Hottentot Venus

by Barbara Chase-Riboud

  —Well, the Boer had reasoned, I certainly don’t think Saartjie would agree to go to London under any circumstances. She’s a shepherdess. A simple, even simple-minded, nursemaid. How could she conceive the advantage of a trip to Europe or London? Or be shown to princes and kings? Besides, I don’t think my sister-in-law would agree to part with her. She sets quite a store by her. She made me leave her at the farm instead of my taking her back with me to the reserve.

  —Your sister-in-law? You, a Dutchman, not master of your own sister-in-law?

  —No, he said. And we both burst into laughter.

  We were still laughing when we arrived at the frontier of the Caesar farm the next day, as if we were the oldest and best of friends, although we had been perfect strangers twenty-four hours before.

  —Maybe I ought to introduce myself, said Hendrick Caesar, repeating his name.

  —Glad to meet you, Hendrick, my name is Dunlop, Alexander William Dunlop.

  It was early evening of the same day before we actually reached the farm. I whistled at the size, breadth and beauty of it with its serene landscape of cattle grazing and wheat fields swaying.

  —No reason to leave all this, I said.

  —All mortgaged to the hilt, replied Caesar. They’ve already foreclosed on part of the land, beyond the ridge there.

  As he spoke, I saw for the first time, his Hottentot servant come over the rise, barefoot, her gourd hanging at her waist, a bunch of wild poppies in her arms.

  —Saartjie! Hey, Saartjie, come over here, I want you to meet my friend here, Mr. Dunlop.

  The Boer had frowned. The Hottentot just stood there as if she were rooted to the ground, staring at me as if she had seen a ghost.

  —Saartjie! I’m calling you!

  —Yes, Master.

  But she didn’t move. Instead she crossed her feet and offered up her flowers to me.

  —Welcome, Master Dunlop.

  I edged my mount closer to where she was standing, and bending down, I accepted the homage as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  —Extraordinary, I murmured, my eyes sweeping over Saartjie’s shape. Extraordinary . . .

  That night after supper, which was elaborate and copious, the family retired to the salon and the Hottentot brought out the basin to wash the feet of the family. Since I was a guest, she uncovered, washed and dried my feet first. As she went on to attend to her mistress, I reached out and placed my hand on her backside.

  —You have a gold mine here, Hendrick. You should profit from it. Steatopygia is a fascinating topic to Europeans. It is perfumed by sex, deformity, monstrosity and prostitution. Whatever is forbidden. And like yellow journalism, whatever is forbidden is big news. The exhibition of lusus naturae draws a healthy interest in London. Unusual and unnatural beings are in great vogue. The stranger the creature, the stronger the draw. After such a voluptuous end to such a fine supper, I can only compliment the lady of the house . . .

  I rose then and in my bare feet padded over to Alya Caesar, kissed her hand and clicked my heels together. Since my feet were bare, this had the most hilarious effect. Everyone laughed. I endeared myself to Alya Caesar and Saartjie forgave me for touching her posterior.

  Hendrick and I stayed smoking on the veranda after Alya, the children and her mother, who was visiting, retired for the night. The steward stayed to tend to our needs but I noticed Saartjie lingering in the salon to eavesdrop on our conversation. I obliged her.

  —As I was saying, from 1800 to 1804 I took part in my first expedition of discovery, which was sponsored by the Paris Academy of Sciences. That’s what started me collecting specimens during my travels. The new-style anatomists and doctors wanted real cadavers, skulls, body parts. They were tired of stealing them from cemeteries. One of my first assignments on our arrival at the Cape was to look for exact information on the so-called Hottentot apron. The singularity of this organ of generation was too piquant not to have excited the curiosity of most of the individuals attached to the état-major of my ship. I was assistant ship’s surgeon and my friend L’Haridon, the ship’s doctor, performed some very particular observations on the kind of orgasm that part could be susceptible to. The head of the expedition was Dr. Péron. In 1805, after making a sensation in London, he lectured on the subject at the Institute of France. Many drawings were made during that expedition, by Lesueur, Petit, Lebrun, Thibault, many of which have since disappeared. Imagine setting up another sitting for other observers to draw the fabulous Hottentot. The Academy would pay a pretty penny for that privilege. As I’ve said again and again, no female of that race has ever set foot on English soil . . .

  —There has always been a rumor, I continued, that the Hottentots were hermaphrodites, but it was founded only on conjecture. Several gentlemen I know took it upon themselves to resolve the problem. They discovered that the women have a supergenital membrane that falls down beyond the lips of the vulva, nothing more. I shrugged.

  —But one can see how this rumor started if the female Hottentot has an appendix outside the organs of generation and the men have eliminated one testicle . . . Between the two deformities, a mythological creature was bound to be born . . .

  —Then they have this strange language that sounds terrible and no nation on earth can imitate. Thank goodness they are capable of learning Dutch and English. They have no laws and no religion—they worship the moon. They don’t build or plant, and have no fixed place to live, transporting their tents and fixing them wherever they find grazing land for their cattle. They eat anything—roots, berries, entrails, raw meat, whether beast or human. If a woman has twins, one is eliminated so that the other profits from the breast, and when male children reach the age of twelve, one testicle is removed so that they can run better.

  —Saartjie does have a strange language, which seems impossible to speak, said Hendrick.

  —It is comprehensible, I said. It is one of the most complex languages in the world. Strange that it should be spoken by simpletons . . .

  —Of course, I continued, Voltaire claimed they have no language at all, but this is not true. The language we speak of, Khoe, contains a set of implosive consonants, called clicks or clucks, which do not exist in the English phonological system. To further complicate things, not only do most of the words begin with a click consonant, but also the number and variety of these clicks are modified still further by vowel colorings and variations of tone and pronunciation that make it ten times more complicated than Chinese, which is possibly the world’s most difficult language . . .

  —Three of these consonants consist of these sounds—the noise made by the lips in lightly kissing, as when you kiss your hand; that made by smacking the tip of the tongue against the palate, as you do when tasting a flavor, or as some women do when they express petty vexation; and the clucking noise made with the back part of the tongue against the palate to urge a horse forward or to gather chickens; these are all very common. A vowel sound often repeated resembles the French eu, but uttered from the chest with the singsong drawl of a boy driving away birds . . . In fact, it seems that the Hottentots have two vowels more than European languages; one is expressed by the famous click of the tongue, and the other by a suction of air between the tongue and the palate. Yet, with a few of these clicks, a Khoekhoe chief can command two hundred warriors in battle, a rainmaker can cure an illness, two warring tribes can lay out a treaty . . .

  —Tomorrow, ask Saartjie to repeat a phrase in her own language or give her a sentence to translate and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

  —How will we know if she’s really saying what we ask her to if we can’t understand her language?

  —She looks honest. I trust her to tell the truth. She’d never lie— besides, I bet the children speak Khoe—just ask them . . .

  Through all this, the Hottentot was standing behind the curtains, spying on us. I was sure she did speak Khoe to the children and that they answered her. But it was only a guess.

  —I’ve bee
n taught since I was a boy, interjected Caesar’s voice as it wafted out onto the night, that the Hottentot is ruled by prostitution. Adultery has no meaning for them, nor does virginity. The poverty of their mental universe can be seen in the poverty of their language. For example, they have but one word for maiden, woman and wife. They are at the nadir of primitive lasciviousness. There is no difference between the Hottentot and the prostitute, so there is no moral deterrent to using one as the other . . .

  —Even as a Christian gentleman?

  —Even as a Christian gentleman.

  —Should we not be saving these females instead of taking advantage of them?

  —They are to all intents and purposes, unlike the prostitute, beyond redemption.

  —Even your little Hottentot, Saartjie.

  —Oh, no, no. Never, croaked Hendrick. I’ve never touched Saartjie. Nor would I allow anyone else to—she’s family! My boys’ nurse.

  —You’ve never even peeked at this . . . apron of hers?

  —No, he lied.

  —Then how do you know it really exists?

  —I don’t know really . . . my wife says it does.

  —Come now, Hendrick. There’s no one out here but me, surely you were curious enough to . . . look . . .

  —No.

  —Well, would you allow me to examine her, as a medical doctor?

  —No, Dunlop. I’m afraid not. Besides, she would never agree. She’s extremely shy and has the modesty of a white woman.

  —Actually it doesn’t matter if it exists or not, as long as people believe it does. Do mermaids have tails? Does Cyclops have one eye? Is Isis a baboon? It’s what people believe that counts.

  I noticed a shift in one of the shadows projected onto the floor of the veranda. I smiled. Saartjie was not above spying on her masters or eavesdropping on their conversation like all good servants . . .

  —After all, friend, I concluded, determined to shock the Hottentot, a cannibal is not necessarily ferocious. He eats his fellow creatures not because he hates them, but because he likes them . . .

  The next day, at breakfast, Alya Caesar invited me to spend a few weeks at the farm with them while my ship was made ready. She had already opened and prepared the guesthouse for me and assigned me a servant. I would be so much more comfortable here than in a dirty noisy hotel in town, she insisted. To Hendrick Caesar’s surprise, I accepted eagerly. It was like agreeing to live like a monk. There were no pretty tavern waitresses nor spectacular red-haired whores on the Caesar farm that I knew of. But I knew what I would do for entertainment.

  For entertainment, I spied on Saartjie when she bathed. Eventually, she caught me at it. And forgave me. I proceeded to seduce her.

  Listening to me, Saartjie would drop her head as if her ears had been opened to the voices of the world. She heard beyond the ramparts of Cape Town to the swell of waves breaking on the beach with monotonous and solemn vibrations, as if all the earth had been a tolling bell.

  —And then, a ship’s a ship and a voyage isn’t marriage, I whispered.

  —It is not a marriage contract, she whispered in return.

  —I’ve never taken a false name and I’ve never told a lie to a woman (which was a lie).

  The Hottentot’s teeth chattered.

  —You’re cold.

  I put my arms around her, wrapping her closely in her cotton lappa.

  —Hold the ends together in front, I commanded.

  —What did you come here for?

  —To be . . . to be surprised, I replied, truthfully. I have been everywhere and done everything . . . Yet I remain alone, unattached to anything . . .

  —Oh, but I am sorry for you—don’t you have a home?

  —Some such place as this? I’d kick it down around my ears!

  —And where do you hope to die?

  —In the bush somewhere; at sea, on a bloody mountaintop, at home? Yes! The world’s my home. Anyplace is good enough as long as I’ve lived there. I’ve been everything you can think of, ship’s surgeon, army doctor, soldier, anatomist, dentist, slave trader; I’ve sheared sheep, harpooned whales, rigged ships, prospected for gold, hunted wild game, collected fossil specimens, gambled in St. Petersburg, robbed tombs in Cairo, turned my back on more money than your master will ever see or you can imagine!

  I overwhelmed Saartjie. She tried to pull herself together. I straightened up, away from the wall, and said:

  —Time to go.

  But I did not move. I leaned back and hummed a bar or two of the song I had been singing at dinner.

  In the bay of St. Helena

  Stands the island of St. Helena

  Where surrounded by my comrades

  I behold a strange lass with skin so black

  Who fled in fright to see men so white . . .

  I stopped, embarrassed, I had completely forgotten Saartjie’s origins.

  —It’s a cruel song, about Hottentots, I ended, censoring the rest of the lyrics.

  —It’s the song of the gold prospectors, of the restless men who mine the riverbeds of the Hottentot country and the kingdom of Monomotapa for gold. During the dry season, they can find gold nuggets in the cracks of the dried riverbeds, like pearls . . . It’s all desert: cracks in the earth making canyons that you can’t see the bottom of; and mountains—sheer rocks standing up high like walls and church spires like the white cliffs at Dover, only a hundred times taller. The valleys are full of boulders and black stones and pyramids made by Ethiopians. There’s not one blade of grass, one tree, one cactus to be seen. And the sunsets are redder there than anywhere else in the world, I said.

  —Red?

  —Blood red and mad as hell.

  —You would rather stay there on land?

  —Not in that country. It gives me the shivers sometimes. I look for specimens there, that’s all—I have a gift for it and a fever . . . The animals, the desert stones, the skulls, the artifacts, sometimes even gold. But it is not for the gold or even the artifacts . . . it’s the wandering about lookingfor things.

  —The Khoekhoe have a word for men like you; they call you Khoeku !gaesasiba ose—men with no stillness . . . I bet no mistress can hold you.

  —No longer than a week, yet I am fond of women—so many different ones: Chinese, African, European, Arab, so many different shapes and colors, skins and hips and bottoms, legs and feet and hair . . . Anything for a woman, a new woman or a woman of the right sort or a woman like I’ve never seen before—the scrapes they have gotten me into. I love them all. I love them at first sight. I’ve fallen in love with you already . . .

  —Saartjie, little Sarah . . . I sighed. Yes, Saartjie, come here.

  —I don’t have a very pretty face.

  —No matter. I don’t take to faces very much . . . It’s your . . . aura . . . your mystery. You are a rare specimen, unique. Worth a lot of money brought back to England . . .

  I reached out, mesmerized despite myself.

  —How about showing me your apron . . .

  —I couldn’t do that, Master. No, Master.

  She was suddenly terrified. After all my words. She thought I only wanted to fuck her. I laughed angrily.

  —I can simply take a look if I have a mind. Hendrick doesn’t mind.

  —No, she groaned, backing away. I’m a married woman.

  —Married, are you?

  —A widow.

  —That’s not the same as being married and you know it. You are a lone female and you’re not a virgin. You need protection. What if I took you with me to England . . . You could make your fortune and stop being a slave.

  —I’m not a slave.

  —Well, what is this, I said, looking around the decrepit bare wooden cabin, Versailles?

  —What?

  —The governor’s palace? I laughed, but this time good-naturedly.

  She made a movement as if to escape, but stopped and raised her hands to her temples.

  —You are making me crazy! Sometimes you treat me like a princess, t
hen next like a slave, then like a whore! What am I? A woman or a thing-that-should-never-have-been-born?

  —You are nothing but a vagabond, she added angrily.

  —I’m a surgeon! And a damn good one. Nigger bitch. Come with me to England, where you’re free to be anything you like. We’ll make a fortune. Money. Gold. Understand? Freedom! Slavery was abolished in England three years ago!

  I held up my hand mockingly.

  —I swear if you are not famous in a month in London, I’ll send you back home to the Cape.

  —You will have to. I shall make you . . .

  —Look who’s talking . . .

  —Yes, look who’s talking . . .

  Instinctively Saartjie drew in a deep breath and took a step towards me—then a step backwards, having crossed the line between master and servant.

  —How long does it take to sail to London?

  —About eight weeks.

  She had not moved, but remained half turned away from me, with her head in her hands.

  —My word, I continued with a wry smile on my lips.

  —I have a great mind to . . .

  Her elbows trembled as I clutched them in my fists.

  —Escape, I concluded without a pause. You’d be a free woman . . .

  Saartjie still hid her face in her hands. I drew her closer to me and took hold of her wrists gently. I breathed into her ear.