Tvättdag

Monday Morning (also known as Washday), 1891

 George Van Millett 

Så ser även min måndagsmorgon ut — frågan är om tvätten kommer att torka i det vindstilla tregradiga vädret. Men jag kan verkligen inte klaga, torkar det inte, så får jag väl ta in allt och torka det medelst elektricitet — den möjligheten hade varken  George Van Millett (eller snarare hans fru) eller Anna Laetitia Barbauld.

Washing Day

The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost 

The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase, 

Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse, 

In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on, 

Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, 

Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire 

By little whimpering boy, with rueful face — 

Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded washing day. 

Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, 

With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day 

Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on 

Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs, 

Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn, 

The red-armed washers come and chase repose. 

Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, 

Ere visited that day; the very cat, 

From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth, 

Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest. 

The silent breakfast meal is soon despatched, 

Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 

Cast at the louring, if sky should lour. 

From that last evil, oh preserve us, heavens! 

For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 

Remains of quiet; then expect to hear 

Of sad disasters — dirt and gravel stains 

Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once 

Snapped short, and linen-horse by dog thrown down, 

And all the petty miseries of life. 

Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack, 

And Montezuma smiled on burning coals; 

But never yet did housewife notable 

Greet with a smile a rainy washing day. 

But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 

Who callest thyself, perchance, the master there, 

Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, 

Or usual ’tendence; ask not, indiscreet, 

Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents 

Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find 

Some snug recess impervious. Shouldst thou try 

The ’customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue 

The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, 

Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight 

Of coarse-checked apron, with impatient hand 

Twitched off when showers impend; or crossing lines 

Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet 

Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend 

Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim 

On such a dav the hospitable rites;  

Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy 

Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes 

With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie, 

Or tart or pudding; pudding he nor tart 

That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try — 

Mending what can’t be helped — to kindle mirth 

From cheer deficient, shall his consort’s brow 

Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest 

In silence dines, and early slinks away. 

I well remember, when a child, the awe 

This day struck into me; for then the maids, 

I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them; 

Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope 

Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams, 

Relic of costly suppers, and set by 

For me their petted one; or buttered toast, 

When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale 

Of ghost, or witch, or murder. So I went 

And sheltered me beside the parlour fire; 

There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, 

Tended the little ones, and watched from harm; 

Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles 

With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins 

Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have soured 

One less indulgent. 

At intervals my mother’s voice was heard, 

Urging dispatch; briskly the work went on, 

All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring, 

Or fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. 

Then would I sit me down, and ponder much 

Why washings were; sometimes through hollow hole 

Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft 

The floating bubbles; little dreaming then 

To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball 

Ride buoyant through the clouds, so near approach 

The sports of children and the toils of men. 

Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles, 

And verse is one of them — this most of all.

                                  Anna Laetitia Barbauld (1743 - 1825)