How useful it is for a mother to have her children beside her! What nursemaid could take them in her arms, reassure them, and then put them back to sleep when they have been woken by some horrible nightmare? For they do have their dreams, and it is all the more difficult to explain away one of those terrible imaginings in that the child is listening to its mother with eyes at once sleepy, frightened, intelligent, and innocent. Such moments are interludes between two bouts of sleep. My own sleep has grown so light that I can see and hear my two little ones through the veil of my eyelids. One single sigh, one start, and I am awake. In my mind, the monster of convulsions is forever crouched at the foot of their beds.
Morning comes, and with the first birdsongs my children’s peeping begins. Through the mists of the last moments of sleep, their babble is like the dawn chorus, the quarreling swallows, merry or plaintive little cries that I hear less with my ears than with my heart. Naïs tries to come to me, fording the gap between her cradle and my bed on hands and knees or uncertain feet; meanwhile, Armand climbs right up, nimble as a monkey, and gives me a kiss. Those two dears then colonize my bed for their games, with their mother close by for their every whim. The little girl pulls my hair, is forever trying to nurse, and Armand guards my breast as if it were his alone. They strike poses I cannot resist, their laughter explodes like a rocket, and sleep is soon driven away. Then we play ogress: mother ogress devours that tender, white young flesh with caresses, she hungrily kisses those sweet, sparkling eyes, those pink shoulders, giving rise to the most charming little fits of jealousy. Some days I try to put on my stockings at eight o’clock and by nine have yet to pull on even one.
Finally, my dear, we get up. The ablutions begin. I put on my peignoir, roll up my sleeves, don the oilcloth apron; I bathe and clean my two little flowers, with Mary standing by. I alone judge whether the water is too hot or too tepid, for half of a child’s cries and tears come from the temperature of the water. And then out come the paper fleets and the little glass ducks. Children must be kept amused if they are to be properly washed. If you knew all the pleasures that must be invented for those absolute monarchs simply so that you can run a soft washcloth over their tiniest folds, you would be shocked at the cleverness and skill accomplished motherhood requires. You beg, you scold, you promise, you acquire a gift for trumpery all the more admirable in that it must be kept perfectly hidden. Who knows what would become of us had God not counterbalanced the child’s cunning with the mother’s! A child is as wily as any politician, and one masters him just as one masters any politician: by his passions. Happily, it takes nothing to make those angels laugh: a dropped scrub brush, a cake of soap sliding into the water, and suddenly there are bursts of joy! As you see, a mother’s triumphs may be hard-won, but triumphs there are. Nevertheless, God alone—for the father knows nothing of all this—you, God, or the angels alone will understand the glances I exchange with Mary when the two little ones are all dressed and we see them clean and tidy in the midst of the soaps, the washcloths, the combs, the basins, the blotting paper, the flannels, all the thousand little accessories to be found in a nursery worthy of the name. In that way, and that way alone, I have become English: I will concede that the women of that land have a genius for childcare. Although they consider the child only in terms of his material and physical well-being, their innovations are excellent. My children will thus always be shod in flannel, and their legs will be bare. They will never be crowded or constrained, but neither will they ever be alone. The French child’s imprisonment in his swaddling bands is the nurse’s freedom—a loaded word if ever there was! A true mother is never free: that is why I do not write you, having the estate to oversee and two children to raise. There are many silent merits to be found in a mother’s wisdom, unknown to all, never vaunted, a virtue in every tiny detail, a devotion that knows no timetable. The soups cooking before the fire need my close attention. Do you think me the sort of woman to shirk her duties? There is tenderness to be gleaned from even the tiniest task. Oh! how pretty is the smile of a child enjoying his little meal. Armand has a way of nodding his head that is as good as a whole lifetime of love. How could I leave to some other woman the right, the task, the pleasure of blowing on a spoonful of soup that will be too hot for Naïs, whom I weaned seven months ago, and who still remembers the breast? When a nursemaid burns the child’s tongue and lips with something hot, she tells the alarmed mother who comes running that the child is simply crying from hunger. How on earth can a mother sleep in peace knowing that an impure breath might touch the spoonfuls her child will swallow, she to whom nature allowed no intermediary between her breast and her newborn’s lips! It takes a certain patience to cut up a cutlet for Naïs, whose last teeth are just coming in, and then to mix that well-done meat with potatoes; often only a mother can make a fussy child finish his meal. No English nursemaid, no houseful of servants can absolve her of the obligation to take her place on the field of battle, where gentleness must combat childhood’s many little sorrows and pains. Indeed, Louise, one must tend to these dear innocents with one’s very soul; one must believe only one’s own eyes, only the touch of one’s own hand for their washing, their feeding, their tucking into bed. In principle, a child’s cry is an unappealable rebuke of the mother or nursemaid, if that cry is not caused by some distress imposed by nature. Now that I have two and soon three to look after, I have nothing in my soul but my children; you yourself, you whom I so love, exist only in the form of a memory. I am not always dressed by two in the afternoon. I will thus never trust a mother whose rooms are tidy, who has all her collars, gowns, and affairs in order.
Yesterday, with April beginning, the weather was fine, and I wanted to take them out for a walk before my delivery, whose hour will soon sound; for a mother, an outing is a veritable poem, one you already look forward to the day before, making plans for the morrow. Armand was to wear his first black velvet jacket, with a new ruff I embroidered myself, and a tam in the colors of the Stuarts, ornamented with rooster feathers; Naïs was to be dressed in white and pink, with her delicious baby bonnet, for she is still a baby—she will lose that pretty name with the arrival of the little one, who is forever kicking at me, and whom I call my beggar, for he will be the last-born. I have already seen that child in my dreams, and I know I will have a son. Bonnets, ruffs, jacket, the little stockings, the adorable shoes, the pink swaddling bands, the silk-embroidered chiffon dress, everything was carefully laid out on my bed. When those two lighthearted, cheerful little birds had their brown hair curled in one case and gently combed onto the forehead and along the edge of the pink-and-white bonnet in the other, when the shoes were buckled, when those little bare calves, those neatly shod feet trotted through the nursery, when those two cleanes faces[47] (as Mary says)—when, in limpid French, those bright eyes said “Let’s go!,” I quivered with anticipation. Oh! the sight of two children made ready by your own hands, the sight of that fresh skin, those glowing blue veins, when you have bathed them, steamed them, dried them yourself, highlighted by the lively colors of the velvet or silk, why it is better than a poem! With what passion, two seconds after your eagerness has been satisfied, you call them back to plant one more kiss on those necks, made far prettier than the neck of the most beautiful woman by a simple ruff! Such tableaux, which can make any mother stare transfixed with joy at the most idiotic sentimental lithograph, are a part of my life every day!
Once outside, as I was congratulating myself on my handiwork, admiring my little Armand, who looked just like the son of a prince as he led the baby down that little path you know well, a carriage came along, and I tried to pull them to one side. My two children tumbled into a mud puddle, and my masterpiece was ruined! There was nothing to do but to take them home and change them into fresh clothes. I picked up Naïs, not seeing that I was ruining my dress; Mary took Armand, and a moment later we were inside again. When a baby cries and a child is wet, there is nothing more to say; a mother no longer thinks of herself, all her thoughts are occup
ied elsewhere.
The dinner hour comes, and most often I have done nothing to prepare for it; how can I alone serve them both, lay out the napkins, roll up their sleeves, ensure that they eat? I answer that question two times a day. What with all these unending tasks, these joys or disasters, everyone in the house is seen to but me. Often, when the children have been misbehaving, I never take out my curlers. My toilette depends on their mood. If I have a moment to write you these six pages, it is only because they are busy cutting out pictures from my romances, or making castles from books or chessmen or mother-of-pearl tokens, or Naïs has to be winding up my silk or wool thread in her own way, which, I assure you, is so complicated that she throws all her little intelligence into it, and never makes a sound.
But I have nothing to complain of: my two children are healthy, free, and it takes less to keep them amused than people suppose. Everything makes them happy: more than toys, what they need is a well-supervised freedom. A few pink, yellow, purple, or black pebbles, some little shells, they are enthralled by the wonders of sand. Their wealth is to own lots of little things. I study Armand; he talks to the flowers, the flies, the chickens, he imitates them, he is friends with the insects, which captivate him without end. He is fascinated by anything small. Armand is beginning to ask me the why of all things, he has just stopped by to see what I was saying to his godmother; indeed, he takes you for a good fairy, and as you see, children are always right!
Alas! my angel, I never meant to make you sad by telling you of my happiness. Here is a little portrait of your godson. The other day, a poor man was following us, for the poor know that a mother with a child in tow will never refuse them alms. Armand has yet to learn that it is possible to lack for bread, he has no idea what money is! But as I had just bought him a little trumpet he wanted, he regally held it out to the old man and said, “Here, take this!”
“May I keep it?” the poor man said to me.
What is there on this earth that can outweigh the joy of such a moment?
“Because, madame, I’ve had children of my own,” the old man said, taking what I then gave him, which I had entirely forgotten.
When I think that a child like Armand will have to be sent to school, that I have only three and a half years more to keep him by my side, I shudder. Public education will mow down the flowers of that perpetually blessed childhood, will denaturalize those graceful ways, that adorable innocence! They will cut off that curly hair I so cared for, washed, and kissed. And Armand’s soul, what will they do with that?
And what news of you? You have told me nothing of your life. Do you still love Felipe? For where the Saracen is concerned I have no worries. Farewell—Naïs has just fallen, and if I were to go on this letter would take up a whole volume.
46
FROM MADAME DE MACUMER TO COUNTESS DE L’ESTORADE
1829
My good and tender Renée, you will have learned from the newspapers of the horrible sorrow that has befallen me; I could not write you a single word. For twenty days and nights I sat at his bedside, I heard his last sigh, I closed his eyes, I piously kept watch over him with the priests, and said the prayers for the dead. I have brought the punishment of this cruel grief down on myself, and yet, seeing the serene smile he gave me before he died, I could not believe that my love had killed him! But in any case, He is no more, and I am! To you who knew us so well, what more need I add? Those two sentences say it all. Oh! if someone would only tell me he might be brought back to life, I would give up my share of heaven just to hear that promise, for it would be as good as seeing him again! . . . And if I could hold him, if only for two seconds, then I could take a breath with no dagger in my heart! Won’t you come soon and tell me that? Don’t you love me enough to lie to me? . . . But no! you told me in advance of the harm I was doing him. . . . Is that true? No, I never deserved his love, you’re right, I stole it. I smothered happiness in my frantic embraces! Oh, I am no longer mad as I write you these lines, but I feel so alone! Lord, what more can there be in your hell than that single word?
Once he was taken away from me, I lay down in the same bed, hoping to die, for there was only one door between us, and I thought myself still strong enough to push it open! But alas! I was too young, and after a convalescence of forty days, during which the inventions of a sad science sustained me with detestable efficacy, I now find myself in the country, sitting at my window amid the beautiful flowers he had our servants cultivate for me, enjoying the magnificent view over which his eyes so often wandered, which he applauded himself for finding, since it pleased me. Ah! my dear, one can scarcely stir when one’s heart is dead: the pain is unspeakable. The damp soil of my garden makes me shiver, the earth is like a vast grave, and I feel I am walking on him! The first time I went out, I took fright and stood frozen in place. How sad to see his flowers without him!
My mother and father are in Spain, you know my brothers, and you cannot leave your house in the country, but you needn’t worry: two angels had flown to my side. The Duke and Duchess de Soria, those two charming people, sped here to be with their brother. The last nights found our three conjoined sorrows silent and calm around the deathbed of a truly noble and genuinely great man, a rare man, in every way superior to his fellows. My Felipe bore his illness with divine patience. The sight of his brother and Maria eased his soul for a moment and soothed his pain.
“My dear,” he said to me, with the simplicity he showed in all things, “I nearly forgot to give Fernand the barony of Macumer before I die. I must rewrite my will. My brother will forgive me, he knows what it is to be in love!”
I owe my life to the care of my brother-in-law and his wife; they want to take me to Spain!
Ah! Renée, only to you can I speak of the enormity of this disaster. An awareness of my own errors weighs heavy on me, and it is a bitter consolation to confide them to you, my poor unheard Cassandra. I killed him with my demands, my absurd fits of jealousy, my continual teasing. My love was all the more heartless in that we had the same exquisite sensibilities, we spoke the same language, he understood everything wonderfully, and often my japes hurt him in the depths of his heart, and I had no idea. Never will you imagine how far that slave pushed his obedience: I sometimes told him to go away and leave me alone, and off he went, never questioning a caprice that may well have been torture for him. He blessed me until his very last sigh, saying once again that a single day alone with me was better than a long life with any other, even Maria Hérédia. I weep as I write you these words.
Now I rise at noon, I retire at seven, I take an absurdly long time with my meals, I walk slowly, I spend an hour before a plant, I look at the leaves, I quietly, gravely fill my thoughts with nothing at all, I love shadows, silence, and night; I do battle with the passing hours and with grim pleasure consign them to the past, one by one. I want no other company than the tranquillity of my garden, for there, everywhere I look, I find the sublime images of my happiness, now gone dark and invisible to all others but bright and eloquent for me.
My sister-in-law threw herself into my arms when I told them one morning: “I can’t bear having you here! The Spanish soul is so much stronger than ours!”
Ah! Renée, if I am not dead, it is because God measures out unhappiness in proportion to the strength of the afflicted. Only we women can know the depth of our loss when we lose a love with no trace of dishonesty, a love of the highest order, an enduring passion whose pleasures satisfied nature and the soul at once. When will we meet a man of such quality that we can love him without lowering ourselves? Meeting such a man is the greatest happiness that can come to us, and we do not meet him twice. O truly great, truly strong men, your virtue concealed by your poetry, your souls stamped with a superior charm, O men who were made to be loved, you must never fall in love, for you will only bring sorrow to the woman and yourself! Such is my cry as I stroll the pathways of my woods! And no child from him! That inexhaustible love, always smiling on me, covering me with nothing but flowers and joy
s, that love was sterile. I am a cursed creature! Is pure, violent love—as it is when it is entire—thus as infertile as aversion, just as the extreme heat of the desert sands and the extreme cold of the pole are equally hostile to existence? Must one marry a Louis de l’Estorade to have a family? Could God be jealous of love? I’m talking nonsense.
You alone, I believe, I can bear to have with me. Come to me, then: a grieving Louise must have no other company than you. How horrible was the day I donned the widow’s bonnet! Seeing myself in black, I fell onto a chair and wept until night, and I weep anew as I tell you of that terrible moment. Farewell. It exhausts me to write you; I’m tired of my ideas, I don’t want to put them into words any longer. Bring your children, you can nurse the new one here, I won’t be jealous, since he is here no more, and it will be a pleasure to see my godson, for Felipe wanted a child just like that little Armand. Come, then, and shoulder your share of my sorrows! . . .
47
FROM RENÉE TO LOUISE
1829
The Memoirs of Two Young Wives Page 19
