A Farewell to Arms - Ernest Hemingway [111]
"He's magnificent. He'll weigh five kilos."
I had no feeling for him. He did not seem to have anything to do with me. I felt no feeling of fatherhood.
"Aren't you proud of your son?" the nurse asked. They were washing him and wrapping him in something. I saw the little dark face and dark hand, but I did not see him move or hear him cry. The doctor was doing something to him again. He looked upset.
"No," I said. "He nearly killed his mother."
"It isn't the little darling's fault. Didn't you want a boy?"
"No," I said. The doctor was busy with him. He held him up by the feet and slapped him. I did not wait to see it. I went out in the hail. I could go in now and see. I went in the door and a little way down the gallery. The nurses who were sitting at the rail motioned for me to come down where they were. I shook my head. I could see enough where I was.
I thought Catherine was dead. She looked dead. Her face was gray, the part of it that I could see. Down below, under the light, the doctor was sewing up the great long, forcep-spread, thickedged, wound. Another doctor in a mask gave the anaesthetic. Two nurses in masks handed things. It looked like a drawing of the Inquisition. I knew as I watched I could have watched it all, but I was glad I hadn't. I do not think I could have watched them cut, but I watched the wound closed into a high welted ridge with quick skilful-looking stitches like a cobbler's, and was glad. When the wound was closed I went out into the hall and walked up and down again. After a while the doctor came out.
"How is she?"
"She is all right. Did you watch?"
He looked tired.
"I saw you sew up. The incision looked very long."
"You thought so?"
"Yes. Will that scar flatten out?"
"Oh, yes."
After a while they brought out the wheeled stretcher and took it very rapidly down the hallway to the elevator. I went along beside it. Catherine was moaning. Downstairs they put her in the bed in her room. I sat in a chair at the foot of the bed. There was a nurse in the room. I got up and stood by the bed. It was dark in the room. Catherine put out her hand. "Hello, darling," she said. Her voice was very weak and tired.
"Hello, you sweet."
"What sort of baby was it?"
"Sh—don't talk," the nurse said.
"A boy. He's long and wide and dark."
"Is he all right?"
"Yes," I said. "He's fine."
I saw the nurse look at me strangely.
"I'm awfully tired," Catherine said. "And I hurt like hell. Are you all right, darling?"
"I'm fine. Don't talk."
"You were lovely to me. Oh, darling, I hurt dreadfully. What does he look like?"
"He looks like a skinned rabbit with a puckered-up old-man's face."
"You must go out," the nurse said. "Madame Henry must not talk."
"I'll be outside."
"Go and get something to eat."
"No. I'll be outside." I kissed Catherine. She was very gray and weak and tired.
"May I speak to you?" I said to the nurse. She came out in the hall with me. I walked a little way down the hall.
"What's the matter with the baby?" I asked.
"Didn't you know?"
"No."
"He wasn't alive."
"He was dead?"
"They couldn't start him breathing. The cord was caught around his neck or something."
"So he's dead."
"Yes. It's such a shame. He was such a fine big boy. I thought you knew."
"No," I said. "You better go back in with Madame."
I sat down on the chair in front of a table where there were nurses' reports hung on clips at the side and looked out of the window. I could see nothing but the dark and the rain falling across the light from the window. So that was it. The baby was dead. That was why the doctor looked so tired. But why had they acted the way they did in the room with him? They supposed he would come around and start breathing probably. I had no religion but I knew he ought to have been baptized. But what if he never breathed at all. He hadn't. He had never been alive. Except in Catherine. I'd felt him kick there often enough. But I hadn't for a week. Maybe he was choked all the time. Poor little kid. I wished the hell I'd been choked like that. No I didn't. Still there would not