want of air. In Ceylon the roofs are also sometimes covered with lead or zinc; but the houses are much more lofty, and the metal is not exposed to the burning rays of the sun, but covered with wood or straw.
I found many of the houses in such a dilapidated condition, and so tottering in appearance, that I marveled greatly at the courage of the people who dared to inhabit them; for my part, I am not ashamed to confess that I feared every gust of wind would blow the house to pieces, the more so as the winds in the Mauritius are very violent, and there are frequent hurricanes. The worthy Creoles quoted these same winds and hurricanes as an excuse for the mean architecture of their hovel-like homes, declaring that loftier buildings would be unable to resist the storm. If they were as badly built as these huts, certainly; but the country houses of Mr. Barclay and Mr. Robinson have always held their own against wind and storm, though they are lofty and spacious, and have been built many years.
I have often noticed that there is more true hospitality in the country than in towns; but the rule will not apply universally, as I found by personal experience. For though, in the houses of such worthy people as Mr. Kerr, Mr. Robinson, and Mr. Lambert, I felt thoroughly at home, it sometimes happened, on the other hand, that I allowed myself to be tempted by the seeming friendship of Creoles to accept invitations involving disagreeable consequences, which made me rejoice greatly when I regained my freedom.
Persons of high position and great influence must, of course, every where be received with consideration, but strangers and ordinary guests, from whom there is nothing to be expected, are sometimes very cavalierly treated in these parts. There is enough to eat and drink, but a “plentiful lack” of every thing besides. The unimportant guests are lodged in the “pavilion,” a little hut frequently a hundred yards distant from the dwelling-house, necessitating a pleasant walk in the rain or in the broiling sunshine every time the family assembles for a meal; and as the main building itself is generally ruinous, the state of the pavilion may easily be imagined.
That delectable retreat generally consists of two or three little rooms, where neither door nor windows can be induced to shut, where the rain beats in through the broken panes, where the lock of the entrance-door is so rusty that the door must be barricaded from within, or every gust of wind would blow it open. Each of the little rooms is provided with a bed, a rickety table, and one or two chairs. Of a cupboard I never saw a trace. My clothes and linen could never be unpacked, and I was obliged to stoop and unlock my boxes whenever I wanted the most trifling article.
But these discomforts would have been of little moment if any friendliness or readiness to oblige on the part of host or hostess had made amends. Unfortunately, such readiness is rarely found. In most houses the guest is left to himself all day long. No one takes any trouble about him, or cares to do any thing to make the time pass pleasantly. Nearly every establishment boasts five or six horses; but these are intended exclusively for the master of the house, or perhaps for his sons. The guest is never offered the use of them, and the lady of the house herself is seldom able to say, “I will take a drive to-day.”
Even the luxury of a cold bath, necessary as it is to health in a hot climate like that of the Mauritius, I found unattainable except when it rained. Then, indeed, I had it perforce—in my bedroom; for the roof was generally so ruinous that the water poured in on all sides.