“One night, sitting in the kitchen, I heard some of the old slaves talking of their parents having been stolen from Africa by white men, and were sold here as slaves. The whole mystery was solved at once. From that time, I resolved that I would someday run away.”
“Hear, hear,” guests would shout. Ladies applauded with soft gloves. Douglass fixed his eyes on a point just above his audience’s heads.
“Mr. Auld, the morality of running away, escaping your cruel legacy, I dispose of as follows: I am myself; you are yourself; we are two distinct persons, equal persons. What you are, I am. You are a man and so am I. God created both, and made us separate beings. I am not nature-bound to you, or you to me. Nature does not make your existence depend upon me, or mine to depend upon yours. I cannot walk upon your legs, or you upon mine. I cannot breathe for you, or you for me; I must breathe for myself, and you for yourself. We are distinct persons, and are each equally provided with faculties necessary to our individual existence. In leaving you, I took nothing but what belonged to me, and in no way lessened your means of obtaining an honest living.”
Then Douglass would bow, ready to answer questions. But there weren’t any. Women were too moved to tears; men stretched out their arms to welcome him in brotherhood. Everyone was committed to ending America’s slavery.
Lord Devers, one evening, even dressed as he suspected a slave owner dressed. Coarse cotton, thick boots, a straw hat. A corncob pipe. He pretended to be Auld while Douglass made his speech. He sneered and stomped (a twisted parody, I thought), and the aristocrats loved it. Douglass didn’t find it offensive, so I kept quiet. Just as I kept quiet that Douglass’ speech was a rewrite of the Narrative ’s Chapter I. Except, he’d made himself more precocious. Without a doubt, Douglass was a rhetorician par excellence.
Each evening, flushed with his success, Douglass made love to me. I had no complaints. Except for Douglass’ strict instructions that I couldn’t touch him in public, or smile, or look at him too long, or give any indication of my affection. Nor could any of my paintings of him be exhibited.
To maintain appearances, we kept separate rooms at the Park Royale. Sometimes, on purpose, I refused to sleep in my bed. I curled up on the sofa, knowing, in the morning, the hotel maids would suspect I’d spent the night on the other side of the connecting door. I didn’t do it often. Douglass would’ve been furious if he found out. Nonetheless, refusing to mess my sheets was my own small rebellion.
Garrison wrote that Auld wanted Douglass to return. He promised better keeping, a chance for Douglass to earn more money as a slave.
In the meantime, we’re seen together in all the best places. Having ices at Gunter’s. Visiting Lord Elgin’s marbles, the British Museum, Piccadilly. Riding in Hyde Park. Douglass even had an audience with the Queen.
London
Evenings when there weren’t any speeches, Douglass and I went to the theater. Douglass was charmed by Shakespeare. The intricacies of Henry IV, Parts I and II, Richard II, and Julius Caesar spoke to him beyond measure. But he’d no patience for Hamlet.
“No man would be haunted by such indecision,” he insisted.
Romances he disdained. As You Like It and Romeo and Juliet were useless to him. Even Othello gave little pause. “A weak man corrupted by emotions,” said Douglass.
“What of Desdemona?”
“She should’ve held true to her own course. Othello was irrational. Not worthy.”
“Romance defies logic.”
“Why should it?”
“I thought you loved the Romantic poets.”
“I do. But that’s poetry, Ottilie. Not life.”
Sometimes I wondered how much Douglass did feel. Of course, he was passionate about the antislavery cause but he relied, too, on clearheaded logic to argue his case. I told him he was wiser than Aristotle! But, late at night, when he came to me, his hands caressing my body, his lips brushing against mine, I wished, oh, how I wished, he’d speak sweet words.
I tried not to think of Anna. She was unworthy of him. She should’ve been the slave. Whereas Douglass was never meant for field work, for manual labor of any kind. It wasn’t fair.
I trembled. For I had such coarse thoughts! Anyone enslaved was wrong.
I shouldn’t think of Anna. Yet, I did think of her. My thoughts were spiteful beyond bearing. It’s all jealousy.
How angry I’d become at the women—the silk-gowned women swarming to Douglass like bees to golden honey. How I wanted to pinch the arms of those fair-headed beauties. I was fair-headed, too, but at Lord Mont-crief’s salon, I overheard one of the women say, “But she’s a Jew.” The other replied, “A Black and a Jew—can you imagine?” How I wanted to destroy them both. Scratch their eyes out, screech at them.
Still, I was enormously happy. I was with Douglass constantly. But I wasn’t his by law. Nor he, mine.
I wondered: Was Douglass’ union legal? Could a slave marry? Or, once free, could he remarry?
How hard to keep my desires in check!
When Douglass loved me, I felt as though I could soar well beyond the moon and stars. But when he left me, I still felt breathless, hungry for him. Hungry for his presence, his touch, his body inside mine. I never wanted him to leave.
When he mounted me, my mind turned inward on those points of contact: sweat and blood. Dante’s distant love of Beatrice didn’t compare with a union of mind and body. I needed his loving as I needed to live. Without it, what would I have?
“Douglass, I don’t want to leave,” I once pleaded after he’d fulfilled himself.
“My reading will keep you awake.”
“I’ll read with you.”
“I have writing to do.”
“Let me help.”
He patted my head as if I were a child. “You can’t learn for me,” he said. “Nor can you write of bondage you haven’t lived.”
“I’ll be your secretary. We can work day, night, anytime you wish it. Don’t make me go.” I circled my arms tightly about his neck. I kissed his cheeks, his mouth. “You write the new book, I’ll translate the old. It’ll be good, Douglass. The whole world shall know of you.”
He looked at me, his head tilted, like he was seeing me anew.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Ottilie. A pleasure in all ways.”
“Then let me stay.” I kissed him. “Please.”
We loved once again. And, for the first time, Frederick Douglass fell asleep, cradled in my arms. I felt as though I could keep the world at bay, and while he slept, I stroked the scars on his back. Stroked and wished them well away.
At dawn, when Douglass woke, he was irate. “I missed a night’s work.”
“You needed rest.”
His back to me, tying his dressing gown, he spoke simply. “This will never happen again, Ottilie.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked down upon me and I felt vulnerable, like he was the Master and I, the slave.
“You believe you have influence over me.”
“No, Douglass. By no means. I only want to help as best I can.”
“I think we should focus on the work, the writing, the cause. That should be enough for both of us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I won’t have you criticizing my behavior—”
“I’m not.”
“—you think I don’t understand your ploy to tie me?” His hand slapped the bedpost. “You think if discovered in my bed, it’ll prove to the world I’m your lover.”
“Why can’t we announce to the world you’re mine?”
“Because I’m not yours.”
He was breathing hard; his expression, implacable. I felt as though I’d been doused in cold waters.
“You’ve been seeing someone.”
“I want you to leave.”
“You’re seeing someone else.”
“Quiet.”
“Of course, you never come to my room. Here, in the hotel, you humble me, making me come to you. While y
ou go into aristocrats’ bedrooms. I assume you’ve been with ladies, not whores.”
“Quiet.” He was on his knees, his face even with mine. “Quiet, Ottilie.”
Fear flickered across his face. Did a white woman’s screams have the same power in England as in America?
“Douglass, I’m sorry.”
I reached for him. He stood, tightening his gown closer about his body. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of water.
“Leave.”
“Please, don’t make me.”
“Leave.”
I squatted on the bed, naked, crying. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m lonely. Jealous. I love you, Douglass. Anything you want. Anything I can do to help. Only please let me stay. Say you forgive me.”
“I think we should focus on the work.” He handed me my night rail and robe. “This is my room. I’d like you to leave.”
Like a truant child, I was punished. Sweet loving was forbidden to me.
I told myself he is free. Our love is free.
Every place we went, women stalked him. Women in French fashion, silk, and satin. Suffragettes in their plain, black garb. I kept my emotions in check. I was his secretary, his helpmate.
Side by side, at desks, our heads bowed, our fingers busily scribbling a pen across the page. Douglass revisited his Narrative. I translated. So be it. I’m his loyal worker.
I organized his schedule, deciding where he would and would not speak. As his fame grew, there were many demands on his time. So I protected him. Funny, if he wasn’t here, I could give his speeches. I knew them by heart. I could dress as a man, black my skin. There’d be two Douglasses. Two slaves promoting abolition.
For surely, I was his slave—willing to be his friend despite the pain it caused. I cursed at parties, when he sat down to dinner with another woman. I was driven crazy when I couldn’t hear their words. I imagined the women seducing him, telling him how wonderful he was. Married women and widows were the worst. Debutantes only sighed and fluttered like giddy hens. But those who’d known the marriage bed speculated about the pleasures of Douglass’ warm body covering theirs. The aesthetic, the contrast of colors appealed.
Douglass had no counterpart in Britain. Englishmen spent hours gambling, deciding which cravat to wear, whether to hunt fox this weekend or the next. They’d no notion of the meaning of survival.
I, too, was tempted by Douglass’ life force. But I’d not flirt. I’d show him my love was for all seasons. Steadfast and strong.
Still, I understood Papa’s agony now. How terrible to have your love die. How terrible to have your love live and keep you at arm’s length.
But one must follow the logic: men and women were free to love, free to give their hearts where they will. If I disallowed this, then I enslaved Douglass as much as Master Auld.
How I wished Mama was here. She would’ve understood. Held and comforted me.
Nights, in my lone bed, I touched myself. I’d become very good at imagining the pillow as my lover’s head. My fingers became his. Sometimes I kissed the air, believing he’s atop me, riding, loving me with passionate wonder.
Each time I was done, I was dissatisfied. I sat by the fire, drank cognac, and in the dance and play of firelight, I couldn’t help thinking: Did Douglass ever love anyone? Did he take a slave girl to his bed? Or was he now (this minute!) rustling, playing among silk sheets? Miss Hayward touched his arm, fluttered her fan and, without words, continually offered herself to him. I drank more cognac, trying to blot these images from my mind.
I thought Frederick must’ve pursued Miss Hayward’s offer. His body had the same needs as mine. Yet I couldn’t imagine him rubbing himself like I did.
I’d bide my time. Patience was not my virtue. I drank and drank some more. My flesh grew thinner; my skin, more pale. No friends. No family. No ghost. Each night, I stumbled into dreamless sleep. If I was senseless, I didn’t imagine Douglass, naked, beyond the connecting door.
Seasons changed. A small bird darted among the bushes outside my window. Ants favored the window ledge. Everywhere, along with London’s grime and foul air, I inhaled the scent of blooming roses. Days became weeks became months. Seasons changed again and again.
I was running out of money. How mundane. Not romantic at all. I needed to find some employ. But my commitment to abolition must also remain pure.
I was still lonely. I only attended lectures. I was in the grip of an enchantment.
Douglass was going out. He had a meeting with the publisher of the London Daily Mail. He dreamed of starting his own newspaper in America.
“Garrison won’t approve.”
“I’m my own man.”
“You shouldn’t antagonize him.”
“You contradict yourself.”
“Why? Because I think you should keep allies?”
“I make my own decisions. Those who are my friends will respect that.”
“But it isn’t smart.”
“Why?” he demanded. “Because I don’t agree with you?”
I held my tongue. He opened the door. I called out, “Will you be back for dinner?”
“I won’t.”
I spent the afternoon translating; when I became bored, I straightened Douglass’ desk, which didn’t reflect, in the least, the orderly quality of his mind.
There was a letter from Mr. Garrison. Three months it’d taken to arrive. My heart constricted. Perhaps Douglass’ freedom had been purchased? Perhaps even now he was making plans to leave me?
I slipped the thin sheet out of the envelope.
Dear Douglass,
You’re a father once again. A son.
Douglass Junior. Your wife and child
are doing well. They live in Lynn,
Massachusetts. I tried to discourage
your wife but she proved persistent.
Your abolitionist work in England has
not gone unremarked. The Society is
pleased with you.
Yours Truly,
W. L. Garrison
The letter aroused such conflicting feelings. A child. Now two by Anna. And I didn’t like the condescension of Garrison’s tone. “Yours truly,” indeed! The Society was pleased as though Douglass were a child. “Good boy, Douglass.” “Job well done.”
Then, I felt joy, for Douglass wouldn’t be leaving. We’d need money. Perhaps I could convince him to travel to Germany. Switzerland. To anyplace where anyone might wish to hear him and pay for the privilege. Douglass was old news in England. But a European tour? A triumph. Douglass, too, away from London’s pleasures, might have more time to write. And write … and write … and look to me again. Look to me for remembered pleasures.
I collapsed into the chair. My hand, of its own accord, stroked my abdomen. How lovely a child of mine and Douglass’ would be—what a blending of race, nationality, and religion. Though Douglass believed in God, he practiced no faith. For me, Jewishness and Christianity didn’t matter. Sometimes I was furious to think God could twist so freakishly my fate with Douglass’. But, of all the faiths, being Jewish aligned me closer to Douglass and his ill-fate as a slave. “Go down, Moses.” So be it. I’d never lay our babe in the bushes. I’d raise our baby—blond hair? hazel eyes?—our outcast and special baby. Like Mary raised Christ.
For the first time in a long while, I felt a desire to take up my paints. If I envisioned a portrait of our son-to-be, maybe Douglass would be convinced to lay his hands upon me, to touch me with his ever fulsome grace?
I was ashamed. Weaving fairy tales. And yet … and yet … was it wrong to love as deeply as Mama? To want to be loved deeply in return?
Mama and Oluwand. One loved willingly; the other, unwillingly.
I was my mother’s daughter. I’d renew Douglass’ love.
He never mentioned the new baby. Never mentioned being a father twice over.
Did he ever write to Anna?
Suffering before enlightenment. Why shouldn’t I fight for what I want?
I’d make Douglass love me as he’s loved no other.
I’d pray to God as I’d never prayed before.
I began my campaign. In the hotel, I allowed my hair to hang wantonly about my shoulders. Except for bedtime, I left the connecting door open, so Douglass could glimpse me, smell the heady scent of roses on my dressing table. I always looked my smartest; I even took to carrying a fan like Miss Hayward.
I sometimes caught Douglass staring at me as I translated his words, wrote articles for the German papers. Muslins easily exposed my figure, the arc of my neck, the length of arm between elbow and fingertips. There were many lovely women. But I’d been, all the while, admiring; helpful, never forward. I was his companion of the mind. I was the one who managed the money, the bills … that added grace to our lives.
Days and some nights, we worked. Either his room or mine. He was revising his autobiography.
“I’ll call it My Bondage and My Freedom. Less the tale of the runaway slave. More the tale of how my mind liberated me.”
“Brilliant,” I answered, biding my time.
And if I stroked Douglass’ fingertips when I passed a sheet of paper, or bent over him, my hair tickling his cheek as he sat, reading the latest article in the morning’s paper … or if I brushed my bosom against him when he helped me from the carriage, or smiled sweetly when he spoke … Who was to say this was wrong?
Some would say, “Such a fallen state love has brought her.” But desiring union with a beloved could never be wrong. I’d be crafty. Smart.
Another summer, another fall, another winter. We got a letter from Garrison: Auld won’t sell.
“Damn him. I hate his blasted arrogance.”
“All in good time, Douglass.” I massaged his shoulders. “Live your fullest. In England, Auld can’t deny you that.” I pressed my lips to his hair. Douglass stiffened.
Douglass’ Women Page 17