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CONTENTS
Cover
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Introduction
Chapter 2: Solutions
Section 2.2
Chapter 3: Solutions
Section 3.1
Section 3.2
Section 3.3
Section 3.4
Section 3.5
Chapter 4: Solutions
Section 4.2
Chapter 5: Solutions
Section 5.2
Section 5.3
Section 5.4
Chapter 6: Solutions
Section 6.1
Section 6.5
Section 6.6
Chapter 7: Solutions
Section 7.1
Section 7.2
Section 7.3
 Section 7.5
Chapter 8: Solutions
Section 8.2
Section 8.3
Section 8.4
Section 8.5
Section 8.6
Chapter 9: Solutions
Section 9.1
Section 9.2
Section 9.3
Section 9.4
Section 9.6
Section 9.7
Section 9.8
Chapter 10: Solutions
Section 10.2
Section 10.3
Section 10.4
Section 10.5
Chapter 11: Solutions
Section 11.2
Section 11.3
Section 11.4
Section 11.5
Section 11.6
Section 11.7
Chapter 12: Solutions
Section 12.7
Chapter 13: Solutions
 Section 13.2
Section 13.3
Chapter 14: Solutions
Section 14.2
Section 14.3
Section 14.4
Section 14.5
Section 14.6
Section 14.7
Section 14.8
Chapter 15: Solutions
Section 15.3
Section 15.4
Section 15.5
Chapter 16: Solutions
Section 16.7
Chapter 17: Solutions
Section 17.9
Chapter 18: Solutions
Section 18.5
Chapter 19: Solutions
Section 19.1
Section 19.2
Section 19.3
Section 19.4
End User License Agreement

List of Tables
Table 9.1
Table 9.2
Table 9.3
Table 9.4
Table 9.5
Table 9.6
Table 11.1
Table 11.2
Table 14.1
Table 14.2
Table 14.3
Table 14.4
Table 14.5
Table 14.6
Table 14.7
Table 14.8
Table 14.9
Table 14.10
Table 15.1
Table 15.2
Table 15.3
Table 15.4
Table 15.5
Table 15.6
Table 15.7
Table 15.8
Table 15.9
Table 15.10
Table 15.11
 Table 15.12
Table 15.13
Table 15.14
Table 17.1
Table 17.2
Table 17.3
Table 17.4
Table 17.5
Table 17.6
Table 17.7
Table 17.8
Table 17.9
Table 18.1
Table 18.2

List of Illustrations
Figure 2.1
Figure 2.2
Figure 2.3
Figure 2.4
Figure 2.5
Figure 2.6
Figure 2.7
Figure 2.8
Figure 3.1
Figure 5.1
Figure 14.1
Figure 14.2
Figure 14.3
Figure 14.4
Figure 14.5
Figure 14.6
Figure 15.1
Figure 15.2
Figure 15.3
Figure 15.4
Figure 15.5
Figure 15.6
Figure 15.7
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Student Solutions Manual to
Accompany LOSS MODELS

From Data To Decisions

Fifth Edition

Stuart A. Klugman
Society of Actuaries

Harry H. Panjer
University of Waterloo

Gordon E. Willmot
University of Waterloo
This edition first published 2019
© 2019 John Wiley and Sons, Inc.
Edition History
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Klugman, Stuart A., 1949- author. | Panjer, Harry H., author. | Willmot,
Gordon E., 1957- author.
Title: Loss models : from data to decisions / Stuart A. Klugman, Society of
Actuaries, Harry H. Panjer, University of Waterloo, Gordon E. Willmot, University of
Waterloo.
Description: 5th edition. | Hoboken, NJ : John Wiley and Sons, Inc., [2018] |
Series: Wiley series in probability and statistics | Includes bibliographical
references and index. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2018031122 (print) | ISBN 9781119523789 (hardcover) | ISBN
9781119538059 (solutions manual)
Subjects: LCSH: Insurance–Statistical methods. | Insurance–Mathematical
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Chapter 1
Introduction
The solutions presented in this manual reflect the authors' best
attempt to provide insights and answers. While we have done our
best to be complete and accurate, errors may occur and there may
be more elegant solutions. Errata will be linked from the syllabus
document for any Society of Actuaries examination that uses this
text.
Should you find errors, or if you would like to provide improved
solutions, please send your comments to Stuart Klugman at
[email protected].
Chapter 2
Solutions
Section 2.2
2.1

2.2 The requested plots follow. The triangular spike at zero in the
density function for Model 4 indicates the 0.7 of discrete probability
at zero.
2.3 . Setting the derivative equal to zero and
multiplying by gives the equation . This is
equivalent to . The only positive solution is the mode of .
Figure 2.1 The distribution function for Model 3.

Figure 2.2 The distribution function for Model 4.

Figure 2.3 The distribution function for Model 5.

Figure 2.4 The probability function for Model 3.

Figure 2.5 The density function for Model 4.

Figure 2.6 The density function for Model 5.

 Figure 2.7 The hazard rate for Model 4.

Figure 2.8 The hazard rate for Model 5.

2.4 The survival function can be recovered as

Taking logarithms gives

and thus .
2.5 The ratio is

From observation or two applications of L'Hôpital's rule, we see

that the limit is infinity.
Chapter 3
Solutions
Section 3.1
3.1

3.2 For Model 1, , . ,

and , . , .
For Model 2, , and . and are
both infinite, so the skewness and kurtosis are not defined.
For Model 3, and .
, , ,
, , .
For Model 4, and .
, , .
, , .
For Model 5, and .
, , .
, , .
3.3 The standard deviation is the mean times the coefficient of
variation, or 4, and so the variance is 16. From (3.3), the second
raw moment is . The third central moment is (using
Exercise 3.1) . The skewness is the third central
moment divided by the cube of the standard deviation, or .
3.4 For a gamma distribution, the mean is . The second raw
moment is , and so the variance is . The coefficient of
variation is . Therefore . The third raw moment is
. From Exercise 3.1, the third central moment is
and the skewness is .
3.5 For Model 1,

For Model 2,

For Model 3,

For Model 4,

The functions are straight lines for Models 1, 2, and 4. Model 1 has
negative slope, Model 2 has positive slope, and Model 4 is
horizontal.
3.6 For a uniform distribution on the interval from 0 to w, the
density function is . The mean residual life is

The equation becomes

with a solution of .
3.7 From the definition,

3.8

3.9 For Model 1, from (3.8),

and from (3.10),

From (3.9),

For Model 2, from (3.8),

and from (3.10),

From (3.9),
For Model 3, from (3.8),

and from (3.10),

For Model 4, from (3.8),

and from (3.10),

3.10 For a discrete distribution (which all empirical distributions
are), the mean residual life function is

When d is equal to a possible value of X, the function cannot be

continuous because there is a jump in the denominator but not in
the numerator. For an exponential distribution, argue as in Exercise
3.7 to see that it is constant. For the Pareto distribution,

which is increasing in d. Only the second statement is true.

3.11 Application of the formula from the solution to Exercise 3.10
gives

which cannot be correct. Recall that the numerator of the mean

residual life is . However, when , the expected value
is infinite and so is the mean residual life.
3.12 The right truncated variable is defined as , given that .
When , this variable is not defined. The kth moment is

3.13 This is a single-parameter Pareto distribution with parameters

and . The moments are and .
The coefficient of variation is .
3.14 .
.
.
. Skewness is
. Kurtosis is .
3.15 The Pareto mean residual life function is

and so .
3.16 Sample mean: . Sample variance:
. Sample third central moment:
. Skewness coefficient:
.
Section 3.2
3.17 The pdf is . The mean is . The median is
the solution to , which is 1.4142. The mode is the
value at which the pdf is highest. Because the pdf is strictly
decreasing, the mode is at its smallest value, 1.
3.18 For Model 2, solve , and so , and
the requested percentiles are 519.84 and 1419.95.
For Model 4, the distribution function jumps from 0 to 0.7 at zero
and so . For percentiles above 70, solve , and so
and .
For Model 5, the distribution function has two specifications. From
to , it rises from 0.0 to 0.5, and so for percentiles at 50 or
below, the equation to solve is for . For , the
distribution function rises from 0.5 to 1.0, and so for percentiles
from 50 to 100 the equation to solve is for . The
requested percentiles are 50 and 65.
3.19 The two percentiles imply

Rearranging the equations and taking their ratio yields

Taking logarithms of both sides gives for .

3.20 The two percentiles imply
Subtracting and then taking logarithms of both sides gives

Dividing the second equation by the first gives

Finally, taking logarithms of both sides gives for

.
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 Near the Landing-Place
St. Pierre, Martinique

And yet we talk of the idleness, the weakness bred in the tropics! It is
true that continual summer enervates, and necessitates slow methods of
living; but I can truthfully say, that (outside of Haïti), I saw less vagabond-
age, less indolence, in the West Indies, than in any of our Southern States.
We were constantly witnessing most remarkable feats of endurance in both
men and women. In these countries the horse is scarce, and the donkey
costs money, so that the human back becomes the carry-all for the plunder
of man.
This motionless bronze statue before us, with the great tray of fruit,
appears—to one unaccustomed—more than indifferent whether we buy or
not, for she stands there, mute, her fruits higher than our own heads; she is
tall to begin with, and the great tray itself is six inches higher, and the head
pad on which it rests is more than an inch thick; so, altogether, it is so high
that we can only make a guess at the fruit she carries, from the fringe on the
edge and the pyramid on top. This is our first experience with la porteuse,
and we wait for her to stoop, camel-like, to unload. But not she! She knows
too well the possible penalty of such rashness, and quietly stands with her
quick eyes questioning us, and we stand wondering what she wants us to
do.
The kerchief about her shoulders over a light chemise rivals the rainbow.
I try to fix my eyes on some predominating colour, but when I decide that it
is yellow, in will blaze a green stronger than the yellow, and then huge red
roses splash their lurid colour into the yellow and green, and royal purple
and blue daisies and magenta buttercups career around in wild indifference
as to conventional form and tint. A loose calico frock hangs to her ankles,
with the bare, tireless feet, straight, shapely and well-formed, showing
beneath.
Intelligence dawns upon us at last, and the tall man reaches for a green
cocoanut, just toppling on the edge of the tray, for we realise we must reach
for the fruit if we want it. This cocoanut, encased in its green husk, is just
about the size of a small melon, and has a striated, light-green, smooth skin.
A vender near by, interested in the purchase, and charitable to the strangers,
takes the cocoanut, and, with a sharp knife, dexterously pares off one end,
and with a slash straight across the top, cuts through the still soft shell, and
hands it to us ready to quench our thirst with a long pull, for there is as yet
no meat in the cocoanut, only a quantity of the rich milk. I cannot say that it
is particularly good, or particularly bad; it has an inoffensive sweet taste, is
said to be perfectly harmless, and is one of the few fruits of the tropics that
the uninitiated can eat with impunity. After we have all drunk, there seems
to be quite a bit of the milk left. So it goes to the most insistent of the crowd
of small boys, who are, as usual, escorting us with much enjoyment, and a
constant merry chatter of French.
Let us move on now up the clean stone street, up, and up, and up,
passing many a walled recess where sparkling jets of water fill the jars
brought to the fountain by barefooted girls,—up and on, on and up, past
votive shrines—les chapelles—and high-walled gardens, coming finally to
the broad avenue leading to the Botanical Garden,—the same road from
which we were so glad to escape the night before. We follow the white,
dusty road in the bright sunlight, with now and then glimpses of the
mountains above, and come at last to the broad stone gateway of Le Jardin
des Plantes, which, entering, plunges us at once into the deep shades and
marvellous beauty of a tropical forest.

IV.
Oh, that I had words and power and skill to paint even a shadow of the
beauty before me to a likeness of itself! Here Nature defies all art of pen, of
thought, and brush of man! She seems to glory in the impossible loveliness
of her face and form—impossible to reproduce through art or reason. Here
one should find new words—words more intense, more poignant, more
vividly keen to cut into the heart of the matchless colours and shades. No
description can ever bring accurately to the mind the wealth, the
magnificent beauty of such a spot upon God’s earth.
With skilful art, the French have utilised the hand of Nature in the
formation of this wonderful garden to such a degree of perfection that none
can tell, unless a master, where the two fair sisters, Art and Nature, first
embraced. The natural tropical forest, running up a great ravine into the
mountains, is intersected by broad and winding paths that lead from one fair
view to another by mossy flights of rough stone steps. Through a rift in the
hillside, down an abyss of heavy, wet foliage of a green so intense that the
eye can scarcely conceive its depth of colour, cataracts of water leap
through the abiding shade, through the ever-growing, ever-dying processes
of nature, down into a pool whose depths reflect the blue glimmering sky
and the vivid green of over-hanging vines in opalescent sheen. Great
clumps of bamboo, with long, slim, arrow-shaped leaves, hang gracefully,
waving like giant grass, over the walk; and an ancient bridge, ablaze with
purple vines, reaches out from under the rustling thickets and spans a
branch of the Rivière Roxelane, a delicious mountain stream which
murmurs on through the forest, filling one with poetic musings as to
whence came its romantic name.
On we sauntered heedless as to time, sheltered from the sun by the
impenetrable shade of arborescent ferns and towering palms, and lured ever
deeper into the forest, into the wonders of God’s marvellous creation by
some unspeakable burst of beauty just beyond.
Here we find not only the trees indigenous to the soil, but trees native to
all tropical climates, from all parts of the world, for this garden is the pride
of the island and a wonder of the Indies. The names and habitations of
foreign trees are most skilfully marked on enamelled plates fastened to the
trees, part of the plate bearing the carefully engraved botanical name, the
lower part containing a coloured map, indicating the country to which the
tree is native.
What a pitiably weak understanding we have of God’s unending and
infinite creation! However much we read of life in remoter countries the
mind, like a rubber ball, ever reverts with persistent force to its original
point of view. So that we, the dwellers in the North, in the land of ice and
snow, of pines and duller hues, where Nature bestows her gifts with
somewhat sparing hand,—we of the North forget the limitless power of
creative energy, and when we come into such an overwhelming feast of
colour as in this mighty forest, sighing and breathing for very burden of
beauty, we try in vain to reconcile our former crude conceptions of the
Creator with this new, vast revelation of his unspeakable power.
As we penetrate deeper and ever deeper into the forest, the mind reels
under the effort to grasp the marvels of plant and tree and earth. Vines hang
in long festoons from tree to tree, and drop down before the face in
thousands of living ropes, which seem to have the power of returning upon
themselves and growing up again without any visible support. Parasites, air-
plants, and orchids—not singly, but in millions—cover giant trunks so that
the tree itself is lost in the growth external. Off through a break in the
deepest green, I see for the first time that queen of the tropics, the
Amherstia nobilis, called—and well named, indeed—“the Flamboyant,” the
most magnificent flowering tree in the world: tall and heavenly leafed, of
graceful form, its top covered by a mass of brilliant flowers so vividly red
and of such size as to seem like a blaze of fire in the forest shade. And taller
than all the others of its kind, the Royal Palm lifts its regal head out into the
freedom of light and air, and sways its majestic plumes in rhythmic motion.
How well the Spanish do to call it “the palm,” in distinction from all others.
Everywhere about you, life, life ever coming, ever going. A deep,
impenetrable wall of green, denser, thicker than any fretwork, keeps you to
the path. A native lad springs into the black, green, brown depth, and you
shudder involuntarily; there might be danger. The two figures—hand in
hand, Life and Death—haunt the dim green shadows about you.

V.
We are joined by friends as we wander on, following the sound of
tumbling water. It comes to us as a surprise, for the forest has been wrapped
in a deep silence; its slumberous shade has not been broken by a single
bird-note; all animal life is quiescent. A few steps more and we come to a
cleft in the mountain, an opening in the green vault, and a veil of glistening
water drops between us and a wall of cool, sweet ferns. The spell of the
forest is about us. We turn down a steep path in silent awe before so great a
masterpiece.
Our party separate, we linger behind while our friends stroll on and are
lost in an abrupt turn of the path. The straight noonday sun makes white
patches upon the walk; strange heavy odours, as of earth dead a thousand
years lifting up her soul again in rebellion against her long, deep sleep, steal
about us. Suddenly from the deathlike stillness of the forest there comes a
shriek, followed by sounds of commotion. We run quickly in the direction
of the voices. My friend’s white face tells the story; it was the Fer de Lance.
We could see nothing. The flight had been swift; it was impossible for her
to say how it ever came there, whether it had dropped from the limb of a
tree, as she thought, or had sprung from a bush, but suddenly it was there,
lying in a double coil at her feet. It made a strange rapping sound upon the
earth, and darted swiftly off into the undergrowth. A few of us, much
affrighted, lead the way most precipitately down the ravine to the gateway.
We carry our umbrellas aloft in spite of the shade, and, shuddering, secretly
envy the one who saw the Fer de Lance.

VI.
After all, I am glad that we did not accept the offer of a carriage for
Morne Rouge, for it is a long drive to the summit of the mountain,—fully
four hours there and back,—and had we gone, the journey must needs be
made with great haste; so we chose rather to leave before satiety deadened
our enjoyment. But there will come other days in Martinique—there must
come other days, for is not this Le Pays des Revenants? Must we not see
Gros Morne, Capot, Marigot, and La Grande Anse, hidden away in the
mountains, asleep in their sunlit valleys, and the wild forest—le grand bois
—and La Pelée, the old volcano with the queer lake in its extinct crater, and
the cavern-like opening in its cleft side, where it is said that even yet there
may be occasionally heard strange groanings and fearsome hissings—shall
we not come some day to see all this?
 The Rivière Roxelane
Near St. Pierre, Martinique

We take the road to the left and follow down the Rivière Roxelane to St.
Pierre. As we join our friends returning from the mountain, they share with
us a calabash of wild red strawberries which they bought by the roadside.
The berries have that rare, delicious bouquet found only in the wild fruits,
and, as one would naturally suppose, have their own funny way of growing;
small and pointed and very compact. We hover around the one who holds
the calabash until all are gone, and then indolently follow the stream,
passing a group of women under a shady mango-tree, spreading heaps of
cacao (chocolate) beans on the ground to dry; where we linger, tasting the
beans and trying to chat, ever fascinated by the natives and their ways; and
then wander on toward the stony pavements and narrow streets of the city;
and thence down to the landing-place.
Night draws over. The quickly falling luminous night of the tropics. How
can I bring again the witchery of that vision? The greenly liquid sky, the
great yellow moon, the near, the brilliant stars, and the deep, dark Morne,
covering her wild luxuriance with violet clouds, and back of all “La
Montagne”—Pelée, the sleeping; the sounds—distant, low, mellow; the
moving, glistening phosphorescent water, and Martinique, in white slumber,
fading astern.
 CHAPTER VIII.

ISLAND OF TRINIDAD. PORT OF SPAIN

I.

“I ’SE here, Missus; I’se here, waitin’ fo’ you” (from one of a crowd of
chattering Spanish, English, French, Portuguese creoles, outnumbered
by the ever-present black, in every shade, from deep chocolate to light
saffron), greets us as we step on land at Port of Spain, Trinidad.
We do not feel quite sure which particular one, in all that pushing,
scrambling, good-natured crowd, is waiting for us; whether it is the man
with the two monkeys, or the man with the green and blue parrot, or the
woman with the baskets, or the boy with the shells; but whichever one it is,
he’s there, and all his friends are there, with everything salable they possess,
strung around them, fastened to them, hitched to them, in some fashion—
any way to allow them free use of their arms.
“Well, we’re glad you’re waiting, Sambo. We fully expected to find you
here. It wouldn’t be Trinidad without a monkey or a parrot. We’ll buy later.
Oh, no! Not the monkey; we have one at home, and Heaven knows that’s
enough! But maybe, by and by, we’ll see about a basket.”
If there is one thing in the world Sister and I can never resist, it’s a
basket. That distressing mania breaks forth at the slightest provocation; it
doesn’t seem to make any difference where we are, or how impossible it is
to gratify it; difficulties only whet the appetite. The more inopportune the
occasion, the more we want the basket.
 The Dragon’s Mouth, Entrance to Gulf of Paria
Between South America and Trinidad

So we stood there on the quay at Port of Spain, with the lofty headlands
of grand old South America away to the south of us, taking their morning
bath among the clouds, and off in the north the mountain sweep of Trinidad,
watching the queer old city at its feet, and betwixt the two, the Gulf of
Paria, loosened from the Dragon’s Mouth, spreading and expanding, with
its waters a commingling of the blue of the Caribbean and the brown of the
near-by Orinoco, washing the outstretched feet of the great mother and
child; and we stood there, with all this grandeur ablaze in the first light of
the morning, wondering if we would better buy the basket right then, on the
spot, or whether we should wait until our return.
To be sure, we had one big basket—and a beauty, too—from St. Thomas,
but it was always full, a sort of catch-all for our curious leaves, and seeds,
and coral, and beads, and newspapers, and precious bills of fare,—treasured
reminders of old balconies and lingering melodies; and it really seemed to
be our duty to provide a number two size to carry to market. We could use it
in so many ways, and then we wanted another basket. But, before we had
time to strike a bargain,—for it’s a half-day’s work in these ideal lands to
buy anything,—some one cried out: “If you are going to the Coolie Village,
you’d better come right now, or the carriages will all be taken!”
“Who are the coolies?” Blue Ribbons asked, as we rattled along up
Frederick Street. The answer to her question was squatting not far distant,
where some cars, just arrived from San Fernando, were being unloaded. His
hands were clasped around his thin bare legs; his face, serious, dark,
immovable; his hair, black as ink, and straight; on his head, a voluminous
white turban bespoke the worshipper of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. It was
with mingled sensations of awe and fear that I beheld this unexpected
Hindoo. His apparent unconcern of mundane affairs recalled not only
deeply treasured teachings from his great masters, but, in his eyes, there
was the black, unforgotten story of Lucknow. It was hard to reconcile the
two.
It seems that the Hindoo “coolie” is imported by the ship-load into
Trinidad, and indentured for a period of ten years; at the expiration of which
time he may return to India at his company’s expense, if he so chooses (and
he usually does choose to do so, taking home with him a goodly store of
gold). He makes a most valuable and reliable labourer, and has really been
the salvation of the vast sugar and cacao estates on the island. It has been
next to impossible to exact any continuous labour from the negro, without
some system of slavery, and had it not been for the Hindoo, the resources of
Trinidad would have been practically undeveloped.
The coolies were in evidence everywhere. In fact, they seemed to form a
considerable proportion of the population. We do not wonder any longer at
the emaciated pictures of the famine-stricken East Indians, for here, in a
land of plenty, where food, almost ready cooked, is only waiting to drop,
the Hindoo is the sparest, leanest creature imaginable. His ever-bare legs
are not like flesh and blood, but small-boned and thin to emaciation, and
almost devoid of calves below the knee; they have the hard statuesque look
of bronze stilts. And the arms, too, are thin, and terminate in slender little
hands that seem incapable of heavy and prolonged labour.

II.
Port of Spain, compactly, squarely built, and well paved, extends for
quite a distance over a flat, alluvial plain to a grassy savannah, two and a
half miles wide; one side of which, facing the Botanical Garden and the
Governor’s Mansion, brings you to the base of the mountain.
The city is neither beautiful nor clean. Its architecture, dominated by the
taste of the Englishman, is about as unattractive as that of our own country.
The business streets are dusty, shadeless, and devoid of cleaners, except for
the vulture, who, with his long, bare legs, his skinny neck and head, and
huge black body, plays the part of city scavenger. These ungainly, hideous,
repulsive creatures stalk around everywhere; they are under the horses’ feet;
they roost on the eave troughs asleep in the sun, sit reflectively on chimney-
tops, or come swooping down after some horrible piece of carrion in the
street.
 How can a civilised people be willing to turn the civic house-cleaning
over to a lot of vultures? No wonder that plagues and fevers rage upon these
beautiful islands. Under existing conditions, they surely have the right of
way.

The Business Section

Port of Spain, Trinidad
Copyright, 1901, by Detroit Photographic Co.

Did I understand you to say that the carriages were all gone when you
came ashore? Come in with us! There, the front seat with the driver is just
waiting for you, and really, to walk is hardly safe under this vertical sun.
Would you mind if we make a stop or two on the way out to the village, for
the man of the family must have some fresh white ducks to wear in South
America; let us wait for him here in the carriage.
It seems pleasant to-day not to make any exertion. I’ve no doubt we can
get a lot of information from the driver, if we question him. He responds,
oh! yes, he responds with great ardour, but with what result? One word in
ten, we recognise. He thinks, of course, he’s speaking English, and I
suppose we might better let him think so, but, bless you, if that’s English,
what are we speaking? It’s just another of the West Indian surprises. You
come to a country which has been under the beneficent English rule for
over one hundred years, and you find the natives—the men who drive for
you, who row you ashore, who carry your plunder, the women in the market
—all speaking an almost unintelligible jargon of French, Spanish,
Portuguese, English, with a little Hindustani and Chinese thrown in. Try the
native on your best French, and at every five or six words he brightens up
with understanding. Take any of the other languages and you have the same
result; for your Trinidadian understands when he wants to, but woe betide
you when you ask a question and want to know the answer. The native in
Trinidad is bright and quick; he is not like his big lazy lout of a brother
down in our Southland. He is a mix-up of many people, intelligent and
active, and his language tells what a conglomerate he is, and what a happy-
go-lucky life he leads.

III.
What can be keeping the shoppers so long? We shall certainly have to
hunt them up; let us look inside.
I have often wondered what our mammoth cheap stores of the North do
with their leftover plush albums, china shepherdesses, antiquated ready-
made clothing, tin jewelry, their untold unnumbered tons of clap-traps; and
now I know. It’s all dumped right here in the West Indies. From South
America to Cuba, there is one vast collection of trash imported to catch the
pennies of these long-suffering people. It is always difficult to obtain any of
the native work; we have to go among the natives themselves for that. One
glance at Port of Spain’s emporium, the Great Colonial Stores of Blank and
Co. Limited, is enough!
“Mother,” said Sister, “I have an idea! Let’s try the deaf and dumb sign-
language on the cabby.” And she does. It works like a charm. Off we swing
for the savannah, a great, green, grassy plain, the playground for the
Trinidadians. Here, they have their horse-racing and golf and cricket and
polo under the fierce, tropical sun; here, the merry-go-round and pop-stands
burst forth every Saturday afternoon; here the inevitable “picnic” is held,
and as we happen here on a festival day, we see the children—big and little
—gathering from every direction. There is something indestructible about
the customs of an Englishman. He does not change his methods of living, as
do other races, but, wherever he goes, he carries from pole to equator the
customs and habits of his own country. So he plays golf and cricket and
polo in Trinidad, when, at its mildest, the heat is about equal to our August.
It is on this savannah that we have our first good opportunity of viewing
the mighty ceiba tree near at hand. You remember it was a great ceiba to
which Columbus made fast his ships on the bank of the Ozama River in
Santo Domingo? The ceiba may not be the largest tree in the tropics. I do
not wish to say it is, for it would seem then that one was limiting to a given
scale the grandeur of the tropical tree. There is apparently no limit to
anything in the way of size or beauty under these skies. There may be
greater trees in the “High Wood” than the ceiba, but, in our experience, it
was by far the most wide-stretching of anything we had yet seen. One
stands before it awed, stupefied by its immensity, its age, its strange manner
of growing. And we think over all the words we know to express its size
and beauty, and we feel so poor and powerless in expression.

A Village Greeting
San Fernando, Trinidad

The ceiba on the wide savannah has endless room in which to spread. It
is perfect in form, like a mammoth gray and green umbrella, and reaches
out its immense branches toward every side in perfect symmetry. And such
branches! They alone are as large as our forest oaks, and they throw
themselves out from the trunk horizontally, in stupendous strength. Its
foliage is rather thin; the power of the tree seems to be spent in trunk and
branch. Its bark is like an elephant’s hide, and its trunk has a strange way of
buttressing out its side in huge wings. It is even said to be the worshipped
tree of the superstitious black natives—a mysterious sort of fetich, the
mighty, silk-cotton ceiba.

IV.
Fine residences skirt the savannah, each garden a marvel of beauty, in
palms and trees whose names we do not know. Each little villa, has its
English name plastered upon the gateway. This part of the city is clean, and
the road is fine, so we will try to forgive and forget the shabby appearance
of the lower town. We pass countless gardens, and then the houses grow
fewer, and the gardens turn into banana patches, and the people begin to
look different; the negroes disappear, and we are in the beginning of the
“Coolie Village,” where a row of thatched roofs, supported by bamboo
poles, ranges on either side of a long street, which disappears under an
avenue of palms and breadfruit-trees, quite out of sight.
And here are the Hindoo men and women,—quiet, serious people,
displaying very little curiosity about us, going on with their work, just as if
we were not near them. What a relief from the hideous faces of the negro
are these straight-featured, well-poised East Indians!
The men dress in white and are not overly clean. It does not look to me
as if shirt and turban were often washed, but as their artisans work sitting on
the ground, there is really small chance for immaculate linen. It is upon the
women that the Hindoo displays his sensuous love for colour and jewels.
She is his savings-bank. Every bit of silver or gold earned is taken to the
jeweller to be fashioned into ornaments for her.
Let us leave the carriage and wander about among these interesting,
silent people. Little Blue Ribbons would like to carry away one of those
curious silver bracelets the women wear, and as if our thoughts are divined,
we are in no time surrounded by a lot of girls who are simply covered with
silver and gold. They wear as many as twenty bracelets on each arm, of
different designs, some very beautifully twisted into serpents’ coils and
heads, others engraved with intricate arabesques, others merely crude
bands, with a few ornamental lines. Every part of the body, where a ring can
hang, is covered with ornaments; head, ears, nose, fingers, arms, waist,
ankles, toes. And some of the dear little brown babies, from two to five
years old, were dressed only in pretty silver whistles, tied about the waist
with a black string.
We examine many bracelets. The arms held out are more beautiful than
any bits of silver about them, and the women have low, sweet voices, and
their eyes are brilliant, and their skin is lustrous, and the fascination of the
Orient is about them. The Hindoo women may have a hard time of it in
some ways, perhaps, off in East India where the missionaries are, but here
in Trinidad they have every appearance of being well cared for.
Daddy is the one who buys the trinkets. He has a way of finding always
the most curious and the most beautiful things, and the Hindoo women
crowding about him, and the little girls, too, seem to have suspected his
talent. After examining the wealth of a dozen arms, two silver bands are
selected, which, after being carefully washed by a very particular Daddy,
are snapped about the white wrists of the expectant girlies. He has not only
a way with him for finding beautiful curios, but, alas! I must confess he has
a decided talent also for discovering beautiful women. My only consolation
in the matter is his catholicity of taste, for he shows no preference, as a rule.
His is a universal admiration, the simple homage to beauty of an artistic
soul, and that comforts me. There is safety in numbers!
So it did not surprise me, while we are prowling around back of the huts,
in search of some Hindoo needlework, to return and discover him chatting
in a one-sided conversation with a little girl, about the age of Little Blue
Ribbons. She was leaning in a dreamy attitude in the doorway of a shop—
the most prosperous one in the village.
Just then he spies hanging in the shop some odd pipes made of clay. He
goes in and buys one or two. The proprietor and his wife are standing
behind the counter; she, fat and comfortable, a mass of silver bracelets,
smiled at us as we approached; but he, thin as a churchwarden pipe, and
solemn, my! solemn enough to be Buddha himself, with long, gray hair,
curled up at the end, and impassive face, answered our questions about the
pipes in precise, curiously clipped Oriental English, without once looking at
us. His eyes were fixed on something beyond us, and they were the eyes
that speak but rarely, and then terribly. Daddy praises the shop, the wife’s
ornaments, and finally the little girl, and asks if he may take her picture.
The mother smiles a “Yes;” the father just looks outside. Immediately the
little one is called into an inner room by her mother. She stands in the
doorway so we can see what is going on. I cannot tell you how much the
mother loads upon her.
The straight, low forehead is covered by three circlets of gold and silver;
the little ears are weighed down by filigree hoops of gold, reaching to her
shoulders; her pretty pierced nostrils hold a delicately fashioned gold plate,
which drops below the sweet red lips; a tiny jewelled rose screws into the
side of her straight little nose; her graceful neck is loaded with chain after
chain, hung with many silver dollars of different countries, while one
necklace is of twenty-dollar United States gold pieces. Ten of these
necklaces drop from the round throat to the slender waist. A band of silver,
two inches wade, spans her upper arm, and from the tapering wrist to the
shapely little elbow, the brown, soft skin is covered with bracelets. A bright
silk skirt falls to the ankles, which, in turn, are encircled by bracelets or
anklets, while little rings are fitted to each toe of her slender, shapely feet;
and then, to cap the climax, the mother brings out a long yellow scarf and
starts to wind it about the little one’s head.
That was too much. Daddy begs the mother off. He wanted to catch the
beautiful oval outline of that little head. So the yellow scarf was discarded,
and the little one came outside, and stood under the porch against a green,
leafy background, and her small hands were folded before her very
demurely, and she looked at us with her father’s black, serious eyes. All the
while, he stands within, like a motionless gray shadow,—absolutely
unmoved by our admiration of his daughter.
A few feet beyond there is the goldsmith, squatting cross-legged on the
ground outside the door of his shanty. This is his shop,—this dirt floor.
Here, on a bit of cloth, are his wares, very beautiful some of them,
masterful pieces of work, and this diminutive bed of charcoal is his furnace,
these tiny hammers and pincers are his tools, and that little black anvil is the
scene of his daily toil. Can it be that, with these few crude tools, he can
fashion so wonderfully? His pattern is the insect that hovers for an instant
on its flight at noonday; or the sleeping serpent, hidden under the bamboo;
or the palm above the village; or the spider’s web over the doorway. Nature
close to him—dear to him—is the master of his art.
 V.
The road on through the village is too beautiful to leave; we must go
farther, deeper down among this strangely silent, mysterious people; and we
drive on to where the palms meet over our heads, and we get glimpses of
the blue and green Gulf beyond, and some one tells us—or have we
dreamed it?—that, farther on, we shall come to the Big White House, and
we wonder if we are really ourselves, or some one very unreal out of a
book.
Surely we shall soon awake and rub our eyes and find that we have just
been asleep in the library corner, and that we never reached the Leper
House, and never heard the whispering of Hindoo feet; that it was all a
daydream, a sweet heavenly dream, made long by some good fairy; but, no,
we look at one another, and it must be true, for we hear the waves lapping
the beach near by, and the brown, naked coolie babies look wonderingly at
us, and we jog along under the fitful showers and sun, and Blue Ribbons
raises the white umbrella, and Sister looks ruefully at the sad, discouraged,
rain-bespattered ribbons, so it must be real.
Yes, real; and yet to see the Big White House, now visible through the
mangoes, and know that within its walls live victims of the most awful
disease of all time,—a disease whose origin is lost in the dim vistas of
antiquity,—to come thus unexpectedly, in the twentieth century, upon a
manifestation of the “sins of the fathers” of thousands of years, we cannot
make it seem real to us. Had we been off in the South Seas, sailing toward
Molokai, or had we been looking over the hills of Galilee, it might have
seemed more probable. But to find a leper settlement here, not three miles
from a thickly peopled modern city,—a settlement which must be a constant
and deadly menace to society,—was beyond my powers of credence.
I remember so well, in reading Stevenson’s account of his visit to the
leper settlement in the Sandwich Islands, that I wondered how he dared go
among them, for even so great an object as the vindication of Father
Damien, and lo, here we were, without any warning, almost in the midst of
the same plague. Although fully aware that leprosy did exist, just as we
know that the moon must have form and solidity, it still seemed an
uncertain, far-removed possibility,—in a way half-legendary, half fact, a
tradition of the far East, a memory of the days of the Holy One of Nazareth;
not a tangible awful reality, to be met and battled with all the force of
modern knowledge. I could not convince myself that within a stone’s throw
were lepers whom we might see, to whom we might speak, and I wondered
if it would be safe to enter the enclosure. All this time we drew nearer to the
gateway, while the white house in the centre of a large, shady park, fenced
in by high iron pickets, seemed to us like the great Cross on Calvary, raised
for the sins of the world.
In various parts of the yard, inside that fence, groups of men are sitting
on the grass under the shade of great trees. It is white noon. It cannot be
possible that these men, lolling about and visiting together, are lepers, for,
from a distance, they bear no signs of disease about them. They look like
the rest of the people we have been amongst all day. They are mostly
Hindoos (some with a touch of negro blood), very dark of skin, and
apparently in good health, that is, viewed at a distance. I must confess that a
terrible feeling comes over me as the man of the family—for here we are at
the gate, with the horse’s head facing the sad white house—suggests that we
enter the enclosure. I remember how it was said that the lepers in olden time
must cry out: “Unclean!” “Unclean!” and that he whose garments but swept
the shadow of one thus afflicted must undergo a long purification before he
could be allowed intercourse with the world once more.
As these old stories recur to my memory, and beseech me for my life not
to take so great a risk,—but how long it takes to tell it all!—a big, jolly-
faced black gatekeeper quiets my apprehensions by saying that we would
not be exposed to the least danger whatever; that some of the labourers and
attendants have been employed to work among the lepers for years with no
bad results. With this comfortable assurance of a doubtful safety from the
gateman, the driver whips up, and we move on into the yard, and up the
avenue to the hospital, made gruesome by horrid buzzards perching on its
roof and eaves in grim expectancy.
But it is the coming closer into the deep shade which reveals to us its
true significance. From without, this white house is long and low and restful
to the eye, and the trees bending over it, with clinging arms, seem to breathe
only life and beauty, and the white-coated men here and there under the
shade are the labourers resting during the still noon hour.
But a nearer approach and a closer acquaintance changes the whole
scene. Was it upon such wrecks of life that the gentle Saviour gazed in
pitying love? These are not men; they are pieces,—parts of men, hung
together by the long-suffering cord of life.
The first leper we see near at hand seems to take an interest in us. The
others we have passed lie around in a dull, listless way. I presume they see
us, but they evidence no concern other than keeping in the shade. But this
leper—I hardly know how to designate him—has more life in him than the
others; he is walking about and nods to us as we pass. He has strange,
unnatural ears; they are twice the normal size and have nodules on the outer
edge. His face is swollen into mushroom-like patches, and deeply seamed
by ridges, and yet the skin has apparently the same appearance it had in a
state of health, except a little grayer and more lifeless looking. Another
patient hobbles toward us, and we find that he is walking on stumps of feet,
without toe. We throw some pennies to another group, and the one nearest
the coin picks it up by making a scoop of his flipper-like palm. His fingers
are gone, only little points are left, as if they had been whittled off with a
jack-knife. An old man looks at us with one eye, the other eye, eaten away
by the relentless advance of the disease, has commenced to run out. These
are only the moderately sick patients.

Where the Lepers Live and Die

Trinidad
 As we drive nearer to the hospital, a dozen or so horrible-looking
creatures crowd to the end of an upper gallery and stand there, leaning out
over the railing, a ghastly picture of misery. I scarcely dare look at them,
their faces have been so mutilated by the disease; and others worse there are
inside, whom the heroic Sisters—Romish and Protestant—care for and
comfort until the living hideous death is at an end and life begins.
We move slowly along up the drive, and come quite near to the great
archway which leads into the courtyard. There we call to the cabby to stop,
and the tall man, who is never afraid of anything, gets out, and his leaving
the carriage becomes, unwittingly to us, a signal for the poor lepers to
approach. One hurries away from his companion—an emaciated,
becrutched Hindoo—and comes to within a few feet of us, and just as he
does so, our protector turns to me and says: “Did you ever think I would
find myself talking to a leper just three feet from me?” and, interesting as
the experience is, I recoil within myself for fear that the money which we
want to give them may necessitate a closer proximity than we desire. But
the unfortunate victim understands the situation and keeps his distance,
while the tall man coming back to us, stands there with one foot on the
carriage-step, still turning toward the leper.
By a certain sort of mental telepathy, I know that he cannot say good-bye
without leaving some word of cheer for the poor fellow, and just what to
say, how to say it, how to express a wish which we know can never be
fulfilled, makes a moment’s very embarrassing silence. If you had ever been
in the presence of such a living, unpitying death, such a picture of horrible
hopelessness, and felt it your duty to make the burden easier by some word
of cheer, when you had all things—life, health, and happiness—about you,
and he only the refuse of a rotten body, if you must presume to tell such a
martyr to be brave and all that sort of thing, when you know that his
absolutely uncomplaining silence is greater bravery than you, in all your
health and vigour, know how to comprehend—well, I tell you it’s no use!
However optimistic by nature, it’s hard to find the words. Why, even a
parson would be dumb!
And so he lingers there uneasily. He looks at the two dear little sweet-
faced maidens at my side, so white and clean and fresh and young, and then
at the gray, misshapen, mutilated silent figure before him, living his lonely
death of agony each day, and says, with a choke, “Good-bye,”—that is all.
Tell me, what would you have said?
END OF VOLUME I.
 INDEX
Botanical Garden, The, St. Pierre, 228, 235-236, 254, 257, 264-270.
Boulevard, The, St. Pierre, 233.
Cape Hatteras, 27, 29.
Capot, Martinique, 270.
Casa Blanca, San Juan, 144.
Castle, The, Charlotte Amalie, 179-185.
Cathedral, The, Santo Domingo, 90-105.
Ceiba-Tree, The, 288.
Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, 164-196.
Castle, The, 179-185.
Columbus, Christopher, 97-105, 288.
Columbus, Diego, 98.
Coolies of Trinidad, 279-281, 292-297.
Coolie Village, The, Port of Spain, 292-297.
Fer de Lance, The, Martinique, 248, 252-253, 269-270.
Grand Hotel, The, St. Pierre, 237-238.
Grande Anse, La, Martinique, 270.
Gros Morne, Martinique, 270.
Gulf Stream, 29.
Hotel Casino Bellevue, Port au Prince, 66-79.
Leper House, The, Port of Spain, 298-307.
Marigot, Martinique, 270.
Martinique, Island of, 197-271.
Capot, 270.
Fer de Lance, 248, 252-253, 269-270.
Grande Anse, La, 270.
Gros Morne, 270.
Marigot, 270.
Morne Rouge, 236, 270.
Mount Pelée, 236, 270, 274.
Natives, The, 205, 210-215, 254-263.
Rivière Roxelane, 266, 273.
Morne Rouge, Martinique, 236, 270.
Morro Castle, San Juan, 128, 153.
Mount Pelée, Martinique, 236, 270, 274.
Natives, The, of Martinique, 205, 210-215, 254-263;
of St. Thomas, 193-196, 210;
of Trinidad, 275-276, 285-286.
Ozama River, 85, 86, 112, 118-122, 163, 288.
Plaza, The, San Juan, 140, 148-150.
Ponce de Leon, 154-156;
Square of, San Juan, 153-160.
Port au Prince, Haïti, 35, 42-80, 84, 89.
Hotel Casino Bellevue, 66-79.
Port of Spain, Trinidad, 275-307.
Coolie Village, The, 292-297.
Leper House, The, 298-307.
Savannah, The, 287-291.
Quay, The, San Juan, 134-136.
Rivière Roxelane, Martinique, 266, 273.
St. Croix, Island of, 189.
St. John, Island of, 189, 190.
St. Pierre, 205, 216, 219, 220-245, 246, 273.
Botanical Garden, The, 228, 235-236, 254, 257, 264-270.
Boulevard, The, 233.
Grand Hotel, The, 237-238.
St. Thomas, Island of, 164, 186, 189, 190.
Natives of, 193-196, 210.
San Salvador, 33.
San Juan, Puerto Rico, 124-161, 163.
Casa Blanca, 144.
Morro Castle, 128, 153.
Plaza, The, 140, 148-150.
Quay, The, 134-136.
Square of Ponce de Leon, 153-160.
Santo Domingo, 84-123, 173.
Cathedral, The, 90-105.
Savannah, The, Port of Spain, 287-291.
Southern Cross, The, 219.
Square of Ponce de Leon, San Juan, 153-160.
Trinidad, Island of, 275-307.
Coolies, The, 279-281, 292-297.
Natives, The, 275-276, 285-286.
Windward Passage, 29, 35.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

her persisent whisper=> her persistent whisper {pg 235}
Hayti=> Haïti {pg 310}
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