No second Johannesburg is needed upon the earth. One is enough.
24
JARVIS THOUGHT HE would go to the house again. It was foolish to go through the kitchen, past the stain on the floor, up the stairs that led to the bedroom. But that was the way he went. He went not to the bedroom but to the study that was so full of books. And he went round the books again, past the case full of Abraham Lincoln, and the case full of South Africa, and the case full of Afrikaners, and the case full of religion and sociology and crime and criminals, and the case full of poetry and novels and Shakespeare. He looked at the pictures of the Christ crucified, and Abraham Lincoln, and Vergelegen, and the willows in the winter. He sat down at the table, where lay the invitations to do this and that, and the invitations to come to this and that, and the paper on what was permissible and what was not permissible in South Africa.
He opened the drawers of his son’s table, and here were accounts, and here were papers and envelopes, and here were pens and pencils, and here were old cheques stamped and returned by the bank. And here in a deep drawer were typewritten articles, each neatly pinned together, and placed one on top of the other. Here was an article on The Need for Social Centres, and one on Birds of a Parkwold Garden, and another on India and South Africa. 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.
25
ONE OF THE favourite nieces of Margaret Jarvis, Barbara Smith by name, had married a man from Springs, and both Jarvis and his wife, on a day when the Court was not holding the case, went to spend a day with them. He had thought it would be a good thing for his wife, who had taken the death of their son even more hardly than he had feared. 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. After a while they called to him to say they were going into the town, and asked if he wished to go with them. But he said that he would stay at the house, and read the newspaper while they were away, and this he did.
The newspaper was full of the new gold that was being found at Odendaalsrust, and of the great excitement that still prevailed on the share-market. Someone with authority was warning people against buying at higher and still higher prices, and saying that there was no proof that these shares were worth what they were fetching, and that they might come down after a while and cause much loss of money and much suffering. There was some crime too; most of the assaults reported were by natives against Europeans, but there was nothing of the terrible nature that made some people afraid to open their newspapers. 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.
26
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.
Ther
e 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?