The Scarlet Ribbon

by Derry O'Dowd

  ‘Cupid has much to answer for, this lues venerea, this venereal plague that besets the devotees of Venus,’ William was in reflective mood, ‘yet the prescriptions are simpler now than ever before. Have you ever tried the fumigation remedies used by older practitioners?’

  James shook his head, eager to hear more.

  ‘It is a difficult remedy, James. First the patient is placed in a tent, naked or in a shirt, in a heated room. At his feet a portable stove glowing with the heat of hot embers on which pinches of cinnabar mercury are thrown from time to time. The fumigation continues until the patient swoons. He is then brought to bed and buried in warm blankets to make him, poor wretch, sweat profusely. The cure begins when six fumigations are completed.’

  ‘So at that time there is severe diarrhoea and excess salivation?’ enquired James.

  ‘Indeed, just as when we apply the mercury ointment by friction. We must encourage excretion of saliva in excess of three pints each day to ensure the remedy is effective.’

  ‘And so we apply the mercury ointment forty separate times. God bless the poor sick patient,’ James replied with feeling.

  ‘As the remedy takes hold, the nose, throat and tongue ulcerate and swell so that the speech becomes unrecognisable, the teeth and hair fall out, saliva runs constantly from the mouth, the breath stinks. Soon the entire body breaks down, but for the lucky ones a cure may be in sight.’

  ‘And so we wonder which is preferable, the disease or the cure, but of course recovery is possible from the cure but not from the disease unless treated vigorously.’

  William nodded in assent.

  ‘But this treatment is so costly – not only once but up to forty times,’ James looked to Smyley for affirmation, but he said nothing.

  ‘How can those in lower positions in society afford the remedy?’ he persisted.

  ‘Benefactors, James, benefactors. As with all our work of this nature we spend the morning at charity and the afternoon we treat those who can pay. The fees we charge fund the entire expenses.’ He turned away. ‘Wherever the money comes from, James, tomorrow we spend the morning in a whore house.’

  James sat in William’s study that evening, reassuring in its sights of music and leather-bound books, and smelling of William’s pipe so as to remind him of his own father’s room, reading to refresh his understanding of the pox and the diseases that morbidly affect the privities of those given to excesses of the flesh. He beckoned to the cat, lying in his habitual pose before the fire, but the feline was having nothing to do with him and stared disdainfully at him before returning to sleep.

  How strange, thought James, that Apollo – the God of healing – should curse a simple shepherd named Syphilus with the venereal disease associated with his name.

  Syphilis. The great pox. The whore’s pox. The worst disease of any kind to befall mankind, from which countless people suffer and die most horribly.

  He ran a hand across his face wearily, pausing to shut his eyes briefly and touch them with his cool fingertips, as if doing so would remove the puffed vestiges of sleep deprivation from them, before reading on.

  ‘You must see to it that you treat my pimps,’ the Madam said to James, ‘else they will not be fit to act as guardians for the girls. Many of them are beaten or otherwise badly treated by their customers, and are often in need of a strong man to come and rescue them.’ She smiled and showed a set of rotting teeth.

  Noticing that James had seen them, she clamped her mouth shut and sniffed, leading him to a back room in which he could commence his treatments.

  ‘It is a shame that Dr Smyley has been called away to a woman in labour. I hope you will do your work as well as him.’ And with that she left him, looking pointedly at him over her shoulder.

  James looked around the room, desolation settling around him. It was shabby and ill lit, in contrast to the entrance of the house and main receiving room with its convivial atmosphere of velvet drapery and matching chairs.

  The customers would not be so happy to pay for their pleasure if they had been led to this poor room, dust gathering under the broken furniture that sat in the corners gloomily, the unhappy losers in fights or other rough use.

  He sat down on one of the seats, dust billowing as his weight settled and he coughed as it caught in his throat. A few minutes later, a hefty fellow with red whiskers entered the room slowly, his walk painful and difficult for all to see.

  James rose from the chair.

  ‘It’s the gleet, Sir. God help me, the gleet,’ moaned the pimp, and undid his breeches, pushing them to the floor where they puddled in the dust.

  James knelt and inspected the man’s yard, so painful, red and inflamed it had shrunk to a mere couple of inches as if endeavouring to retreat into the body itself to find comfort there.

  Thick fetid purulent matter oozed from the water passage, which was ulcerated at its mouth. Nearby, the stones in their protective bag were inflamed and swollen so that at James’s most delicate touch the pimp bellowed in pain.

  ‘The piss comes forth hot and sharp like broken shards from a gin bottle, and the stones are like hot iron beaten on the anvil in the smithy’s pen,’ he gasped aloud, and cursed the whore he had ravaged as the devil’s very own bitch.

  As James knelt before the man, he felt like crushing his tender bag, squeezing hard, to inflict the pain that he knew the pimp had inflicted on others. ‘At first you must drink many pints of ass’s milk to cool the water in the kidneys before it flows through the yard. The cooling milk will also restore balance to the humours depleted by the disease of the privy member and stones. On the morrow, Madam will prepare an infusion to my instructions. Here, I will write the prescription for her.’

  14

  To take away a bruise

  Boil a handful of bran in fresh water. Add to this ten leaves of the comfrey and a good sprinkling of parsley. Leave in the pot until most of the water is gone. Take the pot off the fire, put the mixture in a jar and stir until you have a paste. Apply to the bruise as hot as can be tolerated.

  Quinn Household Recipes and Remedies Book

  * * *

  The second pimp waiting outside the treatment room blanched and shuffled from foot to foot in sympathy while his friend roared in agony on the other side of the door.

  He looked on worriedly as his red-haired companion was led from the room, whimpering all the while, by his devil’s whore. He took a deep breath and entered.

  A deep firm ulcer invaded the galea, the soldier’s helmet at the tip of his yard. The ulcer was the size of a medium button and was free of hurt. Nearby, where legs met the body, there were large buboes, hard rubbery painless lumps.

  The pimp was proud of the hero’s stamp on his yard, but bitter and woeful when James reached for the mercury ointment and ordered him to strip for a friction application.

  ‘Can I have it hidden in chocolate like the gentry? The bastards sit in their parlours stuffing their faces with mercury while their stupid wives don’t know that their rich dung-gate husbands are rotting with pox from young whores.’

  James listened to the pimp rant on as he applied the ointment and was glad when he had left the room.

  He was roused by a timid knock at the door, and as he opened it in answer he stood back, aghast. The once pretty young woman who stood at the door was a sad sight, and James’s heart went out to her.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ he asked softly, leading her into the room.

  ‘You just saw him,’ she replied, ‘the last one in here.’

  Seeing James’s face turn stony, she quickly countered, ‘but he does mind me, honest he does. I’d be much worse off without him,’ she touched his sleeve, beseechingly, trying to get him to understand the way things were in her world.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked quietly, shamed into silence at the thought that there were women who lived like this.

  ‘Molly.’

  ‘Molly,’ he replied, taking her face in his hand, turning it, seeing the ra
inbow bruising on her temples even in the poor light of the room – black, brown, blue, green, purple, pink. He saw her misshapen nose, taking the symmetry from her face, and he wanted to pull her to him and make her hurt better. He felt like weeping and then exacting revenge, in that order.

  ‘Well, Molly, how can I help you today?’

  She complained of fever, aches in the head and a bad rash, so bad nobody would hire her frail body.

  ‘I need you to take off your gown, Molly, so I can see your rash better.’

  She had no shame about disrobing in front of him, and as the fabric slid from her body he saw the angry rash, red and patchy, dispersed all over her body, her belly, chest and back bearing the brunt of the irritation.

  When she had dressed again, James opened her mouth and through the gaps where teeth once sat he could plainly see elongated ulcers on the roof of her mouth tracking downwards to the back of her throat. Her hair had become thin and wispy, as strands came away in handfuls. James would need every last jar of mercury ointment to treat Molly’s pox.

  James Quinn’s legs moved in his sleep, as in his dream he hurried to keep pace with Avril. She was just in front of him; he could nearly reach out to touch her. She wore the hooded black mantua as she had that day at Notre Dame.

  ‘Avril!’ he called, but she did not stop.

  He hurried on.

  ‘Avril!’

  He ran faster, this time catching up with her, placing his hand on her cloaked shoulder. ‘Avril, did you not hear me?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘I did not,’ she said, and pulled down her hood and turned to face him. Strands of her golden blonde hair came away in wisps from her scalp, and James looked on, horrified, unable to pull his eyes away from her.

  She smiled at him, laughing, and through the gaps where teeth once sat he could plainly see elongated ulcers on the roof of her mouth tracking downwards to the back of her throat.

  ‘Avril,’ he said, taking her face in his hand, turning it, seeing the rainbow bruising on her temples, black, brown, blue, green, purple, pink. He saw her misshapen nose, taking the symmetry from her face.

  ‘He does mind me, honest he does. I’d be much worse off without him,’ she touched his sleeve, beseechingly.

  ‘Avril,’ the words dried in his mouth and his voice broke as he spoke her name. She pulled at the ribbon on the mantua and it fell to the street, landing like a black crow.

  She had no shame about disrobing in front of him, and as the fabric slid from her body he saw the angry rash, red and patchy, dispersed all over her body, her belly, chest and back bearing the brunt of the irritation.

  ‘Avril!’ James cried, and she smiled her toothless smile.

  James Quinn sat up in the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, and tried to slow his breathing. He ran his arm across his forehead, cold beads of sweat lodging there.

  He left his bed, lit the candle, pulled on his shirt and sat down to write to Andre.

  Paris, 10 May 1741

  James,

  My dear friend.

  How good it was to see you letter arrive and read of your man-midwifery adventures in London.

  Your William Smyley seems to have taught you much! We were possibly naive to think that the Gregoires had filled our heads with so much knowledge that we had no more to learn!

  I am more than glad, also, to know that you are in such high spirits. I knew there was something sadly amiss when we first met in Paris. I have never really said this, but I am honoured that you could share your sad tale of your lost love Marguerite with me. You are a very brave man, not only to carry on with your life, but to do something worthy with it. I am proud to call myself your friend.

  I know how hard you have battled with your emotions urging you on to drown your feelings with drink, but you have resisted and I am proud of you. I hope that you still are as strong as you have been. Be strong, James, be brave.

  So, you are to return to Ireland next month? I hope your son Daniel is well?

  All is well in Paris, indeed I have come up in the world somewhat. I met with the angel that is Avril shortly after you and I saw to it that she left her place of work and took to a much more respectable house – of ill-repute! Ha!

  However, the place where she now works as the Head of the House, or Madam if we are to be more vulgar, is filled with gentlemen of discerning tastes and purses fatter than themselves. More on that in a moment.

  Shortly after I met up with Avril again she agreed to be my wife. There is no other woman for me now, James, believe me, my wandering eye is stuck firmly in its socket. I fell in love with her the day you and I saw her outside the coffee house, sitting with her friends, brighter than the shining sun that afternoon.

  In fact, we are soon to be parents! I am so delighted I cannot put my joy into words! Avril’s pregnancy progresses well and she glows even more than usual.

  Now, back to what I so briefly mentioned before. The House – where I tend to the medical needs of the girls – counts members of government and royalty, no less, as clientele. One such a gentleman mentioned a small, new town that is being built in America, in the state of Louisiana. It is called New Orleans, and is named for Phillipe II, Duc d’Orleans, one-time Regent of France.

  That gentleman suggested – having told me of his visit there, and it sounds wondrous! Hot and sunny – that Avril and I may think of opening an establishment similar to the one that we work at here, as there is no such service currently available to cater for the higher class of gentleman.

  I must admit, we are both sorely tempted, as life in Paris continues in the same way and we are eager for a fresh challenge. Due to our social standing – me as a man-midwife and her as an ugly word many people would use – our union is not looked on kindly and many doors have been closed to us through prejudice and for our daring to challenge the perception of class.

  In New Orleans, Avril would be Head of the House, and part of my work as a surgeon and man-midwife will be to tend to the medical needs of the girls working there, while no doubt gaining more clients from among those that pass through the doors. Rich men will do, as I would like to provide well for my family!

  We must wait until after the baby is born, of course, as I would not allow such an arduous journey by sea for my love in her condition. Oh, but our baby will be beautiful, do you not think? As long as he or she is not big, dark and hairy like me! And he or she must have a life away from the gossip-mongers of Paris and not have a life tainted just because his or her mother and father decided to fall in love despite their opposite status imposed by a fickle society.

  But James, on our way we can stop to visit you in Dublin – what do you think? I would very much like to meet all the people I have come to know so well through your reminisces of them and I would relish the chance to talk face to face rather than through the written word.

  So write soon to let me know what you think. I look forward greatly to hearing from you again as you continue in your quest.

  I hope we shall be reunited some day very soon.

  Your true friend,

  Andre.

  Sir Hans Sloane, the guest speaker and founding member of the Foundling Hospital in London, called his guests to attention at the art exhibition held to raise funds for the cause so close to his heart. He held up his hand for quiet, and smiling, began.

  ‘My dear benefactors and patrons. On behalf of our president, the Duke of Bedford, and the other members of the governing body, I welcome you most heartily to London’s Foundling Hospital.

  ‘We reside here in temporary accommodation at Hatton Gardens, where we are fitted up, furnished and provided with proper officers, servants and wet and dry nurses. Meanwhile we await the building of our new institution at Lamb’s Conduit Fields on grounds in Bloomsbury, purchased at great reduction from the Earl of Salisbury.

  ‘The benefactor who first proposed this establishment does not wish any plaudits. However, you all know the man who sought support for this most worthy cause. He propose
d a subscription, and over the past twenty years collected signatures to petition a charter from our glorious King. That charter was granted by His Majesty George II, in October 1739.

  ‘That same benefactor, Captain Thomas Coram, was deeply moved by the sight of dead babies murdered and thrown upon dung hills like so many discarded slops and rubbish around this city. Their tiny bodies unloved and covered in mire.’

  He cleared his throat and James saw that Catherine was weeping softly.

  ‘I will explain. Unwanted infants or those born out of wedlock and regarded as morally degraded are murdered at birth or left exposed to perish in the streets. Those who are not abandoned are sold to persons in the lower orders and blinded, maimed or distorted in their limbs in order to move pity and compassion, and become instruments of gain to those self-same vile merciless wretches and be raised as beggars.

  ‘It is reprehensible, but true, that more than one thousand infants are abandoned each year or thrown on the mercies of the London parishes, who cannot deal with the task. Some unfortunates are left at workhouse doors, where only one of every ten infants who enter will survive.’

  The speaker paused once more and James passed Catherine a handkerchief.

  ‘London fails miserably to provide welfare for those in need. My own researches show that in our great capital city, the pride of our nation, only one in four children are still alive by their fifth year.

  ‘On Lady’s Day this very year, the first foundlings were admitted to our Foundling Hospital. I earnestly request your further voluntary contributions to provide due and proper care for those infants, and all those who are yet to arrive, in the knowledge that you are charitable and well-disposed persons.

  ‘As some recompense for your favours, we have arranged a body of artwork for you to fill the senses. Now my final, pleasant duty is to declare this exhibition officially open. Shake out your purses, ladies and gentlemen, for this is the work of the Lord!’