"Have no fear. Hand me the water, Cristina."
I entered the other room. My ears caught a feeble wail, scarcely
perceptible. I saw on a layer of cotton a reddish-looking little body,
violet-colored in spots, and whose back and the soles of the feet were
being rubbed by the midwife's dry hands.
"Come here, signor, come and see him," said the midwife, continuing the
friction. "Come and see what a fine boy he is. He did not breathe at
first, but now all danger is passed. Look at the fine boy!"
She turned the baby round, putting him on his back.
"Look!"
She raised the baby and shook him up and down. The wailing became a
little stronger.
But in my eyes was a strange sparkle that prevented me from seeing well.
In all my being I felt some strange obtuse feeling, that removed from me
the exact perception of all these real and coarse things.
"Look!" repeated the midwife again, replacing the wailing child on the
cotton.
He was crying vigorously now. He breathed, he lived! I bent over that
little palpitating body. I stooped to see him better, to examine him,
to recognize the odious resemblance. But the little puffed-up face,
still somewhat livid, with protruding eyeballs, swollen mouth, wandering
chin--that deformed visage had almost nothing human about it, and
inspired me with nothing but disgust.
"He wasn't breathing when he was born, did you say?"