can analyze
paternal love, discover its causes, say 'I love my child because he is so
and so, or so and so.' With the mother such analysis is impossible, she
does not love her child because he is handsome or ugly, because he does
or does not resemble her, has or has not her tastes. She loves him
because she can not help it, it is a necessity. Maternal love is an
innate sentiment in woman. Paternal love is, in man, the result of
circumstances. In her love is an instinct, in him a calculation, of
which, it is true, he is unconscious, but, in short, it is the outcome of
several other feelings."

"That is all very fine; go on," I said. "We have neither heart nor
bowels, we are fearful savages. What you say is monstrous." And I stirred
the logs furiously with the tongs.

Yet my wife was right, I acknowledged to myself. When a child comes into
the world the affection of the father is not to be compared to that of
the mother. With her it is love already. It seems that she has known him
for a long time, her pretty darling. At his first cry it might be said
that she recognized him. She seems to say, "It is he." She takes him
without the slightest embarrassment, her movements are natural, she shows
no awkwardness, and in her two twining arms the baby finds a place to fit
him, and falls asleep contentedly in the nest created for him. It would
be thought that woman serves a mysterious apprenticeship to maternity.
Man, on the other hand, is greatly troubled by the birth of a child. The
first wail of the little creature stirs him, but in this emotion there is
more astonishment than love. His affection is not yet born. His heart
requires to reflect and to become accustomed to these fondnesses so new
to him.

There is an apprenticeship to be served to the business of a father.
There is none to that of a mother.

If the father is clumsy morally in his love for his firstborn, it must be
acknowledged that he is so physically in the manifestation of his
fondness.

It is only tremblingly, and with contortions and efforts, that he lifts
the slight burden. He is afraid of smashing the youngster, who knows
this, and thence bawls with all the force of his lungs. He expands more
strength, poor man, in lifting up his child than he would in bursting a
door open. If he kisses him, his beard pricks him; if he touches him, his
big fingers cause him some disaster. He has the air of a bear threading a
needle.

And yet it must be won, the affec