Always before daybreak they rise to work, while the vapors of the monies
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', chè!_" Idle men stare at some pretty washer,
till she points at them and cries:--"_Godé Missié-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 moin qui té ka lavé,
Passé, raccommodé:
Y té néf hè disouè
Ou metté moin derhò,--
Yche moin assous bouas moin;--
Laplie té ka tombé--
Léfan moin assous tète moin!
Doudoux, ou m'abandonne!
Moin pa ni pèsonne pou soigné moin."[27]
... 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:--