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|HISTORY
Some time after night has fallen, the
house is lit by gas lamps, sending
light shimmering across the lawns.
Telfair is concerned that his guests
have yet to arrive. Suddenly, there’s
a kind of non-stop growl, like the
sound of a wounded animal. Then,
two shafts of light break through
the surrounding darkness and a
kind of metal carriage appears in
the driveway to his house, unlike
anything Telfair has ever seen
before. It finally draws up in front
of him and out steps a somewhat
bald individual, smoking a pipe.
While Telfair takes a look at the
vehicle, which for its part is no
longer belching out smoke, the
visitor holds out his hand. “Robert
Edouard Hart, your humble servant,
who has heard a great deal about
all the wonderful things you’ve been
doing here.”
Charles Telfair
1778 – 1833
Terrified by all the noise, three
hares appear from behind a bush
and shoot off in the direction of
the nearby forest. While the two
men become acquainted, it’s the
turn of a horse-drawn carriage to
enter the drive. Slumped across
the rear bench is a man wearing
a beret and sporting a beard. He
rises with some difficulty, bottle
in hand. He staggers towards the
other two and, before he collapses
into a large armchair, has just time
to mutter:
“Sweet beach, birthplace of my soul,
And you, flowering savannah plains
That the Ocean fills with tears
And the sun with flames.”
Paul-Jean Toulet has arrived. Let the
evening commence!
“Good evening, my dear elders!”
Hart exclaims. “Crossing the years,
the creator has wished us to meet
for a few hours in order to share
our great affection for the Deep
South. And to that end, I’m going
to entertain you with the first lines
of my next work, which will be
dedicated to Le Morne. “She seems
immobile, dormant, dead. Yet she is
alive with light and shadows…”
Fascinated by so much literary
talent, Telfair maintains a discreet
silence. As well as the agricultural
and industrial developments he
has brought to Bel Ombre, there is
now a literary aspect. He hastens
to embrace his visitors but, at that
very moment, a flash of lightening
streaks across the sky and
everything disappears. There’s no
more a metal carriage, no carriage,
no poets, but at least we’ve been
able to enjoy a few brief moments
of delightful reverie…
Robert Edouard Hart
1891 – 1954
Paul Jean Toulet
1867 - 1920
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| HERITAGE RESORTS STORIES
