Her birth is announced with antique formality in the colonial papers, and duly registered in the Archives de la Marine. She is christened in the twilight of some colonial baptistery, where silhouettes of palm-heads quiver behind stained-glass windows; and receives those half-dozen names—names of angels, or saints, alternated with names of ancestors—by which every white creole child is ushered into the world. Then some comely black or brown woman, dazzlingly robed in bright colors, and covered with barbaric jewelry, carries her on a silken cushion from house to house that all of family kin may kiss her. Always through the recollections of her childhood there will smile back to her the memory of that kind swart face,—the face of her black nurse, of her da. It is the da who bathes her, feeds her, dresses her, lulls her to sleep with song: doubtless for a time she believes the dark woman her mother. It is the da who first takes her out into the beautiful world of the tropics,—shows her the mighty azure circle of the sea, and the coming and going of the ships, and the peaks with their circling clouds, and the whispering gold of cane-fields, and the palms, and the jewel-feathered humming birds. It is the black nurse who first teaches her to kiss,—to utter the words 'Manman,' 'Da,' 'Papoute,' to express her infant thoughts in the softest cooing speech uttered by human lips,—the creole tongue. It is the da also who first thrills her child-fancy into blossom with stories of the impossible, and who stimulates her musical sense by teaching her strange songs,—melodies borne with slavery into the Indies from Senegal or the Coast of Gold.
Growing older, the little one is gradually separated from her da, is taught to speak French, to submit to many formal restraints, is finally sent,—while still a mere child,—to some convent school. She leaves it only on arriving at womanhood. Perhaps during those years she sees her parents every regular visiting day, and during the brief Christmas vacations; but she is practically separated otherwise from them as much as if imprisoned,—though they may be living only a few streets away. If they are very rich, she may be sent away to France. In the latter event she may acquire accomplishments superior to those imparted in any colonial convent; but the education mother respects is very simple and old-fashioned: the chief result aimed at in the training of girls being moral and religious rather than secular. The pensionnaires of the colonial convents wear a very plain uniform,—a straightfalling dress of sombre color, belted at the waist, and a broad straw hat. The different classes are distinguished by long narrow ribbons crossed over breast and back and tied round the waist below, the ends being left to stream down at one side. One class wears blue ribbons; another pink; another white. Altogether the uniform is ugly; it gives an aspect of clumsiness which is quite foreign to the creole race. Nothing could seem more uninteresting than a procession of convent girls on their way to church, escorted by nuns. But this is only the chrysalis stage of creole girl-life: the beautiful butterfly will be revealed when that sombre uniform is abandoned forever.
At seventeen or eighteen the creole girl returns home, with a large package of class prizes,—mostly publications of Mame & Cie,—showy volumes of a semi-religious character,—with a few books of travel, perhaps, added, which have been carefully perused and recommended as safe reading by some ecclesiastical censor. A private party is given in her honor; and she makes her début into creole society. Her life, thereafter, however, would not, by American girls at all events, be thought enviable. She rarely leaves home, except to pay a visit to some relatives, or to go to church under the escort of some member of the family, or some old lady chosen to accompany her. She is scarcely ever seen upon the streets. The pleasures of shopping are denied her. Whatever she needs is purchased for her by male relatives, or by her hired maid,—who selects at the store such merchandise as may be desired, and carries a stock of samples to the house, in a tray balanced upon her head. There the decision is made, the chosen articles retained, and the remainder carried back to the merchant, who in due time sends in his bill. There are no evening parties or visitings; the active life of the colony ends with sundown; all retire between eight and nine o'clock, and rise with dawn. Except during the brief theatrical season, and on the annual occasion of a carnival ball given by select society, there are no evening amusements. The discipline of the convent has prepared the young girl for this secluded existence; but were it not for the intense heat of the climate, she would probably suffer, in spite of such preparation, from the monotony of her life. Happily for her, she remains as innocent of other conditions of society as she is ignorant of all evil; and the tenderness of her mother or other relatives does all that can be done to render her existence happy. Still, she sometimes regrets her convent-days,—the liberty of play-hours in the open court, with its palms and sabliers: she likes to revisit the nuns occasionally, to get a glimpse of the pupils amusing themselves as she used to do,—secretly wishes, perhaps, that she were a child again. But she has yet no idea how often she will wish that wish before they robe her all in black, and put her away to sleep forever somewhere in the colonial cemetery, under the tall palms.
All about her young life glimmer conventional bars: she is a caged bird, vaguely desiring liberty, without a suspicion of what perils liberty might bring. Her pleasures, her ideas, her emotions are still those of a child,—even on the day when her mother, kissing her, first whispers to her some news that makes her flush to her hair. She has been spoken for! A gentleman, whom she scarcely knows even as a visitor, has demanded her hand. Could she love him? She does not know; she is willing to do whatever her mother deems best. They meet thereafter more frequently,—but always as before in the salon, in the presence of the family: there is no wooing; there are no private walks and talks; there is, in short, no romance in creole courtship;—everything is arranged and determined by the heads of both families. Her betrothal is circulated as a piece of private news throughout society; but no printed mention of it is ever made. Finally the notary is called, and the marriage contract drawn up, after a strictly business manner; she has rarely anything to do with these preliminaries, but the future husband, if a man of the world, will be careful to read the contract very attentively, and to discuss its provisions, point by point. It is, in fact, a decided weakness to omit these formal considerations of the financial side of marriage. More than one proud or sensitive man has had reason late in life to regret the impulse of trust or affection which caused him to sign his marriage contract without examining it. But the fiancée had nothing to do with this: she is content to leave her parents to make every possible effort to secure her material happiness.
Marriage opens to her a larger sphere of life. She can go out freely, visit friends, entertain relatives at her home, and—in these more recent years—even occasionally enter stores. But such comparative freedom has its disadvantages. It involves a round of social duties more or less wearisome,—visits during the heated hours of the day, and the wearing of black close-fitting Parisian dresses in an atmosphere and under a sun more difficult to endure than any summer conditions of the temperate zone. Probably she feels relieved when at a later day the cares of her household and children enable her to excuse herself from taking further part in active social life; and thereafter she rarely leaves home, except to go to church.
III
For more than two centuries such has been the monotonous, half-cloistered existence of creole women in the French colonies. Such a life might have been Josephine's had she wedded a merchant or planter of Martinique, instead of a soldier. In the past century and before it, slavery and wealth made the existence of the creole woman more luxurious: there were more social pleasures for her also,—more parties, receptions, amusements,—especially in the capital, Fort Royal, where the Governor held a veritable court. Furthermore, the flower of creole society passed much of its time at Paris, and exercised some influence in the Métropole. But in the colony proper, the creole girl has no free joyous girlhood, no prospect of larger liberty save through marriage, and no romance of love. Yet, notwithstanding these apparent disadvantages, the demoiselles of the last century were famed throughout the world for their charm of manner and singular beauty.
Climate and other tropical conditions had quite transformed the colonial race within a few generations, changing not only complexion and temperament, but the very shape of the skeleton,—lengthening the limbs, making delicate the extremities, deepening the orbits to protect the eye from the immense light. The creole became more lithe and refined of aspect than the European parent,—taller but more slender,—more supple, though less strong; and that grace which is the particular characteristic of Latin blood would seem to have obtained its utmost possible physical expression in the women of Martinique. The colony was justly proud of them; their reputation abroad had become romantic; and legends of their witchery were being circulated the world over. So much was their influence feared that the home government passed a special law forbidding any of its colonial officials to marry creoles, lest the discharge of diplomatic duties should be directed by some charming woman's will, rather than by the will of the sovereign. Yet, in a few years more, a creole woman was to share the throne of the first Napoleon, and sway the destinies of Europe by her gentle counsel,—that Josephine de la Pagerie, of Trois-Islets, whose memory lives in the beautiful marble statue erected in the Savane of Fort-de-France, by the citizens of the colony.
IV
There is another Martinique memory, which one cannot pass over in speaking of the creole beauties of former days. Robert, a tiny village on the southeast coast, has a legend which once gave it quite as much distinction as Trois-Islets. Robert, or at least one of its suburbs, claimed to be the birthplace of another lovely creole, who became, it was alleged, no less a personage than the Sultana-Validé of Selim III. More than one historian seems to have given credit to this story, M. Sidney Daney, in his 'Histoire de la Martinique,' even published her portrait, with the inscription beneath: 'Aimée Dubuc De Rivéry, Sultana-Validé, et mère de Mahmoud II.—A pretty face, with hair powdered and combed back after the early fashion of the eighteenth century, and that soft roundness of lines suggesting the ripeness of sixteen years,—when the slender child is just passing into the beauty of womanhood.