by Derry O'Dowd
Inside the restaurant, patrons sat at every table, bathed in candlelight, gesticulating to make a point in their conversation, and the delicious aroma of French cuisine greeted his nostrils, producing a rumbling from his stomach that reminded him that he had not eaten for some time. He sat and took it all in, drinking wine steadily and smiling as the glow from the drink suffused him with a sense of well-being.
As his dish of boiled beef and herb stew was placed in front of him, he drained the last of his wine and asked for more.
He wanted bread to go with his dish, but was told by his waiter that there was none available, due to the countrywide famine that had begun with the continual wet weather which made the crops bloom with rot and led to the exorbitant prices for grain.
The waiter shrugged his shoulders and left. James nodded to himself, things were bad at home in Ireland too.
He banished the dark thoughts and settled down to enjoy the rest of his meal, ordering more wine to accompany the new French dessert, ice cream.
It was on unsteady, coltish legs that he made his way back to his lodgings, looking at the moon high above and stumbling as he leant back too much in his admiration of the icy white orb, high in the heavens, stars twinkling around it like tiny fireflies darting around in the velvet inky sky.
In the dark, wood-clad room, he took off his boots and opened the long windows which looked onto the inner courtyard of the building.
He pulled off the rest of his clothes, threw them to the floor and took the tiny gold-framed portrait of Marguerite from his belongings, placing it on the ornate table by his bed so he could see her as he lay down.
‘Now, my love,’ he slurred to her picture, ‘here we are in Paris on a moonlit night.’ He traced her curved lips with his little finger, kissed her likeness tenderly and reached down and fumbled around to find one of her letters to him. He settled down to read it, bottle of brandy in hand, stroking the pages that she had touched, casting longing glances at her portrait from time to time.
Galway, 7 November 1736
My dearest, darling James,
I hope that the fine fellows of Dublin are treating you well and that city life and studies will not conspire to keep you away from my side for too much longer. I miss you so, and long to see your dear, darling face.
We are all well here. Mama is most delighted at the thought of all the organising she will do for our wedding. Your mama is often here, and your sister too, while our fathers clap each other on the backs delightedly, smoking and drinking fine wines and brandy in Papa’s study. I can hear them now; Peg has told them supper will be ready soon, so I suppose that means I should make haste too.
But I just wanted to say, James, that I am so happy, you have made me so happy I might cry with it. My heart feels so full, I am sure it is beating harder, and I wish you were here to rest your ear on it so you could hear it pounding away merrily in anticipation of our wedding and lives together. And the family that we will have, oh, James, I am so excited!
I remember with such bliss that day when you and I walked down through the Spanish Arch to the great grey wall of Galway with the loose stone that only you and I know about. How many love messages were left behind that stone my sweet?
If the wall could talk, all of Galway might be scandalised!
But, my own darling, none of our heavenly love notes were ever discovered; it is as if the angels themselves were keeping watch over our little pieces of paper sleeping snugly behind the aged stone.
Ah James, when I put my hand into the space behind the stone that day and pulled out the linen pouch you had left there for me to find I swear I did not know what was going on.
And when I took the scarlet ribbon from the pouch and you asked me to keep it always as a love token and wear it on my person on our wedding day, I was sure my heart would burst.
I love every tiny bit of you, my love, your face with its dimples and dusting of light freckles across the nose and cheeks, your kind eyes, unruly hair, your smile. Your arms as they hold me, your warm breath as it touches my hair when you reach down to take me into your arms. The way that everybody loves you, even our bad-tempered cat whom I am sure is pregnant again – so many kittens for one furry little body! The way that you always make me smile and feel loved and safe and cherished. And the way that I love you back, with all my heart and soul.
You made me the happiest person alive that day, James Quinn, and every day is the same now that I know we are to be together forever. I think I must be the luckiest girl on earth.
Mama is calling for me now, supper is ready and I will be chided as if I were five years old for being so love-struck as to come to the table late again. But nobody really minds, James, they know how much we adore each other. I will write more again later, my love.
I am yours forever, my darling, and cannot wait to see you again. My arms long to hold you, but you are not here to touch. I love you, James.
Your own Marguerite.
James tossed and turned in an uneasy sleep.
He stared at the serene face of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a smile lifting her lips for eternity, fixed there by the sculptor.
Masses of flowers covered the bower that the statue was carried on, in every colour under the sun. The faithful sang hymns to celebrate her Feast Day, their slow feet charting the progress of the procession.
He could hear the slow hymns now, too slow. His feet tried to take him closer to the crowd, to the Madonna, but it felt as if he was running on sand. The harder he tried to run, the slower his progress, the heavier his heart had to beat to bring him even the tiniest bit nearer. He was sweating, breathing heavily, desperate in his need to get closer. He reached out his arms to her, getting nowhere.
The Blessed Virgin turned her face to James, just a fraction, and the gentle, benevolent smile that had curled the corners of her mouth turned to a grimace and frown lines marred her wooden forehead.
As James watched, she reached within the folds of her blue cloak and took out his Spanish pocketknife, the one his father had given him. She held it, glinting in her hand.
He looked on open-mouthed, still running to try to get to her, wondering what she was going to do with it. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Help her!’ But the crowd of the faithful did not hear him.
He looked to her again, and saw the swell of her pregnancy under her white gown. She looked near her time. The thought spurred him on and he ran fast again but somehow got even slower, and started to fall to the ground, panting.
The singing became louder, discordant, and the Madonna fixed James with a fraught stare. As the jarring hymns hurt his ears and his heart felt like it might crumble in his chest, crimson blood burst from between her legs, staining her gown and cloak and the masses of flowers that covered the bower that she was carried on, no longer every colour under the sun, just a furious, uniform red.
She raised James’s knife to the sky, and brought it down in a swift motion, cutting open her own belly.
Blood and bowel burst through her ragged wound, and James hid his face in his hands as he lay on the ground, curled up to protect himself. The Blessed Virgin cried out to the heavens which mocked her with their silence as her trembling, fumbling hands searched her person and the bower under her frantically.
‘My baby! Where is my baby?’
James had not slept much the remainder of that night.
He sat bleary eyed and ill in his bed in the pale morning light and urged himself to rise and start the day. The empty brandy bottle had rolled over and knocked Marguerite’s portrait to the ground. He picked the picture up gently, hands trembling as he stroked her face, and left the room in search of coffee.
Having forced down the steaming, murky drink, he left his lodgings. A blast of cool air hit him in the face and punishing rain helped to further waken him. He knew he needed a shave and a long wash, but all his intentions of making a good first impression lay in the dregs of an empty bottle.
James arrived at the Hotel Dieu just as the rain ha
d petered out and seven fellow students turned up, their faces eager and expectant at what was to come. He felt wretched beside them, but smiled and walked with them through the portals of the renowned hospital to the tiered lecture theatre where they had been instructed to go.
A great, dark-haired, elegantly dressed bear of a man took James’s arm as he stumbled. James looked up and saw the beaming face and upraised eyebrows over brown twinkling eyes of one who was to become his friend.
‘A late night?’ asked the bear.
‘Too late,’ he grimaced and held out his hand to the man. ‘James, James Quinn. Pleased to meet you.’
‘And I am Andre, Andre Moreau. I think we shall have some fun, you and I, Mr Quinn.’
Their conversation was stopped abruptly as the tutor man-midwives Gregoire the Elder and his son Gregoire the Younger arrived. The Elder stood tall and erect, a shock of white hair out of place with his black bushy eyebrows. The Younger looked like his father must have done twenty years ago.
Gregoire the Elder looked around at his students. ‘So, here you learn your craft. You watch how to perform the art of midwifery.’ He stopped and lit the pipe that they were to discover rarely left the side of his mouth. ‘And you dissect to learn what went wrong and should never go wrong again. Now, follow me, and keep up – to your feet!’
The students struggled to hang on to his every word as the Elder walked briskly along the corridors of the hospital, whose walls were adorned with portraits of famous French physicians and surgeons, pipe smoke trailing him sweet and rich, the Younger bringing up the rear as though they were troublesome ducklings being kept in check by their duck and drake.
‘Our hospital was founded by Archbishop Saint-Landry in 651 and has continued to grow since that time. We are a charity hospital that offers our services free to the poor sick of Paris. Many walk straight in, having been next door to Mass at Notre Dame. We boast a large staff of attending physicians and surgeons,’ he paused and stopped walking. ‘Hello ladies, make sure to get back to bed and rest now,’ he greeted two women trying to support each other and keeping close to the wall.
One was heavily pregnant and walked with a waddling gait, while the second had obviously given birth recently, as James noticed that the front of her gown was soaking wet. Her milk had come on, and as they passed he got a nutty-sweet aroma.
The Elder continued his walkabout at a pace, stopping now and again to greet people and take great mouthfuls of pipe smoke.
‘Under our roof lies La Charité, a special ward for women in childbirth. They are attended to by the holy sisters and trained midwives. Some two hundred years ago, a number of our surgeons began a new tradition - they studied the art of midwifery and so became chirurgen accoucheurs, man-midwives. They are called upon for difficult cases in La Charité. Hello sisters,’ he bowed to five nuns, chattering like the magpies whose colour they sported, as they pushed a food cart. The earthy aroma of boiled cabbage hit James’s nose and his stomach rolled over.
He covered his mouth and stopped for a moment but when he looked up he realised that the rest of the students had moved on and Gregoire the Younger was looking at him sternly.
‘You are aware that, over the years, when midwives were unable to complete a delivery, or if other complications arose, a physician was called upon. He prescribed the lancet or scarification or leeches to promote bleeding. He ordered medicines to regulate the imbalance in the woman’s humours. Some remedies were so vile the physician was forced to prescribe them by enema. And then, of course, when these treatments did not work, we, the surgeon man-midwives, were called to the birth chamber to complete the delivery by use of our hands and instruments.’
The Elder stopped and faced his students. ‘At those desperate times the mothers and infants in their wombs were in grave circumstances, close to life’s end.
‘Oftentimes the infant was already dead but not born. We came upon desperate difficulties in those birth chambers and were forced to carry out cruel procedures to save the life of the mother. Sometimes, and against all hope, we brought a living infant into the world. We have an unfair reputation, my friends: the last call, the last choice, the uncertain outcomes.’
As if to emphasise his point, a porter pushed a trolley past them, bearing the body of a dead woman, wrapped in blood-soaked sheets. The Elder walked on.
He motioned towards a large, ornately framed portrait, ‘and so, we have the most famous of all French midwives, Louise Bourgeois. She was the royal midwife to Queen Marie de Medicis in the early seventeenth century, her book is part of your essential reading.
‘But, Louise Bourgeois was strongly opposed to the presence of medical men in the lying-in room, although from time to time she did consult with surgeons. In one difficult case mentioned in her book, she insisted that the surgeon be hidden from view by placing the bed curtain between him and the poor labouring woman. Otherwise Louise was afraid the woman would die of dread and shame due to her violated modesty.’
He walked on and gestured to another painting, ‘Now we see the great man-midwife Francois Mauriceau. He wrote that men were called to assist at childbirth after days of unsuccessful labour. The child was likely dead, and the life of the mother almost over. Yet the surgeon man-midwife who delivered the child was treated like a butcher and a hangman. See the way the artist has highlighted his hands with a beam of light from above? These hands move the infant from the darkness of the womb into the light of the world. But enough of art and history, we are here to tend to the living,’ and so saying, he strode on again, calling over his shoulder, ‘let us return to our lecture room. We will discuss the books you must analyse and learn. We will instruct you about your duties. And we will tell you what we expect of you in one word! Magnificence. That is all we will accept. Anything else is failure.’
6
How to make rose water
Fill half a pot with fresh water. Gather up an armful of roses and pick the petals from them and put them into the water. Place the pot on the fire and let it boil, then take it off and let it cool before pouring the rose water into glass bottles with stoppers. Dab the rose water on your wrists and sides of your neck for a long-lasting fragrance.
Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book
* * *
Gregoire the Younger took his charges to a nearby coffee house at the end of their seemingly never-ending day. He smiled to himself at their tired silence as they left the hospital and walked along the banks of the Seine.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we will come to this quiet chamber,’ he paused and gestured around the upper salon of the coffee house, ‘at the end of every week to discuss your progress. Remember that in this place we are all equal. But I am more equal,’ he smiled impishly at them.
‘In this room we can address your weaknesses. I can lash you with my tongue where nobody can hear. Sometimes I may praise you, but not too often. The same strictures applied to me and to my father before me. Tonight you will begin to study the texts that describe the anatomy of woman with child. Now, James, tell me of your anatomy course in Ireland,’ Gregoire the Younger said, jolting him from a sleepy, yawning reverie.
James squirmed in his seat, ashamed at having been caught out. He blushed. ‘Well,’ he cleared his throat and continued, ‘at Trinity College in Dublin, where I studied, the bodies and body parts were all male. They were steeped in wine to preserve them but they became discoloured and foul after a time.’ He paused and looked at his tutor and fellow students, ‘I have never dissected any woman, pregnant or not, as none were available.’
Gregoire interrupted him with an imperious wave of the hand. ‘Yes, yes, that is the same story I hear every time we begin a new course. But we will change that very quickly. At first you will study the theory of the female anatomy from your texts. Within the month each of you will assist at the frequent post-mortems in La Charité. Soon afterwards, each of you will be responsible in turn for dissecting those mothers who die.
‘Now, my blessings to y
ou, adieu until morning comes. James, my friend, may I walk with you?’
James’s heart sank as he was sure he was in for a stern talking to for daydreaming during lectures. He nodded his consent even though he longed for escape.
As they sat on an uncomfortable bench and watched the river’s progress through the city, Gregoire turned to James.
‘This morning, James, you looked ill, pale, your hands trembled. You have come to us to learn about the most venerable thing you may ever be taught in your whole life, yet you arrive untidy and unshaven.’ He stopped and looked at the water.
‘But the most unforgivable thing, most unacceptable thing, is the foul stench of brandy on your breath. It is intolerable to me, my father, the women of Paris, any woman for that matter.’
James started to speak, to excuse himself, but Gregoire held up his hand to silence him.
‘We do not need to know your problems, James.’ He softened his tone, angry light leaving his eyes, and went on. ‘However, we know that you must have a good heart for there are few men who wish to take on the difficult and contentious life of the man-midwife. We are no different to those who went before us. We must learn from their experience. My father and I have a gift for you to read.’
So saying, Gregoire passed a book to James who turned it over in his hands.
‘When you return to your lodgings read the part I have marked,’ he said and then looked him directly in the eye again, ‘and James, no more brandy or wine for you, my friend. The next time we might not be so forgiving.’ And with those words he strolled off into the evening.
Andre came upon James still sitting on the same bench looking forlornly at the river, flipping the pages of Mauriceau’s text.
‘That bad?’ he asked.
‘That bad,’ replied James.
‘Ah, Mauriceau’s “Conditions necessary for a man-midwife … Above all, he must be sober, no tipler that so at all times he may have his wits about him”,’ quoted Andre.
