He cared about how I was getting along just as Armande would have, yet they shared other qualities too. I remember once when she was teaching me poetry, I wrote down a few words that pleased me such as brunante, étoile, panier and she asked me to make a poem from them. As I went about doing this, I accidentally spilled ink all over my paper. To my surprise, she did not shout at me or make me sleep outside in the woods, as my parents had me do. After mopping up the black stain, she looked at me and simply said, “Let us find more paper to write on.” Even when I did a stupid thing, she thought I was good, and that is how her father was.
It was evening and we were in the drawing room. Monsieur Vivant added a log to the fire and brought me a blanket to warm my feet. He sat on the floor, a fat cushion under him, and talked about his time in Paris, his hopes for France, and books he wished to publish. At his feet was a map of a city somewhere in the world. He glanced at it from time to time, though I judged from the grave sighs and looks to the fire that his mind couldn’t follow the avenues and boulevards of the strange city as too much sadness weighed down his heart. What of his pain could I ease, knowing Armande died so horribly and unjustly?
He quit the room and returned with a book.
“This is for you,” he said, handing it to me.
The cover was brown with red and yellow leaves dancing on the inside.
“Where are the words?”
“It is a diary, Céleste, for you to write your thoughts in.”
Nobody ever gave me a book like that before. It was so beautiful that it forced my tongue into hiding.
Monsieur Vivant tossed another piece of wood onto the fire and studied his map. I said goodnight and climbed the stairs to my bedchamber. Lighting a candle, I placed it on the table near my bed. The cover of my diary was soft like hers and cool to the touch. I put my diary next to the other so the two were side by side. Without opening hers, I pictured her words, drawn out in my head, with spaces between them. Tall and shapely, they stood proud and pretty just like her. I gazed through the spaces and into the distance seeing a field of mountain wildflowers as big and wide as the sky. I put out the light and crawled under the blankets.
The next morning, a glimmering sun was easing its way past the window, onto the floorboards, warming my hair. Birds sang outside, and I sensed my baby growing inside me. Maybe it too was waking. I counted out the days and months to the time when my little nut would be born. When all the big and small rivers flowing into the lakes froze and snow clothed the branches of trees. When cold and foul wind would make us stay indoors and gather at the fire then Margot, the midwife, would come. Armande’s father would fetch her. In a storm, he must be wise to the snow that swept away tracks of those that went before. Wind pushed us in all directions so his head had to be certain that his legs would take him where he meant to go. As she did with others, Margot would bring over nourishing soup. She would make me drink it after the birth to give my body the goodness that a child must take for itself.
In the wee hours, words would calm her and my milk would have a lasting impression on her heart and mind. Armande told me little ones were sharper and wiser than we were, yet without the experiences, we older bodies had. I wondered if the fact I was becoming learned might in time have a pleasing influence on my baby. Would she surprise me with poems and wise words just like the babies Armande suckled? My own mother was not learned and lived in fear of my father’s anger. If I heard she left him then I would want to see her again, and to show her my child. Unlike me at that age, my little one could play in the meadow and make pansy necklaces if she wished it, as Monsieur Vivant said we must be gentle with little ones during these hard times. To give her understanding, I would read pages from Armande’s diary, tell her the stories she once told me so they could be passed on and not forgotten. Monsieur Vivant would teach her astronomy, botany and to be strong of character. I would show her how to clap her hands together, count to ten and make silly rhymes too, as it pleased her. Hug her, kiss her, and hold her near. Oh, there would be chores for her to do and lessons to master, yet her heart must all the while stay joyful.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to all the incredible people who helped me with edits, suggestions, and for their love and encouragement throughout the writing of this book. I really appreciate the fact that you didn’t tell me to take a hike. I wouldn’t have blamed you one bit.
Thanks to Daphne Marlatt for starting me on this journey several years ago at a writer’s retreat at the Banff Centre. Her poetic intuition and gentle encouragement helped me find a voice for my characters.
To Andrea O’Reilly at Demeter Press for her jubilant enthusiasm and support, and to Luciana Ricciutelli, my gifted editor who worked tirelessly to get the job done.
To Jen Sookfong Lee for her friendship and no-nonsense editing advice, and to my dear sister Shannon Cowan who was always there to commiserate with and give me the straight goods.
To Penelope Cowan, my dear mom and trusty editor who was an ‘early adopter’ of my novel even though there were some naughty bits. To Joanna Stonechapel who was always full of encouragement and hope, and to my writing partners in crime Kim Goodliffe, Leslie Palleson and Dilara Ali who are also crazy enough to love to write. To Elyssa Schmid, dear friend and über-talented designer for her inspired book cover design. To Zool Suleman for his love of language and legal chops.
Special thanks to Sanjay Khanna who stood by me and encouraged me, even when it seemed all was lost.
Although Milk Fever is not based on any particular historical character, many of my ideas for the characters and for the historical details came from books written at that time in French and in English. Two books, The Private Memoirs of Madame Roland by Madame Roland, and Declaration of the Rights of Woman, a pamphlet written in 1791 by Olympe de Gouges, were instrumental in helping me shape my characters Armande and Céleste.
Books that I consulted throughout the writing of Milk Fever were Selling Mother’s Milk: The Wet-Nursing Business in France by George Sussman, Simon Schama’s Citizens, A Chronicle of the French Revolution and two books by Robert Darnton, The Literary Underground of the Old Regime and The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History. These remarkable works enabled me to flesh out the novel’s historic backdrop and themes.
Lissa M. Cowan is the author of works of non-fiction, is co-translator of Words that Walk in the Night by Pierre Morency, one of Québec’s most honoured writers, and her writing has appeared in Canadian and U.S. magazines and newspapers. She has received fellowships from the University of Victoria’s Writing Department and The Banff Centre. She holds a Master of Arts degree in English Studies from l’Université de Montréal and lives in Toronto.Visit her website at www.lissamcowan.com.
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