letters of two brides-第38节

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Athenais'　cradle。　Her　head　was　too　low；　and　I　found　Armand　all
uncovered；　his　feet　purple　with　cold。

〃Darling　mother！〃　he　cried；　rousing　up　and　flinging　his　arms　round　me。

There；　dear；　is　one　of　our　night　scenes　for　you。

How　important　it　is　for　a　mother　to　have　her　children　by　her　side　at
night！　It　is　not　for　a　nurse；　however　careful　she　may　be；　to　take　them
up；　comfort　them；　and　hush　them　to　sleep　again；　when　some　horrid
nightmare　has　disturbed　them。　For　they　have　their　dreams；　and　the　task
of　explaining　away　one　of　those　dread　visions　of　the　night　is　the　more
arduous　because　the　child　is　scared；　stupid；　and　only　half　awake。　It
is　a　mere　interlude　in　the　unconsciousness　of　slumber。　In　this　way　I
have　come　to　sleep　so　lightly；　that　I　can　see　my　little　pair　and　see
them　stirring；　through　the　veil　of　my　eyelids。　A　sigh　or　a　rustle
wakens　me。　For　me；　the　demon　of　convulsions　is　ever　crouching　by　their
beds。

So　much　for　the　nights；　with　the　first　twitter　of　the　birds　my　babies
begin　to　stir。　Through　the　mists　of　dispersing　sleep；　their　chatter
blends　with　the　warblings　that　fill　the　morning　air；　or　with　the
swallows'　noisy　debateslittle　cries　of　joy　or　woe；　which　make　their
way　to　my　heart　rather　than　my　ears。　While　Nais　struggles　to　get　at
me；　making　the　passage　from　her　cradle　to　my　bed　on　all　fours　or　with
staggering　steps；　Armand　climbs　up　with　the　agility　of　a　monkey；　and
has　his　arms　round　me。　Then　the　merry　couple　turn　my　bed　into　a
playground；　where　mother　lies　at　their　mercy。　The　baby…girl　pulls　my
hair；　and　would　take　to　sucking　again；　while　Armand　stands　guard　over
my　breast；　as　though　defending　his　property。　Their　funny　ways；　their
peals　of　laughter；　are　too　much　for　me；　and　put　sleep　fairly　to
flight。

Then　we　play　the　ogress　game；　mother　ogress　eats　up　the　white；　soft
flesh　with　hugs；　and　rains　kisses　on　those　rosy　shoulders　and　eyes
brimming　over　with　saucy　mischief；　we　have　little　jealous　tiffs　too；
so　pretty　to　see。　It　has　happened　to　me；　dear；　to　take　up　my　stockings
at　eight　o'clock　and　be　still　bare…footed　at　nine！

Then　comes　the　getting　up。　The　operation　of　dressing　begins。　I　slip　on
my　dressing…gown；　turn　up　my　sleeves；　and　don　the　mackintosh　apron；
with　Mary's　assistance；　I　wash　and　scrub　my　two　little　blossoms。　I　am
sole　arbiter　of　the　temperature　of　the　bath；　for　a　good　half　of
children's　crying　and　whimpering　comes　from　mistakes　here。　The　moment
has　arrived　for　paper　fleets　and　glass　ducks；　since　the　only　way　to
get　children　thoroughly　washed　is　to　keep　them　well　amused。　If　you
knew　the　diversions　that　have　to　be　invented　before　these　despotic
sovereigns　will　permit　a　soft　sponge　to　be　passed　over　every　nook　and
cranny；　you　would　be　awestruck　at　the　amount　of　ingenuity　and
intelligence　demanded　by　the　maternal　profession　when　one　takes　it
seriously。　Prayers；　scoldings；　promises；　are　alike　in　requisition；
above　all；　the　jugglery　must　be　so　dexterous　that　it　defies　detection。
The　case　would　be　desperate　had　not　Providence　to　the　cunning　of　the
child　matched　that　of　the　mother。　A　child　is　a　diplomatist；　only　to　be
mastered；　like　the　diplomatists　of　the　great　world；　through　his
passions！　Happily；　it　takes　little　to　make　these　cherubs　laugh；　the
fall　of　a　brush；　a　piece　of　soap　slipping　from　the　hand；　and　what
merry　shouts！　And　if　our　triumphs　are　dearly　bought；　still　triumphs
they　are；　though　hidden　from　mortal　eye。　Even　the　father　knows　nothing
of　it　all。　None　but　God　and　His　angelsand　perhaps　youcan　fathom
the　glances　of　satisfaction　which　Mary　and　I　exchange　when　the　little
creatures'　toilet　is　at　last　concluded；　and　they　stand；　spotless　and
shining；　amid　a　chaos　of　soap；　sponges；　combs；　basins；　blotting…paper；
flannel；　and　all　the　nameless　litter　of　a　true　English　〃nursery。〃

For　I　am　so　far　a　convert　as　to　admit　that　English　women　have　a　talent
for　this　department。　True；　they　look　upon　the　child　only　from　the
point　of　view　of　material　well…being；　but　where　this　is　concerned；
their　arrangements　are　admirable。　My　children　must　always　be　bare…
legged　and　wear　woollen　socks。　There　shall　be　no　swaddling　nor
bandages；　on　the　other　hand；　they　shall　never　be　left　alone。　The
helplessness　of　the　French　infant　in　its　swaddling…bands　means　the
liberty　of　the　nursethat　is　the　whole　explanation。　A　mother；　who　is
really　a　mother；　is　never　free。

There　is　my　answer　to　your　question　why　I　do　not　write。　Besides　the
management　of　the　estate；　I　have　the　upbringing　of　two　children　on　my
hands。

The　art　of　motherhood　involves　much　silent；　unobtrusive　self…denial；
an　hourly　devotion　which　finds　no　detail　too　minute。　The　soup　warming
before　the　fire　must　be　watched。　Am　I　the　kind　of　woman；　do　you
suppose；　to　shirk　such　cares？　The　humblest　task　may　earn　a　rich
harvest　of　affection。　How　pretty　is　a　child's　laugh　when　he　finds　the
food　to　his　liking！　Armand　has　a　way　of　nodding　his　head　when　he　is
pleased　that　is　worth　a　lifetime　of　adoration。　How　could　I　leave　to
any　one　else　the　privilege　and　delight；　as　well　as　the　responsibility；
of　blowing　on　the　spoonful　of　soup　which　is　too　hot　for　my　little
Nais；　my　nursling　of　seven　months　ago；　who　still　remembers　my　breast？
When　a　nurse　has　allowed　a　child　to　burn　its　tongue　and　lips　with
scalding　food；　she　tells　the　mother；　who　hurries　up　to　see　what　is
wrong；　that　the　child　cried　from　hunger。　How　could　a　mother　sleep　in
peace　with　the　thought　that　a　breath；　less　pure　than　her　own；　has
cooled　her　child's　foodthe　mother　whom　Nature　has　made　the　direct
vehicle　of　food　to　infant　lips。　To　mince　a　chop　for　Nais；　who　has　just
cut　her　last　teeth；　and　mix　the　meat；　cooked　to　a　turn；　with　potatoes；
is　a　work　of　patience；　and　there　are　times；　indeed；　when　none　but　a
mother　could　succeed　in　making　an　impatient　child　go　through　with　its
meal。

No　number　of　servants；　then；　and　no　English　nurse　can　dispense　a
mother　from　taking　the　field　in　person　in　that　daily　contest；　where
gentleness　alone　should　grapple　with　the　little　griefs　and　pains　of
childhood。　Louise；　the　care　of　these　innocent　darlings　is　a　work　to
engage　the　whole　soul。　To　whose　hand　and　eyes；　but　one's　own；　intrust
the　task　of　feeding；　dressing；　and　putting　to　bed？　Broadly　speaking；　a
crying　child　is　the　unanswerable　condemnation　of　mother　or　nurse；
except　when　the　cry　is　the　outcome　of　natural　pain。　Now　that　I　have
two　to　look　after　（and　a　third　on　the　road）；　they　occupy　all　my
thoughts。　Even　you；　whom　I　love　so　dearly；　have　become　a　memory　to　me。

My　own　dressing　is　not　always　completed　by　two　o'clock。　I　have　no
faith　in　mothers　whose　rooms　are　in　apple…pie　order；　and　who
themselves　might　have　stepped　out　of　a　bandbox。　Yesterday　was　one　of
those　lovely　days　of　early　April；　and　I　wanted　to　take　my　children　for
a　walk；　while　I　was　still　ablefor　the　warning　bell　is　in　my　ears。
Such　an　expedition　is　quite　an　epic　to　a　mother！　One　dreams　of　it　the
night　before！　Armand　was　for　the　first　time　to　put　on　a　little　black
velvet　jacket；　a　new　collar　which　I　had　worked；　a　Scotch　cap　with　the
Stuart　colors　and　cock's　feathers；　Nais　was　to　be　in　white　and　pink；
with　one　of　those　delicious　little　baby　caps；　for　she　is　a　baby　still；
though　she　will　lose　that　pretty　title　on　the　arrival　of　the　impatient
youngster；　whom　I　call　my　beggar；　for　he　will　have　the　portion　of　a
younger　son。　（You　see；　Louise；　the　child　has　already　appeared　to　me　in
a　vision；　so　I　know　it　is　a　boy。）

Well；　caps；　collars；　jackets；　socks；　dainty　little　shoes；　pink
garters；　the　muslin　frock　with　silk　embroidery；all　was　laid　out　on
my　bed。　Then　the　little　brown　heads　had　to　be　brushed；　twittering
merrily　all　the　time　like　birds；　answering　each　other's　call。　Armand's
hair　is　in　curls；　while　Nais'　is　brought　forward　softly　on　the
forehead　as　a　border　to　the　pink…and…white　cap。　Then　the　shoes　are
buckled；　and　when　the　little　bare　legs　and　well…shod　feet　have　trotted
off　to　the　nursery；　while　two　shining　faces　（/clean/；　Mary　calls　them）
and　eyes　ablaze　with　life　petition　me　to　start；　my　heart　beats　fast。
To　look　on　the　children　whom　one's　own　hand　has　arrayed；　the　pure　skin
brightly　veined　with　blue；　that　one　has　bathed；　laved；　and　sponged　and
decked　with　gay　colors　of　silk　or　velvetwhy；　there　is　no　poem　comes
near　to　it！　With　what　eager；　covetous　longing　one　calls　them　back　for
one　more　kiss　on　those　white　necks；　which；　in　their　simple　collars；
the　loveliest　woman　cannot　rival。　Even　the　coarsest　lithograph　of　such
a　scene　makes　a　mother　pause；　and　I　feast　my　eyes　daily　on　the　living
picture！

Once　out　of　doors；　triumphant　in　the　result　of　my　labors；　while　I　was
admiring　the　princely　air　with　which　little　Armand　helped　baby　to
totter　along　the　path　you　know；　I　saw　a　carriage　coming；　and　tried　to
get　them　out　of　the　way。　The　children　tumbled　into　a　dirty　puddle；　and
lo！　my　works　of　art　are　ruined！　We　had　to　take　them　back　and　change
their　things。　I　took　the　little　one　in　my　arms；　never　thinking　of　my
own　dress；　which　was　ruined；　while　Mary　seized　Armand；　and　the
cavalcade　re…entered。　With　a　crying　baby　and　a　soaked　child；　what　mind
has　a　mother　left　for　herself？

Dinner　time　arrives；　and　as　a　rule　I　have　done　nothing。　Now　comes　the
problem　whi