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.