«Ces enfants déjà, avant le vrai», January 1944 - Autumn 1949

Le Regard Libre No. 24 – Loris S. Musumeci

Good Days (3/6)

The happy and winding journey of Corinna Bille and Maurice Chappaz continues. The second chapter, «Those Children, Even Before the Real Ones,» spanning from January 1944 to the fall of 1949, explores the couple’s literary, marital, and parental fulfillment. As in the previous installment, the article draws on and focuses on the words of the two writers themselves, drawn from their extensive correspondence.

Blaise, the Child of Joy

«The mailman from Sierre who delivers the express mail just rang the doorbell, and I’m overjoyed to receive your letter. It brings me immense joy. Thank you, dear Maurice. Yes, I’m confident. I feel a little anxious at times, but I’m managing to keep it under control. Physically, I’m doing very well, despite a certain underlying nausea. I look great, and Mamita tells me I’ve never been as beautiful or as fresh as I have been these past few days.»

Corinna is pregnant. Looking «great,» she’s enjoying a pleasant pregnancy, even though Maurice is as absent as ever. Living in relative isolation in Lausanne to avoid causing a scandal in Valais as a single mother—the two writers are still not married—she thinks fondly, yet with a touch of anxiety, about the child who is about to be born.

«One night, I dreamed he was a boy, and he had such a pretty little nape of the neck with that little hollow. It moved me deeply, but I was afraid to touch him, afraid I wouldn’t know how to handle him…»

Maurice, too, makes no secret of his concerns about the arrival of his firstborn. The distance and the precarious situation, however, do not dampen his confidence.

«The birth of the child sometimes causes me quite serious worries, but I can always tell you this: I accept it with joy. I remain hopeful despite everything, trusting in your—in our—love. We’ll have to devote ourselves to it, though.»

The baby is born in the summer. The correspondence captures this joyful event from the front row. The mother opens up right up until the moment of delivery.

[Lausanne, August 24, 1944]
«Dear Maurice,
Here we go. Hugs.
Fifon [Corinna's nickname for Maurice]
»I'm delighted."

[Note: Labor began, and the child was born that day. Corinna Bille was at her midwife’s, Mrs. Wagnière.]

The arrival of Blaise, the newborn, has sparked joyful parental discussions about the similarities he might share with his parents. As he grows, people predict what complexion, eye color, and facial features he will have—he who carries the blood of two families.

«Maurice, rejoice. It’s a mistake to think the child looks only like me. More and more, I see your forehead, your skull, and your hairline. Today, when Suzi saw the baby’s eyes open for the first time, she exclaimed, ‘But those are Maurice’s eyes!’ It’s not just the shape. Since yesterday, I’ve been able to make out the clustered heather around the iris… There’s also that tender, mischievous little expression that’s already touching my heart. And then there’s his peachy complexion, so pure, which amazes the midwife.»

«Yes, Blaise will have your nose and your mischievous streak. And your heart, too. He'll make us happy.»

For the Catholic Chappaz family, the child is a problem because he was born out of wedlock. Nevertheless, with a little diplomacy on Maurice’s part, they won’t be able to resist the tender and fragile emotion that the little boy radiates.

«My mother knows Blaise exists. I had sometimes hinted to her that I had—or would like to have—a child. She asked me about it before I left for military service. She’s moved and anxious, but she’s kept her faith in me and in the future. The surprise wasn’t too painful, softened as it was by the good fortune I’ve had in my work and by the joy I showed her—and even managed to convey to her a little. I left Théoda with her so she could get to know you a little through your book.»

Aunt Marie, Maurice’s mother’s sister, also speaks of the Chappaz family’s love for the child. Corinna tells Maurice about her first visit.

«At times, she [Aunt Marie] would cry. When I left her alone to go make some tea, she would, apparently, sing songs to him and call him ‘my darling.’»

Blaise plays a prominent role in this part of the correspondence and, of course, in the couple’s life. He also contributes, in a way, to the writing of his mother’s letters; she often signs on his behalf and conveys his greetings to his father.

«From Blaise:
a smile,
a twitch of the nostril,
a cry in his manly voice,
a lively wave of his rattle,
»the kindness in his eyes."

Maurice, however, remains a very absent father. Corinna makes sure he knows it.

«It’s quite curious. Since you left, he’s been saying »Daddy’ a lot and tentatively trying to apply that name to every man he sees. He looks for him and calls out ‘Daddy.’ I never would have thought that need would be so strong in a child.”

Anger and Infidelity

This chapter is full of scoldings. Maurice has moments of infidelity, and Corinna lets her frustration show.

«And if you get angry because I dared to tell you just once how I feel, then, Maurice, we’ll have no choice but to make a serious decision.»

No «serious decision» will ever really be made. The affection—both romantic and friendly—that binds the two writers transcends the sharp bitterness of their difficult daily lives.

These accusations also pertain to the statements and actions of the respective families.

At Corinna's:

«There are now things between us that I would no longer accept if they were to happen.".
In other words, they would lead to a complete separation.
Because now I know—now I see—just how cruelly a person’s understanding and kindness can turn against them.
And I see someone who, for years, clamored loudly for freedom—the power of tyrants—only to end up acting like a docile lamb in the presence of another person (whom, incidentally, he neither loves more nor less than anyone else).
So? …
»I am witnessing a slow agony. One that you, too, are familiar with. But here, it is of a different kind—a kind you have always deluded yourself about."

[Note: This passage would be incomprehensible without the context provided by Maurice Chappaz. The ’cruel ordeal« and »agony’ refer to the situation of Catherine Bille, who was confronted with her husband Edmond Bille’s infidelities. The other «agony» is that of Amélie Chappaz, whose health was fragile and worn down by eleven pregnancies. In her anger, Corinna Bille did not sign this letter.]

At Maurice's:

«I read your father’s judgment of me regarding our marriage with some bitterness. While it is obvious that, from a material standpoint, this could be detrimental—and indeed, neither my attitude nor my words have concealed the difficulties of our shared situation as writers— I am trying to address this by providing you with both the assets I might receive and practical work, should life allow me half of what remains. As for the emotional aspect, I’d very much like to know in what way it might be detrimental: I’d like to be, for you, dear Fifon, the best of friends—in writing and in everything else. I know I can be very, very weak when it comes to matters of morality, but I regard marriage—and I will always regard you—as something indivisible, a sacred bond that I wish to establish solely because I love you (despite all the ‘harm’).»

The Good Old Days

It is often said that the best remedy for a marital argument is to make love. Mrs. Bille and Mr. Chappaz put this lesson into practice with dignity by engaging in intimacy on «fertile days»—that is, the periods during the female cycle when sexual intimacy is possible without the risk of conception.

«I got my period. I’ll be free again starting January 20. Will you really be discharged from the military? I hear the war isn’t going well.»
«I'm so excited to see you again at Easter and to welcome spring once more. Those will be wonderful days, too.»

Work

From the most intimate physical union to pragmatic professional exchanges, correspondence is absolutely essential.

Maurice acts as a full-fledged literary agent for his girlfriend.

«To put it briefly: you'd receive 10% of the full price for each copy sold. That would come to 550 francs for the first thousand.»

He also seeks advice on his own works. Their discussions may remain quite vague; nevertheless, the two writers seem to understand each other. Sharing their struggles with work even proves to be a healthy way to preserve the «joy of living,» according to Maurice Chappaz.

«Admittedly, farm work is quite different from what we’re doing here, but alongside the solitude that our work or leisure brings, I also see a great increase in love—the gifts that life bestows upon us.»

«Let me say this again: I believe that if we do our current work very well, I sense a way forward—not only in the literary realm, but especially elsewhere, even in our zest for life.»

Tendernesses

The lovers waver between faith and weariness in love. Hope and despair intertwine seamlessly.

Maurice doesn't know whether to swear by doubt or by trust:

«Yes, I’m once again doubting whether simple joy is possible, even though I was made for that—to overcome my sorrow and love the world without too much worry. I suffer because of you, because of all those I love, precisely because I love them.»

«Yes, we have to have faith. If we lose it, all is lost. With faith, we can do anything. And you know, there will be great joys.»

Corinna, with her poetic words, simply brings together anguish and beauty.

«During the day, I think of you with joy; at night, in the grand royal chamber—abandoned by the king, who prefers the company of the poet and his manuscript—I sleep in the bed, as wide as it is long, covered with a worn catskin, and I dream of you. Some of the dreams are distressing; others are very beautiful.»

«Despite my joy at seeing the Valais again—the gravel pits along the mountains seemed so beautiful to me, and that green that isn’t really green but gray, and the bright red wild rosebushes on the Corbetsch—my joy at hugging Mamita, to laugh with my brothers and my colorful sisters-in-law under the patriarch’s slightly skeptical yet tender gaze, my joy at sitting in the grass of the parish priest’s garden, at hearing the rustling of the poplars—despite all that, today my heart is heavy. And I’m telling you this, knowing full well that telling you will heal me.»

The heart has its wounds, which love heals.

Write to the author : loris.musumeci@leregardlibre.com

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