When they first recognise their condition, even those who do not feel called upon to make too much of their duty heroically accept their lot. No one pities them; it is natural to them to love children,[63] and if there are moments of anguish to fear, there are also blissful moments to look forward to. The husband, on the other hand, is disconsolate; he regrets everything; he sees in the cold light of reason the consequences of the event, and his friends agree that he will reap nothing but worries. A man of fashion collects pictures, antiques, not children. Some charitable souls suggest that children assure a kind of survival, are a pledge of immortality, a security for the continuance of the race; but, for that matter, a much simpler, surer and more comfortable way of achieving immortality is simply to write a sonnet. Hardly any but poor drudges, “chestnut eaters,” can afford the luxury of being fruitful and multiplying, because for them, in their kind of work, with their rigorous enforcement of paternal authority, a swarm of children represents an immediate increase of earning-power and tools at very little cost. A middle-class householder, who loves his ease or is ambitious only to swell his banking account, has nothing to gain by a large family. Among the middle class, then, the budding father is the subject of sincere commiseration. What cares, what vexations will be his! He regards himself as bound for some time to consider the slightest whim of his wife as sacred. With a flutter at the heart he hies him to the astrologer to ascertain at least if it is a boy or a girl; and when the unfeeling stars announce a girl, he still manages to smile. One fine day (or fine night, for Nature is whimsical in her choice), see him, lantern in hand, chilled to the marrow, shivering, running off to find the nurse; and then what terrible, what wearing hours follow! In very truth it is he who demands pity, for Providence, having failed to foresee these moments for the man, has forgotten to give him strength equal to them. How ardently he wishes it were all over! “There is no saint in the calendar,” he cries, “but shall have his candle!” The first wail of the newcomer pours balm on the mother’s heart; but what of the husband? Can he spare time to admire this shapeless, unsightly little creature? He seeks nurses for mother and child, he has the room hung with red, covers the floor with velvet rugs; if by good luck he falls asleep in a corner, it is only in his dreams to see a spectral balance-sheet dancing a frantic saraband. No, he has not his wife’s strength.