Notes Introduction: Distorted Images and Re-membered Bodies: Constructing Neo-Victorian Freakery 1. See Jacques Lacan, 1977, pp. 502–09. 2. For a comparable discussion of Lacan’s ‘mirror stage’ from a disability studies perspective, see Margrit Shildrick (2002, pp. 79–81). 3. For example, see Lennard J. Davis on the construction of the ‘normal’ body in the nineteenth century (2010, pp. 3–19). 4. Other appellations have been suggested for contemporary fiction set in the nineteenth century (for instance, Sally Shuttleworth’s concept of the ‘retro-Victorian’, 1998, p. 253; John Kucich and Dianne F. Sadoff’s use of the term ‘post-Victorian’, 2000, p. xiii; Cora Kaplan’s ‘Victoriana’, 2007). And, despite the influence of Ann Heilmann and Mark Llewellyn’s definition of neo-Victorianism, as detailed in the Introduction, it is worth noting here that current criticism in the field is still preoccupied with tailoring this clas- sification. See, for example, Marie-Luise Kohlke, ‘Mining the Neo-Victorian Vein: Prospecting for Gold, Buried Treasure and Uncertain Metal’ (2014, pp. 21–37). 5. See Helen Davies, 2012, pp. 2. 6. It is this level of self-conscious critical engagement with the aesthetics and ideologies of nineteenth-century culture which is perhaps still the most contentious issue in defining what ‘neo-Victorianism’ actually designates. For example, Kohlke’s recent re-definition of neo-Victorianism advocates ‘employing “neo-Victorian” (albeit provisionally) as a generic and integra- tive umbrella term to encompass virtually all historical fiction related to the nineteenth century, irrespective of authors’ or characters’ nationalities, the plots’ geographical settings, the language or composition or, indeed, the extent of narratives’ self-consciousness, postmodernism, adaptivity, or oth- erwise’ (2014, p. 27). While acknowledging the usefulness of this expanded conceptualisation, the neo-Victorian texts that I discuss throughout this book are united in their ‘self-consciousness’ about their status of adapting nineteenth-century historical figures and culture. However, as I seek to dem- onstrate, this does not mean that the ideological messages exposed in these ‘rememberings’ are always revisionary. 7. There are some notable exceptions to this omission. See, for example, Rosario Arias’s excellent chapter ‘(In)visible Disability in Neo-Victorian Families’ (2011, pp. 343–64), and Monika Pietrzak’s thoughtful article ‘“Those Ill Things”: One Hidden Spectacles and the Ethics of Display’ (2011, pp. 24–48). 8. As both Robert Bogdan and Rosemarie Garland-Thomson identify in their studies of freakery, while some performers did have physical conditions (conjoinment, gigantism, dwarfism) which by modern medical standards 207 208 Notes would be considered as ‘disabilities’, other performers – particularly in the vein of the ethnographic exhibitions discussed in Chapter 1 – were con- structed as freaks due to perceived cultural and racial otherness. Similarly, some freak show performers exhibited physical differences – extensive tat- toos, or women with facial hair – which bear no relation to ‘disability’ from a medical perspective. To complicate matters even further, Nadja Durbach explains how ‘the disabled’ is a category of social identity which only comes into being at the turn of the nineteenth century (Durbach, 2010, pp. 16–17). However, the neo-Victorian representations of freak show performers are writing with knowledge of twentieth- and twenty-first-century conceptuali- sations of physical difference as a marker of ‘disability’, and hence the term does seem appropriate in this context. 9. See, for example, Jeannette King (2005), Cora Kaplan (2007), and Ann Heilmann and Mark Llewellyn (2010). 10. As Chapter 5 will discuss in further detail, Lynch’s film – following Frederick Treves’s memoir – replaces Joseph Merrick’s first name with ‘John’. 11. For example, see Paul Semonin, ‘Monsters in the Marketplace: The Exhibition of Human Oddities in Early Modern England’ (1996, pp. 69–81). 12. For one of Butler’s clearest explanations of her deployment of the concept of ‘performativity’ in her work, see ‘For a Careful Reading’ (1995, pp. 127–43). 13. See Garland-Thomson for a summary of theories of the gendered and racial- ised gaze (2009, pp. 41–42). 14. See Davies, 2012. 15. See Cora Kaplan (2007, pp. 37–84), Lena Steveker (2014, pp. 67–78), and Eckart Voigts (2014, pp. 79–92) for their respective discussions of the genre of neo-Victorian bio-fiction. Marie-Luise Kohlke’s recent article, ‘Neo- Victorian Biofiction and the Special/Spectral Case of Barbara Chase-Riboud’s Hottentot Venus’ is particularly useful for offering three ‘descriptive modes’ in which to classify neo-Victorian life-writing: ‘celebrity biofiction’; ‘biofiction of marginalised subjects’; and ‘appropriated biofiction’ (2013, p. 4). 16. See David Andress, ‘Truth, Ethics and Imagination: Thoughts on the Purpose of History’ (1998, pp. 237–48). 17. See Rebecca Stern, ‘Our Bear Women, Ourselves: Affiliating with Julia Pastrana’ for a discussion of Pastrana’s life and cultural afterlife (2008, pp. 200–33). 18. A cast of Chang and Eng Bunker’s body and their shared liver are on public exhibition at The Mütter Museum in Philadelphia, United States. For an exploration of the history and politics of this display, see Cynthia Wu (2012, pp. 58–78). The Royal London Hospital Museum houses the skeleton of Joseph Merrick, but his remains are not on public display. For a more general consideration from a disability studies on the ethics involved in exhibit- ing human remains in medical museums, see Alice Domurat Dreger (2004, pp. 113–41). 19. For a discussion of the ‘medicalization’ of disability and an exploration of the politics surrounding terminology, see Simi Linton, ‘Reassigning Meaning’ (2010, pp. 223–36). 20. However, Shakespeare also outlines an important critique of the prob- lematic aspects of the social model of disability. See Shakespeare, 2010, pp. 269–73. Notes 209 21. For example, see the sexually abusive doctor figure in Michel Faber’s Crimson Petal and the White, the attempts at manipulation and exploitation made by Dr Simon Jordan in Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace (1996), the Frankenstein- esque aspirations of Archibald McCandless in Alasdair Gray’s Poor Things (1992), amongst many others. Nevertheless, as Chapter 5’s consideration of the Jack the Ripper story will indicate, suspicions as to the moral ‘monstros- ity’ of medical professionals were also an issue in the nineteenth century. 22. The notable exception here is Chapter 5’s discussion of Joseph Merrick, which largely explores his representation in neo-Victorian film, graphic novels, and television. It is telling that visual re-memberings of Merrick have dominated his cultural afterlife; considering the extensiveness of his physi- cal disfigurement, perhaps it proves irresistible to attempt to replicate his appearance in this way. 1 Mixing (re)Memory and Desire: Constructing Sarah Baartman 1. Baartman’s given name at birth is unknown. As Deborah Willis explains, the variations which tend to be used for her first name are as follows: ‘Ssehura (thought to be closest to her given name); Sartjee, Saartje, Saat-je, Saartji, Saat-Jee, and Saartjie (all derived from the Afrikaans pronunciation, diminu- tive forms of Sara); as well as the Anglicized Sara or Sarah. The Afrikaans diminutive ending “-tjie” is now generally regarded as patronizing, thus Sarah is one of the most common spellings currently in use’ (Willis, 2010, p. 4). Following Willis, I will use the name ‘Sarah’ throughout this chapter, but if using sources which have other names I will reproduce the different appellations. The origin of her surname is uncertain; Willis suggests that this might have been given to her at her baptism in Manchester, England, 1811 (Willis, 2010, p. 4). Confusingly, this also tends to be spelled in differ- ent ways: Baartman; Bartman; Baartmann. According to Clifton Crais and Pamela Scully, ‘her surname literally means “bearded man” in Dutch. It also means uncivilized, barbarous, savage’ (Crais and Scully, 2009, p. 9). Sarah’s name thus speaks of a complex history of colonial power imbalances and exploitation. 2. The year of birth often reproduced for Sarah is 1789. However, Clifton Crais and Pamela Scully’s meticulously researched biography of Baartman offers compelling evidence for an earlier birth date. See Crais and Scully, 2010, p. 184 for further information. 3. Hendrik Cesars and his wife were Free Blacks, descended from slaves. See Crais and Scully, 2009, pp. 39–44, for a discussion of the complex race relations on the Eastern Cape of South Africa at this point in history. The spelling of Cesars’s last name is also subject to variation: Cesar; Caesar; Cezar (Willis, 2010, p. 4). 4. See Crais and Scully for the conflicting reports of the date of Sarah’s death, and the cause (Crais and Scully, 2009, p. 138). 5. For a detailed account of the circumstances, debates, and politics surrounding the display of Sarah’s remains, see Sadiah Qureshi, 2004, pp. 245–51. 210 Notes 6. The original title of the play is La Vénus hottentote, ou haine aux Françaises; my analysis uses the translation of the play provided as an appendix to T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting’s study, Black Venus: Sexualised Savages, Primal Fears, and Primitive Narratives in French (1999). 7. On debates about the genitals of ‘Hottentot’ women and the cultural mean- ings attached to this, see Rachel Holmes, 2007, pp. 140–41. 8. According to Rachel Holmes, some twelve years after Bullock’s refusal to exhibit Baartman he did concede to putting a ‘living family of Laplanders’ on display in Piccadilly (Holmes, 2007, pp. 59–60). 9. See, for example, Bernth Lindfors’s edited collection, Africans on Stage: Studies in Ethnological Show business (1999) which explores numerous instances of displays of ‘natives’ in nineteenth-century freak shows. 10. See Crais and Scully’s comments on Baartman’s role as a ‘colonial woman’ in South Africa, as evidenced by her attire: ‘She wore skirts and tops and dresses, humble yes, but European clothing nonetheless’ (Crais and Scully, 2009, p.