THERE IS A lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa. About you there is grass and bracken and you may hear the forlorn crying of the titihoya, one of the birds of the veld. Below you is the valley of the Umzimkulu, on its journey from the Drakensberg to the sea; and beyond and behind the river, great hill after great hill; and beyond and behind them, the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand.
The grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. It holds the rain and the mist, and they seep into the ground, feeding the streams in every kloof. It is well-tended, and not too many cattle feed upon it; not too many fires burn it, laying bare the soil. Stand unshod upon it, for the ground is holy, being even as it came from the Creator. Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men, cares for men. Destroy it and man is destroyed.
Where you stand the grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. But the rich green hills break down. They fall to the valley below, and falling, change their nature. For they grow red and bare; they cannot hold the rain and mist, and the streams are dry in the kloofs. Too many cattle feed upon the grass, and too many fires have burned it. Stand shod upon it, for it is coarse and sharp, and the stones cut under the feet. It is not kept, or guarded, or cared for, it no longer keeps men, guards men, cares for men. The titihoya does not cry here any more.
The great red hills stand desolate, and the earth has torn away like flesh. The lightning flashes over them, the clouds pour down upon them, the dead streams come to life, full of the red blood of the earth. Down in the valleys women scratch the soil that is left, and the maize hardly reaches the height of a man. They are valleys of old men and old women, of mothers and children. The men are away, the young men and the girls are away. The soil cannot keep them any more.
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It was hard to say from whom this letter came, for it was so long since any of these had written, that one did not well remember their writing.
He turned the letter over, but there was nothing to show from whom it came. He was reluctant to open it, for once such a thing is opened, it cannot be shut again.
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They were silent, and she said, How we desire such a letter, and when it comes, we fear to open it.
Who is afraid, he said. Open it.
She opened it, slowly and carefully, for she did not open so many letters. She spread it out open, and read it slowly and carefully, so that he did not hear all that she said. Read it aloud, he said.
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They were silent, and she said, How we desire such a letter, and when it comes, we fear to open it.
Who is afraid, he said. Open it.
She opened it, slowly and carefully, for she did not open so many letters. She spread it out open, and read it slowly and carefully, so that he did not hear all that she said. Read it aloud, he said.
How can I use it? he said. This money was to send Absalom to St. Chad's.
Absalom will never go now to St. Chad's.
How can you say that? he said sharply. How can you say such a thing?
He is in Johannesburg, she said wearily. When people go to Johannesburg, they do not come back.
You have said it, he said. It is said now. This money which was saved for that purpose will never be used for it. You have opened a door, and because you have opened it, we must go through. AndTixo alone knows where we shall go.
It was not I who opened it, she said, hurt by his accusation. It has a long time been open, but you would not see.
We had a son, he said harshly. Zulus have many children, but we had only one son. He went to Johannesburg, and as you said - when people go to Johannesburg, they do not come back. They do not even write any more. They do not go to St. Chad's to learn that knowledge without which no black man can live. They go to Johannesburg, and there they are lost, and no one hears of them at all. And this money....
But she had no words for it, so he said, it is here in my hand.
And again she did not speak, so he said again, it is here in my hand.
You are hurting yourself, she said.
Hurting myself? hurting myself? I do not hurt myself, it is they who are hurting me. My own son, my own sister, my own brother. They go away and they do not write any more. Perhaps it does not seem to them that we suffer. Perhaps they do not care for it.
His voice rose into loud and angry words. Go up and ask the white man, he said. Perhaps there are letters. Perhaps they have fallen under the counter, or been hidden amongst the food. Look there in the trees, perhaps they have been blown there by the wind.
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All roads lead to Johannesburg. Through the long nights the trains pass to Johannesburg. The lights of the swaying coach fall on the cutting-sides, on the grass and the stones of a country that sleeps. Happy the eyes that can close.
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THE SMALL TOY train climbs up on its narrow gauge from the Umzimkulu valley into the hills. It climbs up to Carisbrooke, and when it stops there, you may get out for a moment and look down on the great valley from which you have come. It is not likely the train will leave you, for there are few people here, and every one will know who you are. And even if it did leave you, it would not much matter; for unless you are a cripple, or very old, you could run after it and catch it for yourself.
If there is mist here, you will see nothing of the great valley. The mist will swirl about and below you, and the train and the people make a small world of their own. Some people do not like it, and find it cold and gloomy. But others like it, and find in it mystery and fascination, and prelude to adventure, and an intimation of the unknown. The train passes through a world of fancy, and you can look through the misty panes at green shadowy banks of grass and bracken. Here in their season grow the blue agapanthus, the wild watsonia, and the red-hot poker, and now and then it happens that one may glimpse an arum in a dell. And always behind them the dim wall of the wattles, like ghosts in the mist.
It is interesting to wait for the train at Carisbrooke, while it climbs up out of the great valley. Those who know can tell you with each whistle where it is, at what road, what farm, what river. But though Stephen Kumalo has been there a full hour before he need, he does not listen to these things. This is a long way to go, and a lot of money to pay. And who knows how sick his sister may be, and what money that may cost? And if he has to bring her back, what will that cost too? And Johannesburg is a great city, with so many streets they say that a man can spend his days going up one and down another, and never the same one twice. One must catch buses too, but not as here, where the only bus that comes is the right bus. For there there is a multitude of buses, and only one bus in ten, one bus in twenty maybe, is the right bus. If you take the wrong bus, you may travel to quite some other place. And they say it is danger to cross the street, yet one must needs cross it. For there the wife of Mpanza of Ndotsheni, who had gone there when Mpanza was dying, saw her son Michael killed in the street. Twelve years and moved by excitement, he stepped out into danger, but she was hesitant and stayed at the curb. And under her eyes the great lorry crushed the life out of her son.
And the great fear too - the greatest fear since it was so seldom spoken. Where was their son? Why did he not write any more?
There is a last whistle and the train is near at last.
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Why did Sibeko not come to me himself? he asked.
He was afraid, umfundisi. He is not of our church.
Is he not of our people? Can a man in trouble go only to those of his church?
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The journey had begun. And now the fear back again, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the great city where boys were killed crossing the street, the fear of Gertrude's sickness. Deep down the fear for his son. Deep down the fear of a man who lives in a world not made for him, whose own world is slipping away, dying, being destroyed, beyond any recall.
Already the knees are weak of the man who a moment since had shown his little vanity, told his little lie, before these respectful people.
The humble man reached in his pocket for his sacred book, and began to read. It was this world alone that was certain.
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Climb up to Hilton and Lion's River, to Balgowan, Rosetta, Mooi River, through hills lovely beyond any singing of it. Thunder through the night, over battlefields of long ago. Climb over the Drakensberg, on to the level plains.
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And another black priest cried out - I am also from Ixopo. My father and mother are still alive there, in the valley of the Lufafa. How is it there?
And he told them all about these places, of the great hills and valleys of that far country. And the love of them must have been in his voice, for they were all silent and listened to him. He told them too of the sickness of the land, and how the grass had disappeared, and of the dongas that ran from hill to valley, and valley to hill; how it was a land of old men and women, and mothers and children; how the maize grew barely to the height of a man; how the tribe was broken, and the house broken, and the man broken; how when they went away, many never came back, many never wrote any more. How this was true not only in Ndotsheni, but also in the Lufafa, and the Imhlavini, and the Umkomaas, and the Umzimkulu. But of Gertrude and Absalom he said nothing.
So they all talked of the sickness of the land, of the broken tribe and the broken house, of young men and young girls that went away and forgot their customs, and lived loose and idle lives.
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He leant over to Kumalo. I used to drink liquor, he said, but it was good liquor, such as our fathers made. But now I have vowed to touch no liquor any more. This is bad liquor here, made strong with all manner of things that our people have never used. And that is her work, she makes and sells it. I shall hide nothing from you, though it is painful for me. These women sleep with any man for their price. A man has been killed at her place. They gamble and drink and stab. She has been in prison, more than once.
He leant back in his chair and moved a book forward and backward on the table. This is terrible news for you, he said. Kumalo nodded dumbly, and Msimangu brought out his cigarettes. Will you smoke? he said.
Kumalo shook his head. I do not really smoke, he said.
Sometimes it quietens one to smoke. But there should be another kind of quiet in a man, and then let him smoke to enjoy it. But in Johannesburg it is hard sometimes to find that kind of quiet.
In Johannesburg? Everywhere it is so. The peace of G-d escapes us.
And they were both silent, as though a word had been spoken that made it hard to speak another. At last Kumalo said, where is the child?
The child is there. But it is no place for a child. And that too is why I sent for you. Perhaps if you cannot save the mother, you can save the child.
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You are kind.
Something in the humble voice must have touched Msimangu, for he said, I am not kind. I am a selfish and sinful man, but G-d put his hands on me, that is all.
He picked up Kumalo's bag, but before they reached the door Kumalo stopped him.
I have one more thing to tell you.
Yes.
I have a brother also, here in Johannesburg. He too does not write any more. John Kumalo, a carpenter.
Msimangu smiled. I know him, he said. He is too busy to write. He is one of our great politicians.
A politician? My brother?
Yes, he is a great man in politics.
Msimangu paused. I hope I shall not hurt you further. Your brother has no use for the Church any more. He says that what G-d has not done for South Africa, man must do. That is what he says.
This is a bitter journey.
I can believe it.
Sometimes I fear - what will the Bishop say when he hears? One of his priests?
What can a Bishop say? Something is happening that no Bishop can stop. Who can stop these things from happening? They must go on.
How can you say so? How can you say they must go on?
They must go on, said Msimangu gravely. You cannot stop the world from going on. My friend, I am a Christian. It is not in my heart to hate a white man. It was a white man who brought my father out of darkness. But you will pardon me if I talk frankly to you. The tragedy is not that things are broken. The tragedy is that they are not mended again. The white man has broken the tribe. And it is my belief - and again I ask your pardon - that it cannot be mended again. But the house that is broken, and the man that falls apart when the house is broken, these are the tragic things. That is why children break the law, and old white people are robbed and beaten.
He passed his hand across his brow.
It suited the white man to break the tribe, he continued gravely. But it has not suited him to build something in the place of what is broken. I have pondered this for many hours, and I must speak it, for it is the truth for me. They are not all so. There are some white men who give their lives to build up what is broken.
But they are not enough, he said. They are afraid, that is the truth. It is fear that rules this land.
He laughed apologetically. These things are too many to talk about now. They are things to talk over quietly and patiently. You must get Father Vincent to talk about them. He is a white man and can say what must be said. He is the one with the boy's cheeks, the one who wants to hear more about your country.
I remember him.
They give us too little, said Msimangu somberly. They give us almost nothing. Come, let us go to the church.
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They walked up the street, and down another, and up yet another. It was true what they said, that you could go up one street and down another till the end of your days, and never walk the same one twice.
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You see I have had an experience here in Johannesburg. It is not like Ndotsheni. One must live here to understand it.
He looked at his brother. Something new is happening here, he said.
He did not sit down, but began to speak in a strange voice. He walked about, and looked through the window into the street, and up at the ceiling, and into the corners of the room as though something were there, and must be brought out.
Down in Ndotsheni I am nobody, even as you are nobody, my brother. I am subject to the chief, who is an ignorant man. I must salute him and bow to him, but he is an uneducated man. Here in Johannesburg I am a man of some importance, of some influence. I have my own business, and when it is good, I can make ten, twelve, pounds a week.
He began to sway to and fro, he was not speaking to them, he was speaking to people who were not there.
I do not say we are free here. I do not say we are free as men should be. But at least I am free of the chief. At least I am free of an old and ignorant man, who is nothing but a white man's dog. He is a trick, a trick to hold together something that the white man desires to hold together.
He smiled his cunning and knowing smile, and for a moment addressed himself to his visitors.
But it is not being held together, he said. It is breaking apart, your tribal society. It is here in Johannesburg that the new society is being built. Something is happening here, my brother.
He paused for a moment, then he said, I do not wish to offend you gentlemen, but the Church too is like the chief. You must do so and so and so. You are not free to have an experience. A man must be faithful and meek and obedient, and he must obey the laws, whatever the laws may be. It is true that the Church speaks with a fine voice, and that the Bishops speak against the laws. But this they have been doing for fifty years, and things get worse, not better.
His voice grew louder, and he was again addressing people who were not there. Here in Johannesburg it is the mines, he said, everything is the mines. These high buildings, this wonderful City Hall, this beautiful Parktown with its beautiful houses, all this is built with the gold from the mines. This wonderful hospital for Europeans, the biggest hospital south of the Equator, it is built with the gold from the mines.
There was a change in his voice, it became louder like the voice of a bull or a lion. Go to our hospital, he said, and see our people lying on the floors. They lie so close you cannot step over them. But it is they who dig the gold. For three shillings a day. We come from the Transkei, and from Basutoland, and from Bechuanaland, and from Swaziland, and from Zululand. And from Ndotsheni also. We live in the compounds, we must leave our wives and families behind. And when the new gold is found, it is not we who will get more for our labour. It is the white man's shares that will rise, you will read it in all the papers. They go mad when new gold is found. They bring more of us to live in the compounds, to dig under the ground for three shillings a day. They do not think, here is a chance to pay more for our labour. They think only, here is a chance to build a bigger house and buy a bigger car. It is important to find gold, they say, for all South Africa is built on the mines.
He growled, and his voice grew deep, it was like thunder that was rolling. But it is not built on the mines, he said, it is built on our backs, on our sweat, on our labour. Every factory, every theatre, every beautiful house, they are all built by us. And what does a chief know about that? But here in Johannesburg they know.
He stopped, and was silent. And his visitors were silent also, for there was something in this voice that compelled one to be silent. And Stephen Kumalo sat silent, for this was a new brother that he saw.
John Kumalo looked at him. The Bishop says it is wrong, he said, but he lives in a big house, and his white priests get four, five, six times what you get, my brother.
He sat down, and took out a large red handkerchief to wipe his face.
That is my experience, he said. That is why I no longer go to the Church.
And that is why you did not write any more.
Well, well, it could be the reason.
That, and your wife Esther?
Yes, yes, both perhaps. It is hard to explain in a letter. Our customs are different here.
And Msimangu said, are there any customs here?
John Kumalo looked at him. There is a new thing growing here, he said. Stronger than any church or chief. You will see it one day.
And your wife? Why did she leave?
Well, well, said John Kumalo with his knowing smile. She did not understand my experience.
You mean, said Msimangu coldly, that she believed in fidelity?
John looked at him suspiciously. Fidelity, he said. But Msimangu was quick to see that he did not understand.
Perhaps we should speak Zulu again, he said.
The angry veins stood out on the great bull neck, and who knows what angry words might have been spoken, but Stephen Kumalo was quick to intervene.
Here is the tea, my brother. That is kind of you.
The woman was not introduced, but took round the tea humbly. When she had gone, Kumalo spoke to his brother.
I have listened attentively to you, my brother. Much of what you say saddens me, partly because of the way you say it, and partly because much of it is true. And now I have something to ask of you. But I must tell you first that Gertrude is with me here. She is coming back to Ndotsheni.
Well, well, I shall not say it is a bad thing. Johannesburg is not a place for a woman alone. I myself tried to persuade her, but she did not agree, so we did not meet any more.
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But there is only one thing that has power completely, and that is love. Because when a man loves, he seeks no power, and therefore he has power. I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men and black men, desiring neither power nor money, but desiring only the good of their country, come together to work for it.
He was grave and silent, and then he said sombrely, I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find we are turned to hating.
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He is the one the Government is afraid of, because he himself is not afraid. He seeks nothing for himself. They say he has given up his own work to do this picketing of the buses, and his wife pickets the other bus rank at Alexandra.
That is something to be proud of. Johannesburg is a place of wonders.
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Professor Hoernle - he is dead, G-d rest his soul - he was the great fighter for us. Huh, I am sorry you cannot hear him. For he had Tomlinson's brains, and your brother's voice, and Dubula's heart, all in one man. When he spoke, there was no white man that could speak against him. Huh, I remember it even now. He would say that this is here, and that is there, and that yonder is over there yonder, and there was no man that could move these things by so much as an inch from the places where he put them. Englishman or Afrikaner, they could move nothing from the places where he put them.
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How did he behave himself, this young man Absalom? Kumalo asked her.
Have no doubt it is fear in her eyes. Have no doubt it is fear now in his eyes also. It is fear, here in this house.
I saw nothing wrong, she said.
But you guessed there was something wrong.
There was nothing wrong, she said.
Then why are you afraid?
I am not afraid, she said.
Then why do you tremble? asked Msimangu.
I am cold, she said.
She looked at them sullenly, watchfully.
We thank you, said Msimangu. Stay well.
Go well, she said.
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He called Kumalo, and told him they were returning by taxi. They climbed in, and the taxi rattled out of Alexandra on to the broad high road that runs from Pretoria to Johannesburg. The afternoon was late now, and the road was crowded with traffic, for at this time it pours both into and out of Johannesburg on this road.
You see the bicycles, my friend. These are the thousands of Alexandra people returning home after their work, and just now we shall see the thousands of them walking, because of the boycott of the buses.
And true, they had not gone far before the pavements were full of the walking people. There were so many that they overflowed into the streets, and the cars had to move carefully. And some were old, and some tired, and some even crippled as they had been told, but most of them walked resolutely, as indeed they had been doing now these past few weeks. Many of the white people stopped their cars, and took in the black people, to help them on their journey to Alexandra. Indeed, at one robot where they stopped, a traffic officer was talking to one of these white men, and they heard the officer asking whether the white man had a license to carry the black people. I am asking no money, said the white man. But you are carrying passengers on a bus route, said the officer. Then take me to court, said the white man. But they heard no more than that, for they had to move on because the light was green.
I have heard of that, said Msimangu. I have heard that they are trying to prevent the white people from helping with their cars, and that they are even ready to take them to the courts.
It was getting dark now, but the road was still thick with the Alexandra people going home. And there were still cars stopping to give them lifts, especially to the old people, and the women, and the cripples. Kumalo's face wore the smile, the strange smile not known in other countries, of a black man when he sees one of his people helped in public by a white man, for such a thing is not lightly done. And so immersed was he in the watching that he was astonished when Msimangu suddenly burst out:
It beats me, my friend, it beats me.
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ALL ROADS LEAD to Johannesburg. If you are white or if you are black they lead to Johannesburg. If the crops fail, there is work in Johannesburg. If there are taxes to be paid, there is work in Johannesburg. If the farm is too small to be divided further, some must go to Johannesburg. If there is a child to be born that must be delivered in secret, it can be delivered in Johannesburg.
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Yes, this house is full, and that house is full. For everyone is coming to Johannesburg. From the Transkei and the Free State, from Zululand and Sekukuniland. Zulus and Swazis, Shangaans and Bavenda, Bapedi and Basuto, Xosas and Tembus, Pondos and Fingos, they are all coming to Johannesburg.
I do not like this woman. I do not like this boy. I do not like this man. I am sorry, but you must go now.
Another week, that is all I ask.
You may have one more week.
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What shall we do, those who have no houses?
You can wait five years for a house, and be no nearer getting it than at the beginning.
They say there are ten thousand of us in Orlando alone, living in other people's houses.
Do you hear what Dubula says? That we must put up our own houses here in Orlando?
And where do we put up the houses?
On the open ground by the railway line, Dubula says.
And of what do we build the houses?
Anything you can find. Sacks and planks and grass from the veld and poles from the plantations.
And when it rains?
Siyafa. Then we die.
No, when it rains, they will have to build us houses.
It is foolishness. What shall we do in the winter?
Six years waiting for a house. And full as the houses are, they grow yet fuller, for the people still come to Johannesburg. There has been a great war raging in Europe and North Africa, and no houses are being built.
Have you a house for me yet?
There is no house yet.
Are you sure my name is on the list?
Yes, your name is on the list.
What number am I on the list?
I cannot say, but you must be about number six thousand on the list.
Number six thousand on the list. That means I shall never get a house, and I cannot stay where I am much longer. We have quarrelled about the stove, we have quarrelled about the children, and I do not like the way the man looks at me. There is the open ground by the railway line, but what of the rain and the winter? They say we must go there, all go together, fourteen days from today. They say we must get together the planks and the sacks and the tins and the poles, and all move together. They say we must all pay a shilling a week to the Committee, and they will move all our rubbish and put up lavatories for us, so that there is no sickness. But what of the rain and the winter?
Have you a house for me yet?
There is no house yet.
But I have been two years on the list.
You are only a child on the list.
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And nothing goes well with me. I am tired and lonely. Oh my husband, why did we leave the land of our people? There is not much there, but it is better than here. There is not much food there, but it is shared by all together. If all are poor, it is not so bad to be poor. And it is pleasant by the river, and while you wash your clothes the water runs over the stones, and the wind cools you. Two weeks from today, that is the day of the moving. Come my husband, let us get the planks and the tins and the sacks and the poles. I do not like the place where we are.
There are planks at the Baragwanath Hospital, left there by the builders. Let us go tonight and carry them away. There is corrugated iron at the Reformatory, they use it to cover the bricks. Let us go tonight and carry it away. There are sacks at the Nancefield Station, lying neatly packed in bundles. Let us go tonight and carry them away. There are trees at the Crown Mines. Let us go tonight and cut a few poles quietly.
This night they are busy in Orlando. At one house after another the lights are burning. I shall carry the iron, and you my wife the child, and you my son two poles, and you small one, bring as many sacks as you are able, down to the land by the railway lines. Many people are moving there, you can hear the sound of digging and hammering already. It is good that the night is warm, and there is no rain. Thank you, Mr. Dubula, we are satisfied with this piece of ground. Thank you, Mr. Dubula, here is our shilling for the Committee.
Shanty Town is up overnight. What a surprise for the people when they wake in the morning. Smoke comes up through the sacks, and one or two have a chimney already. There was a nice chimney-pipe lying there at the Kliptown Police Station, but I was not such a fool as to take it.
Shanty Town is up overnight. And the newspapers are full of us. Great big words and pictures. See, that is my husband, standing by the house. Alas, I was too late for the picture. Squatters, they call us. We are the squatters. This great village of sack and plank and iron, with no rent to pay, only a shilling to the Committee.
Shanty Town is up overnight. The child coughs badly, and her brow is as hot as fire. I was afraid to move her, but it was the night for the moving. The cold wind comes through the sacks. What shall we do in the rain, in the winter? Quietly my child, your mother is by you. Quietly my child, do not cough any more, your mother is by you.
The child coughs badly, her brow is hotter than fire. Quietly my child, your mother is by you. Outside there is laughter and jesting, digging and hammering, and calling in languages that I do not know. Quietly my child, there is a lovely valley where you were born. The water sings over the stones, and the wind cools you. The cattle come down to the river, they stand there under the trees. Quietly my child, oh G-d make her quiet. G-d have mercy upon us. Christ have mercy upon us. White man, have mercy upon us.
Mr. Dubula, where is the doctor?
We shall get the doctor in the morning. You need not fear, the Committee will pay for him.
But the child is like to die. Look at the blood.
It is not long till morning.
It is long when the child is dying, when the heart is afraid. Can we not get him now, Mr. Dubula?
I shall try, mother. I shall go now and try.
I am grateful, Mr. Dubula.
Outside there is singing, singing round a fire. It isNkosi sikelel' iAfrika that they sing, G-d Save Africa. G-d save this piece of Africa that is my own, delivered in travail from my body, fed from my breast, loved by my heart, because that is the nature of women. Oh lie quietly, little one. Doctor, can you not come?
I have sent for the doctor, mother. The Committee has sent a car for the doctor. A black doctor, one of our own.
I am grateful, Mr. Dubula.
Shall I ask them to be quiet, mother?
It does not matter, she does not know.
Perhaps a white doctor would have been better, but any doctor if only he come. Does it matter if they are quiet, these sounds of an alien land? I am afraid, my husband. She burns my hand like fire.
We do not need the doctor any more. No white doctor, no black doctor, can help her any more. Oh child of my womb and fruit of my desire, it was pleasure to hold the small cheeks in the hands, it was pleasure to feel the tiny clutching of the fingers, it was pleasure to feel the little mouth tugging at the breast. Such is the nature of woman. Such is the lot of women, to carry, to bear, to watch, and to lose.
The white men come to Shanty Town. They take photographs of us, and moving photographs for the pictures. They come and wonder what they can do, there are so many of us. What will the poor devils do in the rain? What will the poor devils do in the winter? Men come, and machines come, and they start building rough houses for us. That Dubula is a clever man, this is what he said they would do. And no sooner do they begin to build for us, than there come in the night other black people, from Pimville and Alexandra and Sophiatown, and they too put up their houses of sack and grass and iron and poles. And the white men come again, but this time it is anger, not pity. The police come and drive the people away. And some that they drive away are from Orlando itself. They go back to the houses that they left, but of some the rooms are already taken, and some will not have them any more.
You need not be ashamed that you live in Shanty Town. It is in the papers, and that is my husband standing by the house. A man here has a paper from Durban, and my husband is there too, standing by the house. You can give your address as Shanty Town, Shanty Town alone, everyone knows where it is, and give the number that the committee has given you.
What shall we do in the rain? in the winter? Already some of them are saying, look at those houses over the hill. They are not finished, but the roofs are on. One night we shall move there and be safe from the rain and the winter.
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He had bought the child some cheap wooden blocks, and with these the little one played endlessly and intently, with a purpose obscure to the adult mind, but completely absorbing. Kumalo would pick the child up, and put his hand under the shirt to feel the small warm back, and tickle and poke him, till the serious face relaxed into smiles, and the smiles grew into uncontrollable laughter. Or he would tell him of the great valley where he was born, and the names of hills and rivers, and the school that he would go to, and the mist that shrouded the tops above Ndotsheni. Of this the child understood nothing; yet something he did understand, for he would listen solemnly to the deep melodious names, and gaze at his uncle out of wide and serious eyes. And this to the uncle was pleasure indeed, for he was homesick in the great city; and something inside him was deeply satisfied by this recital. Sometimes Gertrude would hear him and come to the door and stand shyly there, and listen to the tale of the beauties of the land where she was born. This enriched his pleasure, and sometimes he would say to her, do you remember, and she would answer, yes, I remember, and be pleased that he had asked her.
But there were times, some in the very midst of satisfaction, when the thought of his son would come to him. And then in one fraction of time the hills with the deep melodious names stood out waste and desolate beneath the pitiless sun, the streams ceased to run, the cattle moved thin and listless over the red and rootless earth. It was a place of old women and mothers and children, from each house something was gone. His voice would falter and die away, and he would fall silent and muse. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps he clutched suddenly at the small listening boy, for the little one would break from the spell, and wriggle in his arms to be put down, to play again with his blocks on the floor. As though he was searching for something that would put an end to this sudden unasked-for pain, the thought of his wife would come to him, and of many a friend that he had, and the small children coming down from the hills, dropping sometimes out of the very mist, on their way to the school. These things were so dear to him that the pain passed, and he contemplated them in quiet, and some measure of peace.
Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who indeed knows why there can be comfort in a world of desolation? Now G-d be thanked that there is a beloved one who can lift up the heart in suffering, that one can play with a child in the face of such misery. Now G-d be thanked that the name of a hill is such music, that the name of a river can heal. Aye, even the name of a river that runs no more.
Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who knows for what we live, and struggle, and die? Who knows what keeps us living and struggling, while all things break about us? Who knows why the warm flesh of a child is such comfort, when one's own child is lost and cannot be recovered? Wise men write many books, in words too hard to understand. But this, the purpose of our lives, the end of all our struggle, is beyond all human wisdom. Oh G-d, my G-d, do not Thou forsake me. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, if Thou art with me....
But he stood up. That was Msimangu talking at the door. It was time to continue the search.
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So they talked about the reformatory, and the children that were growing up in Johannesburg without home or school or custom, and about the broken tribe and the sickness of the land, until a messenger came from the young man to say that he was ready.
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Will he ever return? he asked, indifferently, carelessly.
I do not know, she said. She said it tonelessly, hopelessly, as one who is used to waiting, to desertion. She said it as one who expects nothing from her seventy years upon the earth. No rebellion will come out of her, no demands, no fierceness. Nothing will come out of her at all save the children of men who will use her, leave her, forget her.
You can do nothing here, he said. Let us go.
My friend.......
I tell you, you can do nothing. Have you not troubles enough of your own? I tell you there are thousands such in Johannesburg. And were your back as broad as heaven, and your purse full of gold, and did your compassion reach from here to hell itself, there is nothing you can do.
Silently they withdrew. All of them were silent, the young white man heavy with failure, the old man with grief, Msimangu still bitter with his words. Kumalo stood at the car though the others were already seated.
You do not understand, he said. The child will be my grandchild.
Even that you do not know, said Msimangu angrily. His bitterness mastered him again. And if he were, he said, how many more such have you? Shall we search them out, day after day, hour after hour? Will it ever end?
Kumalo stood in the dust like one who has been struck.
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There is not much talking now. A silence falls upon them all. This is no time to talk of hedges and fields, or the beauties of any country. Sadness and fear and hate, how they well up in the heart and mind, whenever one opens the pages of these messengers of doom. Cry for the broken tribe, for the law and the custom that is gone. Aye, and cry aloud for the man who is dead, for the woman and children bereaved. Cry, the beloved country, these things are not yet at an end. The sun pours down on the earth, on the lovely land that man cannot enjoy. He knows only the fear of his heart.
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I say we shall always have native crime to fear until the native people of this country have worthy purposes to inspire them and worthy goals to work for. For it is only because they see neither purpose nor goal that they turn to drink and crime and prostitution. Which do we prefer, a law-abiding, industrious and purposeful native people, or a lawless, idle and purposeless people? The truth is that we do not know, for we fear them both. And so long as we vacillate, so long will we pay dearly for the dubious pleasure of not having to make up our minds. And the answer does not lie, except temporarily, in more police and more protection.
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Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.
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My child!
Umfundisi.
Have the police been here?
They have been here, now, now, they were here.
And what did they want?
They wanted Absalom, umfundisi.
And what did you tell them?
I told them I had not seen him since Saturday, umfundisi.
And why did they want him? cried Kumalo in torment.
She drew back frightened. I do not know, she said.
And why did you not ask? he cried.
The tears filled her eyes. I was afraid, she said.
Did no one ask?
The women were about. Maybe one of them asked.
What women? said Msimangu. Show us the women.
So she showed them the women, but they too did not know.
They would not tell me, said a woman.
Msimangu turned privately to her. Did it seem heavy? he asked.
It seemed heavy, umfundisi. What is the trouble? she asked.
We do not know.
The world is full of trouble, she said.
He went to the taxi, and Kumalo followed him. And the girl ran after them, as one runs who is with child.
They told me I must let them know if he comes.
Her eyes were full of trouble. What shall I do? she said.
That is what you ought to do, said Msimangu. And you will let us know also. Wait, you must go to the Superintendent's office and ask him to telephone to the Mission House in Sophiatown. I shall write the number here for you. 49-3041.
I shall do it, umfundisi.
Tell me, did the police say where they would go?
They did not say, umfundisi. But I heard them say,die spoor loop dood , the trail runs dead.
Stay well, my child.
Go well, umfundisi. She turned to say go well to the other, but he was already in the taxi, bowed over his stick.
How much is your charge, my friend? asks Msimangu.
Two pounds and ten shillings, umfundisi.
Kumalo feels with shaking hands for his purse.
I should like to help you in this, says Msimangu. It would be my joy to help you. You are kind, says Kumalo trembling, but no one must pay but me. And he draws the notes from the dwindling store.
You are trembling, my friend.
I am cold, very cold.
Msimangu looks up at the cloudless sky, from which the sun of Africa is pouring down upon the earth. Come to my room, he says. We shall have a fire and make you warm again.
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For some hours he sat there in the sun, and whether it was the warmth of it, or the sight of the wide plain beneath stretching away to blue and distant mountains, or the mere passage of time, or the divine providence for the soul that is distressed, he could not say; but there was some rising of the spirit, some lifting of the fear.
Yes, it was true what Msimangu had said. Why fear the one thing in a great city where there were thousands upon thousands of people? His son had gone astray in the great city, where so many others had gone astray before him, and where many others would go astray after him, until there was found some great secret that as yet no man had discovered. But that he should kill a man, a white man! There was nothing that he could remember, nothing, nothing at all, that could make it probable.
His thoughts turned to the girl, and to the unborn babe that would be his grandchild. Pity that he a priest should have a grandchild born in such a fashion. Yet that could be repaired. If they were married, then he could try to rebuild what had been broken. Perhaps his son and the girl would go back with him to Ndotsheni, perhaps he and his wife could give to the child what they had failed to give to their own. Yet where had they failed? What had they done, or left undone, that their son had become a thief, moving like a vagabond from place to place, living with a girl who was herself no more than a child, father of a child who would have had no name? Yet, he comforted himself, that was Johannesburg. And yet again, and the fear smote him as grievously as ever, his son had left the girl and the unborn child, left the work that the young white man had got for him, and was vagabond again. And what did vagabonds do? Did they not live without law or custom, without faith or purpose, might they not then lift their hand against any other, any man who stood between them and the pitiful gain that they were seeking?
What broke in a man when he could bring himself to kill another? What broke when he could bring himself to thrust down the knife into the warm flesh, to bring down the axe on the living head, to cleave down between the seeing eyes, to shoot the gun that would drive death into the beating heart?
With a shudder he turned from contemplation of so terrible a thing. Yet the contemplation of it reassured him. For there was nothing, nothing in all the years at Ndotsheni, nothing in all the years of the boyhood of his son, that could make it possible for him to do so terrible a deed. Yes, Msimangu was right. It was the suspense, the not-knowing, that made him fear this one thing, in a great city where there were thousands upon thousands of people.
He turned with relief to the thought of rebuilding, to the home that they would fashion, he and his wife, in the evening of their lives, for Gertrude and her son, and for his son and the girl and the child. After seeing Johannesburg he would return with a deeper understanding to Ndotsheni. Yes, and with a greater humility, for had his own sister not been a prostitute? And his son a thief? And might not he himself be grandfather to a child that would have no name? This he thought without bitterness, though with pain. One could go back knowing better the things that one fought against, knowing better the kind of thing that one must build. He would go back with a new and quickened interest in the school, not as a place where children learned to read and write and count only, but as a place where they must be prepared for life in any place to which they might go. Oh for education for his people, for schools up and down the land, where something might be built that would serve them when they went away to the towns, something that would take the place of the tribal law and custom. For a moment he was caught up in a vision, as man so often is when he sits in a place of ashes and destruction.
Yes - it was true, then. He had admitted it to himself. The tribe was broken, and would be mended no more. He bowed his head. It was as though a man borne upward into the air felt suddenly that the wings of miracle dropped away from him, so that he looked down upon the earth, sick with fear and apprehension. The tribe was broken, and would be mended no more. The tribe that had nurtured him, and his father and his father's father, was broken. For the men were away, and the young men and the girls were away, and the maize hardly reached to the height of a man.
There is food for us, my brother.
Already?
You have been here a long time.
I did not know it.
And what have you found?
Nothing.
Nothing?
No, nothing. Only more fear and more pain. There is nothing in the world but fear and pain.
My brother....
What is it?
I hesitate to speak to you.
You have a right to speak. More right than any.
Then I say that it is time to turn. This is madness, that is bad enough. But it is also sin, which is worse. I speak to you as a priest.
Kumalo bowed his head. You are right, father, he said. I must sit here no longer.
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Msimangu opened the book, and read to them first from the book. And Kumalo had not known that his friend had such a voice. For the voice was of gold, and the voice had love for the words it was reading. The voice shook and beat and trembled, not as the voice of an old man shakes and beats and trembles, nor as a leaf shakes and beats and trembles, but as a deep bell when it is struck. For it was not only a voice of gold, but it was the voice of a man whose heart was golden, reading from a book of golden words. And the people were silent, and Kumalo was silent, for when are three such things found in one place together?
I the L-rd have called thee in righteousness
and will hold thine hand and will keep thee
and give thee for a covenant of the people
for a light of the Gentiles
To open the blind eyes
to bring out the prisoners from the prison
And them that sit in darkness
out of the prison house.
And the voice rose, and the Zulu tongue was lifted and transfigured, and the man too was lifted, as is one who comes to something that is greater than any of us. And the people were silent, for were they not the people of the blind eyes? And Kumalo was silent, knowing the blind man for whom Msimangu was reading these words:
And I will bring the blind by a way they knew not
I will lead them in paths that they have not known.
I will make darkness light before them
and crooked things straight.
and not forsake them.
Yes, he speaks to me, there is no doubt of it. He says we are not forsaken. For while I wonder for what we live and struggle and die, for while I wonder what keeps us living and struggling, men are sent to minister to the blind, white men are sent to minister to the black blind. Who gives, at this one hour, a friend to make darkness light before me? Who gives, at this one hour, wisdom to one so young, for the comfort of one so old? Who gives to me compassion for a girl my son has left?
Yes, he speaks to me, in such quiet and such simple words. We are grateful for the saints, he says, who lift up the heart in the days of our distress. Would we do less? For do we less, there are no saints to lift up any heart. If Christ be Christ he says, true L-rd of Heaven, true L-rd of Men, what is there that we would not do no matter what our suffering may be?
I hear you, my brother. There is no word I do not hear.
He is finishing. I can hear it in his voice. One can know that what is said, is said, is rounded, finished, it is perfection. He opens the book and reads again. He reads to me:
Hast thou not known, hast thou not heard
that the everlasting G-d, the L-rd,
the Creator of the ends of the earth
fainteth not, neither is weary?
And the voice rises again, and the Zulu tongue is lifted and transfigured, and the man too is lifted....
Even the youths shall faint and be weary
and the young men shall utterly fall.
But they that wait upon the L-rd
shall renew their strength,
they shall mount up with wings as eagles,
they shall run and not be weary
and they shall walk and not faint.
The people sigh, and Kumalo sighs, as though this is a great word that has been spoken. And indeed this Msimangu is known as a preacher. It is good for the Government, they say in Johannesburg, that Msimangu preaches of a world not made by hands, for he touches people at the hearts, and sends them marching to heaven instead of to Pretoria. And there are white people who marvel and say, what words to come from the son of a barbarian people, who not long since plundered and slaughtered, in thousands and tens of thousands, under the most terrible chief of all.
Yet he is despised by some, for this golden voice that could raise a nation, speaks always thus. For this place of suffering, from which men might escape if some such voice could bind them all together, is for him no continuing city. They say he preaches of a world not made by hands, while in the streets about him men suffer and struggle and die. They ask what folly it is that can so seize upon a man, what folly is it that seizes upon so many of their people, making the hungry patient, the suffering content, the dying at peace? And how fools listen to him, silent, enrapt, sighing when he is done, feeding their empty bellies on his empty words.
Kumalo goes to him.
Brother, I am recovered.
Msimangu's face lights up, but he talks humbly, there is no pride or false constraint.
I have tried every way to touch you, he says, but I could not come near. So give thanks and be satisfied.
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Slowly he followed the bent figure up the street, saw him nodding as he walked, saw the people turning. Would age now swiftly overtake him? Would this terrible nodding last now for all his days, so that men said aloud in his presence, it is nothing, he is old and does nothing but forget? And would he nod as though he too were saying, Yes, it is nothing, I am old and do nothing but forget? But who would know that he said, I do nothing but remember?
Msimangu caught him up at the top of the hill, and took his arm, and it was like walking with a child or with one that was sick. So they came to the shop. And at the shop Kumalo turned, and closed his eyes, and his lips were moving. Then he opened his eyes and turned to Msimangu.
Do not come further, he said. It is I who must do this.
And then he went into the shop.
Yes, the bull voice was there, loud and confident. His brother John was sitting there on a chair talking to two other men, sitting there like a chief. His brother he did not recognize, for the light from the street was on the back of the visitor.
Good afternoon, my brother.
Good afternoon, sir.
Good afternoon, my own brother, son of our mother.
Ah my brother, it is you. Well, well, I am glad to see you. Will you not come and join us?
Kumalo looked at the visitors. I am sorry, he said, but I come again on business, urgent business.
I am sure my friends will excuse us. Excuse us, my friends.
So they all said stay well, and go well, and the two men left them.
Well, well, I am glad to see you, my brother. And your business, how does it progress? Have you found the prodigal? You will see I have not forgotten my early teaching altogether.
And he laughed at that, a great bull laugh. But we must have tea, he said, and he went to the door and called into the place behind.
It is still the same woman, he said. You see, I also have my ideas of - how do you say it in English? And he laughed his great laugh again, for he was only playing with his brother. Fidelity, that was the word. A good word, I shall not easily forget it. He is a clever man, our Mr. Msimangu. And now the prodigal, have you found him?
He is found, my brother. But not as he was found in the early teaching. He is in prison, arrested for the murder of a white man.
Murder? The man does not jest now. One does not jest about murder. Still less about the murder of a white man.
Yes, murder. He broke into a house in a place that they call Parkwold, and killed the white man who would have prevented him.
What? I remember! Only a day or two since? On Tuesday?
Yes.
Yes, I remember.
Yes, he remembers. He remembers too that his own son and his brother's son are companions. The veins stand out on the bull neck, and the sweat forms on the brow. Have no doubt it is fear in the eyes. He wipes his brow with a cloth. There are many questions he could ask before he need come at it. All he says is, yes, indeed, I do remember. His brother is filled with compassion for him. He will try gently to bring it to him.
I am sorry, my brother.
What does one say? Does one say, of course you are sorry? Does one say, of course, it is your son? How can one say it, when one knows what it means? Keep silent then, but the eyes are upon one. One knows what they mean.
You mean...? he asked.
Yes. He was there also.
John Kumalo whispersTixo, Tixo . And again, Tixo, Tixo . Kumalo comes to him and puts his hand on his shoulders.
There are many things I could say, he said.
There are many things you could say.
But I do not say them. I say only that I know what you suffer.
Indeed, who could know better?
Yes, that is one of the things I could say. There is a young white man at the Mission House, and he is waiting to take me now to the prison. Perhaps he would take you also.
Let me get my coat and hat, my brother.
They do not wait for the tea, but set out along the street to the Mission House. Msimangu, watching anxiously for their return, sees them coming. The old man walks now more firmly, it is the other who seems bowed and broken.
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My child, my child.
Yes, my father.
At last I have found you.
Yes, my father.
And it is too late.
To this the boy makes no answer. As though he may find some hope in this silence, the father presses him. Is it not too late? he asks. But there is no answer. Persistently, almost eagerly, is it not too late? he asks. The boy turns his head from side to side, he meets the eyes of the young white man, and his own retreat swiftly. My father, it is what my father says, he answers.
I have searched in every place for you.
To that also no answer. The old man loosens his hands, and his son's hand slips from them lifelessly. There is a barrier here, a wall, something that cuts off one from the other.
Why did you do this terrible thing, my child?
The young white man stirs watchfully, the white warder makes no sign, perhaps he does not know this tongue. There is a moisture in the boy's eyes, he turns his head from side to side, and makes no answer.
Answer me, my child.
I do not know, he says.
Why did you carry a revolver?
The white warder stirs too, for the word in Zulu is like the word in English and in Afrikaans. The boy too shows a sign of life.
For safety, he says. This Johannesburg is a dangerous place. A man never knows when he will be attacked.
But why take it to this house?
And this again cannot be answered.
Have they got it, my child?
Yes, my father.
They have no doubt it was you?
I told them, my father.
What did you tell them?
I told them I was frightened when the white man came. So I shot him. I did not mean to kill him.
And your cousin. And the other?
Yes, I told them. They came with me, but it was I who shot the white man.
Did you go there to steal?
And this again cannot be answered.
You were at the reformatory, my child?
The boy looked at his boot, and pushed it forward along the ground. I was there, he said.
Did they treat you well?
Again there is a moisture in the eyes, again he turns his head from side to side, drops his eyes again to the boot pushing forward and backward on the ground. They treated me well, he said.
And this is your repayment, my child?
And this again cannot be answered. The young white man comes over, for he knows that this does nothing, goes nowhere. Perhaps he does not like to see these two torturing each other.
Well, Absalom?
Sir?
Why did you leave the work that I got for you?
And you too, young man, can get no answer. There are no answers to these things.
Why did you leave it, Absalom?
There are no answers to these things.
And your girl. The one we let you go to, the girl you worried over, so that we took pity on you.
And again the tears in the eyes. Who knows if he weeps for the girl he has deserted? Who knows if he weeps for a promise broken? Who knows if he weeps for another self, that would work for a woman, pay his taxes, save his money, keep the laws, love his children, another self that has always been defeated? Or does he weep for himself alone, to be let be, to be let alone, to be free of the merciless rain of questions, why, why, why, when he knows not why. They do not speak with him, they do not jest with him, they do not sit and let him be, but they ask, ask, ask, why, why, why, - his father, the white man, the prison officers, the police, the magistrates, - why, why, why.
The young white man shrugs his shoulders, smiles indifferently. But he is not indifferent, there is a mark of pain between his eyes.
So the world goes, he says.
Answer me one thing, my child. Will you answer me?
I can answer, father.
You wrote nothing, sent no message. You went with bad companions. You stole and broke in and - yes, you did these things. But why?
The boy seizes upon the word that is given him. It was bad companions, he said.
I need not tell you that is no answer, said Kumalo. But he knows he will get no other this way. Yes, I see, he said, bad companions. Yes, I understand. But for you, yourself, what made you yourself do it?
How they torture one another. And the boy, tortured, shows again a sign of life.
It was the devil, he said.
Oh boy, can you not say you fought the devil, wrestled with the devil, struggled with him night and day, till the sweat poured from you and no strength was left? Can you not say that you wept for your sins, and vowed to make amends, and stood upright, and stumbled, and fell again? It would be some comfort for this tortured man, who asks you, desperately, why did you not struggle against him?
And the boy looks down at his feet again, and says, I do not know.
The old man is exhausted, the boy is exhausted, and the time is nearly over.
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Father Vincent put his hand on the old man's arm. Be of good courage, he said. Whatever happens, your son will be severely punished, but if his defence is accepted, it will not be extreme punishment. And while there is life, there is hope for amendment of life.
That is now always in my mind, said Kumalo. But my hope is little.
Stay here and speak with me, said Father Vincent.
And I must go, said the young white man. But umfundisi, I am ready to help if my help is needed.
When the young man had gone, Kumalo and the English priest sat down and Kumalo said to the other, you can understand that this has been a sorrowful journey.
I understand that, my friend.
At first it was a search. I was anxious at first, but as the search went on, step by step, so did the anxiety turn to fear, and this fear grew deeper step by step. It was at Alexandra that I first grew afraid, but it was here in your House, when we heard of the murder, that my fear grew into something too great to be borne.
The old man paused and stared at the floor, remembering, indeed quite lost in remembering. He stared at it a long time and then he said, Msimangu said to me, why fear this one thing in a city where there are thousands upon thousands of people?
That comforted me, he said.
And the way in which he said, that comforted me, was to Father Vincent so unendurable, that he sat there rigid, almost without breathing, hoping that this would soon be finished.
That comforted me, said Kumalo, yet it did not comfort me. And even now I can hardly believe that this thing, which happens one time in a thousand, has happened to me. Why, sometimes, for a moment or two, I can even believe that it has not happened, that I shall wake and find it has not happened. But it is only for a moment or two.
To think, said Kumalo, that my wife and I lived out our lives in innocence, there in Ndotsheni, not knowing that this thing was coming, step by step.
Why, he said, if one could only have been told, this step is taken, and this step is about to be taken. If only one could have been told that.
But we were not told, continued Kumalo. Now we can see, but we could not see then. And yet others saw it. It was revealed to others to whom it did not matter. They saw it, step by step. They said, this is Johannesburg, this is a boy going wrong, as other boys have gone wrong in Johannesburg. But to us, for whom it was life and death, it was not revealed.
Father Vincent put his hand over his eyes, to hide them from the light, to hide them from the sight of the man who was speaking. He would himself have spoken, to break the painful spell that was being woven about him, but something told him to leave it. What was more, he had no words to say.
There is a man sleeping in the grass, said Kumalo. And over him is gathering the greatest storm of all his days. Such lightning and thunder will come there as have never been seen before, bringing death and destruction. People hurry home past him, to places safe from danger. And whether they do not see him there in the grass, or whether they fear to halt even a moment, but they do not wake him, they let him be.
After that Kumalo seemed to have done with speaking, and they were silent a long time. Father Vincent tried a dozen sentences, but none seemed fitting. But he did say, my friend, and although he said nothing more, he hoped that Kumalo would take it as a signal that other words would follow, and himself say nothing more.
So he said again, my friend.
Father?
My friend, your anxiety turned to fear, and your fear turned to sorrow. But sorrow is better than fear. For fear impoverishes always, while sorrow may enrich.
Kumalo looked at him, with an intensity of gaze that was strange in so humble a man, and hard to encounter.
I do not know that I am enriched, he said.
Sorrow is better than fear, said Father Vincent doggedly. Fear is a journey, a terrible journey, but sorrow is at least an arriving.
And where have I arrived? asked Kumalo.
When the storm threatens, a man is afraid for his house, said Father Vincent in that symbolic language that is like the Zulu tongue. But when the house is destroyed, there is something to do. About a storm he can do nothing, but he can rebuild a house.
At my age? asked Kumalo. Look what has happened to the house that I built when I was young and strong. What kind of house shall I build now?
No one can comprehend the ways of G-d, said Father Vincent desperately.
Kumalo looked at him, not bitterly or accusingly or reproachfully.
It seems that G-d has turned from me, he said.
That may seem to happen, said Father Vincent. But it does not happen, never, never, does it happen.
I am glad to hear you, said Kumalo humbly.
We spoke of amendment of life, said the white priest. Of the amendment of your son's life. And because you are a priest, this must matter to you more than all else, more even than your suffering and your wife's suffering.
That is true. Yet I cannot see how such a life can be amended.
You cannot doubt that. You are a Christian. There was a thief upon the cross.
My son was not a thief, said Kumalo harshly. There was a white man, a good man, devoted to his wife and children. And worst of all - devoted to our people. And this wife, these children, they are bereaved because of my son. I cannot suppose it to be less than the greatest evil I have known.
A man may repent him of any evil.
He will repent, said Kumalo bitterly. If I say to him, do you repent, he will say, it is as my father says. If I say to him, was this not evil, he will say, it is evil. But if I speak otherwise, putting no words in his mouth, if I say, what will you do now, he will say, I do not know, or he will say, it is as my father says.
Kumalo's voice rose as though some anguish compelled him.
He is a stranger, he said, I cannot touch him, I cannot reach him. I see no shame in him, no pity for those he has hurt. Tears come out of his eyes, but it seems that he weeps only for himself, not for his wickedness, but for his danger.
The man cried out, can a person lose all sense of evil? A boy, brought up as he was brought up? I see only his pity for himself, he who has made two children fatherless. I tell you, that whosoever offends one of these little ones, it were better....
Stop, cried Father Vincent. You are beside yourself. Go and pray, go and rest. And do not judge your son too quickly. He too is shocked into silence, maybe. That is why he says to you, it is as my father wishes, and yes that is so, and I do not know.
Kumalo stood up. I trust that is so, he said, but I have no hope any more. What did you say I must do? Yes, pray and rest.
There was no mockery in his voice, and Father Vincent knew that it was not in this man's nature to speak mockingly. But so mocking were the words that the white priest caught him by the arm, and said to him urgently, sit down, I must speak to you as a priest.
When Kumalo had sat down, Father Vincent said to him, yes, I said pray and rest. Even if it is only words that you pray, and even if your resting is only a lying on a bed. And do not pray for yourself, and do not pray to understand the ways of G-d. For they are secret. Who knows what life is, for life is a secret. And why you have compassion for a girl, when you yourself find no compassion, that is a secret. And why you go on, when it would seem better to die, that is a secret. Do not pray and think about these things now, there will be other times. Pray for Gertrude, and for her child, and for the girl that is to be your son's wife, and for the child that will be your grandchild. Pray for your wife and all at Ndotsheni. Pray for the woman and the children that are bereaved. Pray for the soul of him who was killed. Pray for us at the Mission House, and for those at Ezenzeleni, who try to rebuild in a place of destruction. Pray for your own rebuilding. Pray for all white people, those who do justice, and those who would do justice if they were not afraid. And do not fear to pray for your son, and for his amendment.
I hear you, said Kumalo humbly.
And give thanks where you can give thanks. For nothing is better. Is there not your wife, and Mrs. Lithebe, and Msimangu, and this young white man at the reformatory? Now, for your son and his amendment, you will leave this to me and Msimangu; for you are too distraught to see G-d's will. And now my son, go and pray, go and rest.
He helped the old man to his feet, and gave him his hat. And when Kumalo would have thanked him, he said, we do what is in us, and why it is in us, that is also a secret. It is Christ in us, crying that men may be succoured and forgiven, even when He Himself is forsaken.
He led the old man to the door of the Mission and there parted from him.
I shall pray for you, he said, night and day. That I shall do and anything more that you ask.
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THERE IS A lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa. About you there is grass and bracken, and the forlorn crying of the titihoya, one of the birds of the veld. Below you is the valley of the Umzimkulu, on its journey from the Drakensberg to the sea; and beyond and behind the river, great hill after great hill; and beyond and behind them, the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand.
The grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. It holds the rain and the mist, and they seep into the ground, feeding the streams in every kloof. It is well tended, and not too many cattle feed upon it, and not too many fires burn it, laying bare the soil.
Up here on the tops is a small and lovely valley, between two hills that shelter it. There is a house there, and flat ploughed fields; they will tell you that it is one of the finest farms of this countryside. It is called High Place, the farm and dwelling-place of James Jarvis, Esquire, and it stands high above Ndotsheni, and the great valley of the Umzimkulu.
Jarvis watched the ploughing with a gloomy eye. The hot afternoon sun of October poured down on the fields, and there was no cloud in the sky. Rain, rain, there was no rain. The clods turned up hard and unbroken, and here and there the plough would ride uselessly over the iron soil. At the end of the field it stopped, and the oxen stood sweating and blowing in the heat.
It is no use, umnumzana.
Keep at it, Thomas. I shall go up to the tops and see what there is to see.
You will see nothing, umnumzana. I know because I have looked already.
Jarvis grunted, and calling his dog, set out along the kaffir path that led up to the tops. There was no sign of drought there, for the grass was fed by the mists, and the breeze blew coolingly on his sweating face. But below the tops the grass was dry, and the hills of Ndotsheni were red and bare, and the farmers on the tops had begun to fear that the desolation of them would eat back, year by year, mile by mile, until they too were overtaken.
Indeed they talked about it often, for when they visited one another and sat on the long cool verandahs drinking their tea, they must needs look out over the barren valleys and the bare hills that were stretched below them. Some of their labour was drawn from Ndotsheni, and they knew how year by year there was less food grown in these reserves. There were too many cattle there, and the fields were eroded and barren; each new field extended the devastation. Something might have been done, if these people had only learned how to fight erosion, if they had built walls to save the soil from washing, if they had ploughed along the contours of the hills. But the hills were steep, and indeed some of them were never meant for ploughing. And the oxen were weak, so that it was easier to plough downwards. And the people were ignorant, and knew nothing about farming methods.
Indeed it was a problem almost beyond solution. Some people said there must be more education, but a boy with education did not want to work on the farms, and went off to the towns to look for more congenial occupation. The work was done by old men and women, and when the grown men came back from the mines and the towns, they sat in the sun and drank their liquor and made endless conversation. Some said there was too little land anyway, and that the natives could not support themselves on it, even with the most progressive methods of agriculture. But there were many sides to such a question. For if they got more land, and treated it as they treated what they had already, the country would turn into a desert. And where was the land to come from, and who would pay for it? And indeed there was still another argument, for if they got more land, and if by some chance they could make a living from it, who would work on the white men's farms? There was a system whereby a native could live at Ndotsheni, and go to work at his will on the adjoining farms. And there was another system whereby a native could get land from the farmer, and set up his kraal and have his family there, and be given his own piece of land and work it, provided that he and his family gave so much labour each year to the white farmer. But even that was not perfect, for some of them had sons and daughters that left for the towns, and never came back to fulfil their portion of the contract; and some of them abused the land that they had; and some of them stole cattle and sheep for meat; and some of them were idle and worthless, till one had to clear them off the farm, and not be certain if their successors would be any better.
Jarvis turned these old thoughts over in his mind as he climbed to the tops, and when he reached them he sat down on a stone and took off his hat, letting the breeze cool him. This was a view that a man could look at without tiring of it, this great valley of the Umzimkulu. He could look around on the green rich hills that he had inherited from his father, and down on the rich valley where he lived and farmed. It had been his wish that his son, the only child that had been born to them, would have taken it after him. But the young man had entertained other ideas, and had gone in for engineering, and well - good luck to him. He had married a fine girl, and had presented his parents with a pair of fine grandchildren. It had been a heavy blow when he decided against High Place, but his life was his own, and no other man had a right to put his hands on it.
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On the walls between the books there were four pictures, of Christ crucified, and Abraham Lincoln, and the white gabled house of Vergelegen, and a painting of leafless willows by a river in a wintry veld.
He rose from the chair to look at the books. Here were hundreds of books, all about Abraham Lincoln. He had not known that so many books had been written about any one man. One bookcase was full of them. And another was full of books about South Africa, Sarah Gertrude Millin'sLife of Rhodes , and her book about Smuts, and Engelenburg'sLife of Louis Botha , and books on South African race problems, and books on South African birds, and the Kruger Park, and innumerable others. Another bookcase was full of Afrikaans books but the titles conveyed nothing to him. And here were books about religion and Soviet Russia, and crime and criminals, and books of poems. He looked for Shakespeare, and here was Shakespeare too.
He went back to the chair, and looked long at the pictures of Christ crucified, and Abraham Lincoln, and Vergelegen, and the willows by the river.
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The other papers were in his son's handwriting. They were obviously part of some larger whole, for the first line was the latter end of a sentence, and the last line was a sentence unfinished. He looked for the rest of it, but finding nothing, settled down to read what he had: -
was permissible. What we did when we came to South Africa was permissible. It was permissible to develop our great resources with the aid of what labour we could find. It was permissible to use unskilled men for unskilled work. But it is not permissible to keep men unskilled for the sake of unskilled work.
It was permissible when we discovered gold to bring labour to the mines. It was permissible to build compounds and to keep women and children away from the towns. It was permissible as an experiment, in the light of what we knew. But in the light of what we know now, with certain exceptions, it is no longer permissible. It is not permissible for us to go on destroying family life when we know that we are destroying it.
It is permissible to develop any resources if the labour is forthcoming. But it is not permissible to develop any resources if they can be developed only at the cost of the labour. It is not permissible to mine any gold, or manufacture any product, or cultivate any land, if such mining and manufacture and cultivation depend for their success on a policy of keeping labour poor. It is not permissible to add to one's possessions if these things can only be done at the cost of other men. Such development has only one true name, and that is exploitation. It might have been permissible in the early days of our country, before we became aware of its cost, in the disintegration of native community life, in the deterioration of native family life, in poverty, slums and crime. But now that the cost is known, it is no longer permissible.
It was permissible to leave native education to those who wanted to develop it. It was permissible to doubt its benefits. But it is no longer permissible in the light of what we know. Partly because it made possible industrial development, and partly because it happened in spite of us, there is now a large urbanized native population. Now society has always, for reasons of self-interest if for no other, educated its children so that they grow up law-abiding, with socialized aims and purposes. There is no other way that it can be done. Yet we continue to leave the education of our native urban society to those few Europeans who feel strongly about it, and to deny opportunities and money for its expansion. That is not permissible. For reasons of self-interest alone, it is dangerous.
It was permissible to allow the destruction of a tribal system that impeded the growth of the country. It was permissible to believe that its destruction was inevitable. But it is not permissible to watch its destruction, and to replace it by nothing, or by so little, that a whole people deteriorates, physically and morally.
The old tribal system was, for all its violence and savagery, for all its superstition and witchcraft, a moral system. Our natives today produce criminals and prostitutes and drunkards, not because it is their nature to do so, but because their simple system of order and tradition and convention has been destroyed. It was destroyed by the impact of our own civilization. Our civilization has therefore an inescapable duty to set up another system of order and tradition and convention.
It is true that we hoped to preserve the tribal system by a policy of segregation. That was permissible. But we never did it thoroughly or honestly. We set aside one-tenth of the land for four-fifths of the people. Thus we made it inevitable, and some say we did it knowingly, that labour would come to the towns. We are caught in the toils of our own selfishness.
No one wishes to make the problem seem smaller than it is. No one wishes to make its solution seem easy. No one wishes to make light of the fears that beset us. But whether we be fearful or no, we shall never, because we are a Christian people, be able to evade the moral issues.
It is time -
And there the manuscript and the page ended. Jarvis, who had become absorbed in the reading, searched again amongst the papers on the table, but he could find nothing to show that anything more than this had been written. He lit his pipe, and pulling the papers toward him, began to read them again.
After he had finished them the second time, he sat smoking his pipe and was lost in thought. Then he got up from his chair and went and stood in front of the Lincoln bookcase, and looked up at the picture of the man who had exercised such an influence over his son. He looked at the hundreds of books, and slid aside the glass panel and took one of them out. Then he returned to his chair, and began to turn over its pages, One of the chapters was headed "The Famous Speech at Gettysburg," apparently a speech that was a failure, but that had since become one of the great speeches of the world. He turned over the preliminary pages till he came to the speech, and read it through carefully. That done, he smoked again, lost in a deep abstraction. After some time he rose and replaced the book in the case, and shut the case. Then he opened the case again, and slipped the book into his pocket, and shut the case. He looked at his watch, knocked out his pipe in the fireplace, put on his hat, took up his stick. He walked slowly down the stairs, and opened the door into the fatal passage. He took off his hat and looked down at the dark stain on the floor. Unasked, unwanted, the picture of the small boy came into his mind, the small boy at High Place, the small boy with the wooden guns. Unseeing he walked along the passage and out of the door through which death had come so suddenly. The policeman saluted him, and he answered him with words that meant nothing, that made no sense at all. He put on his hat, and walked to the gate. Undecided he looked up and down the road. Then with an effort he began to walk. With a sigh the policeman relaxed.
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After breakfast, Jarvis returned to his host's study, and began to read his son's manuscript. He turned first to the last page of it, and read with pain the last unfinished paragraph. This was almost the last thing that his son had done. When this was done he had been alive. Then at this moment, at this very word that hung in the air, he had got up and gone down the stairs to his death. If one could have cried then, don't go down! If one could have cried, stop, there is danger! But there was no one to cry. No one knew then what so many knew now. But these thoughts were unprofitable; it was not his habit to dwell on what might have been but what could never be. There was no point in imagining that if one had been there, one could have prevented a thing that had happened only because it had not been prevented. It was the pain that did that, that compelled one to these unprofitable thoughts. He wanted to understand his son, not to desire what was no more accessible to desire. So he compelled himself to read the last paragraph slowly - with his head, not his heart, so that he could understand it.
The truth is that our Christian civilization is riddled through and through with dilemma. We believe in the brotherhood of man, but we do not want it in South Africa. We believe that G-d endows men with diverse gifts, and that human life depends for its fullness on their employment and enjoyment, but we are afraid to explore this belief too deeply. We believe in help for the underdog, but we want him to stay under. And we are therefore compelled, in order to preserve our belief that we are Christian, to ascribe to Almighty G-d, Creator of Heaven and Earth, our own human intentions, and to say that because He created white and black, He gives the Divine Approval to any human action that is designed to keep black men from advancement. We go so far as to credit Almighty G-d with having created black men to hew wood and draw water for white men. We go so far as to assume that He blesses any action that is designed to prevent black men from the full employment of the gifts He gave them. Alongside of these very arguments we use others totally inconsistent, so that the accusation of repression may be refuted. We say we withhold education because the black child has not the intelligence to profit by it; we withhold opportunity to develop gifts because black people have no gifts; we justify our action by saying that it took us thousands of years to achieve our own advancement, and it would be foolish to suppose that it will take the black man any lesser time, and that therefore there is no need for hurry. We shift our ground again when a black man does achieve something remarkable, and feel deep pity for a man who is condemned to the loneliness of being remarkable, and decide that it is a Christian kindness not to let black men become remarkable. Thus even our G-d becomes a confused and inconsistent creature, giving gifts and denying them employment. Is it strange then that our civilization is riddled through and through with dilemma? The truth is that our civilization is not Christian; it is a tragic compound of great ideal and fearful practice, of high assurance and desperate anxiety, of loving charity and fearful clutching of possessions. Allow me a minute....
Jarvis sat, deeply moved. Whether because this was his son, whether because this was almost the last act of his son, he could not say. Whether because there was some quality in the words, that too he could not say, for he had given little time in his life to the savouring and judging of words. Whether because there was some quality in the ideas, that too he could not say, for he had given little time to the study of these particular matters. He rose and went up the stairs to his room, and was glad to find his wife not there, for here was a sequence not to be interrupted. He picked up the Abraham Lincoln and went down to the study again, and there opened the book at the Second Inaugural Address of the great president. He read it through, and felt with a sudden lifting of the spirit that here was a secret unfolding, a track picked up again. There was increasing knowledge of a stranger. He began to understand why the picture of this man was in the house of his son, and the multitude of books.
He picked up the page again, but for his son, not for the words or the ideas. He looked at the words.
Allow me a minute...
And nothing more. Those fingers would not write any more. Allow me a minute, I hear a sound in the kitchen. Allow me a minute, while I go to my death. Allow me a thousand minutes, I am not coming back any more.
Jarvis shook it off, and put another match to his pipe, and after he had read the paper through, sat in a reverie, smoking.
James.
He started. Yes, my dear, he said.
You shouldn't sit by yourself, she said.
He smiled at her. It's not my nature to brood, he said.
Then what have you been doing?
Thinking. Not brooding, thinking. And reading. This is what I have been reading.
She took it, looked at it, and held it against her breast.
Read it, he said quietly, it's worth reading.
So she sat down to read it, and he watching her, knew what she would do. She turned to the last page, to the last words. Allow me a minute, and sat looking at them. She looked at him, she was going to speak, he accepted that. Pain does not go away so quickly.
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They want to hear your voice again, Sir Ernest Oppenheimer. Some of them applaud you, and some of them say thank G-d for you, in their hearts, even at their bedsides. For mines are for men, not for money. And money is not something to go mad about, and throw your hat into the air for. Money is for food and clothes and comfort, and a visit to the pictures. Money is to make happy the lives of children. Money is for security, and for dreams, and for hopes, and for purposes. Money is for buying the fruits of the earth, of the land where you were born.
No second Johannesburg is needed upon the earth. One is enough.
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And here was one called "Private Essay on the Evolution of a South African," and this he took out to read:
It is hard to be born a South African. One can be born an Afrikaner, or an English-speaking South African, or a coloured man, or a Zulu. One can ride, as I rode when I was a boy, over green hills and into great valleys. One can see, as I saw when I was a boy, the reserves of the Bantu people and see nothing of what was happening there at all. One can hear, as I heard when I was a boy, that there are more Afrikaners than English-speaking people in South Africa, and yet know nothing, see nothing, of them at all. One can read, as I read when I was a boy, the brochures about lovely South Africa, that land of sun and beauty sheltered from the storms of the world, and feel pride in it and love for it, and yet know nothing about it at all. It is only as one grows up that one learns that there are other things here than sun and gold and oranges. It is only then that one learns of the hates and fears of our country. It is only then that one's love grows deep and passionate, as a man may love a woman who is true, false, cold, loving, cruel and afraid.
I was born on a farm, brought up by honourable parents, given all that a child could need or desire. They were upright and kind and law-abiding; they taught me my prayers and took me regularly to church; they had no trouble with servants and my father was never short of labour. From them I learned all that a child should learn of honour and charity and generosity. But of South Africa I learned nothing at all.
Shocked and hurt, Jarvis put down the papers. For a moment he felt something almost like anger, but he wiped his eyes with his fingers and shook it from him. But he was trembling and could read no further. He stood up and put on his hat, and went down the stairs, and as far as the stain on the floor. The policeman was ready to salute him, but he turned again, and went up the stairs, and sat down again at the table. He took up the papers and read them through to the end. Perhaps he was some judge of words after all, for the closing paragraphs moved him. Perhaps he was some judge of ideas after all:
Therefore I shall devote myself, my time, my energy, my talents, to the service of South Africa. I shall no longer ask myself if this or that is expedient, but only if it is right. I shall do this, not because I am noble or unselfish, but because life slips away, and because I need for the rest of my journey a star that will not play false to me, a compass that will not lie. I shall do this, not because I am a negrophile and a hater of my own, but because I cannot find it in me to do anything else. I am lost when I balance this against that, I am lost when I ask if this is safe, I am lost when I ask if men, white men or black men, Englishmen or Afrikaners, Gentiles or Jews, will approve. Therefore I shall try to do what is right, and to speak what is true.
I do this not because I am courageous and honest, but because it is the only way to end the conflict of my deepest soul. I do it because I am no longer able to aspire to the highest with one part of myself, and to deny it with another. I do not wish to live like that, I would rather die than live like that. I understand better those who have died for their convictions, and have not thought it was wonderful or brave or noble to die. They died rather than live, that was all.
Yet it would not be honest to pretend that it is solely an inverted selfishness that moves me. I am moved by something that is not my own, that moves me to do what is right, at whatever cost it may be. In this I am fortunate that I have married a wife who thinks as I do, who has tried to conquer her own fears and hates. Aspiration is thus made easy. My children are too young to understand. It would be grievous if they grew up to hate me or fear me, or to think of me as a betrayer of those things that I call our possessions. It would be a source of unending joy if they grew up to think as we do. It would be exciting, exhilarating, a matter for thanksgiving. But it cannot be bargained for. It must be given or withheld, and whether the one or the other, it must not alter the course that is right.
Jarvis sat a long time smoking, he did not read any more. He put the papers back in the drawer and closed it. He sat there till his pipe was finished. When it was done he put on his hat and came down the stairs. At the foot of the stairs he turned and walked towards the front door. He was not afraid of the passage and the stain on the floor; he was not going that way any more, that was all.
The front door was self-locking and he let himself out. He looked up at the sky from the farmer's habit, but these skies of a strange country told him nothing. He walked down the path and out of the gate. The policeman at the back door heard the door lock, and shook his head with understanding. He cannot face it any more, he said to himself, the old chap cannot face it any more.
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The two women talked of the people of Ixopo and Lufafa and Highflats and Umzimkulu, and he left them and walked in the garden, for he was a man of the soil.
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While he was reading there was a knock at the kitchen door, and he went out to find a native parson standing on the paved stone at the foot of the three stone steps that led up to the kitchen. The parson was old, and his black clothes were green with age, and his collar was brown with age or dirt. He took off his hat, showing the whiteness of his head, and he looked startled and afraid and he was trembling.
Good morning, umfundisi, said Jarvis in Zulu, of which he was a master.
The parson answered in a trembling voice, Umnumzana, which means Sir, and to Jarvis' surprise, he sat down on the lowest step, as though he were ill or starving. Jarvis knew this was not rudeness, for the old man was humble and well-mannered, so he came down the steps, saying, Are you ill, umfundisi? But the old man did not answer. He continued to tremble, and he looked down on the ground, so that Jarvis could not see his face, and could not have seen it unless he had lifted the chin with his hand, which he did not do, for such a thing is not lightly done.
Are you ill, umfundisi?
I shall recover, umnumzana.
Do you wish water? Or is it food? Are you hungry?
No, umnumzana, I shall recover.
Jarvis stood on the paved stone below the lowest step, but the old man was not quick to recover. He continued to tremble, and to look at the ground. It is not easy for a white man to be kept waiting, but Jarvis waited, for the old man was obviously ill and weak. The old man made an effort to rise, using his stick, but the stick slipped on the paved stone, and fell clattering on the stone. Jarvis picked it up and restored it to him, but the old man put it down as a hindrance, and he put down his hat also, and tried to lift himself up by pressing his hands on the steps. But his first effort failed, and he sat down again, and continued to tremble. Jarvis would have helped him, but such a thing is not so lightly done as picking up a stick; then the old man pressed his hands again on the steps, and lifted himself up. Then he lifted his face also and looked at Jarvis, and Jarvis saw that his face was full of a suffering that was of neither illness nor hunger. And Jarvis stooped, and picked up the hat and stick, and he held the hat carefully for it was old and dirty, and he restored them to the parson.
I thank you, umnumzana.
Are you sure you are not ill, umfundisi?
I am recovered, umnumzana.
And what are you seeking, umfundisi?
The old parson put his hat and his stick down again on the step, and with trembling hands pulled out a wallet from the inside pocket of the old green coat, and the papers fell out on the ground, because his hands would not be still.
I am sorry, umnumzana.
He stooped to pick up the papers, and because he was old he had to kneel, and the papers were old and dirty, and some that he had picked up fell out of his hands while he was picking up others, and the wallet fell too, and the hands were trembling and shaking. Jarvis was torn between compassion and irritation, and he stood and watched uncomfortably.
I am sorry to detain you, umnumzana.
It is no matter, umfundisi.
At last the papers were collected, and all were restored to the wallet except one, and this one he held out to Jarvis, and on it were the name and address of this place where they were.
This is the place, umfundisi.
I was asked to come here, umnumzana. There is a man named Sibeko of Ndotsheni -
Ndotsheni, I know it. I come from Ndotsheni.
And this man had a daughter, umnumzana, who worked for a white man uSmith in Ixopo -
Yes, yes.
And when the daughter of uSmith married, she married the white man whose name is on the paper.
That is so.
And they came to live here in Springs, and the daughter of Sibeko came here also to work for them. Now Sibeko has not heard of her for these twelve months, and he asked - I am asked - to inquire about this girl.
Jarvis turned and went into the house, and returned with the boy who was working there. You may inquire from him, he said, and he turned again and went into the house. But when he was there it came suddenly to him that this was the old parson of Ndotsheni himself. So he came out again.
Did you find what you wanted, umfundisi?
This boy does not know her, umnumzana. When he came she had gone already.
The mistress of the house is out, the daughter of uSmith. But she will soon be returning, and you may wait for her if you wish.
Jarvis dismissed the boy, and waited till he was gone.
I know you, umfundisi, he said.
The suffering in the old man's face smote him, so that he said, sit down, umfundisi. Then the old man would be able to look at the ground, and he would not need to look at Jarvis, and Jarvis would not need to look at him, for it was uncomfortable to look at him. So the old man sat down and Jarvis said to him, not looking at him, there is something between you and me, but I do not know what it is.
Umnumzana.
You are in fear of me, but I do not know what it is. You need not be in fear of me.
It is true, umnumzana. You do not know what it is.
I do not know but I desire to know.
I doubt if I could tell it, umnumzana.
You must tell it, umfundisi. Is it heavy?
It is very heavy, umnumzana. It is the heaviest thing of all my years.
He lifted his face, and there was in it suffering that Jarvis had not seen before. Tell me, he said, it will lighten you.
I am afraid, umnumzana.
I see you are afraid, umfundisi. It is that which I do not understand. But I tell you, you need not be afraid. I shall not be angry. There will be no anger in me against you.
Then, said the old man, this thing that is the heaviest thing of all my years, is the heaviest thing of all your years also.
Jarvis looked at him, at first bewildered, but then something came to him. You can only mean one thing, he said, you can only mean one thing. But I still do not understand.
It was my son that killed your son, said the old man.
So they were silent. Jarvis left him and walked out into the trees of the garden. He stood at the wall and looked out over the veld, out to the great white dumps of the mines, like hills under the sun. When he turned to come back, he saw that the old man had risen, his hat in one hand, his stick in the other, his head bowed, his eyes on the ground. He went back to him.
I have heard you, he said. I understand what I did not understand. There is no anger in me.
Umnumzana.
The mistress of the house is back, the daughter of uSmith. Do you wish to see her? Are you recovered?
It was that I came to do, umnumzana.
I understand. And you were shocked when you saw me. You had no thought that I would be here. How did you know me?
I have seen you riding past Ndotsheni, past the church where I work.
Jarvis listened to the sounds in the house. Then he spoke very quietly. Perhaps you saw the boy also, he said. He too used to ride past Ndotsheni. On a red horse with a white face. And he carried wooden guns, here in his belt, as small boys do.
The old man's face was working. He continued to look on the ground, and Jarvis could see that tears fell on it. He himself was moved and unmanned, and he would have brought the thing to an end, but he could find no quick voice for it.
I remember, umnumzana. There was a brightness in him.
Yes, yes, said Jarvis, there was a brightness in him.
Umnumzana, it is a hard word to say. But my heart holds a deep sorrow for you, and for the inkosikazi, and for the young inkosikazi, and for the children.
Yes, yes, said Jarvis. Yes, yes, he said fiercely. I shall call the mistress of the house.
He went in and brought her out with him. This old man, he said in English, has come to inquire about the daughter of a native named Sibeko, who used to work for you in Ixopo. They have heard nothing of her for months.
I had to send her away, said Smith's daughter. She was good when she started, and I promised her father to look after her. But she went to the bad and started to brew liquor in her room. She was arrested and sent to jail for a month, and after that of course I could not take her back again.
You do not know where she is? asked Jarvis.
I'm sure I do not know, said Smith's daughter in English. And I do not care.
She does not know, said Jarvis in Zulu. But he did not add that Smith's daughter did not care.
I thank you, said the old man in Zulu. Stay well, umnumzana. And he bowed to Smith's daughter and she nodded her acknowledgment.
He put on his hat and started to walk down the path to the back gate, according to the custom. Smith's daughter went into the house, and Jarvis followed the old man slowly, as though he were not following him. The old man opened the gate and went out through it and closed it behind him. As he turned to close it he saw that Jarvis had followed him, and he bowed to him.
Go well, umfundisi, said Jarvis.
Stay well, umnumzana. The old man raised his hat and put it back again on his head. Then he started to walk slowly down the road to the station, Jarvis watching him until he was out of sight. As he turned to come back, he saw that his wife was coming to join him, and he saw with a pang that she too walked as if she were old.
He walked to join her, and she put her arm in his.
Why are you so disturbed, James? she asked. Why were you so disturbed when you came into the house?
Something that came out of the past, he said. You know how it comes suddenly.
She was satisfied, and said, I know.
She held his arm more closely. Barbara wants us for lunch, she said.
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THE GREAT BULL voice is speaking there in the square. There are many policemen there, both white and black; it gives one no doubt a sense of power to see them there, and to be speaking to so many people, for the great bull voice growls and rises and falls.
There are those who can be moved by the sound of the voice alone. There are those who remember the first day they heard it as if it were today, who remember their excitement, and the queer sensations of their bodies as though electricity were passing through them. For the voice has magic in it, and it has threatening in it, and it is as though Africa itself were in it. A lion growls in it, and thunder echoes in it over black mountains.
Dubula and Tomlinson listen to it, with contempt, and with envy. For here is a voice to move thousands, with no brain behind it to tell it what to say, with no courage to say it if it knew.
The policemen hear it, and one says to the other, this man is dangerous. And the other says, it is not my job to think about such things.
We do not ask for what cannot be given, says John Kumalo. We ask only for our share of what is produced by our labour. New gold has been found, and South Africa is rich again. We ask only for our share of it. This gold will stay in the bowels of the earth if we do not dig it out. I do not say it is our gold, I say only that we should get our share in it. It is the gold of the whole people, the white, and the black, and the coloured, and the Indian. But who will get the most of this gold?
And here the great voice growls in the bull throat. A wave of excitement passes through the crowd. The policemen stand more alert, except those who have heard this before. For they know that this Kumalo goes so far and no further. What if this voice should say words that it speaks already in private, should rise and not fall again, should rise and rise and rise, and the people rise with it, should madden them with thoughts of rebellion and dominion, with thoughts of power and possession? Should paint for them pictures of Africa awakening from sleep, of Africa resurgent, of Africa dark and savage? It would not be hard to do, it does not need a brain to think such words. But the man is afraid, and the deep thundering growl dies down, and the people shiver and come to themselves.
Is it wrong to ask more money? John Kumalo asks. We get little enough. It is only our share that we ask, enough to keep our wives and our families from starvation. For we do not get enough. The Lansdown Commission said that we do not get enough. The Smit Commission said that we do not get enough.
And here the voice growls again, and the people stir.
We know that we do not get enough, Kumalo says. We ask only for those things that laboring men fight for in every country in the world, the right to sell our labour for what it is worth, the right to bring up our families as decent men should.
They say that higher wages will cause the mines to close down. Then what is it worth, this mining industry? And why should it be kept alive, if it is only our poverty that keeps it alive? They say it makes the country rich, but what do we see of these riches? Is it we that must be kept poor so that others may stay rich?
The crowd stirs as though a great wind were blowing through it. Here is the moment, John Kumalo, for the great voice to reach even to the gates of Heaven. Here is the moment for words of passion, for wild indiscriminate words that can waken and madden and unleash. But he knows. He knows the great power that he has, the power of which he is afraid. And the voice dies away, as thunder dies away over mountains, and echoes and re-echoes more and more faintly.
I tell you, the man is dangerous, said the one policeman.
I believe you now that I have heard him, said the other. Why don't they put the bastard inside?
Why don't they shoot him? asked the first.
Or shoot him, agreed the other.
The Government is playing with fire, said the first.
I believe you, said the second.
All we ask is justice, says Kumalo. We are not asking here for equality and the franchise and the removal of the colour-bar. We are asking only for more money from the richest industry in the world. This industry is powerless without our labour. Let us cease to work and this industry will die. And I say, it is better to cease to work than to work for such wages.
The native policemen are smart and alert. They stand at their posts like soldiers. Who knows what they think of this talk, who knows if they think at all? The meeting is quiet and orderly. So long as it stays quiet and orderly, there is nothing to be done. But at the first sign of disorder, John Kumalo will be brought down and put in the van, and taken to some other place. And what will happen to the carpenter's shop, that brings in eight, ten, twelve pounds a week? What will happen to the talks in the carpenter's shop, where men come from every part of the country to listen to him?
There are some men who long for martyrdom, there are those who know that to go to prison would bring greatness to them, these are those who would go to prison not caring if it brought greatness or not. But John Kumalo is not one of them. There is no applause in prison.
I shall not keep you any longer, says John Kumalo. It is getting late, and there is another speaker, and many of you will be in trouble with the police if you do not get home. It does not matter to me, but it matters to those of you who must carry a pass. And we do not wish to trouble the police. I tell you we have labour to sell, and it is a man's freedom to sell his labour for what it is worth. It is for that freedom that this war has just been fought. It is for that freedom that many of our own African soldiers have been fighting.
The voice growls again, something is coming.
Not only here, he says, but in all Africa, in all the great continent where we Africans live.
The people growl also. The one meaning of this is safe, but the other meaning is dangerous. And John Kumalo speaks the one meaning, and means the other meaning.
Therefore let us sell our labour for what it is worth, he says. And if an industry cannot buy our labour, let that industry die. But let us not sell our labour cheap to keep any industry alive.
John Kumalo sits down, and the people applaud him, a great wave of shouting and clapping. They are simple people, and they do not know that this is one of the country's greatest orators, with one thing lacking. They have heard only the great bull voice, they have been lifted up, and let fall again, but by a man who can lift up again after he has let fall.
Now you have heard him, said Msimangu.
Stephen Kumalo nodded his head. I have never heard its like, he said. Even I - his brother - he played with me as though I were a child.
Power, said Msimangu, power. Why G-d should give such power is not for us to understand. If this man were a preacher, why, the whole world would follow him.
I have never heard its like, said Kumalo.
Perhaps we should thank G-d he is corrupt, said Msimangu solemnly. For if he were not corrupt, he could plunge this country into bloodshed. He is corrupted by his possessions, and he fears their loss, and the loss of the power he already has. We shall never understand it. Shall we go, or shall we listen to this man Tomlinson?
I could listen to him.
Then let us go nearer. He is difficult to hear.
Shall we go, Mr. Jarvis?
Yes, John, let's go.
What did you think of it, Mr. Jarvis?
I don't care for that sort of thing, said Jarvis briefly.
I don't quite mean that. I mean, it's happening, isn't it?
Jarvis grunted. I don't care for it, John. Let's go on to your Club.
He's too old to face it, thought John Harrison to himself, just like my father.
He climbed into the car and started up the engine.
But we have to face it, he reflected soberly.
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In the deserted harbour there is yet water that laps against the quays. In the dark and silent forest there is a leaf that falls. Behind the polished panelling the white ant eats away the wood. Nothing is ever quiet, except for fools.
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The Judge speaks to the boy.
Have you anything to say, he asks, before I pronounce sentence?
I have only this to say, that I killed this man, but I did not mean to kill him, only I was afraid.
They are silent in the Court, but for all that a white man calls out in a loud voice for silence. Kumalo puts his face in his hands, he has heard what it means. Jarvis sits stern and erect. The young white man looks before him and frowns fiercely. The girl sits like the child she is, her eyes are fixed on the Judge, not on her lover.
I sentence you, Absalom Kumalo, to be returned to custody, and to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the L-rd have mercy upon your soul.
The Judge rises, and the people rise. But not all is silent. The guilty one falls to the floor, crying and sobbing. And there is a woman wailing, and an old man crying,Tixo, Tixo . No one calls for silence, though the Judge is not quite gone. For who can stop the heart from breaking?
They come out of the Court, the white on one side, the black on the other, according to the custom. But the young white man breaks the custom, and he and Msimangu help the old and broken man, one on each side of him. It is not often that such a custom is broken. It is only when there is a deep experience that such a custom is broken. The young man's brow is set, and he looks fiercely before him. That is partly because it is a deep experience, and partly because of the custom that is being broken. For such a thing is not lightly done.
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After it was done, the two priests and the wife and Gertrude left father and son, and Kumalo said to him, I am glad you are married.
I also am glad, my father.
I shall care for your child, my son, even as if it were my own.
But when he realized what it was he had said, his mouth quivered and he would indeed have done that which he was determined not to do, had not the boy said out of his own suffering, when does my father return to Ndotsheni?
Tomorrow, my son.
Tomorrow?
Yes, tomorrow.
And you will tell my mother that I remember her.
Yes, indeed I shall tell her. Yes, indeed, I shall take her that message. Why yes indeed. But he did not speak those words, he only nodded his head.
And my father.
Yes, my son.
I have money in a Post Office Book. Nearly four pounds is there. It is for the child. They will give it to my father at the office. I have arranged for it.
Yes, indeed I shall get it. Yes, indeed, even as you have arranged. Why yes indeed.
And my father.
Yes, my son.
If the child is a son, I should like his name to be Peter. And Kumalo said in a strangled voice, Peter.
Yes, I should like it to be Peter.
And if it is a daughter?
No, if it is a daughter, I have not thought of any name. And my father.
Yes, my son.
I have a parcel at Germiston, at the home of Joseph Bhengu, at Number 12, Maseru Street. I should be glad if it could be sold for my son.
Yes, I hear you.
There are other things that Pafuri had. But I think he will deny that they are mine.
Pafuri? This same Pafuri?
Yes, my father.
It is better to forget them.
It is as my father sees.
And these things at Germiston, my son. I do not know how I could get them, for we leave tomorrow.
Then it does not matter.
But because Kumalo could see that it did matter, he said, I shall speak to the Reverend Msimangu.
That would be better.
And this Pafuri, said Kumalo bitterly. And your cousin, I find it hard to forgive them.
The boy shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.
They lied, my father. They were there, even as I said.
Indeed they were there. But they are not here now.
They are here, my father. There is another case against them.
I did not mean that, my son. I mean they are not...they are not....
But he could not bring himself to say what he meant.
They are here, said the boy not understanding. Here in this very place. Indeed, my father, it is I who must go.
Go?
Yes. I must go...to...
Kumalo whispered, to Pretoria?
At those dread words the boy fell on the floor, he was crouched in the way that some of the Indians pray, and he began to sob, with great tearing sounds that convulsed him. For a boy is afraid of death. The old man, moved to it by that deep compassion which was there within him, knelt by his son, and ran his hand over his head.
Be of courage, my son.
I am afraid, he cried. I am afraid.
Be of courage, my son.
The boy reared up on his haunches. He hid nothing, his face was distorted by his cries. Au! au! I am afraid of the hanging, he sobbed, I am afraid of the hanging.
Still kneeling, the father took his son's hands, and they were not lifeless any more, but clung to his, seeking some comfort, some assurance. And the old man held them more strongly, and said again, be of good courage, my son.
The white warder, hearing these cries, came in and said, but not with unkindness, old man, you must go now.
I am going, sir. I am going, sir. But give us a little time longer.
So the warder said, well, only a little time longer, and he withdrew.
My son, dry your tears.
So the boy took the cloth that was offered him and dried his tears. He kneeled on his knees, and though the sobbing was ended, the eyes were far-seeing and troubled.
My son, I must go now. Stay well, my son. I shall care for your wife and your child.
It is good, he says. Yes, he says it is good, but his thoughts are not on any wife or child. Where his thoughts are there is no wife or child, where his eyes are there is no marriage.
My son, I must go now.
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Well, well, I understand. What is this matter?
One thing is to greet you before I go. But I could not greet you and say nothing. You have seen how it is with my son. He left his home and he was eaten up. Therefore I thought that this must be spoken, what of your own son? He also has left his home.
I am thinking about this matter, said John Kumalo. When this trouble is finished, I shall bring him back here.
Are you determined?
I am determined. I promise you that. He laughed his bull laugh. I cannot leave all the good deeds to you, my brother. The fatted calf will be killed here.
That is a story to remember.
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Do you hate the white man, my brother?
John Kumalo looked at him with suspicion. I hate no man, he said. I hate only injustice.
But I have heard some of the things you have said.
What things?
I have heard that some of them are dangerous things. I have heard that they are watching you, that they will arrest you when they think it is time. It is this matter that I must bring to you, because you are my brother.
Have no doubt it is fear in the eyes. The big man looks like a boy that is caught. I do not know what these things are, he says.
I hear it is some of the things that are said in this shop, said Kumalo.
In this shop? Who would know what is said in this shop?
For all his prayers for the power to forgive, Kumalo desired to hurt his brother. Do you know every man who comes to this shop? he asked. Could a man not be sent to this shop to deceive you?
The big bull man wiped the sweat from his brow. He was wondering, Kumalo knew, if such a thing might not be. And for all the prayers, the desire to hurt was stronger, so strong that he was tempted to lie, yielded, and lied. I have heard, he said, that a man might have been sent to this shop to deceive you. As a friend.
You heard that?
And Kumalo, ashamed, had to say, I heard it.
What a friend, said the big bull man. What a friend.
And Kumalo cried at him out of his suffering, my son had two such friends.
The big man looked at him. Your son? he said. Then the meaning of it came to him, and anger overwhelmed him. Out of my shop, he roared, out of my shop.
He kicked over the table in front of him, and came at Kumalo, so that the old man had to step out of the door into the street, and the door shut against him, and he could hear the key turned and the bolt shot home in his brother's anger.
Out there in the street, he was humiliated and ashamed. Humiliated because the people passing looked in astonishment, ashamed because he did not come for this purpose at all. He had come to tell his brother that power corrupts, that a man who fights for justice must himself be cleansed and purified, that love is greater than force. And none of these things had he done. G-d have mercy on me, Christ have mercy on me. He turned to the door, but it was locked and bolted. Brother had shut out brother, from the same womb had they come.
The people were watching, so he walked away in his distress.
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Kumalo went with his friend to the gate, and Msimangu said, I am forsaking the world and all possessions, but I have saved a little money. I have no father or mother to depend on me, and I have the permission of the Church to give this to you, my friend, to help you with all the money you have spent in Johannesburg, and all the new duties you have taken up. This book is in your name.
He put the book into Kumalo's hand, and Kumalo knew by the feeling of it that it was a Post Office Book. And Kumalo put his hands with the book on the top of the gate, and he put his head on his hands, and he wept bitterly. And Msimangu said to him, do not spoil my pleasure, for I have never had a pleasure like this one. Which words of his made the old man break from weeping into sobbing, so that Msimangu said, there is a man coming, be silent, my brother.
They were silent till the man passed, and then Kumalo said, in all my days I have known no one as you are. And Msimangu said sharply, I am a weak and sinful man, but G-d put His hands on me, that is all. And as for the boy, he said, it is the Governor-General-in-Council who must decide if there will be mercy. As soon as Father Vincent hears, he will let you know.
And if they decide against him?
If they decide against him, said Msimangu soberly, one of us will go to Pretoria on that day, and let you know - when it is finished. And now I must go, my friend. We must be up early in the morning. But of you too I ask a kindness.
Ask all that I have, my friend.
I ask that you will pray for me in this new thing I am about to do.
I shall pray for you, morning and evening, all the days that are left.
Goodnight, brother.
Goodnight, Msimangu, friend of friends. And may G-d watch over you always.
And you also.
Kumalo watched him go down the street and turn into the Mission House. Then he went into the room and lit his candle and opened the book. There was thirty-three pounds four shillings and fivepence in the book. He fell on his knees and groaned and repented of the lie and the quarrel. He would have gone there and then to his brother, even as it is commanded, but the hour was late. But he would write his brother a letter. He thanked G-d for all the kindnesses of men, and was comforted and uplifted. And these things done, he prayed for his son. Tomorrow they would all go home, all except his son. And he would stay in the place where they would put him, in the great prison in Pretoria, in the barred and solitary cell; and mercy failing, would stay there till he was hanged. Aye, but the hand that had murdered had once pressed the mother's breast into the thirsting mouth, had stolen into the father's hand when they went out into the dark. Aye, but the murderer afraid of death had once been a child afraid of the night.
In the morning he rose early, it was yet dark. He lit his candle, and suddenly remembering, went on his knees and prayed his prayer for Msimangu. He opened the door quietly, and shook the girl gently. It is time for us to rise, he said. She was eager at once, she started up from the blankets. I shall not be long, she said. He smiled at the eagerness. Ndotsheni, he said, tomorrow it is Ndotsheni. He opened Gertrude's door, and held up his candle. But Gertrude was gone. The little boy was there, the red dress and the white turban were there. But Gertrude was gone.
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THE ENGINE STEAMS and whistles over the veld of the Transvaal. The white flat hills of the mines drop behind, and the country rolls away as far as the eye can see. They sit all together, Kumalo, and the little boy on his knees, and the girl with her worldly possessions in one of those paper carriers that you find in the shops. The little boy has asked for his mother, but Kumalo tells him she has gone away, and he does not ask any more.
At Volksrust the steam engine leaves them, and they change it for one that has the cage, taking power from the metal ropes stretched overhead. Then they wind down the escarpment, into the hills of Natal, and Kumalo tells the girl this is Natal. And she is eager and excited, never having seen it before.
Darkness falls, and they thunder through the night, over battlefields of long ago. They pass without seeing them the hills of Mooi River, Rosetta, Balgowan. As the sun rises they wind down the greatest hills of all, to Pietermaritzburg, the lovely city.
Here they enter another train, and the train runs along the valley of the Umsindusi, past the black slums, past Edendale, past Elandskop, and down into the great valley of the Umkomaas, where the tribes live, and the soil is sick almost beyond healing. And the people tell Kumalo that the rains will not fall; they cannot plough or plant, and there will be hunger in this valley.
At Donnybrook they enter still another train, the small toy train that runs to Ixopo through the green rolling hills of Eastwolds and Lufafa. And at Ixopo they alight, and people greet him and say, au! but you have been a long time away.
There they enter the last train, that runs beside the lovely road that goes into the hills. Many people know him, and he is afraid of their questions. They talk like children, these people, and it is nothing to ask, who is this person, who is this girl, who is this child, where do they come from, where do they go. They will ask how is your sister, how is your son, so he takes his sacred book and reads in it, and they turn to another who has taste for conversation.
The sun is setting over the great valley of the Umzimkulu, behind the mountains of East Griqualand. His wife is there, and the friend to help the umfundisi with his bags. He goes to his wife quickly, and embraces her in the European fashion. He is glad to be home.
She looks her question, and he says to her, our son is to die, perhaps there may be mercy, but let us not talk of it now.
I understand you, she says.
And Gertrude. All was ready for her to come. There we were all in the same house. But when I went to wake her, she was gone. Let us not talk of it now.
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The path is dropping now, from the green hills where the mist feeds the grass and the bracken. It runs between the stones, and one must walk carefully for it is steep. A woman with child must walk carefully, so Kumalo's wife goes before the girl, and tells her, here is a stone, be careful that you do not slip. Night is falling, and the hills of East Griqualand are blue and dark against the sky.
The path is dropping into the red land of Ndotsheni. It is a wasted land, a land of old men and women and children, but it is home. The maize hardly grows to the height of a man, but it is home.
It is dry here, umfundisi. We cry for rain.
I have heard it, my friend.
Our mealies are nearly finished, umfundisi. It is known toTixo alone what we shall eat.
The path grows more level, it goes by the little stream that runs by the church. Kumalo stops to listen to it, but there is nothing to hear.
The stream does not run, my friend.
It has been dry for a month, umfundisi.
Where do you get water, then?
The women must go to the river, umfundisi, that comes from the place of uJarvis.
At the sound of the name of Jarvis, Kumalo feels fear and pain, but he makes himself say, how is uJarvis?
He returned yesterday, umfundisi. I do not know how he is. But the inkosikazi returned some weeks ago, and they say she is sick and thin. I work there now, umfundisi.
Kumalo is silent, and cannot speak. But his friend says to him, it is known here, he says.
Ah, it is known.
It is known, umfundisi.
They do not speak again, and the path levels out, running past the huts, and the red empty fields. There is calling here, and in the dusk one voice calls to another in some far distant place. If you are a Zulu you can hear what they say, but if you are not, even if you know the language, you would find it hard to know what is being called. Some white men call it magic, but it is no magic, only an art perfected. It is Africa, the beloved country.
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There is a lamp outside the church, the lamp they light for the services. There are women of the church sitting on the red earth under the lamp; they are dressed in white dresses, each with a green cloth about her neck. They rise when the party approaches, and one breaks into a hymn, with a high note that cannot be sustained; but others come in underneath it, and support and sustain it, and some men come in too, with the deep notes and the true. Kumalo takes off his hat and he and his wife and his friend join in also, while the girl stands and watches in wonder. It is a hymn of thanksgiving, and man remembers G-d in it, and prostrates himself and gives thanks for the Everlasting Mercy. And it echoes in the bare red hills and over the bare red fields of the broken tribe. And it is sung in love and humility and gratitude, and the humble simple people pour their lives into the song.
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They rise, and the new teacher says, can we not singNkosi Sikelel' iAfrika , G-d Save Africa? And the old teacher says, they do not know it here, it has not come here yet. The new teacher says, we have it in Pietermaritzburg, it is known there. Could we not have it here? The old teacher says, we are not in Pietermaritzburg here. We have much to do in our school. For she is cold with this new teacher, and she is ashamed too, because she does not knowNkosi Sikelel' iAfrika , G-d save Africa.
Yes, G-d save Africa, the beloved country. G-d save us from the deep depths of our sins. G-d save us from the fear that is afraid of justice. G-d save us from the fear that is afraid of men. G-d save us all.
Call oh small boy, with the long tremulous cry that echoes over the hills. Dance oh small boy, with the first slow steps of the dance that is for yourself. Call and dance, Innocence, call and dance while you may. For this is a prelude, it is only a beginning. Strange things will be woven into it, by men you have never heard of, in places you have never seen. It is life you are going into, you are not afraid because you do not know. Call and dance, call and dance. Now, while you may.
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I do not know if I should stay here, my friend.
Why, umfundisi?
What, said Kumalo bitterly. With a sister who has left her child, and a son who has killed a man? Who am I to stay here?
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Did you put out the lamp?
Let it burn a little longer.
Has the church so much money, then?
He smiled at her. This is a special night, he said.
Her brow contracted with pain, he knew what she was thinking.
I shall put it out, he said.
Let it burn a little longer. Put it out when you have had your food.
That will be right, he said soberly. Let it burn for what has happened here, let it be put out for what has happened otherwise.
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The morning was already hot beyond endurance, but the skies were cloudless and held no sign of rain. There had never been such a drought in this country. The oldest men of the tribe could not remember such a time as this, when the leaves fell from the trees till they stood as though it were winter, and the small tough-footed boys ran from shade to shade because of the heat of the ground. If one walked on the grass, it crackled underfoot as it did after a fire, and in the whole valley there was not one stream that was running. Even on the tops the grass was yellow, and neither below nor above was there any ploughing. The sun poured down out of the pitiless sky, and the cattle moved thin and listless over the veld to the dried-up streams, to pluck the cropped grass from the edges of the beds.
Kumalo climbed the hill to the place of the chief and was told to wait. This was no strange thing, for if he wished a chief could tell a man to wait simply because he was a chief. If he wished he could tell a man to wait while he idly picked his teeth, or stared out day-dreaming over a valley. But Kumalo was glad of the chance to rest. He took off his coat and sat in the shade of a hut, and pondered over the ways of a chief. For who would be chief over this desolation? It was a thing the white man had done, knocked these chiefs down, and put them up again, to hold the pieces together. But the white men had taken most of the pieces away. And some chiefs sat with arrogant and blood-shot eyes, rulers of pitiful kingdoms that had no meaning at all. They were not all like that; there were some who had tried to help their people, and who had sent their sons to schools. And the Government had tried to help them too. But they were feeding an old man with milk, and pretending that he would one day grow into a boy.
Kumalo came to himself with a start and realized how far he had travelled since that journey to Johannesburg. The great city had opened his eyes to something that had begun and must now be continued. For there in Johannesburg things were happening that had nothing to do with any chief. But he got to his feet, for they had summoned him to the presence of the ruler of the tribe.
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Why is there is no milk in Ndotsheni? Is it because the people are poor?
Yes, inkosana.
And what do the children do?
Kumalo looked at him. They die, my child, he said. Some of them are dying now.
Who is dying now?
The small child of Kuluse.
Didn't the doctor come?
Yes, he came.
And what did he say?
He said the child must have milk, inkosana.
And what did the parents say?
They said, Doctor, we have heard what you say.
And the small boy said in a small voice, I see. He raised his cap and said solemnly, Goodbye, umfundisi. He set off solemnly too, but there were spectators along the way, and it was not long before he was galloping wildly along the hot dusty road.
The night brought coolness and respite. While they were having their meal, Kumalo and his wife, the girl and the small boy, there was a sound of wheels, and a knock at the door, and there was the friend who had carried the bags.
Umfundisi. Mother.
My friend. Will you eat?
No indeed. I am on my way home. I have a message for you.
For me?
Yes, from uJarvis. Was the small white boy here today?
Kumalo had a dull sense of fear, realizing for the first time what had been done.
He was here, he said.
We were working in the trees, said the man, when this small boy came riding up. I do not understand English, umfundisi, but they were talking about Kuluse's child. And come and look what I have brought you.
There outside the door was the milk, in the shining cans in the cart.
This milk is for small children only, for those who are not yet at school, said the man importantly. And it is to be given by you only. And these sacks must be put over the cans, and small boys must bring water to pour over the sacks. And each morning I shall take back the cans. This will be done till the grass comes and we have milk again.
The man lifted the cans from the cart and said, Where shall I put them, umfundisi? But Kumalo was dumb and stupid, and his wife said, We shall put them in the room that the umfundisi has in the church. So they put them there, and when they came back the man said, You would surely have a message for uJarvis, umfundisi? And Kumalo stuttered and stammered, and at last pointed his hand up at the sky. And the man said,Tixo will bless him, and Kumalo nodded.
The man said, I have worked only a week there, but the day he says to me, die, I shall die.
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The roof leaks in many places, Kumalo shouted, and Jarvis shouted in reply, I have seen that also.
At last Jarvis found a place where the rain did not fall too badly, and Kumalo found himself a place also, and they sat there together in silence. But outside it was not silent, with the cracking of the thunder, and the deafening downpour on the roof.
It was a long time that they sat there, and it was not until they heard the rushing of the streams, of dead rivers come to life, that they knew that the storm was abating. Indeed the thunder sounded further away and there was a dull light in the church, and the rain made less noise on the roof.
It was nearly over when Jarvis rose and came and stood in the aisle near Kumalo. Without looking at the old man he said, Is there mercy?
Kumalo took the letter from his wallet with trembling hands; his hands trembled partly because of the sorrow, and partly because he was always so with this man. Jarvis took the letter and held it away from him so that the dull light fell on it. Then he put it back again in the envelope, and returned it to Kumalo.
I do not understand these matters, he said, but otherwise I understand completely.
I hear you, umnumzana.
Jarvis was silent for a while, looking towards the altar and the cross on the altar.
When it comes to this fifteenth day, he said, I shall remember. Stay well, umfundisi.
But Kumalo did not say go well. He did not offer to carry the saddle and the bridle, nor did he think to thank Jarvis for the milk. And least of all did he think to ask about the matter of the sticks. And when he rose and went out, Jarvis was gone. It was still raining, but lightly, and the valley was full of sound, of streams and rivers, all red with the blood of the earth.
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So the days passed. Kumalo prayed regularly for the restoration of Ndotsheni, and the sun rose and set regularly over the earth.
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I see, said Kumalo. But you must tell me why you are here. Who sent you to me?
Why, the white man who brought me.
uJarvis, was that the name?
I do not know the name, umfundisi, but it is the white man who has just gone.
Yes, that is uJarvis. Now tell me all.
I am come here to teach farming, umfundisi.
To us, in Ndotsheni?
Yes, umfundisi.
Kumalo's face lighted up, and he sat there with his eyes shining. You are an angel from G-d, he said.
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They turned to walk back to the house, and Kumalo said, So you think many things can be done?
There are many things that can be done, umfundisi.
Truly?
Umfundisi, said the young man, and his face was eager, there is no reason why this valley should not be what it was before. But it will not happen quickly. Not in a day.
If G-d wills, said Kumalo humbly, before I die. For I have lived my life in destruction.
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It was dark in the church for the confirmation, so that they had to light the lamps. The great heavy clouds swept over the valley, and the lightning flashed over the red desolate hills, where the earth had torn away like flesh. The thunder roared over the valleys of old men and old women, of mothers and children. The men are away, the young men and the girls are away, the soil cannot keep them any more. And some of the children are there in the church being confirmed, and after a while they too will go away, for the soil cannot keep them any more.
It was dark there in the church, and the rain came down through the roof. The pools formed on the floor, and the people moved here and there, to get away from the rain. Some of the white dresses were wet, and a girl shivered there with the cold, because this occasion was solemn for her, and she did not dare to move out of the rain. And the voice of the Bishop said, Defend, oh L-rd, this Thy child with Thy heavenly grace, that he may continue Thine for ever, and daily increase in Thy Holy Spirit more and more, till he come unto Thy everlasting Kingdom. And this he said to each child that came, and confirmed them all.
After the confirmation they crowded into the house, for the simple food that was to be taken. Kumalo had to ask those who were not that day confirmed, or who were not parents of those confirmed, to stay in the church, for it was still raining heavily, though the lightning and the thunder had passed. Yet the house was full to overflowing; the people were in the kitchen, and in the room where Kumalo did his accounts, and in the room where they ate, and in the room where they slept, even in the room of the young demonstrator.
At last the rain was over, and the Bishop and Kumalo were left alone in the room where Kumalo did his accounts. The Bishop lit his pipe and said to Kumalo, Mr. Kumalo, I should like to talk to you. And Kumalo sat down fearfully, afraid of what would be said.
I was sorry to hear of all your troubles, my friend.
They have been heavy, my L-rd.
I did not like to worry you, Mr. Kumalo, after all you had suffered. And I thought I had better wait till this confirmation.
Yes, my L-rd.
I speak to you out of my regard for you, my friend. You must be sure of that.
Yes, my L-rd.
Then I think, Mr. Kumalo, that you should go away from Ndotsheni.
Yes, that is what would be said, it is said now. Yes, that is what I have feared. Yet take me away, and I die. I am too old to begin any more. I am old, I am frail. Yet I have tried to be a father to this people. Could you not have been here, O Bishop, the day when I came back to Ndotsheni? Would you not have seen that these people love me, although I am old? Would you not have heard a child say, We are glad the umfundisi is back; this other man, we did not understand him? Would you take me away just when new things are beginning, when there is milk for the children, and the young demonstrator has come, and the sticks for the dam are planted in the ground? The tears fill the eyes, and the eyes shut, and the tears are forced out, and they fall on the new black suit, made for this confirmation with the money of the beloved Msimangu. The old head is bowed, and the old man sits there like a child, with not a word to be spoken.
Mr. Kumalo, says the Bishop gently, and then again, more loudly, Mr. Kumalo.
Sir. My L-rd.
I am sorry to distress you. I am sorry to distress you. But would it not be better if you went away?
It is what you say, my L-rd.
The Bishop sits forward in his chair, and rests his elbows upon his knees. Mr. Kumalo, is it not true that the father of the murdered man is your neighbour here in Ndotsheni? Mr. Jarvis?
It is true, my L-rd.
Then for that reason alone I think you should go.
Is that a reason why I should go? Why, does he not ride here to see me, and did not the small boy come into my house? Did he not send the milk for the children, and did he not get this young demonstrator to teach the people farming? And does not my heart grieve for him, now that the inkosikazi is dead? But how does one say these things to a Bishop, to a great man in the country? They are things that cannot be said.
Do you understand me, Mr. Kumalo?
I understand you, my L-rd.
I would send you to Pietermaritzburg, to your old friend Ntombela. You could help him there, and it would take a load off your shoulders. He can worry about buildings and schools and money, and you can give your mind to the work of a priest. That is the plan I have in my mind.
I understand you, my L-rd.
If you stay here, Mr. Kumalo, there will be many loads on your shoulders. There is not only the fact that Mr. Jarvis is your neighbour, but sooner or later you must rebuild your church, and that will cost a great deal of money and anxiety. You saw for yourself today in what condition it is.
Yes, my L-rd.
And I understand you have brought back to live with you the wife of your son, and that she is expecting a child. Is it fair to them to stay here, Mr. Kumalo? Would it not be better to go to some place where these things are not known?
I understand you, my L-rd.
There was a knock at the door, and it was the boy standing there, the boy who took the message. Kumalo took the letter, and it was addressed to the Rev. S. Kumalo, Ndotsheni. He thanked the boy and closed the door, then went and sat down in his chair, ready to listen to the Bishop.
Read your letter, Mr. Kumalo.
So Kumalo opened the letter, and read it.
Umfundisi:
I thank you for your message of sympathy, and for the promise of the prayers of your church. You are right, my wife knew of the things that are being done, and had the greatest part in it. These things we did in memory of our beloved son. It was one of her last wishes that a new church should be built at Ndotsheni, and I shall come to discuss it with you.
Yours truly,
JAMES JARVIS.
You should know that my wife was suffering before we went to Johannesburg.
Kumalo stood up, and he said in a voice that astonished the Bishop, this is from G-d, he said. It was a voice in which there was relief from anxiety, and laughter, and weeping, and he said again, looking round the walls of the room, This is from G-d.
May I see your letter from G-d, said the Bishop dryly.
So Kumalo gave it to him eagerly, and stood impatiently while the Bishop read it. And when the Bishop had finished, he said gravely, That was a foolish jest.
He read it again, and blew his nose, and sat with the letter in his hand.
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After the Bishop had gone, Kumalo stood outside the church in the gathering dark. The rain had stopped, but the sky was black with promise. It was cool, and the breeze blew gently from the great river, and the soul of the man was uplifted. And while he stood there looking out over the great valley, there was a voice that cried out of heaven, Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, these things will I do unto you, and not forsake you.
Only it did not happen as men deem such things to happen, it happened otherwise. It happened in that fashion that men call illusion, or the imaginings of people overwrought, or an intimation of the divine.
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Have courage, young man. Both the chief and I are working for you.
I am impatient for the dam, said the demonstrator. When the dam is made, there will be water for the pastures. I tell you, umfundisi, he said excitedly, there will be milk in this valley. It will not be necessary to take the white man's milk.
Kumalo looked at him. Where would we be without the white man's milk? he asked. Where would we be without all that this white man has done for us? Where would you be also? Would you be working for him here?
It is true I am paid by him, said the young man stubbornly. I am not ungrateful.
Then you should not speak so, said Kumalo coldly.
There fell a constraint between them, until the young demonstrator said quietly, umfundisi, I work here with all my heart, is it not so?
That is true indeed.
I work so because I work for my country and my people. You must see that, umfundisi. I could not work so for any master.
If you had no master, you would not be here at all.
I understand you, said the young man. This man is a good man, and I respect him. But it is not the way it should be done, that is all.
And what way should it be done?
Not this way, said the young man doggedly.
What way then?
Umfundisi, it was the white man who gave us so little land, it was the white man who took us away from the land to go to work. And we were ignorant also. It is all these things together that have made this valley desolate. Therefore, what this good white man does is only a repayment.
I do not like this talk.
I understand you, umfundisi, I understand you completely. But let me ask one thing of you.
Ask it then.
If this valley were restored, as you are always asking in your prayers, do you think it would hold all the people of this tribe if they all returned?
I do not know indeed.
But I know, umfundisi. We can restore this valley for those who are here, but when the children grow up, there will again be too many. Some will have to go still.
And Kumalo was silent, having no answer. He sighed. You are too clever for me, he said.
I am sorry, umfundisi.
You need not be sorry. I see you have a love for truth.
I was taught that, umfundisi. It was a white man who taught me. There is not even good farming, he said, without the truth.
This man was wise.
It was he also who taught me that we do not work for men, that we work for the land and the people. We do not even work for money, he said.
Kumalo was touched, and he said to the young man, Are there many who think as you do?
I do not know, umfundisi. I do not know if there are many. But there are some.
He grew excited. We work for Africa, he said, not for this man or that man. Not for a white man or a black man, but for Africa.
Why do you not say South Africa?
We would if we could, said the young man soberly.
He reflected for a moment. We speak as we sing, he said, for we singNkosi Sikelel' iAfrika .
It is getting dark, said Kumalo, and it is time for us to wash.
You must not misunderstand me, umfundisi, said the young man earnestly. I am not a man for politics. I am not a man to make trouble in your valley. I desire to restore it, that is all.
May G-d give you your desire, said Kumalo with equal earnestness. My son, one word.
Yes, umfundisi.
I cannot stop you from thinking your thoughts. It is good that a young man has such deep thoughts. But hate no man, and desire power over no man. For I have a friend who taught me that power corrupts.
I hate no man, umfundisi. I desire power over none.
That is well. For there is enough hating in our land already.
The young man went into the house to wash, and Kumalo stood for a moment in the dark, where the stars were coming out over the valley that was to be restored. And that for him was enough, for his life was nearly finished. He was too old for new and disturbing thoughts and they hurt him also, for they struck at many things. Yes, they struck at the grave silent man at High Place, who after such deep hurt, had shown such deep compassion. He was too old for new and disturbing thoughts. A white man's dog, that is what they called him and his kind. Well, that was the way his life had been lived, that was the way he would die.
He turned and followed the young man into the house.
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Now it was almost dark, and he was alone in the dusk; which was well, for one did not go publicly on a journey of this nature. But even as he started to climb the path that ran through the great stones, a man on a horse was there, and a voice said to him, It is you, umfundisi?
It is I, umnumzana.
Then we are well met, umfundisi. For here in my pocket I have a letter for the people of your church. He paused for a moment, and then he said, The flowers were of great beauty, umfundisi.
I thank you, umnumzana.
And the church, umfundisi. Do you desire a new church?
Kumalo could only smile and shake his head, there were no words in him. And though he shook his head as if it were No, Jarvis understood him.
The plans will shortly come to you, and you must say if they are what you desire.
I shall send them to the Bishop, umnumzana.
You will know what to do. But I am anxious to do it quickly, for I shall be leaving this place.
Kumalo stood shocked at the frightening and desolating words. And although it was dark, Jarvis understood him, for he said swiftly, I shall be often here. You know I have a work in Ndotsheni. Tell me, how is the young man?
He works night and day. There is no quietness in him.
The white man laughed softly. That is good, he said. Then he said gravely, I am alone in my house, so I am going to Johannesburg to live with my daughter and her children. You know the small boy?
Indeed, umnumzana, I know him.
Is he like him?
He is like him, umnumzana.
And then Kumalo said, Indeed, I have never seen such a child as he is.
Jarvis turned on his horse, and in the dark the grave silent man was eager. What do you mean? he asked.
Umnumzana, there is a brightness inside him.
Yes, yes, that is true. The other was even so.
And then he said, like a man with hunger, do you remember?
And because this man was hungry, Kumalo, though he did not well remember, said, I remember.
They stayed there in silence till Jarvis said, umfundisi, I must go. But he did not go. Instead he said, Where are you going at this hour?
Kumalo was embarrassed, and the words fell about on his tongue, but he answered, I am going into the mountain.
Because Jarvis made no answer he sought for words to explain it, but before he had spoken a word, the other had already spoken. I understand you, he said, I understand completely.
And because he spoke with compassion, the old man wept, and Jarvis sat embarrassed on his horse. Indeed he might have come down from it, but such a thing is not lightly done. But he stretched his hand over the darkening valley, and he said, One thing is about to be finished, but here is something that is only begun. And while I live it will continue. Umfundisi, go well.
Umnumzana!
Yes.
Do not go before I have thanked you. For the young man, and the milk. And now for the church.
I have seen a man, said Jarvis with a kind of grim gaiety, who was in darkness till you found him. If that is what you do, I give it willingly.
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He pondered long over this, for might not another man, returning to another valley, have found none of these things? Why was it given to one man to have his pain transmuted into gladness? Why was it given to one man to have such an awareness of G-d? And might not another, having no such awareness, live with pain that never ended? Why was there a compulsion upon him to pray for the restoration of Ndotsheni, and why was there a white man there on the tops, to do in this valley what no other could have done? And why of all men, the father of the man who had been murdered by his son? And might not another feel also a compulsion, and pray night and day without ceasing, for the restoration of some other valley that would never be restored?
But his mind would contain it no longer. It was not for man's knowing. He put it from his mind, for it was a secret.
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He thought of all those that were suffering, of Gertrude the weak and foolish one, of the people of Shanty Town and Alexandra, of his wife now at this moment. But above all of his son, Absalom. Would he be awake, would he be able to sleep, this night before the morning? He cried out, My son, my son, my son.
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And now for all the people of Africa, the beloved country. Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika , G-d save Africa. But he would not see that salvation. It lay afar off, because men were afraid of it. Because, to tell the truth, they were afraid of him, and his wife, and Msimangu, and the young demonstrator. And what was there evil in their desires, in their hunger? That men should walk upright in the land where they were born, and be free to use the fruits of the earth, what was there evil in it? Yet men were afraid, with a fear that was deep, deep in the heart, a fear so deep that they hid their kindness, or brought it out with fierceness and anger, and hid it behind fierce and frowning eyes. They were afraid because they were so few. And such fear could not be cast out, but by love.
It was Msimangu who had said, Msimangu who had no hate for any man, I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they turn to loving they will find we are turned to hating.
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When he woke again there was a faint change in the east, and he looked at his watch almost with a panic. But it was four o'clock and he was reassured. And now it was time to be awake, for it might be they had wakened his son, and called him to make ready. He left his place and could hardly stand, for his feet were cold and numb. He found another place where he could look to the east, and if it was true what men said, when the sun came up over the rim, it would be done.
He had heard that they could eat what they wished on a morning like this. Strange that a man should ask for food at such a time. Did the body hunger, driven by some deep dark power that did not know it must die? Is the boy quiet, and does he dress quietly, and does he think of Ndotsheni now? Do tears come into his eyes, and does he wipe them away, and stand up like a man? Does he say, I will not eat any food, I will pray? Is Msimangu there with him, or Father Vincent, or some other priest whose duty it is, to comfort and strengthen him, for he is afraid of the hanging? Does he repent him, or is there only room for his fear? Is there nothing that can be done now, is there not an angel that comes there and cries, This is for G-d not for man, come child, come with me?
He looked out of his clouded eyes at the faint steady lightening in the east. But he calmed himself, and took out the heavy maize cakes and the tea, and put them upon a stone. And he gave thanks, and broke the cakes and ate them, and drank of the tea. Then he gave himself over to deep and earnest prayer, and after each petition he raised his eyes and looked to the east. And the east lightened and lightened, till he knew that the time was not far off. And when he expected it, he rose to his feet and took off his hat and laid it down on the earth, and clasped his hands before him. And while he stood there the sun rose in the east.
Yes, it is the dawn that has come. The titihoya wakes from sleep, and goes about its work of forlorn crying. The sun tips with light the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand. The great valley of the Umzimkulu is still in darkness, but the light will come there. Ndotsheni is still in darkness, but the light will come there also. For it is the dawn that has come, as it has come for a thousand centuries, never failing. But when that dawn will come, of our emancipation, from the fear of bondage and the bondage of fear, why, that is a secret.
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