Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
or Watteau. The top part of the body is enclosed in a tight bodice that admirably displays the slimness of
the waist. The sleeves either come right down to the wrist, or end at the elbow, where they burst into a
cataract of lace, or descending tiers of stiff accordeon-pleated frills. Round the shoulders a silk foulard
is arranged with a studied, formalistic abandon and fastened on the breast with a big gold brooch. This
complicated finery is brilliantly coloured, and made of rich stuffs that have long vanished from the shops.
A load of gold jewelry hangs round the neck, triple chains with gold tassels and barrel-shaped clasps,
necklaces and collars of large hollow balls of gold or little golden cockle-shells and medallions that clink
against elaborate agrafes called ' zépingles twemblantes .' Round the wrists hang chains and bracelets, and
large ear-rings completely cover the lobe of the ear. The latter are called chenilles, and consist of globes
of gold encircled by a thick gold, caterpillar-like cable from which a spiral projects that is flanked by two
outward branching leaves.
This splendid attire is crowned by the madwas —Madras—a tight, stiff silk turban made of stuff which
came originally, no doubt, from the French colonies in India. It is tied with a complexity and a tautness
that turn it almost into a pillbox, tilted at a challenging angle over the forehead, with the ends spread-
ing overhead in stiff and brilliant spikes. These are the feminine accoutrements that are catalogued in the
famous Antillean song of the beginning of the last century, paraphrasing the adieux of a Martinicaise to
her soldier-lover who is leaving for France,
'Adieu foulard, adieu madwas
Adieu, gwain d'or, adieu collier-chou
Doudou [2] a moin li ka pa'ti
Hélas, hélas c'est pou' toujou' …'
The number of ends projecting from the Madras are ciphers of an unambiguous, amorous sign-lan-
guage comparable to that of the hibiscus behind the ear mentioned in Rupert Brooke's letters. It was ex-
plained as follows: Un bout=Je suis libre, coeur à prendre. (Porté par les jeunes filles.) Deux bouts=C-
oeur déjà pris (Tu arrives trop tard.) Trois bouts=Doudou. (Il y a encore de la place pour toi.)
Unfortunately, except at national fêtes and fancy-dress balls, these ravishing clothes are now only worn
by the older women. We had the luck to see them once worn by a young woman, Mlle Paulette-Jean, a
beautiful coloured girl of Fort-de-France, who was kind enough to put them on for Costa to photograph.
The result was delightful, and gave us an idea of what the streets of Pointe-à-Pitre and Fort-de-France
must have looked like fifty years ago when Lafcadio Hearn described them. This girl seemed the epitome
of Antillean beauty, and of all the grace, charm and elegance for which the islands are so celebrated. She
had that soft Créole voice which is characteristic of the French islands—a sort of bubbling sweetness.
Her skin was about the same colour as a dark Greek girl's or a southern Italian's, and there was a round
patch of vanilla on her cheek, a vestigial mouche that is another survivor from the reign of Louis XVI.
Fortunately, almost without exception, the old women cling to these clothes, even if the semaphore of
the turban has no longer any practical application. Their faces and bearing are often superb. Their features
are aristocratic and gaunt, with piercing eyes embedded in a haggard bone structure that might have been
hacked out of obsidian or blackthorn. These fierce and glittering matriarchs walk with a ruffling amour
propre, a prestance , and a carriage of the head that achieve the dignity of the bearing of African queens.
But the girls, often so pretty with their enormous smiles and great deers' eyes, are cheated of all their
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