letters of two brides-第31节

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motherhood；　this　is　the　/Fiat　lux/！

Here　is　happiness；　joy　ineffable；　though　it　comes　not　without　pangs。
Oh！　my　sweet　jealous　soul；　how　you　will　relish　a　delight　which　exists
only　for　ourselves；　the　child；　and　God！　For　this　tiny　creature　all
knowledge　is　summed　up　in　its　mother's　breast。　This　is　the　one　bright
spot　in　its　world；　towards　which　its　puny　strength　goes　forth。　Its
thoughts　cluster　round　this　spring　of　life；　which　it　leaves　only　to
sleep；　and　whither　it　returns　on　waking。　Its　lips　have　a　sweetness
beyond　words；　and　their　pressure　is　at　once　a　pain　and　a　delight；　a
delight　which　by　every　excess　becomes　pain；　or　a　pain　which　culminates
in　delight。　The　sensation　which　rises　from　it；　and　which　penetrates　to
the　very　core　of　my　life；　baffles　all　description。　It　seems　a　sort　of
centre　whence　a　myriad　joy…bearing　rays　gladden　the　heart　and　soul。　To
bear　a　child　is　nothing；　to　nourish　it　is　birth　renewed　every　hour。

Oh！　Louise；　there　is　no　caress　of　lover　with　half　the　power　of　those
little　pink　hands；　as　they　stray　about；　seeking　whereby　to　lay　hold　on
life。　And　the　infant　glances；　now　turned　upon　the　breast；　now　raised
to　meet　our　own！　What　dreams　come　to　us　as　we　watch　the　clinging
nursling！　All　our　powers；　whether　of　mind　or　body；　are　at　its　service；
for　it　we　breathe　and　think；　in　it　our　longings　are　more　than
satisfied！　The　sweet　sensation　of　warmth　at　the　heart；　which　the　sound
of　his　first　cry　brought　to　melike　the　first　ray　of　sunshine　on　the
earthcame　again　as　I　felt　the　milk　flow　into　his　mouth；　again　as　his
eyes　met　mine；　and　at　this　moment　I　have　felt　it　once　more　as　his
first　smile　gave　token　of　a　mind　working　withinfor　he　has　laughed；
my　dear！　A　laugh；　a　glance；　a　bite；　a　cryfour　miracles　of　gladness
which　go　straight　to　the　heart　and　strike　chords　that　respond　to　no
other　touch。　A　child　is　tied　to　our　heart…strings；　as　the　spheres　are
linked　to　their　creator；　we　cannot　think　of　God　except　as　a　mother's
heart　writ　large。

It　is　only　in　the　act　of　nursing　that　a　woman　realizes　her　motherhood
in　visible　and　tangible　fashion；　it　is　a　joy　of　every　moment。　The　milk
becomes　flesh　before　our　eyes；　it　blossoms　into　the　tips　of　those
delicate　flower…like　fingers；　it　expands　in　tender；　transparent　nails；
it　spins　the　silky　tresses；　it　kicks　in　the　little　feet。　Oh！　those
baby　feet；　how　plainly　they　talk　to　us！　In　them　the　child　finds　its
first　language。

Yes；　Louise；　nursing　is　a　miracle　of　transformation　going　on　before
one's　bewildered　eyes。　Those　cries；　they　go　to　your　heart　and　not　your
ears；　those　smiling　eyes　and　lips；　those　plunging　feet；　they　speak　in
words　which　could　not　be　plainer　if　God　traced　them　before　you　in
letters　of　fire！　What　else　is　there　in　the　world　to　care　about？　The
father？　Why；　you　could　kill　him　if　he　dreamed　of　waking　the　baby！　Just
as　the　child　is　the　world　to　us；　so　do　we　stand　alone　in　the　world　for
the　child。　The　sweet　consciousness　of　a　common　life　is　ample
recompense　for　all　the　trouble　and　sufferingfor　suffering　there　is。
Heaven　save　you；　Louise；　from　ever　knowing　the　maddening　agony　of　a
wound　which　gapes　afresh　with　every　pressure　of　rosy　lips；　and　is　so
hard　to　healthe　heaviest　tax　perhaps　imposed　on　beauty。　For　know；
Louise；　and　beware！　it　visits　only　a　fair　and　delicate　skin。

My　little　ape　has　in　five　months　developed　into　the　prettiest　darling
that　ever　mother　bathed　in　tears　of　joy；　washed；　brushed；　combed；　and
made　smart；　for　God　knows　what　unwearied　care　we　lavish　upon　those
tender　blossoms！　So　my　monkey　has　ceased　to　exist；　and　behold　in　his
stead　a　/baby/；　as　my　English　nurse　says；　a　regular　pink…and…white
baby。　He　cries　very　little　too　now；　for　he　is　conscious　of　the　love
bestowed　on　him；　indeed；　I　hardly　ever　leave　him；　and　I　strive　to　wrap
him　round　in　the　atmosphere　of　my　love。

Dear；　I　have　a　feeling　now　for　Louis　which　is　not　love；　but　which
ought　to　be　the　crown　of　a　woman's　love　where　it　exists。　Nay；　I　am　not
sure　whether　this　tender　fondness；　this　unselfish　gratitude；　is　not
superior　to　love。　From　all　that　you　have　told　me　of　it；　dear　pet；　I
gather　that　love　has　something　terribly　earthly　about　it；　whilst　a
strain　of　holy　piety　purifies　the　affection　a　happy　mother　feels　for
the　author　of　her　far…reaching　and　enduring　joys。　A　mother's　happiness
is　like　a　beacon；　lighting　up　the　future；　but　reflected　also　on　the
past　in　the　guise　of　fond　memories。

The　old　l'Estorade　and　his　son　have　moreover　redoubled　their　devotion
to　me；　I　am　like　a　new　person　to　them。　Every　time　they　see　me　and
speak　to　me；　it　is　with　a　fresh　holiday　joy；　which　touches　me　deeply。
The　grandfather　has；　I　verily　believe；　turned　child　again；　he　looks　at
me　admiringly；　and　the　first　time　I　came　down　to　lunch　he　was　moved　to
tears　to　see　me　eating　and　suckling　the　child。　The　moisture　in　these
dry　old　eyes；　generally　expressive　only　of　avarice；　was　a　wonderful
comfort　to　me。　I　felt　that　the　good　soul　entered　into　my　joy。

As　for　Louis；　he　would　shout　aloud　to　the　trees　and　stones　of　the
highway　that　he　has　a　son；　and　he　spends　whole　hours　watching　your
sleeping　godson。　He　does　not　know；　he　says；　when　he　will　grow　used　to
it。　These　extravagant　expressions　of　delight　show　me　how　great　must
have　been　their　fears　beforehand。　Louis　has　confided　in　me　that　he　had
believed　himself　condemned　to　be　childless。　Poor　fellow！　he　has　all　at
once　developed　very　much；　and　he　works　even　harder　than　he　did。　The
father　in　him　has　quickened　his　ambition。

For　myself；　dear　soul；　I　grow　happier　and　happier　every　moment。　Each
hour　creates　a　fresh　tie　between　the　mother　and　her　infant。　The　very
nature　of　my　feelings　proves　to　me　that　they　are　normal；　permanent；
and　indestructible；　whereas　I　shrewdly　suspect　love；　for　instance；　of
being　intermittent。　Certainly　it　is　not　the　same　at　all　moments；　the
flowers　which　it　weaves　into　the　web　of　life　are　not　all　of　equal
brightness；　love；　in　short；　can　and　must　decline。　But　a　mother's　love
has　no　ebb…tide　to　fear；　rather　it　grows　with　the　growth　of　the
child's　needs；　and　strengthens　with　its　strength。　Is　it　not　at　once　a
passion；　a　natural　craving；　a　feeling；　a　duty；　a　necessity；　a　joy？
Yes；　darling；　here　is　woman's　true　sphere。　Here　the　passion　for　self…
sacrifice　can　expend　itself；　and　no　jealousy　intrudes。

Here；　too；　is　perhaps　the　single　point　on　which　society　and　nature　are
at　one。　Society；　in　this　matter；　enforces　the　dictates　of　nature；
strengthening　the　maternal　instinct　by　adding　to　it　family　spirit　and
the　desire　of　perpetuating　a　name；　a　race；　an　estate。　How　tenderly
must　not　a　woman　cherish　the　child　who　has　been　the　first　to　open　up
to　her　these　joys；　the　first　to　call　forth　the　energies　of　her　nature
and　to　instruct　her　in　the　grand　art　of　motherhood！　The　right　of　the
eldest；　which　in　the　earliest　times　formed　a　part　of　the　natural　order
and　was　lost　in　the　origins　of　society；　ought　never；　in　my　opinion；　to
have　been　questioned。　Ah！　how　much　a　mother　learns　from　her　child！　The
constant　protection　of　a　helpless　being　forces　us　to　so　strict　an
alliance　with　virtue；　that　a　woman　never　shows　to　full　advantage
except　as　a　mother。　Then　alone　can　her　character　expand　in　the
fulfilment　of　all　life's　duties　and　the　enjoyment　of　all　its
pleasures。　A　woman　who　is　not　a　mother　is　maimed　and　incomplete。
Hasten；　then；　my　sweetest；　to　fulfil　your　mission。　Your　present
happiness　will　then　be　multiplied　by　the　wealth　of　my　delights。

23rd。

I　had　to　tear　myself　from　you　because　your　godson　was　crying。　I　can
hear　his　cry　from　the　bottom　of　the　garden。　But　I　would　not　let　this
go　without　a　word　of　farewell。　I　have　just　been　reading　over　what　I
have　said；　and　am　horrified　to　see　how　vulgar　are　the　feelings
expressed！　What　I　feel；　every　mother；　alas！　since　the　beginning　must
have　felt；　I　suppose；　in　the　same　way；　and　put　into　the　same　words。
You　will　laugh　at　me；　as　we　do　at　the　naive　father　who　dilates　on　the
beauty　and　cleverness　of　his　（of　course）　quite　exceptional　offspring。
But　the　refrain　of　my　letter；　darling；　is　this；　and　I　repeat　it：　I　am
as　happy　now　as　I　used　to　be　miserable。　This　grangeand　is　it　not
going　to　be　an　estate；　a　family　property？has　become　my　land　of
promise。　The　desert　is　past　and　over。　A　thousand　loves；　darling　pet。
Write　to　me；　for　now　I　can　read　without　a　tear　the　tale　of　your　happy
love。　Farewell。



XXXII

MME。　DE　MACUMER　TO　MME。　DE　L'ESTORADE
March　1826。

Do　you　know；　dear；　that　it　is　more　than　three　months　since　I　have
written　to　you　or　heard　from　you？　I　am　the　more　guilty　of　the　two；　for
I　did　not　reply　to　your　last；　but　you　don't　stand　on　punctilio　surely？

Macumer　and　I　have　taken　your　silence　for　consent　as　regards　the　baby…
wreathed　luncheon　service；　and　the　little　cherubs　are　starting　this
morning　for　Marseilles。　It　took　six　months　to　carry　out　the　design。
And　so　when　Felipe　asked　me　to　come　and　see　the　service　before　it　was
packed；　I　suddenly　waked　up　to　the　fact　that　we　had　not　interchanged　a
word　since　the　letter　of　yours　which　gave　me　an　insight　into　a
mother's　heart。

My　sweet；　it　is　this　terrible　Paristhere's　my　excuse。　What；　pray；　is
yours？　Oh！　what　a　whirlpool　is　society！　Didn't　I　tell　you　once　that