My mother was fond of traveling: she would go from Spain to England, from London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, and from there to Christiania; then she would come back, embrace me, and set out again for Holland, her native country. She used to send my nurse clothing for herself and cakes for me. To one of my aunts she would write: “Look after little Sarah; I shall return in a month’s time.” A month later she would write to another of her sisters: “Go and see the child at her nurse’s; I shall be back in a couple of weeks.”
My mother’s age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my two aunts were seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt was fifteen, and the eldest was twenty-eight, but the latter lived at Martinique, and was the mother of six children. My grandmother was blind, my grandfather dead, and my father had been in China for the last two years. I have no idea why he had gone there.
My youthful aunts were always promising to come to see me, but rarely kept their word. My nurse hailed from Brittany and lived near Quimperle in a little white house with a low thatched roof, on which wild gilly-flowers grew. That was the first flower which charmed my eyes as a child, and I have loved it ever since. Its leaves are heavy and sad-looking, and its petals are made of the setting sun.
Brittany is a long way off, even in our present epoch of velocity of travel. In those days it was the end of the world. Fortunately, my nurse was, it appears, a good, kind woman, and as her own child had died, she had only me to love. But she loved after the manner of poor people—when she had time.
One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the field to help gather in potatoes. The over-damp soil was rotting them, and there was no time to be lost. She left me in charge of her husband, who was lying on his Breton bed suffering from a bad attack of lumbago. The good woman had placed me in my high chair, and had been careful to put in the wooden peg which supported the narrow tray for my toys. She threw a fagot in the grate, and said to me in Breton language: (until the age of four I only understood Breton) “Be a good girl, Milk Blossom.” That was my only name at the time. When she had gone, I tried to withdraw the wooden peg which she had taken so much trouble to put in place. Finally, I succeeded in pushing aside the little rampart. I wanted to reach the ground, but poor little me, I fell into the fire which was burning joyfully.
The screams of my foster father, who could not move, brought in some neighbors. I was thrown, all smoking, into a large pail of fresh milk. My aunts were informed of what had happened; they communicated the news to my mother, and, for the next four days, that quiet part of the country was plowed by stagecoaches that arrived in rapid succession. My aunts came from all parts of the world, and my mother, in the greatest alarm, hastened from Brussels with Baron Larrey, one of her friends, who was a young doctor just beginning to acquire celebrity, and a house surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought with him. I have been told since that nothing was more painful to witness and yet so charming, as my mother’s despair. The doctor approved of the “mask of butter,” which was changed every two hours.
Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now and again we shall meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He used to tell me in such charming fashion how those kind folk loved Milk Blossom. And he could never refrain from laughing at the thought of that butter. There was butter everywhere, he used to say: on the bedsteads, on the cupboards, on the chairs, on the tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the neighbors used to bring butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.
Mother, admirably beautiful, looked like a Madonna, with her golden hair and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on her cheeks when she lowered her eyes. She distributed money on all sides. She would have given her golden hair, her slender white fingers, her tiny feet, her life itself, in order to save her child. And she was as sincere in her despair and her love as in her unconscious forgetfulness. Baron Larrey returned to Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt Rosine, and the surgeon with me. Forty-two days later, mother took the nurse, the foster father, and me back in triumph to Paris, and installed us in a little house at Neuilly, on the banks of the Seine. I had not even a scar, it appears. My skin was rather too bright a pink, but that was all. My mother, happy and trustful once more, began to travel again, leaving me in care of my aunts.
Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which was full of horrible dahlias growing close together and colored like wooden balls. My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bonbons, and toys. The foster father died and my nurse married a concierge, who used to open the door at 65, rue de Provence.