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 sing Nkosi 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 God 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.
36
THIS WAS THE fourteenth day. Kumalo said to his wife, I am going up into the mountain. And she said, I understand you. For twice before he had done it, once when the small boy Absalom was sick unto death, and once when he had thought of giving up the ministry to run a native store at Donnybrook for a white man named Baxter, for more money than the church could ever pay. And there was a third time, but that was without her knowledge, for she was away, and he had been sorely tempted to commit adultery with one of the teachers at Ndotsheni, who was weak and lonely. Would you come with me, he said, for I do not like to leave you alone. She was touched and she said, I cannot come, for the girl is near her time, and who knows when it will be. But you must certainly go. She made him a bottle of tea, of the kind that is made by boiling the leaves, and she wrapped up a few heavy cakes of maize. He took his coat and his stick and walked up the path that went to the place of the chief. But at the first fork you go to the side of the hand that you eat with, and you climb another hill to other huts that lie beneath the mountain itself. There you turn and walk under the mountain to the east, as though you were going to the far valley of Empayeni, which is another valley where the fields are red and bare, a valley of old men and women, and mothers and children. But when you reach the end of the level path, where it begins to fall to this other valley, you strike upwards into the mountain itself. This mountain is called Emoyeni, which means, in the winds, and it stands high above Carisbrooke and the tops, and higher still above the valleys of Ndotsheni and Empayeni. Indeed it is a rampart of the great valley itself, the valley of the Umzimkulu, and from it you look down on one of the fairest scenes of Africa.
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. Perhaps it was something deep that was here, or perhaps the darkness gives courage, but Kumalo said, truly, of all the white men that I have ever known I am no saintly man, said Jarvis fiercely. Of that I cannot speak, but God put His hands on you. And Jarvis said, That may be, that may be. He turned suddenly to Kumalo. Go well, umfundisi. Throughout this night, stay well.
And Kumalo cried after him, Go well, go well.
Indeed there were other things, deep things, that he could have cried, but such a thing is not lightly done. He waited till the sounds of the horse had died away, then started to climb heavily, holding onto the greatest stones, for he was young no longer. He was tired and panting when he reached the summit, and he sat down on a stone to rest, looking out over the great valley, to the mountains of Ingeli and East Griqualand, dark against the sky. Then recovered, he walked a short distance and found the place that he had used before on these occasions. It was an angle in the rock, sheltered from the winds, with a place for a man to sit on, his legs at ease over the edge. The first of these occasions he remembered clearly, perhaps because it was the first, perhaps because he had come to pray for the child that no prayer could save any more. The child could not write then, but here were three letters from him now, and in all of them he said, If I could come back to Ndotsheni, I would not leave it any more. And in a day or two they would receive the last he would ever write. His heart went out in a great compassion for the boy that must die, who promised now, when there was no more mercy, to sin no more. If he had got to him sooner, perhaps. He knitted his brows at the memory o
f that terrible and useless questioning, the terrible and useless answering, it is as my father wishes, it is as my father says. What would it have helped if he had said, My father, I do not know? He turned aside from such fruitless remembering, and set himself to the order of his vigil. He confessed his sins, remembering them as well as he could since the last time he had been in this mountain. There were some he remembered easily, the lie in the train, the lie to his brother, when John had barred the door against him and shut him out in the street; his loss of faith in Johannesburg, and his desire to hurt the girl, the sinning and innocent child. All this he did as fully as he could, and prayed for absolution.
Then he turned to thanksgiving, and remembered, with profound awareness, that he had great cause for thanksgiving, and that for many things. He took them one by one, giving thanks for each, and praying for each person that he remembered. There was above all the beloved Msimangu and his generous gift. There was the young man from the reformatory saying with angry brows, I am sorry, umfundisi, that I spoke such angry words. There was Mrs. Lithebe, who said so often, Why else were we born? And Father Vincent, holding both his hands and saying, Anything, anything, you have only to ask, I shall do anything. And the lawyer that took the case for God, and had written to say there was no mercy in such kind and gentle words.
Then there was the return to Ndotsheni, with his wife and his friend to meet him. And the woman who threw her apron over her head. And the women waiting at the church. And the great joy of the return, so that pain was forgotten. 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 God? 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.
And then the white man Jarvis, and the inkosikazi that was dead, and the small boy with the brightness inside him. As his mind could not contain that other, neither could this be contained. But here were thanks that a man could render till the end of his days. And some of them he strove now to render. He woke with a start. It was cold, but not so cold. He had never slept before on these vigils, but he was old, not quite finished, but nearly finished. 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. With his crying he was now fully awake, and he looked at his watch and saw that it was one o’clock. The sun would rise soon after five, and it was then it was done, they said. If the boy was asleep, then let him sleep, it was better. But if he was awake, then oh Christ of the abundant mercy, be with him. Over this he prayed long and earnestly.
Would his wife be awake, and thinking of it? She would have come with him, were it not for the girl. And the girl, why, he had forgotten her. But she was no doubt asleep; she was loving enough, but this husband had given her so little, no more than her others had done.
And there was Jarvis, bereaved of his wife and his son, and his daughter-in-law bereaved of her husband, and her children bereaved of their father, especially the small boy, the bright laughing boy. The small boy stood there before his eyes, and he said to Kumalo, When I go, something bright will go out of Ndotsheni. Yes, I see, he said. Yes, I see. He was not shy or ashamed, but he said, Yes, I see, and laughed with his pleasure.
And now for all the people of Africa, the beloved country. Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika, God 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.
Oh, the grave and the sombre words.
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 God 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.
About the Author
Alan Paton was born in 1903 in Pietermaritzburg, in the province of Natal, South Africa. After attending Pietermaritzburg College and Natal University, he taught school for three years in the rural village of Ixopo, the setting forCry, the Beloved Country . In 1935, he was made principal of the Diepkloof Reformatory near Johannesburg, a school for delinquent boys, where he instituted numerous reforms. Toward the end of World War II, Paton decided to make a study of prisons and reformatories, and traveled to Sweden, England, Canada, and the United States. It was on a visit to Norway that he began to writeCry, the Beloved Country, which he finished three months later in San Francisco. Paton retired from Diepkloof Reformatory shortly thereafter, and went to live on the south coast of Natal where he wrote many articles on South African affairs, and helped form the liberal Association of South Africa, which later emerged as a political party. Wr
itten with simplicity and restraint, eloquence and compassion, his other works of fiction include two novels,Too Late the Phalarope (1953) andAh, But Your Land Is Beautiful (1982), and a collection of short stories,Tales from a Troubled Land (1961). Among his nonfiction works are:South Africa in Transition (1956),Hope for South Africa (1958), a volume of essays edited by Edward Callan,The Long View (1968), a memoir and tribute to his wife,For You Departed (1969), and the first volume of an autobiography,Towards the Mountain . He died in 1988.
Alan Paton, Cry, the Beloved Country
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends