Books: Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v3
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Gustave Droz >> Monsieur, Madame and Bebe, v3
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But I see that I am writing a whole volume, dear Marie. I will not
re-read it or I should never dare to send it to you. What would you
have? I am losing my head a little. I am not yet accustomed to all this
happiness.
Yours affectionately.
CHAPTER XXV
FOUR YEARS LATER
Yes, my dear, he is a man and a man for good and all. He has come back
from the country half as big again and as bold as a lion. He climbs on
to the chairs, stops the clocks and sticks his hands in his pockets like
a grown-up person.
When I see in the morning in the anteroom my baby's little shoes standing
proudly beside the paternal boots, I experience, despite myself, a return
toward that past which is yet so near. Yesterday swaddling clothes,
today boots, tomorrow spurs. Ah! how the happy days fly by. Already
four years old. I can scarcely carry him, even supposing he allowed me
to, for his manly dignity is ticklish. He passes half his life armed for
war, his pistols, his guns, his whips and his swords are all over the
place. There is a healthy frankness about all his doings that charms me.
Do you imagine from this that my demon no longer has any good in him? At
times he is an angel and freely returns the caresses I bestow upon him.
In the evening after dinner he gets down into my armchair, takes my head
in his hands and arranges my hair in his own way. His fresh little mouth
travels all over my face. He imprints big sounding kisses on the back of
my neck, which makes me shudder all over. We have endless talks
together. "Why's" come in showers, and all these "why's" require real
answers; for the intelligence of children is above all things logical.
I will only give one of his sayings as a proof.
His grandmother is rather unwell, and every night he tacks on to his
prayer these simple words, "Please God make Granny well, because I love
her so." But for greater certainty he has added on his own account, "You
know, God, Granny who lives in the Rue Saint-Louis, on the first floor."
He says all this with an expression of simple confidence and such comic
seriousness, the little love. You understand, it is to spare God the
trouble of looking for the address.
I leave you; I hear him cough. I do not know whether he has caught cold,
but I think he has been looking rather depressed since the morning. Do
not laugh at me, I am not otherwise uneasy.
Yours most affectionately.
Yesterday there was a consultation. On leaving the house my old doctor's
eyes were moist; he strove to hide it, but I saw a tear. My child must
be very ill then? The thought is dreadful, dear. They seek to reassure
me, but I tremble.
The night has not brought any improvement. Still this fever. If you
could see the state of the pretty little body we used to admire so.
I will not think of what God may have in store for me. Ice has been
ordered to be put to his head. His hair had to be cut off. Poor fair
little curls that used to float in the wind as he ran after his hoop.
It is terrible. I have dreadful forebodings.
My child, my poor child! He is so weak that not a word comes now from
his pale parched lips. His large eyes that still shine in the depths of
their sockets, smile at me from time to time, but this smile is so
gentle, so faint, that it resembles a farewell. A farewell! But what
would become of me?
This morning, thinking he was asleep, I could not restrain a sob. His
lips opened, and he said, but in a whisper so low that I had to put my
ear close down to catch it: "You do love me then, mamma?"
Do I love him? I should die.
NICE.
They have brought me here and I feel no better for it. Every day my
weakness increases. I still spit blood. Besides, what do they seek to
cure me of?
Yours as ever.
If I should never return to Paris, you will find in my wardrobe his last
toys; the traces of his little fingers are still visible on them. To the
left is the branch of the blessed box that used to hang at his bedside.
Let your hands alone touch all this. Burn these dear relics, this poor
evidence of shattered happiness. I can still see . . . Sobs are
choking me.
Farewell, dear friend. What would you? I built too high on too unstable
a soil. I loved one object too well.
Yours from my heart.
CHAPTER XXVI
OLD RECOLLECTIONS
Cover yourselves with fine green leaves, tall trees casting your peaceful
shade. Steal through the branches, bright sunlight, and you, studious
promenaders, contemplative idlers, mammas in bright toilettes, gossiping
nurses, noisy children, and hungry babies, take possession of your
kingdom; these long walks belong to you.
It is Sunday. Joy and festivity. The gaufre seller decks his shop and
lights his stove. The white cloth is spread on the table and piles of
golden cakes attract the customer.
The woman who lets out chairs has put on her apron with its big pockets
for sous. The park keeper, my dear little children, has curled his
moustache, polished up his harmless sword and put on his best uniform.
See how bright and attractive the marionette theatre looks in the
sunshine, under its striped covering.
Sunday requires all this in its honor.
Unhappy are those to whom the tall trees of Luxembourg gardens do not
recall one of those recollections which cling to the heart like its first
perfume to a vase.
I was a General, under those trees, a General with a plume like a
mourning coach-horse, and armed to the teeth. I held command from the
hut of tile newspaper vendor to the kiosk of the gaufre seller. No false
modesty, my authority extended to the basin of the fountain, although the
great white swans rather alarmed me. Ambushes behind the tree trunks,
advanced posts behind the nursemaids, surprises, fights with cold steel;
attacks by skirmishers, dust, encounters, carnage and no bloodshed.
After which our mammas wiped our foreheads, rearranged our dishevelled
hair, and tore us away from the battle, of which we dreamed all night.
Now, as I pass through the garden with its army of children and nurses,
leaning on my stick with halting step, how I regret my General's cocked
hat, my paper plume, my wooden sword and my pistol. My pistol that would
snap caps and was the cause of my rapid promotion.
Disport yourselves, little folks; gossip, plump nurses, as you scold your
soldiers. Embroider peaceably, young mothers, making from time to time a
little game of your neighbors among yourselves; and you, reflective
idlers, look at that charming picture-babies making a garden.
Playing in the sand, a game as old as the world and always amusing.
Hillocks built up in a line with little bits of wood stuck into them,
represent gardens in the walks of which baby gravely places his little
uncertain feet. What would he not give, dear little man, to be able to
complete his work by creating a pond in his park, a pond, a gutter, three
drops of water?
Further on the sand is damper, and in the mountain the little fingers
pierce a tunnel. A gigantic work which the boot of a passer-by will soon
destroy. What passer-by respects a baby's mountain? Hence the young
rascal avenges himself. See that gentleman in the brown frockcoat, who
is reading the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' on the bench; our workers have
piled up hillocks of sand and dust around him, the skirts of his coat
have already lost their color.
But let this equipage noisily dashing along go by. Four horses, two bits
of string, and a fifth horse who is the driver. That is all, and yet one
fancies one's self in a postchaise. How many places has one not visited
by nightfall?
There are drivers who prefer to be horses, there are horses who would
rather be drivers; first symptoms of ambition.
And the solitary baby who slowly draws his omnibus round the gaufre
seller, eyeing his shop! An indefatigable consumer, but a poor
paymaster.
Do you see down there under the plane-trees that group of nurses, a herd
of Burgundian milch kine, and at their feet, rolling on a carpet, all
those little rosy cheeked philosophers who only ask God for a little
sunshine, pure milk, and quiet, in order to be happy. Frequently an
accident disturbs the delightful calm. The Burgundian who mistrusted
matters darts forward. It is too late.
"The course of a river is not to be checked," says Giboyer.
Sometimes the disaster is still more serious, and one repairs it as one
can; but the philosopher who loves these disasters is indignant and
squalls, swearing to himself to begin again.
Those little folk are delightful; we love children, but this affection
for the species in general becomes yet more sweet when it is no longer a
question of a baby, but of one's own baby.
Bachelors must not read what follows; I wish to speak to the family
circle. Between those of a trade there is a better understanding.
I am a father, my dear madame, and have been of course the rejoicing papa
of a matchless child. From beneath his cap there escaped a fair and
curly tress that was our delight, and when I touched his white neck with
my finger he broke into a laugh and showed me his little white pearls, as
he clasped my head in his two chubby arms.
His first tooth was an event. We went into the light the better to see.
The grandparents looked through their glasses at the little white spot,
and I, with outstretched neck, demonstrated, explained and proved. And
all at once I ran off to the cellar to seek out in the right corner a
bottle of the best.
My son's first tooth. We spoke of his career during dinner, and at
dessert grand-mamma gave us a song.
After this tooth came others, and with them tears and pain, but then when
they were all there how proudly he bit into his slice of bread, how
vigorously he attacked his chop in order to eat "like papa."
"Like papa," do you remember how these two words warm the heart, and how
many transgressions they cause to be forgiven.
My great happiness,--is it yours too?--was to be present at my darling's
awakening. I knew the time. I would gently draw aside the curtains of
his cradle and watch him as I waited.
I usually found him stretched diagonally, lost in the chaos of sheets and
blankets, his legs in the air, his arms crossed above his head. Often
his plump little hand still clutched the toy that had helped to send him
off to sleep, and through his parted lips came the regular murmur of his
soft breathing. The warmth of his sleep had given his cheeks the tint of
a well-ripened peach. His skin was warm, and the perspiration of the
night glittered on his forehead in little imperceptible pearls.
Soon his hand would make a movement; his foot pushed away the blanket,
his whole body stirred, he rubbed an eye, stretched out his arms, and
then his look from under his scarcely raised eyelids would rest on me.
He would smile at me, murmuring softly, so softly that I would hold my
breath to seize all the shades of his music.
"Dood mornin', papa."
"Good morning, my little man; have you slept well?"
We held out our arms to each other and embraced like old friends.
Then the talking would begin. He chatted as the lark would sing to the
rising sun. Endless stories.
He would tell me his dreams, asking after each sentence for "his nice,
warm bread and milk, with plenty of sugar." And when his breakfast came
up, what an outburst of laughter, what joy as he drew himself up to reach
it; then his eye would glitter with a tear in the corner, and the chatter
begin again.
At other times he would come and surprise me in bed. I would pretend to
be asleep, and he would pull my beard and shout in my ear. I feigned
great alarm and threatened to be avenged. From this arose fights among
the counterpanes, entrenchments behind the pillows. In sign of victory I
would tickle him, and then he shuddered, giving vent to the frank and
involuntary outburst of laughter of happy childhood. He buried his head
between his two shoulders like a tortoise withdrawing into his shell, and
threatened me with his plump rosy foot. The skin of his heel was so
delicate that a young girl's cheek would have been proud of it. How many
kisses I would cover those dear little feet with when I warmed his long
nightdress before the fire.
I had been forbidden to undress him, because it had been found that I
entangled the knots instead of undoing them.
All this was charming, but when it was necessary to act rigorously and
check the romping that was going too far, he would slowly drop his
eyelids, while with dilated nostrils and trembling lips he tried to keep
back the big tear glittering beneath his eyelid.
What courage was not necessary in order to refrain from calming with a
kiss the storm on the point of bursting, from consoling the little
swollen heart, from drying the tear that was overflowing and about to
become a flood.
A child's expression is then so touching, there is so much grief in a
warm tear slowly falling, in a little contracted face, a little heaving
breast.
All this is long past. Yet years have gone by without effacing these
loved recollections; and now that my baby is thirty years old and has a
heavy moustache, when he holds out his large hand and says in his bass
voice, "Good morning, father," it still seems to me that an echo repeats
afar off the dear words of old, "Dood mornin', papa."
CHAPTER XXVII
THE LITTLE BOOTS
In the morning when I left my room, I saw placed in line before the door
his boots and mine. His were little laced-up boots rather out of shape,
and dulled by the rough usage to which he subjects them. The sole of the
left boot was worn thin, and a little hole was threatening at the toe of
the right. The laces, worn and slack, hung to the right and left.
Swellings in the leather marked the places of his toes, and the
accustomed movements of his little foot had left their traces in the
shape of creases, slight or deep.
Why have I remembered all this? I really do not know, but it seems to me
that I can still see the boots of the dear little one placed there on the
mat beside my own, two grains of sand by two paving stones, a tom tit
beside an elephant. They were his every-day boots, his playfellows,
those with which he ascended sand hills and explored puddles. They were
devoted to him, and shared his existence so closely that something of
himself was met with again in them. I should have recognized them among
a thousand; they had an especial physiognomy about them; it seemed to me
that an invisible tie attached them to him, and I could not look at their
undecided shape, their comic and charming grace, without recalling their
little master, and acknowledging to myself that they resembled him.
Everything belonging to a baby becomes a bit babyish itself, and assumes
that expression of unstudied and simple grace peculiar to a child.
Beside these laughing, gay, good-humored little boots, only asking leave
to run about the country, my own seemed monstrous, heavy, coarse,
ridiculous, with their heels. From their heavy and disabused air one
felt that for them life was a grave matter, its journeys long, and the
burden borne quite a serious one.
The contrast was striking, and the lesson deep. I would softly approach
these little boots in order not to wake the little man who was still
asleep in the adjoining room; I felt them, I turned them over, I looked
at them on all sides, and I found a delightful smile rise to my lips.
Never did the old violet-scented glove that lay for so long in the inmost
recess of my drawer procure me so sweet an emotion.
Paternal love is no trifle; it has its follies and weaknesses, it is
puerile and sublime, it can neither be analyzed nor explained, it is
simply felt, and I yielded myself to it with delight.
Let the papa without weakness cast the first stone at me; the mammas will
avenge me.
Remember that this little laced boot, with a hole in the toe, reminded me
of his plump little foot, and that a thousand recollections were
connected with that dear trifle.
I recalled him, dear child, as when I cut his toe nails, wriggling about,
pulling at my beard, and laughing in spite of himself, for he was
ticklish.
I recalled him as when of an evening in front of a good fire, I pulled
off his little socks. What a treat.
I would say "one, two." And he, clad in his long nightgown, his hands
lost in the sleeves, would wait with glittering eyes, and ready to break
into a fit of laughter for the "three."
At last after a thousand delays, a thousand little teasings that excited
his impatience and allowed me to snatch five or six kisses, I said
"three."
The sock flew away. Then there was a wild joy; he would throw himself
back on my arm, waving his bare legs in the air. From his open mouth, in
which two rows of shining little pearls could be distinguished, welled
forth a burst of ringing laughter.
His mother, who, however, laughed too, would say the next minute,
"Come, baby, come, my little angel, you will get cold . . . . But
leave off. . . . Will you have done, you little demon?"
She wanted to scold, but she could not be serious at the sight of his
fair-haired head, and flushed, smiling, happy face, thrown back on my
knee.
She would look at me, and say:
"He is unbearable. Good gracious! what a child."
But I understood that this meant:
"Look how handsome, sturdy and healthy he is, our baby, our little man,
our son."
And indeed he was adorable; at least I thought so.
I had the wisdom--I can say it now that my hair is white--not to let one
of those happy moments pass without amply profiting by it, and really I
did well. Pity the fathers who do not know how to be papas as often as
possible, who do not know how to roll on the carpet, play at being a
horse, pretend to be the great wolf, undress their baby, imitate the
barking of the dog, and the roar of the lion, bite whole mouthfuls
without hurting, and hide behind armchairs so as to let themselves be
seen.
Pity sincerely these unfortunates. It is not only pleasant child's play
that they neglect, but true pleasure, delightful enjoyment, the scraps of
that happiness which is greatly calumniated and accused of not existing
because we expect it to fall from heaven in a solid mass when it lies at
our feet in fine powder. Let us pick up the fragments, and not grumble
too much; every day brings us with its bread its ration of happiness.
Let us walk slowly and look down on the ground, searching around us and
seeking in the corners; it is there that Providence has its hiding-
places.
I have always laughed at those people who rush through life at full
speed, with dilated nostrils, uneasy eyes, and glance rivetted on the
horizon. It seems as though the present scorched their feet, and when
you say to them, "Stop a moment, alight, take a glass of this good old
wine, let us chat a little, laugh a little, kiss your child."
"Impossible," they reply; "I am expected over there. There I shall
converse, there I shall drink delicious wine, there I shall give
expansion to paternal love, there I shall be happy!"
And when they do get "there," breathless and tired out, and claim the
price of their fatigue, the present, laughing behind its spectacles,
says, "Monsieur, the bank is closed."
The future promises, it is the present that pays, and one should have a
good understanding with the one that keeps the keys of the safe.
Why fancy that you are a dupe of Providence?
Do you think that Providence has the time to serve up to each of you
perfect happiness, already dressed on a golden plate, and to play music
during your repast into the bargain? Yet that is what a great many
people would like.
We must be reasonable, tuck up our sleeves and look after our cooking
ourselves, and not insist that heaven should put itself out of the way to
skim our soup.
I used to muse on all this of an evening when my baby was in my arms, and
his moist, regular breathing fanned my hand. I thought of the happy
moments he had already given me, and was grateful to him for them.
"How easy it is," I said to myself, "to be happy, and what a singular
fancy that is of going as far as China in quest of amusement."
My wife was of my opinion, and we would sit for hours by the fire talking
of what we felt.
"You, do you see, dear? love otherwise than I do," she often said to me.
"Papas calculate more. Their love requires a return. They do not really
love their child till the day on which their self-esteem as its father is
flattered. There is something of ownership in it. You can analyze
paternal love, discover its causes, say 'I love my child because he is so
and so, or so and so.' With the mother such analysis is impossible, she
does not love her child because he is handsome or ugly, because he does
or does not resemble her, has or has not her tastes. She loves him
because she can not help it, it is a necessity. Maternal love is an
innate sentiment in woman. Paternal love is, in man, the result of
circumstances. In her love is an instinct, in him a calculation, of
which, it is true, he is unconscious, but, in short, it is the outcome of
several other feelings."
"That is all very fine; go on," I said. "We have neither heart nor
bowels, we are fearful savages. What you say is monstrous." And I
stirred the logs furiously with the tongs.
Yet my wife was right, I acknowledged to myself. When a child comes into
the world the affection of the father is not to be compared to that of
the mother. With her it is love already. It seems that she has known
him for a long time, her pretty darling. At his first cry it might be
said that she recognized him. She seems to say, "It is he." She takes
him without the slightest embarrassment, her movements are natural, she
shows no awkwardness, and in her two twining arms the baby finds a place
to fit him, and falls asleep contentedly in the nest created for him. It
would be thought that woman serves a mysterious apprenticeship to
maternity. Man, on the other hand, is greatly troubled by the birth of a
child. The first wail of the little creature stirs him, but in this
emotion there is more astonishment than love. His affection is not yet
born. His heart requires to reflect and to become accustomed to these
fondnesses so new to him.
There is an apprenticeship to be served to the business of a father.
There is none to that of a mother.
If the father is clumsy morally in his love for his firstborn, it must be
acknowledged that he is so physically in the manifestation of his
fondness.
It is only tremblingly, and with contortions and efforts, that he lifts
the slight burden. He is afraid of smashing the youngster, who knows
this, and thence bawls with all the force of his lungs. He expands more
strength, poor man, in lifting up his child than he would in bursting a
door open. If he kisses him, his beard pricks him; if he touches him,
his big fingers cause him some disaster. He has the air of a bear
threading a needle.
And yet it must be won, the affection of this poor father, who, at the
outset, meets nothing but misadventures; he must be captivated, captured,
made to have a taste for the business, and not be left too long to play
the part of a recruit.
Nature has provided for it, and the father rises to the rank of corporal
the day the baby lisps his first syllables.
It is very sweet, the first lisping utterance of a child, and admirably
chosen to move--the "pa-pa" the little creature first murmurs. It is
strange that the first word of a child should express precisely the
deepest and tenderest sentiment of all?
Is it not touching to see that the little creature finds of himself the
word that is sure to touch him of whom he stands most in need; the word
that means, "I am yours, love me, give me a place in your heart, open
your arms to me; you see I do not know much as yet, I have only just
arrived, but, already, I think of you, I am one of the family, I shall
eat at your table, and bear your name, pa-pa, pa-pa."
He has discovered at once the most delicate of flatteries, the sweetest
of caresses. He enters on life by a master stroke.
Ah! the dear little love! "Pa-pa, pa-pa," I still hear his faint,
hesitating voice, I can still see his two coral lips open and close. We
were all in a circle around him, kneeling down to be on a level with him.
They kept saying to him, "Say it again, dear, say it again. Where is
papa?" And he, amused by all these people about him, stretched out his
arms, and turned his eyes toward me.
I kissed him heartily, and felt that two big tears hindered me from
speaking.
From that moment I was a papa in earnest. I was christened.
CHAPTER XXVIII
BABIES AND PAPAS
When the baby reaches three or four years of age, when his sex shows
itself in his actions, his tastes and his eyes, when he smashes his
wooden horses, cuts open his drums, blows trumpets, breaks the castors
off the furniture, and evinces a decided hostility to crockery; in a
word, when he is a man, it is then that the affection of a father for his
son becomes love. He feels himself invaded by a need of a special
fondness, of which the sweetest recollections of his past life can give
no idea. A deep sentiment envelopes his heart, the countless roots of
which sink into it in all directions. Defects or qualities penetrate and
feed on this sentiment. Thus, we find in paternal love all the
weaknesses and all the greatnesses of humanity. Vanity, abnegation,
pride, and disinterestedness are united together, and man in his entirety
appears in the papa.
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