6. LES BLANCHISSEUSES.
I.
WHOEVER stops for a few months in St. Pierre is certain, sooner or
later, to pass an idle half-hour in that charming place of Martinique
idlers,—the beautiful Savane du Fort,—and, once there, is equally
certain to lean a little while over the mossy parapet of the river-wall
to watch the blanchisseuses at work. It has a curious interest, this
spectacle of primitive toil: the deep channel of the Roxelane winding
under the palm-crowned heights of the Fort; the blinding whiteness of
linen laid out to bleach for miles upon the huge bowlders of porphyry
and prismatic basalt; and the dark bronze-limbed women, with faces
hidden under immense straw hats, and knees in the rushing torrent,—all
form a scene that makes one think of the earliest civilizations. Even
here, in this modern colony, it is nearly three centuries old; and it
will probably continue thus at the Rivière des Blanchisseuses for fully
another three hundred years. Quaint as certain weird Breton legends
whereof it reminds you,—especially if you watch it before daybreak
while the city still sleeps,—this fashion of washing is not likely to
change. There is a local prejudice against new methods, new
inventions, new ideas;—several efforts at introducing a less savage
style of washing proved unsuccessful; and an attempt to establish a
steam-laundry resulted in failure. The public were quite contented
with the old ways of laundrying, and saw no benefits to be gained by
forsaking them;—while the washers and ironers engaged by the laundry
proprietor at higher rates than they had ever obtained before soon
wearied of in-door work, abandoned their situations, and returned with
a sense of relief to their ancient way of working out in the blue air
and the wind of the hills, with their feet in the mountain-water and
their heads in the awful sun.
… It is one of the sights of St. Pierre,—this daily scene at the
River of the Washerwomen: everybody likes to watch it;—the men,
because among the blanchisseuses there are not a few decidedly handsome
girls; the wormen, probably because a woman feels always interested
in woman's work. All the white bridges of the Roxelane are dotted with
lookers-on during fine days, and particularly in the morning, when
every bonne on her way to and from the market stops a moment to observe
or to greet those blanchisseuses whom she knows. Then one hears such a
calling and clamoring,—such an intercrossing of cries from the bridge
to the river, and the river to the bridge. … "Ouill! Noémi!" … "Coument
ou yé, chè?" … "Eh! Pascaline!", … "Bonjou', Youtte!—Dede!-Fifi!—
Henrillia!" … "Coument ou kallé, Cyrillia?" … "Toutt douce, chè!—et
Ti Mémé?" … "Y bien;—oti Ninotte?" … "Bo ti manmaille pou moin, chè
—ou tanne?" … But the bridge leading to the market of the Fort is
the poorest point of view; for the better classes of blanchisseuses are
not there: only the lazy, the weak, or non-professionals—house-servants,
who do washing at the river two or three times a month as
part of their family-service—are apt to get so far down. The
experienced professionals and early risers secure the best places and
choice of rocks; and among the hundreds at work you can discern
something like a physical gradation. At the next bridge the women look
better, stronger; more young faces appear; and the further you follow
the river-course towards the Jardin des Plantes, the more the
appearance of the blanchisseuses improves,—so that within the space
of a mile you can see well exemplified one natural law of life's
struggle,—the best chances to the best constitutions.
You might also observe, if you watch long enough, that among the
blanchisseuses there are few sufficiently light of color to be classed
as bright mulatresses;—the majority are black or of that dark copper-red
race which is perhaps superior to the black creole in strength and
bulk; for it requires a skin insensible to sun as well as the toughest
of constitutions to be a blanchisseuse. A porteuse can begin to make
long trips at nine or ten years; but no girl is strong enough to learn
the washing-trade until she is past twelve. The blanchisseuse is the
hardest worker among the whole population;—her daily labor is rarely
less than thirteen hours; and during the greater part of that time she
is working in the sun, and standing up to her knees in water that
descends quite cold from the mountain peaks. Her labor makes her
perspire profusely and she can never venture to cool herself by further
immersion without serious danger of pleurisy. The trade is said to
kill all who continue at it beyond a certain number of years:—"Nou ka
mó toutt dleau" (we all die of the water), one told me, replying to a
question. No feeble or light-skinned person can attempt to do a single
day's work of this kind without danger; and a weak girl, driven by
necessity to do her own washing, seldom ventures to go to the river.
Yet I saw an instance of such rashness one day. A pretty sang-mêlée,
perhaps about eighteen or nineteen years old,—whom I afterwards
learned had just lost her mother and found herself thus absolutely
destitute,—began to descend one of the flights of stone steps leading
to the river, with a small bundle upon her head; and two or three of
the blanchisseuses stopped their work to look at her. A tall capresse
inquired mischievously:—
—"Ou vini pou pouend yon bain?" (Coming to take a bath?) For the
river is a great bathing-place.
—"Non; moin vini lavé." (No; I am coming to wash.)
—"Aïe! aïe! aïe!—y vini lavé!" … And all within hearing
laughed together. "Are you crazy, girl?—ess ou fou?" The tall
capresse snatched the bundle from her, opened it, threw a garment to
her nearest neighbor, another to the next one, dividing the work among
a little circle of friends, and said to the stranger, "Non ké lavé
toutt ça ba ou bien vite, chè,—va, amisé ou!" (We'll wash this for
you very quickly, dear—go and amuse yourself!) These kind women even
did more for the poor girl;—they subscribed to buy her a good
breakfast, when the food-seller—the màchanne-mangé—made her regular
round among them, with fried fish and eggs and manioc flour and
bananas.
II.
ALL of the multitude who wash clothing at the river are not
professional blanchisseuses. Hundreds of women, too poor to pay for
laundrying, do their own work at the Roxelane;—and numerous bonnes
there wash the linen of their mistresses as a regular part of their
domestic duty. But even if the professionals did not always occupy a
certain well-known portion of the channel, they could easily be
distinguished from others by their rapid and methodical manner of work,
by the ease with which immense masses of linen are handled by them,
and, above all, by their way of whipping it against the rocks.
Furthermore, the greater number of professionals are likewise teachers,
mistresses (bou'geoises), and have their apprentices beside them,—
young girls from twelve to sixteen years of age. Among these apprenti,
as they are called in the patois, there are many attractive types, such
as idlers upon the bridges like to look at.
If, after one year of instruction, the apprentice fails to prove a good
washer, it is not likely she will ever become one; and there are some
branches of the trade requiring a longer period of teaching and of
practice. The young girl first learns simply to soap and wash the linen
in the river, which operation is called "rubbing" (frotté in creole);—
after she can do this pretty well, she is taught the curious art of
whipping it (fessé). You can hear the sound of the fesse a great way
off, echoing and re-echoing among the mornes: it is not a sharp
smacking noise, as the name might seem to imply, but a heavy hollow
sound exactly like that of an axe splitting dry timber. In fact, it so
closely resembles the latter sound that you are apt on first hearing it
to look up at the mornes with the expectation of seeing woodmen there
at work. And it is not made by striking the linen with anything, but
only by lashing it against the sides of the rocks. … After a piece
has been well rubbed and rinsed, it is folded up into a peculiar sheaf-shape,
and seized by the closely gathered end for the fessé. Then the
folding process is repeated on the reverse, and the other end whipped.
This process expels suds that rinsing cannot remove: it must be done
very dexterously to avoid tearing or damaging the material. By an
experienced hand the linen is never torn; and even pearl and bone
buttons are much less often broken than might be supposed. The singular
echo is altogether due to the manner of folding the article for the
fessé.
After this, all the pieces are spread out upon the rocks, in the sun,
for the "first bleaching" (pouèmiè lablanie). In the evening they are
gathered into large wooden trays or baskets, and carried to what is
called the "lye-house" (lacaïe lessive)—overlooking the river from a
point on the fort bank opposite to the higher end of the Savane. There
each blanchisseuse hires a small or a large vat, or even several,—
according to the quantity of work done,—
at two, three, or ten sous,
and leaves her washing to steep in lye (
coulé is the creole word used)
during the night. There are watchmen to guard it. Before daybreak it
is rinsed in warm water; then it is taken back to the river,—is
rinsed again, bleached again, blued and starched. Then it is ready for
ironing. To press and iron well is the most difficult part of the
trade. When an apprentice is able to iron a gentleman's shirt nicely,
and a pair of white pantaloons, she is considered to have finished her
time;—she becomes a journey-woman (
ouvouïyé).
Even in a country where wages are almost incredibly low, the
blanchisseuse earns considerable money. There is no fixed scale of
prices: it is even customary to bargain with these women beforehand.
Shirts and white pantaloons figure at six and eight cents in laundry
bills; but other washing is much cheaper. I saw a lot of thirty-three
pieces—including such large ones as sheets, bed-covers, and several
douillettes (the long Martinique trailing robes of one piece from neck
to feet)—for which only three francs was charged. Articles are
frequently stolen or lost by house-servants sent to do washing at the
river; but very seldom indeed by the regular blanchisseuses. Few of
them can read or write or understand owners' marks on wearing apparel;
and when you see at the river the wilderness of scattered linen, the
seemingly enormous confusion, you cannot understand how these women
manage to separate and classify it all. Yet they do this admirably,—
and for that reason perhaps more than any other, are able to charge
fair rates;—it is false economy to have your washing done by the
house-servant;—with the professionals your property is safe. And
cheap as her rates are, a good professional can make from twenty-five
to thirty francs a week; averaging fully a hundred francs a month,—as
much as many a white clerk can earn in the stores of St. Pierre, and
quite as much (considering local differences in the
purchasing power of
money) as $60 per month would represent in the United States.
Probably the ability to earn large wages often tempts the
blanchisseuse to continue at her trade until it kills her. The "water-disease,"
as she calls it (maladie-dleau), makes its appearance after
middle-life: the feet, lower limbs, and abdomen swell enormously, while
the face becomes almost fleshless;—then, gradually tissues give way,
muscles yield, and the whole physical structure crumbles. Nevertheless,
the blanchisseuse is essentially a sober liver,—never a drunkard. In
fact, she is sober from rigid necessity: she would not dare to swallow
one mouthful of spirits while at work with her feet in the cold water;
—everybody else in Martinique, even the little children, can drink rum;
the blanchisseuse cannot, unless she wishes to die of a congestion.
Her strongest refreshment is mabi,—a mild, effervescent, and, I think,
rather disagreeable, beer made from molasses.
III.
ALWAYS before daybreak they rise to work, while the vapors of the
mornes fill the air with scent of mouldering vegetation,—clayey
odors,—grassy smells: there is only a faint gray light, and the water
of the river is very chill. One by one they arrive, barefooted, under
their burdens built up tower-shape on their trays;—silently as ghosts
they descend the steps to the river-bed, and begin to unfold and
immerse their washing. They greet each other as they come, then become
silent again; there is scarcely any talking: the hearts of all are
heavy with the heaviness of the hour. But the gray light turns yellow;
the sun climbs over the peaks: light changes the dark water to living
crystal; and all begin to chatter a little. Then the city awakens; the
currents of its daily life circulate again,—thinly and slowly at
first, then swiftly and strongly,
—up and down every yellow street,
and through the Savane, and over the bridges of the river. Passers-by
pause to look down, and cry "
bonjou', che!" Idle men stare at some
pretty washer, till she points at them and cries:—"
Gadé Missie-à ka
guetté nou!—anh!—anh!—anh!" And all the others look up and repeat the
groan—"
anh!—anh!—anh!" till the starers beat a retreat. The air
grows warmer; the sky blue takes fire: the great light makes joy for
the washers; they shout to each other from distance to distance, jest,
laugh, sing. Gusty of speech these women are: long habit of calling to
one another through the roar of the torrent has given their voices a
singular sonority and force: it is well worth while to hear them sing.
One starts the song,—the next joins her; then another and another,
till all the channel rings with the melody from the bridge of the
Jardin des Plantes to the Pont-bois:—
"C'est main qui té ka lavé,
Passé, raccommodé:
Y té néf hè disouè
Ou metté moin derhó,—
Yche main assous bouas moin;—
Laplie té ka tombé—
Léfan moin assous tête moin!
Doudoux, ou m'abandonne!
Moin pa ni pèsonne pou soigné moin."
*
… A melancholy chant—originally a Carnival improvisation made to
bring public shame upon the perpetrator of a cruel act;—but it
contains the story of many of these lives—the story of industrious
affectionate women temporarily united to brutal and worthless men
in a country where legal marriages are rare. Half of the creole songs which
I was able to collect during a residence of nearly two years in the
island touch upon the same sad theme. Of these, "Chè Manman Moin," a
great favorite still with the older blanchisseuses, has a simple pathos
unrivalled, I believe, in the oral literature of this people. Here is
an attempt to translate its three rhymeless stanzas into prose; but the
childish sweetness of the patois original is lost:—
CHÈ MANMAN MOIN.
I.
… "Dear mamma, once you were young like I;—dear papa, you also
have been young;—dear great elder brother, you too have been young.
Ah! let me cherish this sweet friendship!—so sick my heart is—yes,
'tis very, very ill, this heart of mine: love, only love can make it
well again." …
II.
"0 cursed eyes he praised that led me to him! 0 cursed lips of
mine which ever repeated his name! 0 cursed moment in which I gave up
my heart to the ingrate who no longer knows how to love." …
III.
"Doudoux, you swore to me by heaven!—doudoux, you swore to me by
your faith! … And now you cannot come to me? … Oh! my heart is
withering with pain! … I was passing by the cemetery;—I saw my name
upon a stone—all by itself. I saw two white roses; and in a moment
one faded and fell before me. … So my forgotten heart will be!" …
The air is not so charming, however, as that of a little song which
every creole knows, and which may be often heard still at the river: I
think it is the prettiest of all creole melodies. "To-to-to"
(patois for the French toc) is an onomatope for the sound of knocking
at a door.
"To, to, to!—Ça qui là?'
—'C'est moin-mênme, lanmou;—
Ouvé lapott ba moin!'
"To, to, to!—Ça qui là?'
—'C'est moin-mênme lanmou,
Qui ka ba ou khè moin!'
"To, to, to!—Ça qui là?'
—'C'est moin-mênme lanmou,
Laplie ka mouillé moin!'"
[To-to-to … "Who taps there?"—"'Tis mine own self Love: open the door
for me."
To-to-to … "Who taps there?"—"'Tis mine own self Love, who give my
heart to thee."
To-to-to … "Who taps there?"—" 'Tis mine own self Love: open thy
door to me;—the rain is wetting me!"]
… But it is more common to hear the blanchisseuses singing merry,
jaunty, sarcastic ditties,—Carnival compositions,—in which the
African sense of rhythmic melody is more marked:—"Marie-Clémence
maudi," "Loéma tombé," "Quand ou ni ti mari
jojoll." *
—At mid-day the màchanne-mangé comes, with her girls,—carrying trays
of fried fish, and akras, and cooked beans, and bottles of mabi. The
blanchisseuses buy, and eat with their feet in the water, using rocks
for tables. Each has her little tin cup to drink her mabi in … Then
the washing and the chanting and the booming of the fessé begin again.
Afternoon wanes;—school-hours close; and children of many beautiful
colors come to the river, and leap down the steps crying, "Eti!
manman!"—"Sésé!"—"Nenneine!" calling their elder sisters, mothers,
and godmothers: the little boys strip naked to play in the water a
while. … Towards sunset the more rapid and active workers begin to
gather in their linen, and pile it on trays. Large patches of bald
rock appear again. … By six o'clock almost the whole bed of the river
is bare;—the women are nearly all gone. A few linger a while on the
Savane, to watch
the last-comer. There is always a great laugh at the
last to leave the channel: they ask her if she has not forgotten "to
lock up the river."
—"Ou fèmé lapóte lariviè, chè-anh?"
—"Ah! oui, chè!—moin fèmé y, ou tanne?—moin ni laclé-à!" (Oh yes,
dear. I locked it up,—you hear?—I've got the key!)
But there are days and weeks when they do not sing,—times of want or
of plague, when the silence of the valley is broken only by the sound
of linen beaten upon the rocks, and the great voice of the Roxelane,
which will sing on when the city itself shall have ceased to be, just
as it sang one hundred thousand years ago. …
"Why do they not sing to-day?" I once asked during the summer of 1887,
—a year of pestilence. "Yo ka pensé toutt lanmizè yo,—toutt lapeine
yo," I was answered. (They are thinking of all their trouble, all their
misery.) Yet in all seasons, while youth and strength stay with them,
they work on in wind and sun, mist and rain, washing the linen of the
living and the dead,—white wraps for the newly born, white robes for
the bride, white shrouds for them that pass into the Great Silence. And
the torrent that wears away the ribs of the perpetual hills wears away
their lives,—sometimes slowly, slowly as black basalt is worn,
—sometimes suddenly,—in the twinkling of an eye.
For a strange danger ever menaces the blanchisseuse,—the treachery
of the stream! … Watch them working, and observe how often they turn
their eyes to the high north-east, to look at Pelée. Pelée gives them
warning betimes. When all is sunny in St. Pierre, and the harbor lies
blue as lapis-lazuli, there may be mighty rains in the region of the
great woods and the valleys of the higher peaks; and thin streams swell
to raging floods which burst suddenly from the altitudes, rolling down
rocks and trees and wreck of forests, uplifting crags, devastating
slopes. And sometimes, down the ravine of the Roxelane, there comes a
roar as of eruption, with a rush of foaming water like a moving
mountain-wall; and bridges and buildings vanish with its passing. In
1865 the Savane, high as it lies above the river-bed, was flooded;—and
all the bridges were swept into the sea.
So the older and wiser blanchisseuses keep watch upon Pelée; and if a
blackness gather over it, with lightnings breaking through, then—
however fair the sun shine on St. Pierre—the alarm is given, the miles
of bleaching linen vanish from the rocks in a few minutes, and every
one leaves the channel. But it has occasionally happened that Pelée
gave no such friendly signal before the river rose: thus lives have
been lost. Most of the blanchisseuses are swimmers, and good ones,—I
have seen one of these girls swim almost out of sight in the harbor,
during an idle hour;—but no swimmer has any chances in a rising of the
Roxelane: all overtaken by it are stricken by rocks and drift;—yo
crazé, as a creole term expresses it,—a term signifying to crush, to
bray, to dash to pieces.
… Sometimes it happens that one who has been absent at home for a
brief while returns to the river only to meet her comrades fleeing
from it,—many leaving their linen behind them. But she will not
abandon the linen intrusted to her: she makes a run for it,—in spite
of warning screams,—in spite of the vain clutching of kind rough
fingers. She gains the river-bed;—the flood has already reached her
waist, but she is strong; she reaches her linen,—snatches it up, piece
by piece, scattered as it is—"one!—two!—five!—seven!"—there is a
roaring in her ears—"eleven!—thirteen!" she has it all … but now
the rocks are moving! For one instant she strives to reach the steps,
only a few yards off;—
another, and the thunder of the deluge is upon
her,—and the crushing crags,—and the spinning trees. …
Perhaps before sundown some canotier may find her floating far in the
bay,—drifting upon her face in a thousand feet of water,—with faithful
dead hands still holding fast the property of her employer.
[_]
* It was I who washed and
ironed and mended;—at nine o'clock at night
thou didst put me out-of-doors, with my child in my arms,—the rain
was falling,—with my poor straw mattress upon my head! … Doudoux!
thou dost abandon me! … I have none to care for me.
[_]
* See Appendix for specimens
of creole music.