Douglass’ Women

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Annie would visit soon. Probably when Mam was ready to boil them crabs.

  Ottilie

  “I don’t believe in an afterlife.”

  —OTTILIE ASSING, 1882

  “When I die, bury me in water.”

  —ANNA DOUGLASS, 1882

  August 21, 1884

  Paris

  Though I’ve asked the hotel maids to build the fire, I still feel cold. As though my heart has already stopped pulsing blood. My scribbling is almost ended.

  “Tell it all. Tell it true.” Such was Douglass’ advice.

  Like Rip Van Winkle, I feel as though I’m waking from a dream. But no daughter or grandchild welcomes me. No neighbors cry, “We’ve missed you.” Even my cat has died. Time has blurred, fallen by the wayside.

  Like love … drifting away.

  Lincoln never wished for a colored regiment. He even turned a blind eye when Union soldiers returned slaves to their owners. Oh, how he frustrated Douglass!

  But I was there to bear witness to the truth. I wrote, furiously and feverishly, day and night, for Morgenblatt:

  “As with the French peasantry, slaves will

  throw off their chains and rise up. Lincoln

  cannot stop a swelling tide of justice and

  enlightenment.”

  “Ottilie,” Douglass said, reading my work, “you’re remarkable.”

  I loved the sound of that word: “remarkable.” But not remarkable enough.

  His hair grew white. Distinguished. I stopped looking into the mirror. Whereas Douglass never failed to attract silly, young admirers, patience was my only armor. But it didn’t end loneliness.

  I embarrassed the abolitionists. Even Garrison pretended not to know me.

  The suffragettes disowned me. My dislike of Julia Griffiths had lost me friends. Fine for Julia to be a whore. But my fidelity was meaningless.

  Only Anna’s children eased my loneliness.

  An odd circumstance. Yet, not so odd considering the dozen summers I stayed in Rochester, watching them grow. My apartment became a haven for them to air complaints, to discuss war strategy, to buoy their spirits and ease the burden of being Douglass’ children. There was no need for posturing or perfection in my small apartment. Freddy Junior could chew tobacco—a habit his father loathed. Lewis, always serious, dignified, could practice his magic tricks with abandon. (Oh, how he loved to make coins appear, then disappear!) And Charles Redmond, the liveliest and most mischievous, could roll back the rug and dance.

  They brought guests from the most accomplished to the most lowly. They knew such distinctions mattered little to me. They honored me when they brought Lucius—a runaway slave eager to join the Union Army. One word from me, a white woman, and I could’ve claimed a reward.

  Lucius was so quiet: “Yes, ma’am.” “No, ma’am.”

  He had the sincerest demeanor. Faithful, trusting eyes. And I watched his expression change when he first saw Rosetta. His gaze nearly took my breath away. It was as if he’d seen heaven, paradise, utopia, all rolled into one. My heart lurched.

  If William had looked at me that way—if anyone—I think I would’ve married him. Would’ve thrown off my years of waiting for Douglass.

  Rosetta didn’t yield at once. The girl who’d admonished herself: “Don’t embarrass Father,” had grown to become an accomplished teacher, a graduate of Oberlin. Lucius could neither read nor write. But his loyalty and love were clear. He accepted Rosetta’s instructions with the best grace: “A fork is held this way”; “Isn’t, Lucius, not ain’t”; “Stand tall”; “Shake Father’s hand firmly.” Within a span of months, she tutored him in the fine arts: painting, literature, and especially music. “Liszt’s Consolations were inspired by a Princess,” she said. (Indeed, a German princess married to another!) She played Consolation No. 3 while her brothers stomped and hooted for more popular, raucous tunes. Lucius never took sides. He faded into the woodwork while the Douglass siblings argued and debated.

  Lewis teased, “You’re henpecked.” Rosetta blushed furiously. Lucius only smiled.

  Later, when the boys had settled down to tea, Lucius went to Rosetta, sitting rigid on the window seat. He placed his hand on her shoulder, his thumb gently stroking, ever so gently, the slope of her neck. Exhaling, Rosetta closed her eyes.

  I was transported too. A woman ages but her body still feels. Even at a distance, I could sense Lucius’ passion. I could see, too, Rosetta returned his fire. A slight inclination of the body, a parting of lips. Yet everything banked down. Everything proper. It made me wonder: Is that the secret? To be proper?

  But if I’d been proper, I would’ve run from Douglass. What glories I would’ve missed!

  For months, Rosetta kept Lucius from meeting Douglass. One day, Lucius and I found ourselves alone. I’d offered to sketch him as a gift for Rosetta. He posed quietly, as still as a statue. Light draining, shadows deepening beneath his eyes, he spoke unexpectedly, “Rosetta has her mother’s strength.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Tea, Lucius?”

  His face grew plain and dull again. “That be fine, ma’am.” And without quite understanding why, I felt irritable. Felt I failed him as well as myself.

  When Lincoln approved the colored regiments, I planned a grand celebration. Rosetta asked if Lucius could come: “He’s got false freedom papers. He’ll enlist.”

  How could I not have said, “Yes”?

  Douglass grunted, said nary a word through the soup serving, the roasted lamb, the creamed rice. Even my meringue pie couldn’t tempt his manners. Never mind that I’d spent a month’s income. Hired a cook. Scoured the city for the freshest food.

  Freddy Junior, Lewis, and Charles Redmond spoke of mauling and killing as though such gore was proper table talk. Rosetta was on the verge of tears.

  For Douglass, it’d been a night of revelation. Over dinner, he’d seen Lucius’ love and Rosetta’s tacit acceptance.

  “I have work to do,” he said, rising without a “thank you” or “good night,” his napkin slipping to the floor. The boys quieted. Lucius stared at his taut hands. Rosetta rushed toward the hall.

  “Not everyone can lead,” I heard her protesting. “Father, please. He’s a good man.”

  “I raised you for better than this. Better than him,” he answered, struggling with his coat, not caring if he was overheard. “Ottilie, I’d appreciate it if you denied Lucius your home.”

  I looked at him. Such a big man squeezed into my entrance hall.

  “I can’t, Douglass. I’ve welcomed all your children’s friends.”

  How furious he was. But he turned his ire toward Rosetta, shaking her, shouting fiercely, “I’m married to an old black log. Would you repeat my mistake?”

  Rosetta stumbled back, trembling.

  Douglass glared; his grief, naked, raw. The hallway narrowed, depleting air. Intensifying heat. I murmured, “As you well know, Douglass, not all passions can be controlled.”

  He stepped close, examining my face as if I were a stranger. Some odd creature he’d encountered. “We’re at war, Ottilie. Fighting for racial uplift. Not degradation.”

  “Class prejudice. How bourgeois, Douglass.” I thought perhaps he might strike me.

  “For the love I bear you, Douglass, remember life’s poetry.”

  “For the friendship I bear you, I’ll overlook your interference with my children.” Then, he was gone. Shutting the door on two women who’d displeased him.

  Rosetta turned, her face as solemn as I’d ever seen her. “Shall we return to your guests, Miss Assing?”

  “Indeed, my dear,” I said. “Indeed.”

  We shooed the men into the parlor. Whiskey and a game of whist should lift their spirits.

  Clearing the dishes, discarding the cold food, the spilled wine, I asked: “What does Anna say?”

  “Mam says, ‘Follow your heart.’”

  Then Rosetta gripped my hands like she was eight again and I’d something meaningful to teach her
. “What do you say?” she asked, intent. “Do you agree with Father?”

  I stroked her cheek. “I agree with your mother.”

  We worked silently, then Douglass’ sons burst in, wanting to attend another party. One far less respectable, I sensed. “Farewell, farewell,” voices chimed and I hoped the boys would survive the war safe, sound in body and mind.

  “I’ll see you home, Miz Rosetta.”

  “Meet me downstairs, Lucius. I’ll follow shortly.” He left with no complaint.

  I waited. Rosetta was truly lovely. As brown as caramel, as strong as steel.

  Her voice was bitter. “I’m beyond the age of consent. Father doesn’t realize no one has asked me to marry. Either they’re afraid of him or afraid of my intelligence and education. Father expects the world to be color-blind and it isn’t.”

  “I understand. I do.” And when she left, I poured a large glass of port. Wrapped myself in my furs and tried to warm myself before the fire.

  “Life isn’t poetry, Ottilie.”

  At least I didn’t go mad like Mary Todd.

  Mid-July, 1883, Rosetta wrote that Anna had had a paralyzing stroke. Rosetta had nursed Anna, aided by Douglass and the three sons. On August 4, 1882, with her family gathered around, Anna died.

  Why hadn’t Douglass written to me?

  Every fiber in my being urged me to rush to his side. With Anna gone, there would be no barrier between us. I thought it best, however, to continue my travels for a time. As with Annie’s death, I knew Douglass would feel guilt. Knew for a time he would mourn and wish fiercely he could undo our illicit love.

  I wrote Douglass, telling him he’d need only ask and I’d fly to his side. Then I waited. Firm in the belief that love would conquer all.

  I traveled to Germany to settle my sister’s estate. Only to discover Ludmilla had disinherited me. Her diaries were filled with malice. Shaken, I thought to depart at once. But the police forestalled me. I was taken to headquarters and humiliated. To them, I was only a Jew. A supporter of Socialist Democrats. They tried to make me small—I, Ottilie Assing, beloved of Frederick Douglass, writer, artist. I, who had crossed all boundaries of nationality, race, class, religion!

  Perhaps it was too insensitive to have me arrive in America. So I wrote:

  “Douglass. Please come. Meet me in

  the City of Light.”

  I didn’t know then he’d hired Helen Pitts, a young woman, twenty years younger than I. A woman as white as porcelain; vibrant, fair-haired like Rapunzel; her lips, the color of Red Rose.

  Douglass answered with a poem:

  The Meeting of Two Friends after Long Separation

  Of trusted and truest friends,

  With pulses responsively beating

  To noblest aims and ends.

  Could they live in light of each other,

  All trouble would pass as a dream.

  More they, than sister or brother

  In friendship, love and esteem.

  Hard fate has decreed separation

  As fate has decreed such before

  But the sacred cords of affection

  Are bonds that live evermore.

  I thought surely this was my sign.

  But still he didn’t come. I wandered Europe like a vagabond. Venice with its canals charmed me. The Alps uplifted me for a time. I crossed into southern France, toured vineyards, studied the art of perspective, of recording impressions rather than reality. I painted Douglass, his skin infused with sunlight, moonlight, breaking into infinite shades.

  I thought Douglass couldn’t leave his grieving children. He’d send for me.

  In Paris, a malaise stole over me. I’d difficulty keeping food down. Trouble sleeping. I’d wake, drenched in sweat. Twisted in sheets I’d mistaken for Douglass’ arms.

  In Paris, my cycle stopped. I felt pains in my chest. A constant upset in my abdomen. I thought the miracle had happened. A child. My breasts were hardening with milk. My womb was expanding.

  I went to Paris’s best physician. I felt amazingly excited, shy to have a man, other than Douglass, touch me so intimately.

  “Mademoiselle, vous êtes trop âgée.”

  You are too old.

  Old. Without a home. Family. A disbeliever in both my father’s and mother’s gods.

  Spring, the cafés set tables outside. On Sundays, I took hot chocolate and a croissant at Rue de Mer and lingered for hours over the New York Times. The issues were always months old, since they made slow progress across the ocean and the social rounds of Americans living in Paris. I was always the last to receive them. Coffee spilled on them, wrinkled, ink-smudged, I didn’t mind. Reading the papers connected me to my spiritual home. America—the land of dreams.

  And there I saw:

  24 JANUARY 1884

  FREDERICK BAILEY DOUGLASS MARRIES

  HELEN PITTS. REVEREND FRANCIS GRIMKE

  OFFICIATES AT FIFTEENTH STREET PRESBYTERIAN

  CHURCH.

  Douglass, two months married! And I’d heard nothing. No letter. No word from Rosetta.

  Anna dead only eighteen months! To marry a woman he’d known for only a year.

  “Mad’moiselle, Mad’moiselle.” The waiter ran after me, carrying the papers.

  “Non, non,” I cried, hurrying to my hotel.

  Breathless, I rushed upstairs to my room, to my desk. I wrote: How could you?

  Then, the pains in my body returned.

  I lay in bed and dreamt of Oluwand. Or was I awake?

  Pitch-black night. A leg thrown over the rail. Her gaze pierced my soul. Do not pity me, her look said. She spoke her name, “Oluwand.”

  “Ottilie,” I answered.

  She threw her hands wide and graceful as a swooping seagull, fell backward, letting herself fall and fall and fall.

  I woke up, shivering. My heart frozen.

  I remembered Anna laughing. “I don’t know if Freddy loved me, either.” How could she have laughed? Yet I remembered admiring her. She had gotten on with her life. Oluwand seemed more romantic. If love was denied, what price living? Wasn’t that what Mother and Father taught me?

  Jewell Parker Rhodes 445

  I rang the bell service and asked for champagne. Rootless. Homeless. Childless.

  Still, I’d accomplished a great deal. Lived my American dream.

  From my desk, I pulled an issue of Douglass’ Monthly. Douglass had sent it to me years ago, a sign that our work was well done. My sacrifice hadn’t been in vain:

  PRESIDENT LINCOLN SIGNS EMANCIPATION

  PROCLAMATION

  THE 13TH AMENDMENT WAS RATIFIED,

  DECEMBER 18, 1865. SECTION 1. NEITHER

  SLAVERY NOR INVOLUNTARY SERVITUDE, EXCEPT

  AS A PUNISHMENT FOR CRIME WHEREOF THE

  PARTY SHALL HAVE BEEN DULY CONVICTED,

  SHALL EXIST WITHIN THE UNITED STATES, OR

  ANY PLACE SUBJECT TO THEIR JURISDICTION.

  These words were precious to me. Few would know my heroism. My part in America’s salvation. But I knew. Douglass knew.

  Still, not to write, Douglass must pity me. For twenty years, the slaves had been freed. I’d fulfilled my naïve boast to Jean Baptiste. While I longed to know, “Douglass, did you ever love me?”

  I was a physician’s daughter.

  The vial was wrapped in a piece of satin, hidden in the secret drawer of my jewelry box. I’d had few precious gems. Those I’d had, I’d sold.

  I couldn’t remember buying the vial. Was it a year ago? Two? After my conversation with Anna? I didn’t remember. Seems like it had always been deep within the box. Within my mind.

  When the champagne bottle was empty, I pulled the bellrope and waited for the maid. “A bath, please.”

  It took almost an hour for her to heat the water, pour it in, bucket by bucket, into the claw-footed tub. As she worked, I finished my story.

  Perhaps I would’ve been better off if I’d never met Douglass. But love knows no order, no sense of appropriateness
. I mustn’t regret.

  I swallowed the poison. No false sleep like Juliet’s. I was following Oluwand’s lead. Papa’s too.

  Anna was wrong. For Oluwand, death, not life, was the more heroic choice.

  The cobblestone streets glowed purple. Day was done. Notre Dame’s spirals pierced the clouds. The River Seine flowed sluggishly.

  Au revoir, Douglass, mon amour. I leave my estate to you. My letters and diaries to Rosetta.

  I shed my clothes. Stepped one foot into the bath. Steam rose. I wondered if I’d melt? I immersed myself. No ghosts. No phantoms. No Douglass. No one in the room but me.

  I blew bubbles and waited and waited and waited until I sank.

  Author’s Note

  Frederick Douglass transformed himself from a runaway slave into an abolitionist and author, becoming one of the most famous men—certainly the most famous black man—of his century.

  I had long admired Douglass’ writings but, one day, I stumbled upon the quote: “My first wife was the color of my mother, my second wife was the color of my father” and the strong inference that Douglass had considered his first wife an old, black log.

  I’d never known Douglass had two wives: one black, one white. I felt great umbrage that he might have viewed the mother of his children as lacking. It also seemed odd to me that he would categorize his wives only by race. My interest was piqued.