Douglass’ Women (23 page)

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 you 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.