Chapter III

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:--

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

"O cursed eyes he praised that led me to him! O cursed lips of mine which ever repeated his name! O cursed moment in which I gave up my heart to the ingrate who no longer knows how to love."...