Heavy with grief Kumalo left him, and went out to the gate in the wall where the others were waiting. And the girl came to him, and said shyly, but with a smile, umfundisi. Yes, my child. I am now your daughter.
He forced himself to smile at her. It is true, he said. And she was eager to talk of it, but when she looked at him she could see that his thoughts were not of such matters. So she did not speak of it further.
After he had returned from the prison, Kumalo walked up the hill that led to the street where his brother had the carpenter’s shop. For a wonder there was no one in the shop except the big bull man, who greeted him with a certain constraint. I am come to say farewell to you, my brother. Well, well, you are returning to Ndotsheni. You have been a long time away, my brother, and your wife will be glad to see you. When are you leaving? We leave tomorrow by the train that goes at nine o’clock. So Gertrude is going with you. And her child. You are doing a good thing, my brother. Johannesburg is not a place for a woman alone. But we must drink some tea.
He stood up to go and call to the woman at the back of the house, but Kumalo said, I do not wish for any tea, my brother. You must do as you wish, my brother, said John Kumalo. It is my custom to offer tea to my visitors.
He sat down and made much show of lighting a big bull pipe, holding it between his teeth, and searching amongst some papers for matches, but not looking at his brother. It is a good thing you are doing, my brother, he said with the pipe between his teeth. Johannesburg is not a place for a woman alone. And the child will be better in the country. I am taking another child also, said Kumalo. The wife of my son. And she is with child. Well, well, I have heard of it, said John Kumalo, giving attention to the match above his pipe. That is another good thing you are doing. His pipe was lit, and he thumbed the tobacco down giving it much attention. But at last there was nothing left to do, and he looked at his brother through the smoke. Not one, but more than one person has said to me, these are good things that your brother is doing. Well, well, you must give my remembrances to your wife, and to our other friends. You will get to Pietermaritzburg early in the morning, and you will catch the train to Donnybrook. And that evening you will be at Ndotsheni. Well, well, it is a long journey. My brother, there is a matter that must be spoken between us. It is as you wish, my brother. I have considered it very deeply. I have not come here to reproach you.
And John Kumalo said quickly as though he had been expecting it:
Reproach me? why should you reproach me? There is a case and a judge. That is not for you or me or any other person.
The veins stood out on the bull neck, but Kumalo was quick to speak. I do not say that I should reproach you. As you say there is a case and a judge. There is also a great Judge, but of Him you and I do not speak. But there is quite another matter that must be spoken. 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. Well, well, it is a story to remember. I do not throw away good teaching because well you understand me. And there is one last thing, said Kumalo. You are my older brother. Speak what you wish. Your politics, my brother. Where are they taking you? The bull veins stood out again on the bull throat. My politics, my brother, are my own. I do not speak to you about your religion. You said, speak what you wish. Well, well, I did say it. Well yes I am listening. Where are they taking you? I know what I am fighting for. You will pardon me he laughed his great laugh the Reverend Msimangu is not here, so you will pardon me if I talk English. Speak what you will. You have read history, my brother. You know that history teaches that the men who do the work cannot be kept down for ever. If they will stand together, who will stand against them? More and more our people understand that. If they so decide, there will be no more work done in South Africa. You mean if they strike? Yes, I mean that. But this last strike was not successful.
John Kumalo stood on his feet, and his voice growled in his throat. Look what they did to us, he said. They forced us into the mines as though we were slaves. Have we no right to keep back our labour? 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. God 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. I cannot thank you enough, said Jarvis. We would have done more if we could, Jarvis.
John Harrison drove up, and Jarvis and Harrison stood for a moment outside the car.
Our love to Margaret, and to Mary and the children, Jarvis. We’ll come down and see you one of these days. You’ll be welcome, Harrison, very welcome. One thing I wanted to say, Jarvis, said Harrison, dropping his voice. About the sentence. It can’t bring the dead back, but it was right, absolutely right. It couldn’t have been any other way so far as I’m concerned. If it had been any other way, I d have felt there was no justice in the world. I’m only sorry the other two got off. The Crown made a mess of the case. They should have hammered at that woman Mkize. Yes, I felt that way too. Well, goodbye to you, and thank you again. I’m glad to do it.
At the station Jarvis gave John Harrison an envelope. Open it when I’m gone, he said.
So when the train had gone, young Harrison opened it: For your club, it said. Do all the things you and Arthur wanted to do. If you like to call it the Arthur Jarvis Club, I’ll be pleased. But that is not a condition. Young Harrison turned it over to look at the cheque underneath. He looked at the train as though he might have run after it. One thousand pounds, he said. Helen of Troy, one thousand pounds!
They had a party at Mrs. Lithebe’s at which Msimangu was the host. It was not a gay part
y, that was hardly to be thought of. But the food was plentiful, and there was some sad pleasure in it. Msimangu presided after the European fashion, and made a speech commending the virtues of his brother priest, and the motherly care that Mrs. Lithebe had given to all under her roof. Kumalo made a speech too, but it was stumbling and uncertain, for the lie and the quarrel were uppermost in his mind. But he thanked Msimangu and Mrs. Lithebe for all their kindnesses. Mrs. Lithebe would not speak, but giggled like a girl, and said that people were born to do such kindness. But her friend the stout woman spoke for her, a long speech that seemed as if it would never end, about the goodness of both priests, and the goodness of Mrs. Lithebe; and she spoke plainly about the duty of Gertrude and the girl to lead good lives, and to repay all the kindnesses shown to them. And that led her on to talk about Johannesburg, and the evils of that great city, and the sinfulness of the people in Sophiatown and Claremont and Alexandra and Pimville. Indeed Msimangu was compelled to rise and say to her, Mother, we must rise early in the morning, otherwise we could listen to you for ever, so that happy and smiling she sat down. Then Msimangu told them that he had news for them, news that had been private until now, and that this was the first place where it would be told. He was retiring into a community, and would forswear the world and all possessions, and this was the first time that a black man had done such a thing in South Africa. There was clapping of hands, and all gave thanks for it. And Gertrude sat listening with enjoyment to the speeches at this great dinner, her small son asleep against her breast. And the girl listened also, with eager and smiling face, for in all her years she had never seen anything the like of this.
Then Msimangu said, We must all rise early to catch the train, my friends, and it is time we went to our beds, for the man with the taxi will be here at seven. So they closed with a hymn and prayers, and the stout woman went off with yet more thanks to Mrs. Lithebe for her kindness to these people. 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 God 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 God 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 God 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.
Book III
30
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 MooiRiver, 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. She bows her head. And this is the small boy, and this is our new daughter. Kumalo’s wife lifts the small boy and kisses him after the European fashion. You are my child, she says. She puts him down and goes to the girl who stands there humbly with her paper bag. She takes her in her arms after the European fashion, and says to her, you are my daughter. And the girl bursts suddenly into weeping, so that the woman must say to her, Hush, hush, do not cry. She says to her further, our home is simple and quiet, there are no great things there. The girl looks up through her tears and says, mother, that is all that I desire. Something deep is touched
here, something that is good and deep. Although it comes with tears, it is like a comfort in such desolation. Kumalo shakes hands with his friend, and they all set out on the narrow path that leads into the setting sun, into the valley of Ndotsheni. But here a man calls, umfundisi, you are back, it is a good thing that you have returned. And here a woman says to another, look, it is the umfundisi that has returned. One woman dressed in European fashion throws her apron over her head, and runs to the hut, calling and crying more like a child than a woman, it is the umfundisi that has returned. She brings her children to the door and they peep out behind her dresses to see the umfundisi that has returned.
A child comes into the path and she stands before Kumalo so that he must stop. We are glad that the umfundisi is here again, she says. But you have had an umfundisi here, he says, speaking of the young man that the Bishop had sent to take his place. We did not understand him, she says. It is only our umfundisi that we understand. We are glad that he is back.
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.