Mamaloi

Petit Goaves (Haity),
August 16, 1906.

Dear Sir:

YOU see, I am keeping my promise. I shall write down everything as you requested, from the very beginning. Do with it as you wish, only don't use my own name for the sake of my relatives. I would like to spare them another scandal; the previous one was a sufficient strain upon their nerves. Here, as you desired, you will find, to begin with, a very simple story of my life. I came here as a young man of twenty years, to join a German firm in Jeremie. You know that the Germans have almost the entire colonial trade in their hands. The salary tempted me—one hundred and fifty dollars per month—and I saw myself already a millionaire. Well, I went the way of all young men who come to this loveliest and vilest of all countries on earth: horses, women, drinking and gambling. Only few are able to tear themselves away; I myself was saved only by my strong constitution. There was no thought of getting on; I lay around for months at a stretch in the German hospital at Port-au-Prince. At one time I did an excellent business with the government; at home, to be sure, they would call it an incredibly impudent swindle. There they would have me in jail for three years; here I rose to high honors. All in all, if I had received the punishment provided for by the German statutes, for what I and the others did, I would have to live five hundred years to be a free man again. But I would gladly serve them if you could point out to me one man of my age in this country who has not an equal score to account for. To be sure, even at home, a modern judge would have to let us go scot free, for we all lack a consciousness of our acts: on the contrary, we look upon our deeds as not only permissible but extremely honest.

Well then, with the construction of the pier at Port-au-Prince—which, of course, was never built—I laid the foundation of my fortune; I shared my booty with a few ministers. Today I own one of the most successful enterprises on the island, and am a very rich man. I barter—or swindle, as you say—with everything imaginable, live in a beautiful villa, promenade in marvelous gardens and drink with the officers of the Hamburg-American liners whenever they call at this port. Thank God, I have neither wife nor child. You, of course, may call the mulatto bastards that run loose in my courtyard my children simply because I begot them —may the Lord keep you and your morals!—but I don't. In fine, I feel excellent.

For years I had a miserable nostalgia. Forty years I had been away from Germany—you understand. I resolved to sell my entire holdings for better or for worse, and to spend my declining days in the old country. When I had made my resolution, my longing became suddenly so strong that I could hardly wait for my departure. As a result, I postponed the sale of my property, and with a neat sum of money tucked away, departed helter skelter to spend six months over there.

Well, I stood it three weeks, and, if I had tarried another day, the district attorney would have had to provide shelter for another five years. That was the scandal I referred to above. “Another Case Sternberg,” the Berlin papers wrote, and my highly honorable family saw their name printed in bold face underneath it. I shall never forget the last interview I had with my brother. The poor man is privy councilor! The face he made when I assured him quite innocently that the girls were at least eleven and possibly twelve years of age! The more I tried to whitewash myself, the deeper I got into the mire. When I finally told him that it really was not so bad and that here in Haity we prefer the girls even younger, else we would have to be content with sickly specimens and not virgins at all, he stroked his forehead and murmured: “Be silent, wretched brother, be silent. My eyes look into a cesspool of indescribable filth.” For three years he raged at me, and I secured his forgiveness only because I bequeathed to each one of his eleven children a considerable sum, and also because I sent him a monthly allowance for his sons. For this he includes me every Sunday in his prayers. Whenever I write him I never fail to mention the fact that another young lady of my neighborhood has reached the convenient age of eight and has enjoyed my favor. I ask him to pray for me, old sinner that I am. Let's hope it helps! Once he wrote me that he had to struggle with his conscience to accept money from such an incorrigible man; often he was about to send it back: only his consideration and pity for his only brother persuaded him to keep it finally. But now, suddenly, the scales had fallen from his eyes, and he knew that I had been always joking. For now I was ninety-six years of age and for that reason incapable of similar misdeeds. But he begged me insistently to refrain from similar jokes in the future.

I answered him; here is a copy of my letter, which I, as a good business man, kept:

Probably my good brother had another serious battle with his conscience, but eventually Christian pity for me, poor sinner, must have conquered in his heart. At any rate he kept the check.

I really don't know what else I should tell you about my life, my dear sir. I could tell you a hundred little adventures and jokes, but they would probably be of exactly the same nature as you heard from every white man, when you traversed our country.

As I re-read this missive, it occurs to me that three-quarters of what I had intended to be a curriculum vitae is devoted to the theme “woman”; —well, that probably is characteristic of the writer. After all, what interesting thing could I have said about my horses, my merchandise or my wines? And poker I gave up a long time ago. In this village I am the only white man, aside from the Hamburg-American Line agent, and he plays no more than the officers of his line who occasionally call on me.

There remains woman—what will you?

So, now, I shall place this letter in the booklet which is to contain the notes you desired of me, and of which I still have no idea myself. Who knows, then, whether you ever will get it, or if you do—perhaps in an empty booklet?

I salute you, kind sir, and am,

Yours very truly,

F. X.

August 18.

AS I open this empty booklet, I have a feeling as though something new were entering my life. What? The young doctor who visited with me for three days made me promise to investigate a mystery and embark upon a strange adventure; a mystery which, perhaps, does not even exist, and an adventure which may be alive in his imagination only. And I promised so lightly—but I am afraid he will be disappointed.

To be sure, he surprised me. Five months he strolled around in this land of ours and knows it much better than I myself, even though I have been here for fifty years. He told me a thousand things which I had never heard, or else which I had heard and put aside incredulously. Probably I would have paid as little attention to his stories, if he had not extracted from me, by his questions, all kinds of things which were never quite clear to me and which suddenly appeared to me in an entirely new light. And yet, I would have forgotten all that presently, if it hadn't been for the little incident with Adelaide.

What happened? Well, the negro girl—she is the most beautiful and the strongest of all my servants and really my favorite ever since she came into my house—was laying the tea table for us. Suddenly the doctor interrupted the conversation and looked at her attentively. After she was gone he asked me whether I had noticed the small silver ring with the black stone on the thumb of her right hand. I had seen the ring a thousand times, but had never paid any attention to it. Had I seen another one like it on another girl's hand? Well, perhaps; but I could not remember. He shook his head thoughtfully.

When the girl came once more to serve tea on the verandah, the doctor without looking at her, hummed a few notes; an absurd melody with a few stupid nigger words, none of which I could understand:

Leh! Eh! Bomba, hen, hen!
Cango bafio te
Cango mount de le
Cango do ki la
Cango li![01]

Crash! The tea board lay on the stone floor, cans and cups shattered to pieces. With a shriek the girl ran from the house. The doctor stared after her; then he laughed and said:

“I give you my word, she is a mamaloi.”[02]

We chatted till midnight, until the steam siren called him back on board ship. While I took him back in my boat he almost succeeded in convincing me that I was living like a blindman in a most extraordinary world of horror, the existence of which till then was utterly unknown tome.

Well, I have sharpened my eyes and ears. So far, nothing odd has occurred to me. I am very curious to read the books the doctor proposed to send me from New York. As a matter of fact, I agreed with him perfectly when he said that it is a shame that, in all these years, I haven't read a single book about this country. I didn't even know that such books existed: I never came across one at the house of a friend.

August 27.

ONCE more Adelaide is away for a week to visit her parents in the interior. She really is the only native girl in whom I ever noticed such a pronounced attachment to her parents. I believe she would run away if I did not give her the desired vacation. For days before she is quite unbalanced, and when she returns, the sorrow of parting always works so severely upon her that she actually breaks down under the strain of her duties. Think of it: a colored girl! Incidentally, I have searched her room during her absence; quite methodically. I prepared myself for the task by reading up on it in a detective story. I found nothing, absolutely nothing suspicious. The only one of her possessions which was not obvious from the very beginning was a black, rounded, oblong stone, lying on a plate bathed in oil. I think she uses it for massaging; all these girls massage their bodies.

September 4.

THE books from New York have arrived; I want to start reading immediately. There are three German, three English and five French works, some of them illustrated. Adelaide has returned. She is so miserable that she had to go to bed immediately. But, I know her; in a few days she will be all right again.

September 17.

IF only one-tenth of what these books contain is true, it is really worth while to pursue the secret which the doctor thinks is so close to me. But these travellers simply must make themselves interesting, so that one copies the rankest idiocies from the other. I am really such a blind ass that never, in all these years, have I noticed anything of the entire voodoo cult, with its veneration of the snake and its thousand human sacrifices.[03] A few small things did occur to me occasionally, but I never paid any attention to them. I must try to remember everything which might have some connection with voodooism.

Once my old housekeeper—I was living in Gonaïves then—refused to buy pork in the market. It might be human flesh, she claimed. I laughed at her and reminded her of the fact that she bought pork all year round. “Yes, but never at Easter-time!” I could not convince her, and had to send another girl to the market. I have also seen these caprelates quite frequently—hougons they are called in this vicinity—decrepit old men who sell wanges.[04] These are small bags with shells and multi-colored stones which are worn as amulets. They are divided into distinctive types, such as “points” which render men invulnerable; and for women there are chances which secure possession of the naked body of the beloved. But I never knew that these swindlers—or rather, these merchants—are a kind of low clergy of the voodoo cult. Nor did I ever realize that many foodstuffs are taboo for members of the cult. Thus Adelaide never touches tomatoes or aubergines, nor will she eat the meat of goats or turtles. On the other hand, she has often said that the meat of a ram is blessed, and blessed also is the maiskassan, her beloved corn-bread. I also have learned that twins are greeted with jubilation everywhere; there is always a family banquet when a woman or an ass gets marassas.

But, good Heaven, the story of human flesh on the market is certainly a fable; as for the rest, it all seems utterly harmless to me. Small superstitions; where on the entire earth won't you find something similar?

September 19.

SO far as Adelaide is concerned, the doctor seems to be right after all, provided that his knowledge is not simply book knowledge. The Englishman, Spencer St. John, does mention a similar ring; it is supposed to be worn by the mamaloi, the priestess of the voodoo.[05] Incidentally, I will confess that this term and the analogous one for the chief male priest are in much better taste than I would have believed these niggers capable of using: papaloi, mamaloi—in their corrupted French the loi, of course, stands for roi, or king. Can you think of a more beautiful title? Mother and queen— father and king. Does not that sound better than privy councilor, as my God-fearing brother calls himself? I also found mention in the books of the stone which I thought she used for massage. Tippenhauer, as well as St. Mery, knew it.[06] Wonderful! I have a real god in my house; the fellow is called Damtala! In her absence I inspected it; the descriptions tally absolutely. It is obviously an old, marvelously well-sharpened axe of the time of the caraibs.[07] The negroes find it in the forest, and, unable to explain its origin, think it is a god. They put it on a plate and believe it knows the future and talks by rattling. To keep it in good humor, it gets an oil bath every Friday. I find this utterly charming, and my secret priestess pleases me more from day to day. To be sure, there are still secrets to be fathomed —the doctor is quite right—but there is nothing horrible about it!

September 23.

NOW, in my seventieth year, I am forced to realize that it is well to educate yourself in all fields. I would never have had that charming adventure I experienced yesterday if I hadn't studied those books.

I was drinking my tea on the verandah, and called for Adelaide, who had forgotten the sugar. She did not come. I looked in my room, in the kitchen; she wasn't there, nor were the other girls. Moreover, I could not find the sugar. As I walked through the foyer, I heard murmurs in her room. I rushed to the garden—her room is on the ground floor— and looked in. There my pretty black priestess was sitting, wiping the stone with her best silk kerchief, putting it back on the plate and carefully pouring fresh oil over it. She seemed very excited; her eyes were full of tears. Carefully she took the plate between two fingers, at the same time extending her arm. Then her arm began to tremble, slowly at first and then faster. Naturally the stone began to rattle. Adelaide talked to it but, unfortunately, I could not understand a word.

But now I am getting somewhere. Fine! The doctor may yet be satisfied. And I, too; for, fundamentally, this is flattering to me. That evening, before dinner, I went to her room, took the talking stone and sat down in my easy chair. When she came in to remove the plates, I quickly put my newspaper aside, took the plate and poured fresh oil over the stone. The effect was remarkable. Crash! went the tray, an habitual occurrence at such moments. Thank God, it was empty this time. I motioned her to be still and said quietly: “Friday! He must have a fresh bath today!”

“You want to ask him?” she whispered.

“Naturally!”

“About me?”

“Of course!”

All this came about very conveniently; now I would certainly learn her secret. I waved at her to leave the room and to close the door behind her. She obeyed, but I could plainly hear her waiting outside and listening. Now I made the god clatter to its heart's content. It skipped about on the oiled plate so merrily that it really was a joy to watch it. The clacking mingled with Adelaide's sighs from behind the door.

As soon as I let the thunder god subside and put down the plate, she slunk in again.

“What did he say?”

Exactly! The devil, what did he say? He clattered, and nothing else. So I remained silent.

“What did he say?” she insisted. “Yes, or no?”

“Yes.” I said, making a wild guess.

She was jubilant. “Petit moune? Petit moune?”[08] In the Haitian Creole this stands for petit monde, which means “little world,” or rather, “little child.” “Naturally, petit moune,” I repeated.

She jumped around the room, hopping from one leg to the other.

“Oh, he is so good, the dear thunder god! He told me so, too. And now he must keep his promise since he pronounced it twice in one day!” Suddenly she became quite serious again. “What did he say, a boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” I answered.

At this she fell on her knees before me, crying and sobbing again and again, almost swooning in her joy. “At last! At last!”

September 28.

I KNOW that Adelaide has loved me for a long time and that she wishes for nothing else so much as a petit moune from me. She is jealous of the other girls whose brats run around in the courtyard, although, God knows, I don't bother with any of them. I think she would love to scratch their eyes out. So that is the reason why she treated the thunder god so nicely! Incidentally, tonight she was particularly charming, and it seems to me that I have never had so sweet a colored girl. I believe I actually like her a lot, and, so far as I am concerned, everything shall be done to fulfill her little wish.

October 6.

IT is scandalous that I, as a good business man, have never kept account of the extent to which I have contributed toward the betterment of this wretched people. Apparently I have always greatly underestimated my cultural achievements. Today I brought the statistics up to date; it was not very difficult. You know, my thumb has three joints and this is said to be hereditary. In other words, anybody in the village with three joints in his thumb is certainly one of my offspring. In connection with this I made an amusing discovery, so far as little Leon is concerned. I always took the mulatto boy for one of my progeny, and his mother, too, swears to this. But the brat has only two joints in his thumb. Something is wrong here. I suspect handsome Christian, one of the Hamburg-American Line officers; he must have competed with me. As a matter of fact, not less than four of my offspring are missing. Some say they ran away years ago; but nobody is able to tell me anything definite. It is really so unimportant.

October 24.

THE clatter-god was right. Adelaide is bewitched, and full of a honeymoon tenderness which is almost disquieting. Her pride and her joy seem contagious; never in all my life have I bothered about the progress of a future pilgrim on earth; while now—what's the use denying it?—I find myself keenly interested. On top of that comes the closer relationship which has sprung up between Adelaide and me. To be sure there was some resistance and hesitancy, as well as much weeping and coaxing, until I finally won her entire trust. These blacks certainly can be silent if they want to; what they won't divulge you can't get out of them even with red-hot pliers.

Here, again, a particularly happy coincidence provided the means whereby I forced her to remove her last mask.

Adelaide has no parents after all! I learned it from an old woman by the name of Phylloxera, who has weeded my garden these past years. She is a shrivelled old hag who lives with her great-grandchild—a dirty, lousy brat —in a tumble-down shanty in the neighborhood. Once again the little scamp had stolen eggs in my house and faced a severe whipping. Then the old woman came to beg me off. In return she offered me information about Adelaide, since, of course, she too had noticed in what high favor Adelaide stood. And her information—I had to swear by all saints that I would not betray the old hen—was really so interesting that I gave her an American dollar on top of it. Adelaide has no parents and, therefore, could not have visited them. She is a mamaloi, a priestess-queen of the voodoo cult. Whenever she took leave, it was for the purpose of rushing to the honfou, the temple situated far away on a little clearing in the woods.[09] And there my little tender Adelaide plays the part of a cruel priestess, invokes the holy snake, chokes children, drinks rum like an old ship's captain and manages unheard of orgies! Small wonder that she always returns home utterly exhausted. Well! You just wait, you little canaille!

October 26.

I ANNOUNCED that I was riding to Sale-Trou and had my horse saddled. The old woman had given me approximate directions to the temple, as well as a negro woman can give directions. Naturally, I lost my way, and had the pleasure of staying over night in the primeval forest. Fortunately I carried a hammock with me. Not until the next morning did I find the honfou-temple, a large, miserable straw hut upon a clearing which had been stamped and smoothed like a dance floor. A rough path led to the temple, and, on both sides, I noticed stakes driven into the earth and adorned alternately with the cadavers of black and white chickens. Between the stakes there were blown-out turkey eggs and grotesquely shaped stones and roots. A big strawberry tree—called loco, and held sacred by the believers—stood at the entrance to the temple; and around it were heaped shattered glasses, plates and bottles in its honor.[10]

I entered the room. A few holes in the roof gave sufficient light. Underneath one of them, fastened to a pillar, was a burned-down pitch torch. The interior decorations of the temple were very gay. Against the walls I saw pictures of Bismarck and King Edward VII. from an illustrated weekly. Both of them most assuredly came from me. Who else would have subscribed to the “Woche” and to the “Illustrated London News”? Probably Adelaide had generously bequeathed them. In addition there were a few pictures of saints,—horrible oil prints depicting St. Sebastian, St. Francis and Mother Mary—and, next to them, cartoons from “Simplizissimus” (mine too!) and from “L'Assiette au Beurre.” In between hung a few old flag-rags, chains of shells and multi-colored paper garlands.

In the background, somewhat higher up, I noticed a heavy basket. Ah, I thought, that's where Hougonbadagri, the great voodoo god, is hidden![11] Very carefully I opened the cover and jumped back: I had no particular desire to be bitten by some poisonous reptile. But oh! To be sure, there was a snake in the basket, but only a harmless one; and starved to death besides! That is typically nigger; to pray to something as divine and then completely forget it when the festival is over! Naturally a reserve god could be easily procured in the woods. Anyway, Damtala, the good clatter-god, was decidedly better off than the almighty Houedosobagui lying miserably shrivelled and dead before me. The former gets oil every Friday, while the latter, who holds the place of John the Baptist in this crazy heathen-Christian voodoo cult, does not even get a little frog or a mouse!

October 29.

WHEN I displayed my new wisdom before Adelaide the next day—I acted as if I had known everything for a long time—she did not even attempt any longer to lie. I told her that the doctor had informed me, he who was a messenger of Cimbi-Kita, the head devil.[12] And I showed her an axe over which I had poured some red ink. An axe drenched in blood is the symbol of this devil. The girl trembled, swallowed hard and could barely be quieted. “I knew it,” she shouted. “I knew it! And I also told the papaloi about it. He is Dom Pedre himself.”[13]

I confirmed it—why shouldn't the good doctor be Dom Pedre himself? Now I learned that our own village, Petit Goaves, was the headquarters of the devil-sect of Dom Pedre. That was a man—and a nice swindler he must have been!—who came over a long time ago from the Spanish part of the island, and founded here the cult of Cimbi-Kita, the great devil, and his knight, Azilit. He must have made a great deal of money out of it. But he himself and all of his greater and lesser devils may fetch me alive, if I don't make a nice business out of this story. I have an idea already.

November 18.

TODAY I heard the neklesin, the iron triangle, howl through the streets.[14] How often I had heard this childish music before and never thought anything of it! Only now do I know that it is the gruesome signal calling the believers to the temple. I called my little Mamaloi immediately and informed her that this time I would participate in the rites. She was beside herself; begged and entreated, cried and shrieked. But I did not give in. Again I showed her the old wooden axe with the red ink, which almost froze her with terror. I told her that I was specifically instructed by Dom Pedre and that everything would have to be done as usual. She left me to talk with her houcibossales, the tattooed voodoo people.[15] I think she is there now; and the papaloi himself, too.

I used her absence to read another few chapters of my books; I have here collected a few dates which probably are trustworthy.

Apparently, Toussaint Louverture, the liberator of Haity, was a papaloi himself, as were Emperor Dessalines and King Christophe. Emperor Soulouque was a voodoo priest;[16] I knew the black rotter when I first came to Port-au-Prince in 1858. And President Salnave, my good friend Salnave, in 1868 introduced the human sacrifice in person—the sacrifice of the “hornless he-goat.”[17] Salnave! Who would have thought it? The very knave with whom I—in the same year—did not build the pier in Port-au-Paix, which laid the foundation of my fortune. Then came President Salomon, the aged idiot, who was a pious disciple of voodoo. That Hippolyte, his successor, was little less so, I had often heard, but that he preserved as memories the skeletons of his victims is a particularly nice trait about him.[18] When he died ten years ago, they found quite a number of these skeletons in his rooms. He might have left me some of them. I had closed many a good transaction with him—always fifty-fifty—and, besides that, he got all his uniforms free from me, with all the golden tinsel he could wish for! And all the calypsos came out of my pocket, too; and he never had to spend a centime for small tips for the gentlemen and deputies.

On the other hand, the two presidents of the sixties and seventies, Geffrard and Boisrond-Canal, were opposed to the voodoo cult. The very two with whom it was so difficult to do business! In their days, too, fell the trials against the voodoo people. In 1864 eight persons were shot to death in Port-au-Prince because they had sacrificed and eaten a twelve-year-old girl. And, in 1876, a papaloi was sentenced to death, and, two years later, a number of women. That is not very much, if, as Texier has it, a thousand children— cabrits sans comes —were slaughtered and eaten every year.[19]

Adelaide has not returned yet. But I shall insist upon my wish under all circumstances. I belong to this country, and have the right to know it in all its peculiarities.

10 P.M.

THE papaloi has sent an emissary, an avalou—sort of a sacristan— who pleaded for an interview in behalf of his master.[20] I sent him away and refused to listen to anything. Before he left, I showed him my ink-spattered axe, which did not fail to make the desired impression. I notified the papaloi that I would shoot him down if he did not live up to my wishes. At nine o'clock the fellow returned once more to bargain; incidentally, he was filled with a wholesome awe and did not even dare to enter my room. In the name of Cimba-Kita, the head devil, I did some tall cursing. This man, at least, is as certain of my devilish mission as Adelaide herself! She has not returned yet and I am positive she is being held. I told the avalou that, together with Dom Pedre himself, I would call for her if she weren't home within an hour.

EVERYTHING is arranged! The expedition can start tomorrow. The papaloi probably realized that I was not to be moved from my purpose, and therefore he gave in. True priest that he was, he still tried to secure something for himself and, through Adelaide, made the condition that I donate twenty dollars for the poor of the community—“the poor'—meant himself, of course! So I sent him the money immediately. Now the black privy councilor will probably be satisfied.

In return he sent me a handful of rotten plants which I was to use for a bath in order to be ordained and become a canzou.[21] One really is expected to squat forty days in this mud bath until it has completely evaporated; but a shorter method was permitted me. I threw the stuff out, of course, but, for Adelaide's sake, I ate the second giftt—verver, a mixture of corn and blood.[22]

It tasted abominably. Now I am sufficiently purified to be accepted tomorrow night among the devil priests, the bizangos and quinbindingues.[23]

November 22.

IT costs me an effort to hold the pen. My arm trembles and my hand refuses to obey. Two days I have lain on the couch and even today I walk around in a fever. All my bones seem crushed. Adelaide is still in bed. Small wonder, after that night! If I should report all that happened to my brother, I think the pious gentleman might still return the enclosed check.

God, how my back aches! Each smallest movement makes me scream. I hear Adelaide whimper in her bed. A little while ago I was at her bedside. She said no word; she only cried softly and kissed my hand. And I could hardly realize that this poor little animal was the same cruel priestess with her clawing, blood-stained hands.

I will relate everything quietly.

Adelaide left early that morning; I mounted my fallow that afternoon. My two good Brownings were secure in my saddle pocket. This time I knew the way to the honfou, which I reached at sundown. From afar I heard already the noise of excited voices, intermingled with the piercing sound of the neklesin. The great clearing was filled with black bodies; they had shed all their clothing and wore only a few knotted red handkerchiefs around their loins. Drinking out of their full-bellied tafia bottles, they ran up and down the path along which black and white fowl had been impaled on stakes. Shrieking, they shattered their bottles under the sacred strawberry tree. Apparently I was expected. A few men approached me, tethered my horse to a tree and led me along the path, pouring blood from their vessels over the pitifully cackling and fluttering hens as if they were so many flower pots. At the entrance to the temple someone pressed an empty bottle into my hand which I shattered under the strawberry tree. We entered the empty room, and everybody pressed after me. Shoved by naked bodies, I came close to the snake basket. Mighty pitch torches were fastened to the beams and sent their soot through the open roof-holes into the night. I was pleased with the red sheen upon the black, glistening bodies; it put me in good humor.

Next to the snake basket blazed a fire under a huge kettle. Close by the musicians sat upon their drums, Houn, Hountor and Hountorgri, dedicated to the three apostles, Peter, Paul and John.[24] Behind them I saw a gigantic fellow beating the Assauntor drum which is spanned with the skin of a dead papaloi. The rhythm became ever faster; ever louder they thundered through the crowded interior.

The acting avalous forced the crowd back on both sides and cleared an empty space in the middle. They threw down dry wood and faggots, and poked their burning torches into them. Suddenly a brilliant fire was burning on the stamped floor. Then they led five neophytes, three women and two men, into the circle. These had just finished their forty-days' purification in the mud bath which, fortunately, I had been spared. The drums stopped and the papaloi came forth.

He was an old, emaciated negro, clad like the rest in red knotted kerchiefs. He wore a blue ribbon around his forehead, from under which his long, foully clotted hair straggled. His assistants, the dijons, handed him a mass of hair, pieces of horn and herbs, which he scattered slowly into the flames, chanting incantations to the heavenly twins, Saugo, the god of lightning, and Bado, the god of winds, that they might fan the flames.[25] Then he ordered the trembling neophytes to jump into the fire. The dijons coaxed and pushed the hesitating ones into the flames; it was marvelous to see how they jumped to and fro. Finally they were permitted to emerge again, and now the priest led them to the steaming kettle next to the snake basket. Now he implored Opete, the sacred turkey, and Assougie, the heavenly chatterbox.[26] In their honor the neophytes had to reach into the boiling water; had to snatch pieces of meat from it which they distributed among the believers on huge cabbage leaves. Time and again the terribly scalded hands reached into the sizzling brew, until even the last one had his leaf. Only then did the measly old man accept them as full-fledged members of his community—in the name of Attaschollos, the great world spirit—and finally he left them to the mercy of their relatives and friends, who anointed their poor seared hands with salve.[27] I was curious to see whether this benevolent priest would ask a similar ceremony of me, too, but nobody bothered. To be sure, they handed me a piece of meat too, and I ate it just like the rest. The dijons threw more fuel into the fire and arranged a spit over it.

Then they dragged in three rams by the horns, two black and one white, and led them before the papaloi, who pierced their throats with a powerful knife, and with one mighty thrust severed their heads. With his two hands he held them on high; showed them to the drummers first, then to the believers; and, dedicating them to the god of chaos, Agaou Kata Badagri, he threw them into the kettle.[28] In the meantime, the dijons caught the blood in huge vessels, mixed it with rum and distributed it around to drink. Then they skinned the goats and put them on the spit. I, too, drank; a sip at first, and then more and more. I felt a strange intoxication rise in me—a wild, lustful drunkenness such as I had never before known. I quite lost consciousness of my part as a disinterested spectator; more and more I entered into this wild world as one who belonged.

With pieces of charcoal the dijons drew a black circle on the floor next to the fire, and the papaloi stepped into it. And, while the joints roasted and sizzled, he invoked in a loud voice Allegra Vadra, the omniscient god. He begged him to enlighten his priests and the trusting community. And, through him, the god answered that enlightenment would come after the goat meat had been consumed. Thereupon the black figures sprang to the spit, tore off the meat with their hands and swallowed it hot and half raw. They broke the bones, gnawing them with their big teeth and throwing them high through the roof-holes into the night—in honor of Allegra Vadra, the great god.

And again the drums began to drone. Houn, the small one, began; then Hountor and Hountorgri. And finally, the mighty Assountor-drum began to shriek its loathesome song. Ever stronger grew the excitement; ever closer and hotter the black bodies pressed around me. The avalous put the spit aside and stamped out the fire. The black crowd surged forward.

And suddenly,—I don't know where she came from—Adelaide, the Mamaloi, stood upon the snake basket. Like the rest she wore only a few kerchiefs over her loins and her left shoulder. Her forehead was adorned with the blue priest ribbon; her marvelous white teeth shone in the red light of the torches. She was exquisite, absolutely exquisite! With his head bent low, the papaloi handed her a big vessel with rum and blood, which she drained in a single draught. The drums were silent. Softly at first, and ever growing in volume she began the great song of the holy snake:

Leh! Eh! Bomba, hen, hen!
Cango bafio te,
Cango moune de le,
Cango do ki la
Cango li!

Twice, three times, she sang the wild words, until, from a hundred drunken lips, it came back to her:

Leh! Eh! Bomba, hen, hen!
Cango bafio te,
Cango moune de le,
Cango do ki la
Cango li!

The small drum accompanied her song, which grew softer again and seemed to die down completely. She rocked to and fro from the hips, bent her head and lifted it, drawing weird snake-lines in the air. And the crowd was silent; breathless in expectation. Softly someone whispered: “Be blessed, Manho, our priestess!” And another one: “St. John the Baptist kiss you, Houangan, his beloved!”[29] The eyes of the negroes bulged from their sockets. Everybody was staring at the softly humming mamaloi.

Then, in a faltering voice, she said quietly: “Come here! Houedo hears you, the great snake!”[30]

Everybody pressed close. It was almost impossible for the servants and priests to preserve order.

“Shall I get a new ass this summer?”—“Will my child get well?”— “Will my lover return, whom they made a soldier?” Everyone had a question to ask, a wish to make.

The black Pythia answered, her head sunk deep on her chest, her arms stretched downwards, stiff; her fingers painfully spread apart— perfect oracles which said neither “yes” nor “no,” but from which each one could take what he wished to hear. Satisfied, they stepped aside, throwing coppers into the old felt hat which the papaloi held. There was silver, too.

Again the drums droned; slowly the mamaloi seemed to awaken from her dream. She sprang down from the basket, tore the snake from it and mounted again. It was a long, black and yellow reptile. Confused by the firelight, it thrust its tongue forth and slowly wound itself around the outstretched arms of the priestess. The believers fell to the floor, touching the earth with their foreheads. “Long live the mamaloi, our mother and queen! She, Houdja-Nikon, our ruler!”[31] And they prayed to the great snake, and the priestess exacted the oath of eternal allegiance. “May your brain rot and your intestines within you if ever you break the oath you swore!” Then they chanted: “We swear three strong oaths to you, Hougon-badagri, St. John the Baptist, you who come to us as Sobagui, as Houedo, the great voodoo god!”

Now the mamaloi opened another basket which stood behind her. From it she drew fowl, black ones and white ones, and thrust them high into the air. The believers jumped up from the soil and grabbed the fluttering animals, tearing their heads off. Greedily they drank the freshly streaming blood that gushed from the fowl. Then they threw them out through the holes in the roof: “For you, Houedo; for you, Hougonbadagri, as a sign that we keep our oath!”

From behind six men pressed around the mamaloi. They wore devils' masks; goat furs hung from their shoulders, and their bodies were painted red with blood.

“Fear, fear Cimbi-Kita!” they cried. The mob surged back and formed a small opening into which they stepped.

They led a girl of ten years by a rope around her neck. The child looked around, surprised, timid, afraid, but did not cry. It staggered, could hardly stand on its feet; quite drunk with rum. The papaloi came close.

“To Azilit I give you, and to Dom Pedre! May they carry you to him, the greatest of all devils, to Cimbi-Kita!”

He strew herbs into the woolly hair of the child, horn-shavings and tufts of hair, and then laid a burning cinder on top of it. But, before the terrified child could reach with its hand into the burning hair, the mamaloi, with a horrible shriek, threw herself down from the basket like a maniac. Her fingers closed around the small neck; she lifted the child high up into the air and choked it to death.

“Aa-bo-bo!” she shrieked.

It seemed as if she would never let go of her victim. Finally the head priest tore the lifeless child away from her and, as he had done to the rams, cut the head off with one stroke. At the same time the devil-priests with mighty voices chanted their triumphant song:

Interrogez le cimetiere,
Il vous dira
De nous ou de la mort,
Qui des deux fournit
Les plus d'hotes.[32]

Again the papaloi, with outstretched arms, showed the head to the drummers; again he threw it into the seething caldron. Rigid, indifferent, the mamaloi stood, While the devil-priests caught the blood in their rum vessels and hacked the body to pieces. Like animals they threw the raw pieces of meat to the believers; the latter fell on them, fought for them, tore at them.

“Aa-bo-bo! Le cabrit sans cornes!” they shrieked.

And all of them drank the fresh blood mixed with strong rum. A horrible drink, but one drinks it, must drink it, more and ever more! Now one of the devil-priests advanced into the circle next to the priestess. He tore his mask off; threw down his fur. Naked the black man stood there, his body weirdly painted with gore and hands dyed red with blood. Everybody was silent; nowhere was a voice to be heard. Only the small Houn drum softly droned to the devil dance, the dance of Dom Pedre which was about to begin. Motionless the dancer stood, without moving a muscle, for several minutes. Slowly he rocked to and fro; first the head, then the body. All his muscles were tense. A strange excitement seemed to overcome him and to infect everyone like a mystic fluid.

Each one looks at the other, still without moving; but one senses how the nerves begin to tingle. Now the priest begins to dance, whirls slowly at first, then ever faster. Louder sounds the Houn drum; the Hountor drum chimes in. Now life comes into the black bodies; one lifts a foot, another one an arm. They devour each other with their eyes. Two seize each other and join the dance. Now the Hountorgri, too, sounds and the mighty Assauntor drum; its side of human skin shrieks a terrifying, lashing wail of lust. Everybody leaps up. They whirl and dance, kick, stamp, jump like goats, cast themselves to the ground, beat the floor with their heads, leap up again, wave their arms and legs, and rave and shriek to the wild rhythm the priestess sings. Proudly she stands in the middle, lifting high the holy snake and singing her song: “Leh! Eh! Bomba, hen, hen!” Close by her side is the papaloi; from huge vats he squirts blood over the black figures which leap ever wilder, chant ever fiercer the song of the queen.

They take hold of one another, tear the red rags from their bodies. Their limbs intertwine; hot perspiration runs from the naked bodies. Drunk with rum and blood, whipped into boundless lust, they tear at each other like animals, throw one another to the ground, lift each other high in the air, thrust their greedy teeth into each other's flesh! And I feel myself drawn irresistibly into this devil-dance of madmen. A crazy lust invades the hall, a bloody delirium of love that transcends all human bounds. They have stopped singing a long time ago; out of their convulsions and delirium only the horrible devil-shout is audible: “Aa-bo-bo!”

I see men and women bite each other, possessing each other in every conceivable manner. Blood-thirsty, they thrust their nails into the flesh, tearing deep wounds. The blood lulls their senses. I see men crawl on men; women on women. There, five roll together in a dark knot; here, one, like a dog, stoops over the snake basket. Their mad lust knows no distinction, cannot even mark living from inanimate things.

Two nigger girls fall on me; tear at my clothes. I seize their breasts, throw them to the floor, roll around, bite, shriek—just like all the rest. I see Adelaide indiscriminately possessing one man after the other; and women, too, always fresh ones—her devilish lust unquenchable. She rushes at me naked; red blood trickles from her arms and breasts. Only the blue priest-ribbon still adorns her forehead. Like black snakes her thick locks crawl from under it. She hurls me down, takes me by force, rushes up again and thrusts another woman into my arms. And she staggers away, embracing and embraced, ever by other black arms.

And now, all resistance gone, I plunge into the wildest frenzy, into the most unheard of embraces; leap, rage and shriek, wilder and madder than anybody else, the horrible: “Aa-bo-bo!”

I found myself outside, lying on the dance-place in a heap of black men and women. The sun was already up. All around me the black bodies lay, groaning and writhing in their dreams. With an immense effort I rose; my clothes hung from me in bloody tatters. I saw Adelaide lying close by, bruised and bloody from head to foot. I lifted her, carried her to my horse. Where I found the strength, I do not know; but I managed to lift her onto the horse's back, and so rode home, holding the senseless woman in my arms. I had her put to bed and went to mine….

I hear her whimpering again. I shall go and fetch her a glass of lemonade.

March 7, 1907.

NOW months have gone by. As I read over these last pages, it seems to me as if another, not myself, had lived through all this. It seems all so far away and so strange. And particularly when I am with Adelaide, I have to force myself to believe that she was present, too. She, a mamaloi! She, this tender, trusting, happy little creature? She has only one thought: our child. Will it really be a boy? Surely a boy? A hundred times she asks me that. And is so happy every time I tell her that it will most certainly be a boy. It is too funny: this child that is not even yet come takes up a large part of my thoughts. We have already agreed upon a name; already all the linen is in readiness. And I am almost as worried for the little worm as Adelaide herself.

Incidentally, I have discovered a new extraordinary faculty in her. Now she is a full-fledged department head in my business, and does very well indeed. I have founded a new branch which gives me a lot of amusement. I distill a miracle-water, good for all sorts of things. The recipe is very simple: rain-water colored pink with a little tomato juice. This is poured into little fat bottles which I import labelled from New York. The label is designed after my own directions; it bears Cimbi-Kita's bloody axe, and the inscription: Eau de Dom Pedre. The bottles cost me three cents each, and I sell them for a dollar. Moreover, the sales are excellent; the niggers almost fight for it. Since last week I have also begun to ship them into the interior. The purchasers are very well satisfied; they claim that it works marvels for all kinds of ailments. If they could write, I would have quite a collection of testimonials by now. Adelaide, too, is of course convinced of its supernatural powers, and deals in it with real zeal. Her salary and percentage—she also gets a percentage from the sales—is always turned over to me that I may save it for “her boy.” She is really charming, this black child. I almost believe I am in love with her.

August 26, 1907.

ADELAIDE is beside herself with joy; she has her boy! But that isn't all. The boy is white, and that makes her proud beyond belief. All negro children, as is well known, are not black at birth, but rather pink-looking, just like the children of white people. But, whereas these become white, negro children grow black, or at least brown, in the case of hybrids. [33] Adelaide knew this, of course, and, with tears in her eyes, waited for her child to get black. She never let it from her arms, not even for a second, as if she could prevent it from acquiring its natural color. But hour after hour passed; and day after day; and her child became white and remained white —snow-white, in fact, whiter than myself. If it had not had black, kinky hair, nobody would have believed it to be of negro blood. Not until three weeks had passed did Adelaide permit me to take it in my arms. I never held a child in my arms; it was a strange feeling when the little fellow laughed at me and milled about with its little arms. What force he already has in his tiny fingers, particularly in his thumbs—which, of course, have three joints—really a marvelous fellow!

It is a pure joy to watch the mother standing in the store behind the counter, the pink miracle bottles piled up before her. Her strong, black bosom laughs from her red blouse, and the healthy white baby drinks mightily. Really, I feel well in my old days, and as young as ever. In my happiness over the birthday of my son, I have sent a large extra remittance to my dear brother. I can easily afford it; there will always be enough for the boy.

September 4.

I HAD sworn to myself that I would never again have anything to do with the voodoo crowd, unless it were in connection with my miracle water. Now I had to busy myself once more with them, after all; not as a participant this time, but as an attacker.

Yesterday the old hag who weeds my garden came crying to me. Her great-grandchild had disappeared. I consoled her by saying he probably had run into the woods. She, too, had believed so at first, and had searched for days; but now she knew that the bidangos had caught him.[34] He was being held in a hut outside the village and next week he was to be sacrificed in honor of Cimbi-Kita, Azilit and Dom Pedre. I promised to help her and rode off on my mission. When I got to the thatched hut a black fellow stepped before me, whom I recognized as the dancer of the devil-priest. I pushed him aside and went inside. There I found the boy squatting in a big box, bound hand and foot. Big pieces of corn-bread soaked in rum lay next to him. He stared at me from stupid, animal eyes. I cut him loose and took him away, the priest not daring to interfere. I had the boy taken directly aboard a Hamburg-American liner leaving that night. To the captain I gave a letter to a business friend in St. Thomas, who was to take care of the boy. Thus he is safe. Had he remained here he would have fallen victim to the sacrificial knife before long. This voodoo crowd doesn't easily let go of someone they have destined for slaughter. The old crone sobbed with joy when she heard that her only happiness—incidentally, an utterly helpless rascal—was safe aboard ship. Now she has nothing to fear; when he returns he will be a man, capable himself of offering sacrifices.

As a matter of fact, my action pleased me personally, too. It is sort of revenge for the mulatto boys who disappeared from my courtyard. The old woman has told me they, too, met the fate that was planned for her great-grandchild.

September 10.

FOR the first time in many months I have had another quarrel with Adelaide. She learned that I had saved Phylloxera's great-grandchild, and asked me about it. The priests of Cimbi-Kita had destined the boy to die; how could I dare to tear him from their strong clutches?

In all this time we had never said another word about voodoo, ever since the day, shortly after the sacrificial feast, when she had voluntarily told me that she had resigned her office as mamaloi. She could no longer remain a priestess, she said, because she loved me too much. I had laughed at the time, but inwardly I was pleased, nevertheless.

Now she began once more with this terrible superstition. At first I tried to argue with her, but gave it up soon enough, realizing that I could not take away from her a belief which she had absorbed with her mother's milk. Besides that I recognized that her reproaches sprang from her love for me, and out of her great fear for my safety. She cried and sobbed, and nothing I could do would quiet her.

September 15.

ADELAIDE is impossible. Everywhere she sees shadows. She remains close by my side, like a dog who wants to protect me. Now this, to be sure, is touching, but also annoying; particularly because the boy, whom she never leaves alone, has quite a remarkable voice. Everything I eat she prepares herself; and, not content with this, she tastes everything before she permits me to eat it. Now I know that these negroes are great poison mixers who know their botany thoroughly, but I don't believe that any one of them would dare to use his science on me. So I laugh at Adelaide—but, nevertheless, I don't feel any too well about it.

September 24.

SO THEY have already taken away from me my “soul”! I know this from Phylloxera; the old lady is no less excited and anxious for me than Adelaide. Today she came to warn me. I wanted to send Adelaide from the room, but she insisted upon listening. It seems that the priests have set afoot the rumor that I had betrayed Cimbi-Kita, to whom I had sworn allegiance; that I am a loup-garou, a werewolf who sucks the blood of children while they sleep.[35] Thereupon some of the dijons stole my “soul” by shaping a likeness of me in clay and hanging it in the temple. This alone would be harmless enough, but it has a rather unpleasant feature: from now on I ama man without a soul, whom anyone may kill. In fact, he who does it accomplishes a good deed.

Nevertheless I do not consider the affair of great importance and do not intend to share the women's fears. So long as my bloodhounds stand before my door, so long as my Brownings are at my bedside and so long as Adelaide prepares my food, I certainly don't fear these black fellows.

“For ages no negro has dared to attack a white man!” I consoled Adelaide. But she answered: “They no longer consider you a white man! They count you as one of them since you swore allegiance to Cimbi-Kita!”

October 2.

I PITY the poor woman so much. She follows me like a shadow; not for a second does she leave me out of her sight. She hardly sleeps at night, sitting on a chair at my bedside and guarding my sleep.

She no longer weeps; quietly, silently she walks beside me as if she were wrestling with a great resolution.

How would it be if I gave up my business here? I don't want to go to Germany; not because I fear to collide again with its silly laws—long ago I ceased to bother with other women, since I have had Adelaide and the boy. But, I really cannot bring a negress along as my wife.

I might retire to St. Thomas. Adelaide would certainly feel at home there. I could build a beautiful country seat and might start some new kind of business, if I must have some occupation. If I could only sell my stuff here for a fairly decent sum.

I am writing in my work-room which looks like a fortress. Adelaide has gone out; she did not say where she was going, but I am positive she wants to bargain with the voodoo crowd. The three dogs are in the room before the locked door; my revolver is handy on my desk. It is really ridiculous— as if a nigger would dare harm a hair on my head in broad daylight! But I had to give in to Adelaide's wishes. She went alone; the child lies next to me on the couch and sleeps. I hope she will bring home good news.

October 30.

I THINK Adelaide has gone mad. She screamed and beat upon the door. I couldn't run fast enough to open it. She rushed directly to the boy, snatched him up and almost smothered him with her caresses. The little fellow began to cry pitifully. But she did not let go of him; kissed him, embraced him. I actually feared she would suffocate him.

Her behavior is really shocking. She says no word, but quite apparently she has been successful. She no longer tastes my meals; her anxiety seems to have disappeared. This surely means that all danger is past. But still she continues to follow me like a dog. At dinner she sat silently by my side without touching a bite; but, not for a second did she take her eyes off me. Something terrible seems to be brewing in her mind, but she does not speak; not the tiniest word does she say. I don't want to torment her, for I see how the poor woman is consumed with love for me.

I will take every step to get away from here as quickly as possible. I have already spoken with the Hamburg-American agent. He is not opposed to the deal, but he wants to pay hardly one-fourth of what my business is worth, and that only on the installment plan. And yet, I shall probably accept. After all, I have made my share in safety for a long time and can afford to make a transaction at a loss. God, how happy Adelaide will be when I tell her about it! Then I shall marry her, for the boy's sake. She really deserves it. And when everything is in readiness, I shall say: “Now, child, pack your things.” She will be mad with joy!

November 11.

MY negotiations seem to be progressing satisfactorily. Even the cablegram from the agent's bank has come, stating that they stand ready to advance him the necessary cash. This does away with the principal obstacle; the details can be easily settled, since I am more than willing to compromise. The fellow knows this and insists upon calling me his “friend and benefactor.” Well, I don't blame him for not being able to hide his joy over such a marvelous transaction.

It is rather hard for me to keep my secret from Adelaide. Her condition gets worse and worse. Well, she probably will be able to stand it another week, and then her joy will be so much the greater. She called on her voodoo brethren a few times, and each time she returned in a still more desperate condition. I don't understand it at all, since all danger seems to have passed. All doors are now open at night as they used to be and even the cooking she leaves to the other servants. What else can it be?

She hardly speaks a word now. But her love for me and the boy grows each day, grows almost boundless. This love has something uncanny about it which almost takes my breath away. If I take the boy on my knee and play with him, she shrieks, rushes from the room, throws herself on the bed and sobs as if her heart were breaking.

She must be ill and almost contaminates me with her strange disease. I shall bless the moment when we are able to leave this terrible hole with its horrible secrets.

November 15.

THIS morning she was quite beside herself. She wanted to do a few errands, taking the child with her. Thus she bid me farewell, but in a most unnatural way. Her eyes had long ago become red and inflamed from crying, but this morning entire cataracts fell from them. She could not tear herself from my arms; time and again she held the boy for me to kiss—I was quite moved by the scene. Thank God, the Hamburg-American agent came directly afterwards to bring the contracts for my signature. Now the names are affixed to them and the bank check is in my hands. This house is no longer mine; I begged the buyer to permit me to stay another few days. “Half a year, if you want to!” he said. But I promised that I would not want to stay even another week. Saturday the steamer for St. Thomas is leaving, and by then everything must be ready.

Now I shall put flowers on the table. When she returns, she shall hear the joyous news.

5 P.M.

THIS is horrible! Adelaide did not come back; she did not come, I say! She did not come! I ran in to town; nobody had seen her. I returned home; she had not arrived. I went to the garden to look for the old hag; she was not there. I ran to her hut—and found her, bound to a pillar.

“At last you have come—at last! Hurry, before it is too late!” I cut her loose; it was difficult to get anything out of the half-crazed woman. “She has gone to the honfou—the mamaloi,” she stammered. “To the honfou with her child. They bound me so I could not warn you.” I ran back to the house to get my pistols. I am writing these lines while my horse is being saddled. Oh God, what may…

Please God…!

November 16.

I RODE through the woods. I do not think I thought about anything; only this: you must get there in time—you must get there in time!

The sun had gone down when I crossed the clearing. Two fellows caught hold of my reins. I slashed my whip across their faces. I jumped off, threw the reins over the strawberry tree. Then I rushed into the honfou, thrusting the crowd right and left.

I know I cried out. There, in the red light, stood the mamaloi on the basket, the snake coiled around her blue ribbon. And, high above her head, she held my child by the throat. And she choked it, choked it, choked it!

I must have shrieked. I tore my Brownings from my pocket and fired. Two shots; one at her face, the other at her heart. She tumbled from the basket. I sprang forward and lifted up the child. I realized immediately that it was dead, but still so warm, so very warm.

Right and left I shot into the crowd. They pushed and fell aside; they howled, bellowed and shrieked. I tore the torches from the walls and hurled them into the thatch. It burned like tinder.

I mounted my horse and rode back, carrying the dead child home. I did save my child; not from death but from the teeth of those black devils. On my desk I found this letter—I don't know how it got there:

NOW my life lies shattered before me. What shall I do? I know no more. I shall put these pages into an envelope and dispatch them. That is one bit of work left to do. And then?