374
Martinique
Sketches.
XI. W H I L E Cyrillia is busy with her canari, she talks to herself or sings. She has a low rich voice,—sings strange things, things that have been forgotten by this generation,—Creole songs of the old days, having a weird rhythm and fractions of tones that are surely African. But more generally she talks to herself, as all the Martiniquaises do : it is a continual murmur as of a stream. At first I used to think she was talking to somebody else, and would call out :— —"Épi quiless moune ça ou ka pàlé-à?" But she would always answer :—"Moin ka pàlê anni cb moin " (I am only talking to my own body), which is the Creole expression for talking to oneself. — " A n d what are you talking so much to your own body about, Cyrillia ?" — " I am talking about my own little affairs " (ti zaffaimoiri). . . . That is all that I could ever draw from her. But when not working, she will sit for hours looking out of the window. In this she resembles the kitten : both seem to find the same silent pleasure in watching the street, or the green heights that rise above its roofs,— the Morne d'Orange. Occasionally at such times she will break the silence in the strangest way, if she thinks I am not too busy with my papers to answer a q u e s tion :— —"Missié ?"—timidly. —"Eh?" —"Di moin, chè, ti manmaille dans pays ou, toutt piti, piti,—ess ça pàlé Anglais ?" ( D o the little children in my country—the very, very little children — talk English ?) — " Why, certainly, Cyrillia." —"Touttpiti,piti?"—with growing surprise. — " W h y , o f course I"