Hottentot Venus Read Online Free PDF Page A

a short black beard, bushy black eyebrows and piercing blue eyes that were to me the same color as heaven itself. He was strong, barrel-chested and wide-shouldered, and he often worked in the fields of the mission, his torso bare, wearing only cotton leggings. His breast and arms sprouted a mysterious black pelt like an ape and there were tufts in his ears and nostrils. He was a man of few words and many parables and I fell in love with him with all my nine-year-old heart. I loved him exceedingly. I watched every movement, every glance, every gesture and tried to anticipate his every desire. I was always ready when he wanted me and endeavored to convince him by every action, every glance that my only goal was to serve him as a daughter and a slave. I have since thought that he must have been a serious, wonderful man. His actions, his smile, his projects, his generosity corresponded very well with such a character.
    Every day, at the mission, the reverend would read from the Bible to us children. He changed our Khoekhoe names to English or Dutch; Ssehura became Saartjie, which was “little Sarah” in Dutch. When I first saw him read, I was never so surprised in my life as when I saw the book talk back to him, for I believed it did as I watched his eyes scan the book and then his lips move in answer. I wished it would do the same with me. As soon as the Reverend Freehouseland had finished reading, I followed him to the place where he put the book, and when nobody was looking, I opened it and put my ear down close upon it, in the hope that it would say something to me. But I was heartbrokenly disappointed when I found it would not speak to me, and the thought immediately came to me that the book wouldn’t speak to me because I was black.
    Stubbornly I listened and listened, day after day, finally convinced was I that books in general and the Bible in particular wouldn’t talk to black folks.
    The Reverend Freehouseland would often talk about his “contract” with God and how sacred it was. How as a young man he had dedicated his life to saving heathens and spreading the word of God. At first, he had chosen China and had begun to study the language, which, he claimed, resembled Hottentot a little, but was a lot more simple. Then, in a sudden illumination, his contract with God had come to him. It was to be black Africa, austral Africa, the Cape of Good Hope, the most diminutive of God’s provinces where the most destitute and wretched of God’s children lived in sin . . . The Hottentots. This contract was sacred. The most sacred act of his life. All contracts were sacred, a sworn vow to be kept under all circumstances. They represented one’s given word, which was the very essence of Englishness and English faith. The word of a gentleman. And the word of Christ. A renegade was a traitor not only to himself but also to everything his soul stood for if he broke his word. Debt was the same. A debt was to be honored. If it was impossible to pay it, you might even have to sacrifice your life to save your honor. He asked if I understood. I told him that I did. It was like a warrior’s honor. Death was preferable to want of courage.
    —I deem you to be an honorable girl, one on whom I can depend. One who knows the meaning of dignity. One day I’ll take you to Manchester in England where I was born, but you’ll have to stop thinking the Bible doesn’t talk to colored people.
    About a quarter of a mile from the mission stood a very fine
kowkow
tree, in the midst of a small wood. I never failed to go there once a day, sometimes twice a day, if I could get away. It was my greatest pleasure to sit under the shade of this
kowkow
tree and pour out my heart to it when I was unhappy. I would go and sit there and talk to the tree. I’d tell it my sorrows, as if it were a friend. I couldn’t understand why, if you could talk to a cross made of dead wood, you couldn’t talk to a tree of wood which was alive. In those days, I was a