Hottentot Venus

by Barbara Chase-Riboud

  We appeared in the large cities of Northampton, Nottingham, Wake-field and Leeds. We had become true vagabonds by now. There was little pretense of an acting troupe. We were a circus and freak show of chattering monkeys, a turtle-boy, some acrobats, a giant named Captain Battery and a Hottentot called Venus. We traveled in our ragtag caravan while the poor—the workers, the herders, the shepherds and peasants—for whom threepence was too high a price to pay for amusements, rebelled against their rich landlords and owners, for which they were named the Luddites. Like the Khoekhoe , once they rose they were quickly put down by the police and constables hired by the factory owners.

  The revolt spread and seemed to follow our route, arriving just after we had left, or just before we reached, a new city. Workers convicted of machine breaking were sentenced to death under the Frame Breaking Act of Parliament. After one attack in Yorkshire which left a mill owner dead, over one hundred workers were rounded up, seventeen of whom were hanged. Alice almost left the circus to return home to join the rebels when a mill in Manchester was set on fire and thirty-seven weavers were charged with sedition. When we did return, eight men had been sentenced to death and thirteen transported to Australia. We didn’t stay long. We were suspected not only of harboring criminals but also, because of Alice, of spreading sedition.

  We traveled further north to Ireland. The revolts lasted for two more years. Several times we hid Luddites and escaping clothworkers. For a short while, we believed the Luddites might start what Alice called a revolution. But eventually most of them were caught, and the last of their heroes, James Towle, executed.

  Time passed, and whatever else I did in those years of roaming through the countryside, I saw into the very heart of the mighty. How many Englishmen had stood before my body in awe, mirth or contempt? Alice guessed a thousand days of a thousand people. A million souls. Could this have been possible? I could not conceive of such a number until she said:

  —All the migrating birds of the Camboos River in the sky at the same time.

  In Pale moon, the English month of June, 1814, everything changed. We arrived in Bath, where Master Taylor’s players were to perform for the Earl of Bath and his friend and guest the Earl of Bedford. Bath was a spa built around warm springs, a tawdry place where gentlemen came to dance in top boots, wore swords and smoked in the presence of ladies. Soldiers, adventurers, rogues and gamblers abounded. Lodgings were so expensive we lived in the covered wagons of the caravan. Sedan-chair men were rude and quarrelsome and duels were as common as drunkenness. The whole city was taken up with having a good time. In the morning ladies were fetched in a closed palankeen and transported to the baths, already dressed in their bathing clothes. While music played, white women’s bodies were tended and flattered. A little wooden dish floating in the pool held their handkerchief or nosegay or snuffbox. Men were on one side, ladies on the other, but often the sexes mixed, conversed, made vows or appointments for later and sometimes made love. Then they would all return to their lodgings for an evening of theater and amusement.

  It was in Bath that a Frenchman named Réaux, who owned a dancing bear, joined the players. I took him for the devil. First he had appeared out of nowhere. Then, there was his dancing bear, Adolph, a huge red-eyed beast hung with rattling brass chains that followed him everywhere. Alice told me he was a Breton and played the French bagpipe, to which his bear danced. But it was his appearance that struck me, for he resembled his bear. His face was covered with a thick black beard and mustache, so that his mouth was invisible. His nose resembled a snout with its large wide nostrils. He had the small yellow eyes of a bear and from sideburns to eyebrows his oversized head was covered with thick bristly hair, which stood up in tufts as if raised by the wind whether there was any wind or not. To press it down, he wore a wide black felt hat with a deep brim. The hat seemed to be part of his head. He also had the paws of a bear, huge, hairy wide hands with short fingers and long nails. His body was bearlike with thick rounded shoulders and a wide, muscly, hairy chest. It seemed he was the closest to an ape a man could be without being one. Yet he was a polite, practical man, a renegade noble turned republican on the run since the Revolution, in which he had lost everything. We exchanged few words and tried to avoid each other. I could not imagine what I could have to say to Master Réaux. Sometimes he danced all alone with his bear, the two of them locked in a strange war dance of stamping and turns that was both mysterious and ridiculous. The lone Réaux would dance, oblivious of everything and everyone, and the bear would circle him, imitating each movement, while the morose strains of bagpipes surrounded the two animals with sound. But he was a white man, I thought, and so his strange looks were deemed acceptable if ugly. But to me he was a monster.

  For their performance before the Earl of Bath, Master Taylor chose a comedy by William Shakespeare called A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was my favorite play because it began in a wood in a faraway land that could have been the Cape. And it was about things-that-should-never-have-been-born, animals that I knew by name, and fairies that reminded me of my beloved Caroline. They had names that I recognized: Pease-blossom, Cobweb, Moth and Mustardseed. And there was an African lion that roared. Alice also loved this play, and she read it over and over to me, because in it there was a weaver, Bottom, and a clothworker, Starveling, and there was a love story between Lysander and Hermia. There were songs about spotted snakes, thorny hedgehogs, bears with bristled hair, and spells and charms that Magahâs might have possessed. Then, at the end, when the lion roars and the couples mate and the things-that-should-never-have-been-born promise that the blots of Nature’s hand/Shall not in their issue stand;/Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, /Nor mark prodigious, such as are/Despised in nativity, we freaks cheered and I cried as the fairies blessed us with sweet peace and safety and rest. I clung to Alice and wept in longing for that same sweet safety and rest. I was twenty-five years old and as tired as a field slave of sixty. I had learned to drink and I had learned to read, and I had learned to curse my keepers in their own language.

  —Now, now, Sarah, said Master Taylor, I know it’s a beautiful play and it reminds you of home, but if you boo-hoo like that much longer, we’ll all start to cry. Look, he said, tears rolling down his face, I’m crying already.

  —You cry on cue, Master Taylor.

  —Not always, Sarah, not always. Life as I’ve known it is a crying matter . . . a crying game . . . Roulette perhaps or strip poker, I can’t figure out which—

  —You are like Puck. You can fly away.

  —And you cannot?

  —My contract, Master Taylor. Have you forgotten?

  —I might own you, Sarah, but you don’t belong to me—there’s a difference. I, for example, belong to the theater. I belong to the characters I play—rather badly.

  —Like Mr. Kemble, the actor?

  —Well, hardly. I’m just a poor journeyman. He’s a true genius.

  —I met him once. He came to see me. He cried. He wrote a letter to the African Institution about me, which is why we had to go through the trial.

  Master Taylor was silent. Perhaps he was speechless for the first time in his life. Or merely searching for something, some role, some quotation.

  Then, he said:

  —John Kemble’s tears were probably genuine . . . Sarah.

  —And yours?

  —Mine, he said coolly, are those of a professional . . . mourner. People like you and me are born to mourn and weep . . .

  Halifax was the next town. Its blazoned wooden signpost will always remain in my mind’s eye for it was the turning point in our wanderings in England and it marked my life forever. It was Chewing Wood moon, July, 1814, the wars of Napoleon were over, and what was left of the circus limped into Halifax, where we were to perform for five days. My master planned to stay for the rest of the summer. The pretty city was built around a marketplace, which opened at seven twice a week. As soon as the bell rang, hundreds of merchants, factors and buyers appeared, walking down row after r
ow, inspecting each specialty: wool, worsted, cotton, silk. Some of them would have their order books, with which they matched colors, holding them up to compare with the cloth. When they saw something that suited them, they reached over to the clothier and in a moment a deal was made or not. In little more than an hour, all the business was done, and in the half hour that followed, the cloths would all disappear as if by magic, carried off to the merchant’s house, to a warehouse or to a ship anchored on the river.

  Tens of thousands of pounds had changed hands in less than an hour. The boards were taken down, the trestles were gone, the market was empty, its cobblestone square as clean as a whistle. This happened, we learned, twice a week. There were no beggars in Halifax, no idle people, only fresh healthy air, prosperous good people, all employed. This was how I had imagined England to be when I left Cape Town. What I thought I would find in the Reverend Freehouseland’s Manchester. Alice Unicorn was also fascinated by Halifax.

  —The clothiers live in splendid, neat houses, surrounded by grazing land for their cattle, Alice told me. Every clothier has a horse to fetch wool and provisions, to carry yarn to the spinners and his goods to the market. The workers and their families live in cottages on their own land, all spinning, carding, dying cloths . . . It brings tears to my eyes, she concluded, this is how the world should be . . .

  Halifax was only a few miles from the sea and connected to it by canals, which brought the great ships almost into the city. Breezes opened my nostrils to the salt air. A strange calm settled over us and the circus. Master Dunlop spent a great deal of time gazing at the schooners in the harbor, traveling the thirty miles to the sea to inspect them. It was a good place for theater. The multicolored canvas tent we now performed in was full every night. Halifax had a handsome temple and next to it a public square where the tent could be set up. It also had a rich population. We sent an unshelled Victor out with the handbills. We didn’t stay in the caravans but in a comfortable inn in the center of the town. Master Taylor ordered new clothes for everyone. I ordered new dresses for myself and Alice. The receipts in such a city would be good. I could demand anything of my husband and master, I reasoned.

  The large sums of money that circulated in Halifax attracted adventurers and gamblers. There was a gaming house, a casino and a private club where cards were played. And so it was that Master Taylor was happy to settle in peaceful, prosperous Halifax as well. Even little Victor was happy. I was lulled into a state of peace that could almost be described as contentment. We now had enough money to return to the Cape. I hoped Alice would come with me.

  When neither Master Taylor nor my husband came back to the inn one night, I thought nothing of it. They often stayed out all night gambling with their cronies and drinking at the pubs which lined the quays of the canal. It was not until the afternoon of the second day that I heard loud male voices singing “The Ballad of the Hottentot Venus for the Ladies of Bath” as their heavy footsteps slowly climbed the creaking wooden stairs.

  Fair Ladies, I’ve sail ’d, in obedience to you, From BATH, since the last Masquerade, to PERU: There, to guard ’gainst all possible scandal to night, I turn’d Priest, and have conjur’d my Black-a-moor white.

  A strange Metamorphosis!—Who that had seen us T’other night, would take this for the Hottentot Venus; Or me for poor Jack?—Now I’m priest of the Sun, And She, a quere kind of Peruvian Nun:

  Though in this our Novitiate, we preach but so, so, You’ll grant that at least we appear comme il faut. In pure Virgin robes, full of fears and alarms, How demurely she veils her protuberant charms!

  Thus oft’, to atone for absurdities past, Tom Fool turns a Methodist Preacher at last, Yet the Critics, not we, were to blame—For ’od rot ’em, There was nothing but innocent fun at the bottom!

  Finally Master Taylor opened the door and staggered in. His unshaven beard and red eyes meant he had come straight from the whorehouse of the night before without washing. But he was curiously sober all of a sudden. My master was nowhere in sight, but as it was his custom to go to the public baths after a night on the town, I thought nothing of it.

  —Sarah, I’ve got a letter for you from Alex. Before I give it to you, let me say that he shouldn’t be judged too harshly. It was my fault as well as his . . . We . . . We’ve lost you . . . at cards last night. I’m sorry. I took the envelope from his dirty hand. It was not sealed.

  July 30, the SS Hudson

  Sarah,

  Read this letter carefully because you can read now. The news I have for you will not make you happy. Your new owner is Réaux, the Frenchman. I wagered your contract as part of a sum I bet playing trente-et-quarante and lost. Then, Taylor tried to win you back by wagering his own part and he lost as well. I have decided to disappear from your life at the same time.

  I have signed on as ship’s surgeon on the SS Hudson, leaving Halifax or rather Hull this night for South Carolina. I know I swore I would never go to sea again and especially on a slaver, but I have no choice. You are no longer mine. I cannot clothe or feed you. I cannot pay Henry what we owe him or any of my other creditors from Bath or Halifax. As some of them are local criminals, the most prudent thing to do is to disappear.

  In losing all our profits and capital, my shame is such I cannot face you. Sieur Réaux owns you for the remaining two years of your contract. He has agreed to pay you the twelve guineas a year we agreed upon in your contract plus he will pay your servant Alice another five guineas. There are no profits to share with you. Your jewelry, food, clothes, lodgings, transport, doctor’s bills, tobacco and gin have consumed your share.

  Think of me as dead. For I will surely be very soon. And do not forgive me, rather forget me.

  Adieu.

  Alexander W. Dunlop, Esq.

  P.S.: As for our marriage, we are not married, Sarah. I was never divorced. Or rather we are married and I am a bigamist. If you don’t know what that means, ask Henry.

  It was hard for me to read the letter because it was written in a trembling hand and my hands shook, but the message was clear. My husband was gone forever. Alice took the letter from me.

  —Give me that, she said.

  She had guessed from my face what I had read. Indeed, I stood there, cursing in Khoekhoe, in English and in Dutch, barefoot in the middle of the stifling room, almost naked in my thin sheath, yet shivering as if I was freezing to death. A great snarl escaped me, half scream, half war cry. Not my master! Not him! But it was him. He had sold me! He had lost me at cards. And he had thrown me to the dogs. My whole life passed before my eyes. Sobbing and screeching, I threw myself at Master Taylor, who stepped sideways, and I found myself in the arms of Master Réaux, his big chained brown bear just inches away. I smelled the beast.

  —Unless you accept the rest of your contract, he announced, it’s either the workhouse, the poorhouse, the jailhouse or the whorehouse, Venus . . .

  The following week, I received another blow. Alice decided to stay in Halifax with Victor.

  —I ’ave found work in the mills, Alice confessed. I can earn enough to rent a small cottage and take care of Victor. He’s too frail for this life.

  —You too? I cried. But I knew Alice was right. Why should she roam this island with a bunch of things-that-should-never-have-been-born for my sake?

  But my heart broke.

  —I will never forget what you did for me and Victor. You saved m’ life. But I’ll only cost you money you don’t ’ave anymore. ’Ere I can earn my own keep and not be a burden to you. I will never forget you. I am your servant and your friend, your witness and your godmother. We are one. And if Dunlop comes back to Halifax, I want to be here to castrate him . . .

  The next day, Alice and her brother left the circus for good. Shortly after that the burgesses of Halifax shut down the theater and the freak show on grounds of indecency and endangering public safety. A constable came and nailed a notice on the tent pillars. But what the town fathers were really afraid of were large gatherings of mill workers in
one place. The ghost of the Luddite riots still roamed the cobblestone streets of Halifax. Without Master Dunlop’s protection as a doctor and army officer, true or not, we were no more than a collection of paupers, vagabonds and strays to the police. We were forced on the road again, but this time it was different.

  —We’re planning to take you to the Continent, said Master Réaux. Your real worth is in the big cities like Paris and Amsterdam, where the gentry and the literati can get a look at you, not these backwater country squires and workers bent on insurrection. Napoleon’s wars are over. He has abdicated and is exiled to Elba. King Louis is restored to the throne, I can go home.

  Alice had already told me the rumors about the mysterious Sieur Réaux, who had so changed our lives. He was an aristocrat, a younger son of a family destroyed by the French Revolution who had barely escaped the guillotine. He had fled to England, where he had some family, but they had cast him out as a traitor to his class and a renegade. He had quit his social class and begun the life of a reprobate, a gambler and a duelist. He had killed several men. His career as an animal trainer had started when he jumped into a bear cage and wrestled the animal down on a dare. He had traveled to Russia, to Crimea, to India, to Africa. He had joined Napoleon and had served at Borodino. But he had deserted the army and was a wanted man with a price on his head, which was why he had been hiding in England. No one knew his Christian name. He never spoke of his family or his origins. His accent was that of a gentleman and he spoke the King’s English and the provincial’s French. There were also rumors that he had been dismissed from the army because of homosexual behavior, that he liked boys, hated women, was a morphine addict. Had he been a spy for Napoleon? For Louis XVI? For Louis XVIII? Did he work for the British secret service? Was he really French? Sieur Réaux raised all kinds of questions and provided not one answer. Alice had heard him say he would kiss the ground of France if ever he had the luck to return. Perhaps, I thought, he’s only homesick, like me.