It is nearly five months now since baby was born, and not once, dear
heart, have I found a single moment for writing to you. When you are a
mother yourself, you will be more ready to excuse me, than you are now;
for you have punished me a little bit in making your own letters so few
and far between. Do write, my darling! Tell me of your pleasures; lay on
the blue as brightly as you please. It will not hurt me, for I am happy
now, happier than you can imagine.
I went in state to the parish church to hear the Mass for recovery from
childbirth, as is the custom in the old families of Provence. I was
supported on either side by the two grandfathers--Louis' father and my
own. Never had I knelt before God with such a flood of gratitude in my
heart. I have so much to tell you of, so many feelings to describe, that
I don't know where to begin; but from amidst these confused memories,
one rises distinctly, that of my prayer in the church.
When I found myself transformed into a joyful mother, on the very spot
where, as a girl, I had trembled for my future, it seemed to my fancy
that the Virgin on the altar bowed her head and pointed to the infant
Christ, who smiled at me! My heart full of pure and heavenly love,
I held out little Armand for the priest to bless and bathe, in
anticipation of the regular baptism to come later. But you will see us
together then, Armand and me.
My child--come see how readily the word comes, and indeed there is none
sweeter to a mother's heart and mind or on her lips--well, then, dear
child, during the last two months I used to drag myself wearily and
heavily about the gardens, not realizing yet how precious was the
burden, spite of all the discomforts it brought! I was haunted by
forebodings so gloomy and ghastly, that they got the better even of
curiosity; in vain did I picture the delights of motherhood. My heart
made no response even to the thought of the little one, who announced
himself by lively kicking. That is a sensation, dear, which may be
welcome when it is familiar; but as a novelty, it is more strange than
pleasing. I speak for myself at least; you know I would never affect
anything I did not really feel, and I look on my child as a gift
straight from Heaven. For one who saw in it rather the image of the man
she loved, it might be different.
But enough of such sad thoughts, gone, I trust, for ever.
When the crisis came, I summoned all my powers of resistance, and braced
myself so well for suffering, that I bore the horrible agony--so they
tell me--quite marvelously. For about an hour I sank into a sort of
stupor, of the nature of a dream. I seemed to myself then two beings--an
outer covering racked and tortured by red-hot pincers, and a soul at
peace. In this strange state the pain formed itself into a sort of halo
hovering over me. A gigantic rose seemed to spring out of my head
and grow ever larger and larger, till it enfolded me in its blood-red
petals. The same color dyed the air around, and everything I saw was
blood-red. At last the climax came, when soul and body seemed no longer
able to hold together; the spasms of pain gripped me like death itself.
I screamed aloud, and found fresh strength against this fresh torture.
Suddenly this concert of hideous cries was overborne by a joyful
sound--the shrill wail of the newborn infant. No words can describe that
moment. It was as though the universe took part in my cries, when all at
once the chorus of pain fell hushed before the child's feeble note.
They laid me back again in the large bed, and it felt like paradise to
me, even in my extreme exhaustion. Three or four happy faces pointed
through tears to the child. My dear, I exclaimed in terror:
"It's just like a little monkey! Are you really and truly certain it is
a child?"
I fell back on my side, miserably disappointed at my first experience of
motherly feeling.
"Don't worry, dear," said my mother, who had installed herself as
nurse. "Why, you've got the finest baby in the world. You mustn't excite
yourself; but give your whole mind now to turning yourself as much as
possible into an animal, a milch cow, pasturing in the meadow."