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 God. 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 God’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.
16
THE NEXT DAY Kumalo, who was learning to find his way about the great city, took the train to Pimville to see the girl who was with child by his son. He chose this time so that Msimangu would not be able to accompany him, not because he was offended, but because he felt he would do it better alone. He thought slowly and acted slowly, no doubt because he lived in the slow tribal rhythm; and he had seen that this could irritate those who were with him, and he had felt also that he could reach his goal more surely without them. He found the house not without difficulty, and knocked at the door, and the girl opened to him. And she smiled at him uncertainly, with something that was fear, and something that was child-like and welcoming. And how are you, my child? I am well, umfundisi.
He sat down on the only chair in the room, sat down carefully on it, and wiped his brow. Have you heard of your husband? he asked. Only the word does not quite mean husband.
The smile went from her face. I have not heard, she said. What I have to say is heavy, he said. He is in prison. In prison, she said. He is in prison, for the most terrible deed that a man can do. But the girl did not understand him. She waited patiently for him to continue. She was surely but a child. He has killed a white man. Au! The exclamation burst from her. She put her hands over her face. And Kumalo himself could not continue, for the words were like knives, cutting into a wound that was still new and open. She sat down on a box, and looked at the floor, and the tears started to run slowly down her cheeks. I do not wish to speak of it, my child. Can you read? The white man’s newspaper? A little. Then I shall leave it with you. But do not show it to others. I shall not show it to others, umfundisi. I do not wish to speak of it any more. I have come to speak with you of another matter. Do you wish to marry my son? It is as the umfundisi sees it. I am asking you, my child. I can be willing. And why would you be willing?
She looked at him, for she could not understand such a question. Why do you wish to marry him? he persisted.
She picked little strips of wood from the box, smiling in her perplexedness. He is my husband, she said, with the word that does not quite mean husband. But you did not wish to marry him before?
The questions embarrassed her; she stood up, but there was nothing to do, and she sat down again, and fell to picking at the box. Speak, my child. I do not know what to say, umfundisi. Is it truly your wish to marry him? It is truly my wish, umfundisi. I must be certain. I do not wish to take you into my family if you are unwilling.
At those words she looked up at him eagerly. I am willing, she said. We live in a far place, he said, there are no streets and lights and buses there. There is only me and my wife, and the place is very quiet. You are a Zulu? Yes, umfundisi. Where were you born? In Alexandra. And your parents? My father left my mother, umfundisi. And my second father I could not understand. Why did your father leave? They quarrelled, umfundisi. Because my mother was so often drunk. So your father left. And he left you also? He left us, my two brothers and me, my younger brothers. And your two brothers, where are they? One is in the school, umfundisi, the school where Absalom was sent. And one is in Alexandra. But he is disobedient, and I have heard that he too may go to the school. But how could your father have left you so?
She looked at him with strange innocence. I do not know, she said. And you did not understand your second father? So what did you do? I left that place. And what did you do? I lived in Sophiatown. Alone? No, not alone. With your first husband? he asked coldly. With my first, she agreed, not noticing his coldness. How many have there been?
She laughed nervously, and looked down at the hand picking at the box. She looked up, and finding his eyes upon her, was confused. Only three, she said. And what happened to the first? He was caught, umfundisi. And the second? He was caught also. And now the third is caught also.
He stood up, and a wish to hurt her came into him. Although he knew it was not seemly, he yielded to it, and he said to her, yes, your third is caught also, but now it is for murder. Have you had a murderer before? He took a step toward her, and she shrank away on the box, crying, no, no. And he, fearing that those outside might overhear, spoke more quietly to her and told her not to be afraid, and took a step backwards. But no sooner had she recovered than he wished to hurt her again. And he said to her, will you now take a fourth husband? And desperately she said, No, no, I want no husband any more.
And a wild thought came to Kumalo in his wild and cruel mood. Not even, he asked, if I desired you? You, she said, and shrank from him again. Yes, I, he said.
She looked round and about her, as one that was trapped. No, no, she said, it would not be right. Was it right before? No, it was not right. Then would you be willing?
She laughed nervously, and looked about her, and picked strips of wood from the box. But she felt his eyes upon her, and she said in a low voice, I could be willing.
He sat down and covered his face with his hands; and she, seeing him, fell to sobbing, a creature shamed and tormented. And he, seeing her, and the frailty of her thin body, was ashamed also, but for his cruelty, not her compliance. He went ove
r to her and said, how old are you, my child? I do not know, she sobbed, but I think I am sixteen. And the deep pity welled up in him, and he put his hand on her head. And whether it was the priestly touch, or whether the deep pity flowed into the fingers and the palm, or whether it was some other reason but the sobbing was quietened, and he could feel the head quiet under his hand. And he lifted her hands with his other, and felt the scars of her meaningless duties about this forlorn house. I am sorry, he said. I am ashamed that I asked you such a question. I did not know what to say, she said. I knew that you would not know. That is why I am ashamed. Tell me, do you truly wish to marry my son?
She clutched at his hands. I wish it, she said. And to go to a quiet and far-off place, and be our daughter? There was no mistaking the gladness of her voice. I wish it, she said. Greatly? Greatly, she said. My child? Umfundisi? I must say one more hard thing to you. I am listening, umfundisi. What will you do in this quiet place when the desire is upon you? I am a parson, and live at my church, and our life is quiet and ordered. I do not wish to ask you something that you cannot do. I understand, umfundisi. I understand completely. She looked at him through her tears. You shall not be ashamed of me. You need not be afraid for me. You need not be afraid because it is quiet. Quietness is what I desire. And the word, the word desire, quickened her to brilliance. That shall be my desire, she said, that is the desire that will be upon me, so that he was astonished. I understand you, he said. You are cleverer than I thought. I was clever at school, she said eagerly.
He was moved to sudden laughter, and stood wondering at the strangeness of its sound. What church are you? Church of England, umfundisi ¦this too, eagerly. He laughed again at her simplicity, and was as suddenly solemn. I want one promise from you, he said, a heavy promise.
And she too was solemn. Yes, umfundisi? If you should ever repent of this plan, either here or when we are gone to my home, you must not shut it up inside you, or run away as you did from your mother. You will promise to tell me that you have repented. I promise, she said gravely, and then eagerly, I shall never repent. And so he laughed again, and let go her hands, and took up his hat. I shall come for you when everything is ready for the marriage. Have you clothes? I have some clothes, umfundisi. I shall prepare them. And you must not live here. Shall I find you a place near me? I would wish that, umfundisi. She clapped her hands like a child. Let it be soon, she said, and I shall give up my room at this house. Stay well, then, my child. Go well, umfundisi.
He went out of the house, and she followed him to the little gate. When he turned back to look at her, she was smiling at him. He walked on like a man from whom a pain has lifted a little, not altogether, but a little. He remembered too that he had laughed, and that it had pained him physically, as it pains a man who is ill and should not laugh. And he remembered too, with sudden and devastating shock, that Father Vincent had said, I shall pray, night and day. At the corner he turned, and looking back, saw that the girl was still watching him.
17
THERE ARE FEW people that do not let their rooms, and Mrs. Lithebe is one. Her husband was a builder, a good and honest man, but they were not blessed with children. He built her this fine big house, it has a room to eat and live in, and three rooms to sleep in. And one she has for herself, and one for the priest that she is glad to have, for it is good to have a priest, it is good to have prayers in the house. And one she has for Gertrude and the child, for do they not belong to the priest? But strangers she will not have at all, she has money enough.
It is sad about the priest, it is sad about this Gertrude and the child, it is saddest of all about his son. But about his goodness she has no doubt at all. He is kind and gentle, and treats her with courtesy and respect, and uses the house as if it were his. And she admires him for what he has done, for saving Gertrude and the child, for getting his sister a new dress and a clean white cloth for her head, for getting shirt and jersey and trousers for the child. According to the custom she has thanked him for these gifts.
And it is pleasant having Gertrude and the child in the house. The girl is helpful and clean, though there is a strange carelessness about her, and she talks too easily to strangers, especially if they are men. For Mrs. Lithebe knows that she is a married woman, and Gertrude knows that the old woman is strict with her house, and she understands and is obedient. But it is saddest of all about the son, and after their custom they have wept and wailed for him. She and Gertrude talk endlessly about it, indeed it is the only thing they talk about now. The old man is silent, and his face has fallen into a mould of suffering. But she hears it all in his prayers, and feels for him in her heart. And though he sits long hours in the chair, and stares in front of him out of tragic eyes, he will stir to life when she speaks to him, and his smile lifts his face out of the mould of its suffering, and he is never otherwise than gentle and courteous towards her. Indeed when he plays with the child, there is something that comes out of him so that he is changed. Yet even then sometimes there is a silence, and she hears the child asking and asking unanswered, and she looks through the door, and he is sitting there silent, alone with his thoughts, his face in the mould of its suffering. Mrs. Lithebe. Umfundisi? Mrs. Lithebe, you have been so kind, and I have another kindness to ask you. Perhaps it can be done. Mrs. Lithebe, you have heard of this girl who is with child by my son. I have heard of her. She lives in Pimville, in a room in the house of other people. She wishes to marry my son, and I believe it can be arranged. Then whatever may happen she will go with me to Ndotsheni, and bear her child there in a clean and decent home. But I am anxious to get her away from this place, and I wondered ¦. I do not like to trouble you, mother. You would like to bring her here, umfundisi? Indeed, that would be a great kindness. I will take her, said Mrs. Lithebe. She can sleep in the room where we eat. But I have no bed for her. That would not matter. It is better for her to sleep on the floor of a decent house, than to ¦ Indeed, indeed.
Mother, I am grateful. Indeed you are a mother to me. Why else do we live? she said.
And after that he was cheerful, and called to the little boy, and sat him upon his knee, and moved him up and down quickly as a man moves on a horse. But it is not a good game, for an old man gets tired and a child does not. So they brought out the blocks, and built tall buildings like the buildings in Johannesburg, and sent them toppling over to destruction with noise and laughter. And now I must go, said Kumalo. I have a new sister to bring to you. He counted out his money. There were only one or two notes left. Soon he would have to break into the money in the Post Office Book. He sighed a little, and put on his coat and his hat and took up his stick. His wife would have to wait longer for her stove, and he would have to wait longer for his new black clothes, and for the collars that a parson wears.
The girl is not like Gertrude. She is openly glad to be in this house. Her clothes are few but clean, for she has prepared them with care, and of other belongings she has almost none at all. She opens the doors and looks into the rooms, and she is glad, not having lived before in such a house. She calls Mrs. Lithebe mother, and that pleases the good woman; and she is pleased too because the girl can speak Sesuto after a broken fashion. Gertrude too welcomes her, for it is no doubt dull for her in this house. They will talk much together. Indeed Mrs. Lithebe comes upon them, when they have been laughing together. They fall silent, Gertrude with some amusement in her eyes, and the girl confused. But Mrs. Lithebe does not like this laughter, it is the careless laughter that she does not like. She calls the girl to the kitchen to help her, and she says she does not like it. You are in a decent home, my child. Yes, mother, says the girl with downcast eyes. And you are brought here by a good and kindly man, so good that there is no word for it.
The girl looked up at her eagerly. I know it, she said. Then if you are content to be brought by him, you will not laugh so carelessly. Yes, mother. You are but a child, and laughter is good for a child. But there is one kind of laughter, and there is another. Yes, mother. You understand
what I mean? I understand you completely. This old man has been hurt greatly. Do you understand what I mean? I understand you completely. And he shall not be hurt any more, not in my house. I understand you. Then go, my child. But do not speak of what we have spoken. I understand you. My child, are you content to be brought here?
The girl looks at her fully. She spread out her hands, seeking some gesture to convey her conviction. I am content, she said. I desire to be nowhere but where I am. I desire no father but the umfundisi. I desire nothing that is not here. I see you are content. And one thing more, my child. When the little one plays with you, do not let him press so against you. It is your time to be careful. I understand you. Go then, my child. This home is your home.
So there was no more of the careless laughter, and the girl was quiet and obedient. And Gertrude saw that she was a child, and left her alone and was indifferent and amused after her own fashion.
He passed again through the great gate in the grim high wall, and they brought the boy to him. Again he took the lifeless hand in his own, and was again moved to tears, this time by the dejection of his son. Are you in health, my son?
The son stood and moved his head to one side, and looked for a while at the one window, and then moved and looked at the other, but not at his father. I am in health, my father. I have some business for you, my son. Are you certain that you wish to marry this girl? I can marry her? There is a friend of mine, a white priest, and he will see if it can be arranged, and he will see the Bishop to see if it can be done quickly. And he will get a lawyer for you.