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 fessé 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" (_poumèmiè lablanie_). In the evening they
are gathered into large wooden trays or baskets, and carried to what is
called the "lye-house" (_locaïe lessive_)--overlooking the river from a
point on the Fort bank opposite to the higher end of the Savane. Here
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.