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.”

I fell asleep then, fully resolved to let nature have her way.

Ah! my sweet, how heavenly it was to waken up from all the pain and haziness of the first days, when everything was still dim, uncomfortable, confused.  A ray of light pierced the darkness; my heart and soul, my inner self—­a self I had never known before—­rent the envelope of gloomy suffering, as a flower bursts its sheath at the first warm kiss of the sun, at the moment when the little wretch fastened on my breast and sucked.  Not even the sensation of the child’s first cry was so exquisite as this.  This is the dawn of 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 me—­like the first ray of sunshine on the earth—­came 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 within—­for he has laughed, my dear!  A laugh, a glance, a bite, a cry—­four 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.