Evening star., 1934-10-07

- OR 20 miles my motor had bumped along
wretched Haitian road that seemed to
- lead deeper and deeper into primitive
Africa. Past groups of crude mud houses
crumbling In the heat, past groSs-faced
bare-legged Black women, shutting
along the side path. with burdens upon their
heads, past innumerable half wild pigs through
a land that had succumbed to dilapidation,
shiftlessness and weeds. With each one Of the
20 miles from Cap Haitien I had become less
hopeful that there could be anything beautiful
in such decayed and backward country. And
then, rising graceful and cool, right out of
this squalor, the ruins Of a superb French
chateau loomed up at the end Of the road.
Had at that moment met Marie Antoinette
walking along with the black Haitian women,
I couldn't have been more surprised. For here
was a palace, abandoned and falling, but un-
mistakaby designed in the purest French
Renaissance tradition, and far more majestic
than the most extravagant reports had led me
to expect. For this was Sans Souci, Of which
I had heard the palace built in 1912 by Henry
Christophe, the Negro slave, who had become
Henry I, King of Haiti.
When Sans Souci was finished and occupied,
1t was undoubtedly the most imposing resi-
dence in America. For a decade it housed the
black monarchs grandilequent court Of dusky
dukes and duchesses. And then for one final
tragic Yeek it was the scene of murder and
destruction and suffered with the royal family
the vengeance of the mob which came to eX-
terminate the monarchy. Gutted by flames,
roofless, exposed to tropical wind and rain for
over a century, it is still magnificent The
harmonious lines, the sweep of the grand stair
case, the whole effect softened by the green
vines that dangled from the weathered walls,
made me agree with the poet who said, More
beautiful than a truly beautiful building-are
its ruins"
A ND stood before this chateau, which
would have been notable in any country I
reflected that it had been built in the jungle
and regally occupied by an illiterate black ex-
dishwasher out of public bar.
From room to room of the stately ruin I made
my way trying to picture the scenes 1t had
witnessed Here Christophe held his court
beside his ex-slave queen, and received the
dark-skinned Compte de Limonade and the
Duchesse de Marmelade, without once smiling
at their names. Here the white ladies from
Philadelphia taught Christophe's daughters,
Amethyste and Athenaire to play the harp.
Here, on the terrace above the great fountain.
Christophe reviewed his troops in the court
yard Here in this bed room, paralyZed and
faced with assassination, he fired into his heart
the silver bullet that ended his reign of terror.
But I knew this palace was not the only
monument of Chf1Stophe's reign Continuing
on beyond the formal gardens, I found the
trail that led to the great citadel, 5000 feet
above, the incredible fortress he had built to
safeguard his own authority and defend his
realm from foreign invasion. Up this path for
IL years thousands of slaves had struggled
with bricks and cannon. Up this path Chris
tophe strode countless times driving forward
his slave -laborers, lashing one, shooting an
other-and up this path vengeance pursued him
as his wife and children, frantic with fear and
sobbing with despair, strove to drag his corpse
to the citadel for burial.
The path. mounting and twisting tunneled
upward through the jungle. I climbed steadily
for two hours and finally reached the clearing
on the mountain-top. And there, still farther
above me, I saw the colossal curved bastion
of the citadel resembling the prov Of a ship.
rearing haughtily upward from the summit
of the peak.
A few days before had looked down at it
from the air. That view extraordinary,
but now, looking upward from below, felt the
full impact of its forbidding bulk. No wonder
the Haitian natives leave it strictly alone, this
evil reminder of the tyranny and forced labor
their ancestors endured. No wonder Christophe
had to squander the wealth and energy of his
nation in the creation of such a refuge.
I reached the entrance. A hundred and thirty
feet of wall rose sheer above. The ponderous
gates still on their hinges, allowed me to pass
inside. The ramps and steps were dark and
damp. Bats flew about in the dimness. The
doorways from room to room were like tunnels,
Tor Christophe had taken no chances with the
walls and partitions Of his fort A 1o-foot thick
- l-IA