(_Extract from a letter to the Author from Mrs. Frank Crosse_.)
‘IT is very singular that you should say with such confidence that you
know that our baby is a splendid one, and further on you say that in some
ways it differs from any other baby. It is so true, but neither Frank
nor I can imagine how you knew. We both think it so _clever_ of you to
have found it out. When you write to us, do please tell us how you
discovered it.
‘I want to tell you something about baby, since you so kindly ask me, but
Frank says there is no use my beginning as there is only one quire of
paper in the house. As a matter of fact, I shall be quite short, which
is not because I have not plenty to say—you cannot think what a _dear_ he
is—but because he may wake up at any moment. After that happens I can
only write with one hand, while I wave a feather fan with the other, and
it is so difficult then to say exactly what you mean. In any case you
know that I have not the habit of collecting and writing down my ideas,
so please forgive me if this seems a stupid letter. Frank could have
done it splendidly. But he has so many sweet and quite _remarkable_
ways, that I ought to be able to put some of them down for you.
‘It will be easier perhaps if I imagine a day of him—and one of his days
is very much like another. No one could ever say that he was irregular
in his habits. First thing in the morning I go over to his cot to see if
he is awake yet—though, of course, I know that he can’t be, for he always
lets us know—the darling! However, I go over all the same, and I find
everything quiet and nothing visible of baby, but a tiny, turned-up nose.
It is so exactly Frank’s nose, only that his is curved the other way.
Then, as I bend over his cot, there is a small sigh, such a soft,
comfortable sound! Then a sort of earthquake takes place under the eider
down, and a tightly clenched fist appears and is waved in the air. He
has such a pleasant, cheerful way of waving his fists. Then one eye is
half opened, as if he were looking round to see if it were safe to open
the other one, and then he gives a long, sorrowful wail as he realises
that his bottle is not where he left it when he went to sleep. In a
moment he is in my arms and quite happy again, playing with the lace
round the neck of my pink dressing-gown. When he finds that his nice
warm bath is all ready for him, he becomes quite jovial, and laughs and
chuckles to himself. Something awfully funny must have happened to him
before ever he came into this world at all, for nothing that has occurred
since could account for the intense expression of amusement that one can
often see in his eyes. When he laughs, Frank says that he looks like
some jolly old clean-shaven toothless friar—so chubby and good-humoured.
He takes the greatest interest in everything in the room, watches the
nurse moving about, looks out of the window, and examines my hair and my
dress very critically. He loves to see untidy hair and a bright tie, or
a brooch will often catch his eye, and make him smile. His smile is the
most wonderful thing! As he lies gazing with his great serious blue
eyes, his whole face suddenly lights up, his mouth turns up at one corner
in the most irresistible way, and his cheeks all go off into dimples. He
looks so sweet and innocent, and at the same time so humorous and wicked,
that his foolish mother wants to laugh at him and to weep over him at the
same time.
‘Then comes his bath, and there is a sad display of want of faith upon
his part. He enjoys the process, but he is convinced that only his own
exertions keep him from drowning, so his little fists are desperately
clenched, his legs kick up and down the whole time, and he watches every
movement of mother and nurse with suspicion. He enjoys being dressed,
and smiles at first, and then he suddenly remembers that he has not had
his breakfast. Then the smiles vanish, the small round face grows so red
and angry, and all covered with little wrinkles, and there is a dismal
wailing—poor darling! If the bottle is not instantly forthcoming he will
howl loudly, and beat the air with his fists until he gets it. He _does_
remind me so of his father sometimes. He is always hunting for his
bottle, and will seize my finger, or a bit of my dress, or anything, and
carry it to his mouth, and when he finds it isn’t what he wants, he
throws it away very angrily. When finally he does get the bottle, he
becomes at once the most contented being in the whole world, and sucks
away with such great long pulls, and such dear little grunts in between.
Then afterwards, a well-washed, well-fed atom, he is ready to look about
him and observe things. I am sure that he has his father’s brains, and
that he is storing up all sorts of impressions and observations for
future use, for he notices _everything_. I used to think that babies
were stupid and indifferent—and perhaps other babies are—but _he_ is
never indifferent. Sometimes he is pleased and amused, and sometimes
angry, and sometimes gravely interested, but he is always wide awake and
taking things in. When I go into his room, he always looks at my head,
and if I have my garden hat with the flowers, he is so pleased. He much
prefers chiffon to silk.
‘Almost the first thing that struck me when I saw him, and it strikes me
more and more, was, how could any one have got the idea of original sin?
The people who believe in it can never have looked into a baby’s eyes. I
love to watch them, and sometimes fancy I can see a faint shade of
reminiscence in them, as if he had still some memories of another life,
and could tell me things if he could only speak. One day as I sat beside
his cot—Oh dear! I hear his Majesty calling. So sorry! Good-bye.—Yours
very truly,