Fever 1793 is a mother-daughter story. Mattie, 14, resents her mother, Lucille, as a scolding and meddlesome taskmaster. She fails to appreciate her mother’s struggles to support her family and secure Mattie’s future. When yellow fever hits, Lucille is stricken with the disease and disappears to an unknown location in the countryside; the central mystery of the novel is whether Lucille has survived and will reunite with Mattie. Though absent from the central part of the book, memories of Lucille’s strength inspire Mattie as she struggles to survive and gathers an improvised “family” of fellow survivors. By framing the novel with Mattie’s relatively childish view of Lucille and, later, her more mature perceptions, Anderson demonstrates that mother-daughter relationships in any setting involve conflict, and she suggests that daughters come to empathize with their mothers through maturing and fighting their own battles.
At the beginning of the story, Mattie’s relationship with her mother is conflicted. Mattie sees her mother as the person who runs her life—and not in the way that Mattie would prefer: “When Mother allowed herself a still moment by the fire on winter nights, I could sometimes see the face she wore when Father was alive. […] But no longer. Life was a battle, and Mother a tired and bitter captain. The captain I had to obey.” Though Mattie understands that her mother has faced “battles,” Mattie has never been “embattled” herself, so she can’t fully sympathize with her mother.
Mattie is furious when her mother drags her to tea at the upper-class Ogilvie home, hoping for a possible match for Mattie with one of the wealthy sons: “We did not belong here. I did not belong here. Mother may have grown up with carriages and gowns, but I had not.” Rather than appreciating her mother’s burden to provide for Mattie, Mattie just sees this unwanted courtship ritual in terms of conflict between herself and her mother—she and her mother are different in an unbridgeable way, she believes.
Mattie also sees herself through the lens of her conflict with her mother. She imagines that her mother sees her as an unwanted failure: “I disgusted Mother. She knew I was weak. I bet she wanted sons. Instead she got a backward, lazy girl child.” While there’s no evidence in the story that this perception is true, it shows how Mattie interprets her mother’s sometimes heavy-handed efforts to guide and protect her as a struggling single parent.
Mattie becomes the head of her household, in effect, after she and her mother are separated during the epidemic. The separation forces her to better appreciate her mother and, as she forms family bonds with other survivors, to realize some of the strains and sacrifices of holding a family together. As Lucille nears death (so Mattie thinks) from yellow fever, Mattie grieves her failures to fully appreciate and learn from her mother: “Tears threatened again. I sniffed and tried to control my face. No one could ever tell what Mother thought or felt by looking at her. […] There were so many things she had tried to teach me, but I didn’t listen.” Faced with the prospect of losing Lucille, Mattie is painfully aware of all she has failed to learn from her mother, and will now never have the opportunity to learn.
Mattie finds a lethal diagnosis to be incompatible with her perception of Lucille: “Mother […] had given birth to me in the morning and cooked supper for ten that night. She survived the British occupation while my father fought with Washington’s troops. Mother would beat back illness with a broom.” Mattie newly appreciates Lucille’s strengths when she sees her languishing with yellow fever. When her mother disappears to the countryside, this reminder of Lucille’s formidable presence sustains Mattie and lets her maintain hope that she’s still alive, even though they don’t know each other’s whereabouts for the duration of the epidemic.
Mattie fights for Nell, an abandoned orphan, and Robert and William, nephews of coffeehouse employee Eliza, even though it’s unclear how they’ll survive together in the aftermath of the fever. After Mattie successfully nurses them all back to health, collapsing in exhaustion before all is over, she offers Eliza a partnership in the coffeehouse and effectively starts a new household, folding Eliza’s whole family into her life there. Mattie’s battles on behalf of the children echo the strengths she’s internalized from her mother, though she doesn’t entirely recognize this in herself.
When Mattie and her mother are reunited, their roles are reversed in a way that’s sorrowful but ultimately reconciling for them. Though she’s recovered from the fever, Lucille is permanently weakened and newly reliant on Mattie for support, both physically and emotionally. Mattie tells her, “‘Please don’t cry. Everything is better now. I’m home, you’re home. You don’t have to worry anymore.’ I drew up a chair next to her, and she leaned against my shoulder. I cradled her head in my arms until her sobs quieted.” Mattie’s support of her mother is unprecedented, but she accepts the role unhesitatingly, made stronger and more empathetic from her own trials during their separation.
Mattie also takes over the coffeehouse and supports her mother financially. The end of the book finds Mattie waking early and letting her mother sleep late, in contrast to a combative scene between the two of them at the beginning, when Mattie complained about being scolded out of bed by Lucille. Though Mattie is upset by the change in her mother’s wellbeing, their long separation has both deepened Mattie’s love for her and strengthened her to care for Lucille as, she now realizes, Lucille has unfailingly done for her.
Mattie and Lucille have a great deal in common. A war survivor who was widowed when Mattie was only four, Lucille has worked hard to run a business and provide for Mattie; she is independent, determined, and brave. As Mattie struggles to survive the epidemic, her similarities to her mother are evident, and they are highlighted all the more strongly when Lucille comes to occupy a more daughter-like role in Mattie’s revitalized coffeehouse. Though it’s hinted that Lucille won’t survive for many more years, Anderson allows their relationship to come full circle in a deft and sensitive way, highlighting the notion that although mother-daughter relationships are inevitably conflicted, it is possible to find common ground through maturation and appreciation of each other’s efforts.
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Mothers, Daughters, and Familial Love Quotes in Fever 1793
A few blocks south lay the Walnut Street Prison, where Blanchard had flown that remarkable balloon. From the prison’s courtyard it rose, a yellow silk bubble escaping the earth. I vowed to do that one day, slip free of the ropes that held me. Nathaniel Benson had heard me say it, but he did not laugh. He understood. Perhaps I would see him at the docks, sketching a ship or sea gulls. It had been a long time since we talked.
If I was going to work as hard as a mule, it might as well be for my own benefit. I was going to travel to France and bring back fabric and combs and jewelry that the ladies of Philadelphia would swoon over. And that was just for the dry goods store. I wanted to own an entire city block—a proper restaurant, an apothecary, maybe a school, or a hatter’s shop. Grandfather said I was a Daughter of Liberty, a real American girl. I could steer my own ship. No one would call me little Mattie. They would call me “Ma’am.”
“I’m here, Mother,” I whispered. “Be still.”
She shook her head from side to side on the pillow.
Tears threatened again. I sniffed and tried to control my face. No one could ever tell what Mother thought or felt by looking at her. This was a useful trait. I needed to learn how to do it. There were so many things she had tried to teach me, but I didn’t listen. I leaned over to kiss her forehead. A tear slipped out before I could stop it.
“There,” he sighed. “That’s better. It’s time to review your soldiering lessons.”
I groaned. From my crawling days. Grandfather had taught me all the tricks of the American and the British armies, and quite a few from the French. Again and again and again. It would do no good to argue. I was his captive.
“A soldier needs three things to fight,” he continued. He held up three fingers and waited for my response.
“One, a sturdy pair of boots,” I said. “Two, a full belly. Three, a decent night’s sleep.”
“I am concerned for your future,” he said. “We must form our battle plans, both for this skirmish and the rest of the war.”
I waited for his advice. It did not come. That scared me more than anything. He was waiting for me to decide what to do.
“We’ll move camp tomorrow,” I finally said.
He nodded. “Whatever you say, Captain.”
My wet petticoat swayed in the breeze. It would have to do.
I tried to rip open the seam with my teeth, but the tiny stitches that Mother had sewed would not yield. Another fish wiggled to the top of the water to gulp down a water bug.
If I had sewn the skirt, it would have been easy to tear apart. Instead, I would have to use it whole. I pulled the drawstring at the waist tightly until I could barely poke my thumb through the opening. I would hold open the hem and pray an unusually stupid fish would swim into the trap.
“I bet no soldier ever thought of this one,” I said, wading back in the water with my improvised net.
I fumbled with the tread of the hollow stair, then threw it to the side and lifted out the metal box. I opened the lid. It was still there, pence and shillings. Thank heaven for that.
I returned the box to its hiding place. It could be worse, I thought. The house is still standing. We’re alive. Mother and Eliza must be somewhere safe, I had to believe that. The fever would soon be over, and our lives would return to normal. I just had to stay clever and strong and find something to eat.
A tear surprised me by rolling down my cheek. “None of that, Mattie girl,” I whispered to myself as I scrubbed the tear away. “This is not the time to be childish.”
I held my breath and waited for the earth to stop spinning. The sun need not rise again. There was no reason for the rivers to flow. Birds would never sing.
The sound came straight from my heart, as sharp as the point of a sword. I shrieked to the heavens and pounded the floor with rage. “Nonono! Don’t take him! Nonono!”
I picked up the sword and attacked a chair as if it were Death itself. When the chair was a pile of firewood and the sword dull, I fell to my knees by the side of my grandfather’s body.
I stared at the grave diggers. They took off their caps and bowed their heads. Movement in the park stopped, as those watching laid down their shovels and bowed their heads. The book opened to the familiar words. I swallowed, cleared my throat, and began to read loudly, so that all could hear.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...” The men around me moved their lips and then gave voice. Our voices rose together as one, proclaiming faith, joining in grief. At the end of the reading, some crossed themselves, others wiped their eyes. I stood straight and tall.
“Don’t love her,” warned Mother Smith.
“Pardon me?”
“I said, don’t you fall in love with that baby girl. She’s not yours. You can’t keep her. You had any sense, you’d take her right down to the orphan house tomorrow and hand her over. Don’t look back […] She stays with you, you feed her, wash her, sing to her, mother her, then give her away. How’s that going to make her feel? You’re the cruel one.”
If Mother was dead, I’d have to sell the coffeehouse, or have the orphan’s court sell it for me. I’d get work as a scullery maid, or move into the orphanage and do laundry.
I looked past the apple seller to the haberdasher’s window behind him. My face looked back at me from the thick glass. […] The shape of my face looked for all the world like Mother’s, her nose, her mouth.
But my eyes were my own. I blinked.
A scullery maid? Ridiculous. I was Matilda Cook, daughter of Lucille, granddaughter of Captain William Farnsworth Cook, of the Pennsylvania Fifth Regiment. I could read, write, and figure numbers faster than most. I was not afraid of hard work.
I would set my own course.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Shh. Please don’t cry. Everything is better now. I’m home, you’re home. You don’t have to worry anymore.” I drew up a chair next to her, and she leaned against my shoulder. I cradled her head in my arms until her sobs quieted […] Her hands lay in her lap, withered and limp. I had never seen her hands stay still before.
Early morning was the only time I felt as if there were ghosts nearby, memories of the weeks of fear. That’s when I found myself listening for Polly’s giggle or Grandfather’s voice. Sometimes they felt so close. Close enough to tell me I should stop dawdling and get to work.
I smiled as the mist faded. The yellow sun rose, a giant balloon filled with prayers and hopes and promise. I stood and shook the idleness out of my skirts.
Day was begun.
