And my sister-in-law said, with her face full of love and care, I am sorry for the girl, but I tell myself I must think about the child.
And the magistrate said to her, I am sure you are right. This is the twelfth time that the girl has been sent to prison. When she comes out again, and if Mr. Grobler finds her a job, and if for some reason or other she loses the job, she will think again, as she obviously thinks now, that she has some kind of right to break the law. And how will the child grow up? Obviously to think that if he is not fed with a spoon, then he too has a right to break the law. If such a child is to be taken away, it should be done soon, for the longer he stays with his mother, the more likely is he to grow up into a skelm. I should say too that Mr. Grobler has already done more than he was obliged to do, for as far as I know, he is not obliged to find employment for such persons. Is that true, Mr. Grobler?
— That’s true, meneer, said Japie.
— Still, said the magistrate to my sister-in-law, we have a Welfare Society, and it will always be my policy to try to follow their recommendations if I can honestly do so.
— I should like, said my sister-in-law, to take the case to our Committee.
So we took the case to our Committee, and they spoke about it for more than an hour; but I did not speak, being afraid to speak or move or turn. Nor did my sister-in-law speak, but sat herself like a magistrate, if a magistrate can be so gentle, and listened as a magistrate listens to all the people in the court, and then gives his sentence. So she gave her gentle sentence, that it was time to take away the child.
AND IT was about this time that I saw the envelope of stamps. My brother was sitting at the long table reading in the book, and when he heard me coming he put the envelope quickly between the pages, and sat there watchful and innocent, but I had seen.
I went to Kappie, and he was sitting in his little office, the one I always reproached him with. And I accused him and said, you’ve been selling my brother stamps.
He smiled and said to me, mejuffrou, how is it possible?
— It’s not possible, I said. It just is. I’ve seen them.
— Did he show them to you, mejuffrou?
— Of course not, I said. He tried to hide them, but I saw them.
He smiled at me with much apology.
— It’s a secret, he said.
— It’s not a secret now, I said. Are they for the birthday?
He got up and shut the office door.
— They’re for the birthday, he said.
And I sat there and thought to myself that no one would ever understand the world or its men and women.
— He came and sat there in your chair, said Kappie, and said, I have some private business. So I got up and shut the door, just as I shut it now. Then he looked at me angrily and said, I want to buy some stamps. I looked at him and said, stamps? He said to me, am I speaking badly? No, no, I said, I heard what you said. Then he said to me still angrily, what stamps would he like? So I sat and thought to myself, what stamps would the lieutenant like? Then I said to him, meneer, how much do you want to spend? So he said to me, perhaps you did not hear me, I said, what stamps would he like? So I said, meneer, will you wait? Then I went to my room and got one of my books, and I brought it back to him and showed him the block of the four triangular stamps, the same stamps I showed to the lieutenant on the morning his father was so angry. And the Oubaas said, how much are they, Kappie? And I told him, thirty-two pounds. He looked at them, and then at me, and he said to me, it’s not a joke you’re making? And I said to him, I can show you other stamps. So he said to me, he likes them, does he? I said, he thinks they’re wonderful, meneer.
They must be wonderful, he said, why, I could buy the finest horse in the grass country for thirty-two pounds. Then he said, how much is a single stamp? Four pounds, I said. So, he said, who is going mad, Kappie, you or I? It’s because they’re all together, I said. Kappie, he said, I’ll sell you a sheep for four pounds, and I’ll sell you four for sixteen pounds, and put them all together too. It’s the way of the stamps, I said. Why don’t the farmers go in for stamps, he said. Why do they waste their time on sheep?
— Mejuffrou, that is how he went on, said Kappie to me. Ag, you know how he is.
— Go on, I said.
— So then he wrote the cheque for thirty-two pounds. And he gave it to me and said, it’s a robbery. I understand, I said. Then he got up and put the envelope into his pocket, and said to me, I’m glad you understand, for there’s no one else in South Africa could understand, except all other robbers. So I walked out with him to the door, and at the door he said, it’s a robbery, but understand, it’s a private robbery. I don’t want the whole grass country laughing behind my back.
So I sat there and considered the strange story of the stamps. And at another time one could have laughed over it, and been filled with joy. But I did not laugh, nor was I filled with joy.
— Mejuffrou, what’s the trouble?
— Ag, I said.
— It’s a deep trouble.
— Yes, I said.
Then Kappie told me how he felt like the man with the puzzle that has a hundred pieces, and the picture is all but complete, except for the six or seven pieces that will not fit. Therefore it cannot be the picture at all. And it was in my heart to tell him the one piece that I thought I knew, but I was afraid. And it was in my heart to tell him of the hard and bitter words that were spoken to me amongst the rocks of the krantz at Buitenverwagting, yet God forgive me, I pitied myself, and was ashamed that a man should think me a woman to whom such words could be spoken. So I was silent. And now as I write I am like a woman whose man is dead, because of some accident that was not foreseen, or because of some doctor that was not called, or because of some word that sounded like another; and she reproaches herself, and thinks that if for years she had not said, ah if we had a car, or if she had not said, let’s go today not tomorrow, or if she had said, let’s go by the lower road, perhaps her man would be alive again. And whether I could have saved him then, or whether if Kappie had known, he could have saved him then, or whether if the captain had been there, he could have saved him then, God knows, I do not know.
SO THE girl Stephanie returned from prison, and was called to the court, and was told that her child would be taken away, and would be given to some man and woman who had no child of their own, and were sober and law-abiding. So she left the court, but I did not see it then as I see it now, that she left it not like one on whom sentence is passed, but like one who passes it.
Not long after that the lieutenant was in the location, and one of the klonkies told him that the old woman Esther wished to speak to him. So he went to her house, but it was not the old woman Esther that wished to speak to him, it was the girl Stephanie.
And he said to her, hiding his fear, what do you want?
— They have taken my child, she said.
— I have heard it.
— I cannot be without my child, she said.
He looked at her, but he did not know what to say to her, for he feared her, and he feared her knowledge, and he feared her and her knowledge still more when she said, I told the baas I could not be without the child.
— I am not the magistrate, he said.
— It is not the magistrate, she said. It is the white women who have taken the child.
Then he knew what she would say.
— The baas knows these white women, she said.
— I know these white women, he said slowly, but they do not ask me what they must do.
— Then, she said, I must make another case.
And the words filled him with terror, so that he said in a voice not his own, what case? And she could see that he was troubled, so she said to him, with a lawyer.
So he stood there, afraid to stay and afraid to go away.
Then she said to him, this other case will also be for the child.
So the terror lifted, and he waited for her to speak again.
—
The lawyer wants money, she said.
— How much money?
— Five pounds.
Then he said to her, I could give that money, but I am not rich, to go on giving money.
— It’s the last money I shall ask, she said.
— I shall bring the money, he said.
— Tonight, she asked.
— Tomorrow night, he said.
Then she lifted her hand, and placed it palm outward against her brow, and said to him humbly, I shall be glad for the money, baas. And it will be the last money that I ask.
So he went away, half with comfort, and half with fear, and walked back to the town, and vowed and prayed, and prayed and vowed, with the vow that he would keep the law, both of God and of Man, and with the prayer, God wees my genadig, o Here Jesus wees my genadig.
So I took the five pounds and went with fear to the vacant ground. And it was my purpose, made in prayer, to keep the law. And it was her purpose, for what reason I did not know, to break the law. And I carried out her purpose, and not my own which was made in prayer.
THEN HE WENT HOME, filled with loathing of himself too deep to be uttered. When he got there Nella was in the dining-room, sitting by the fire. He did not go in to her, but called out, I’m going to have a bath, and she answered him, there’s no need to make one of those tremendous fires, there’s plenty of hot water in the pipes. Then he bathed himself from head to foot, trembling with the secret knowledge of the abject creature that was himself, that vowed and could not keep his vows, that was called to the high duty of the law and broke the law, that was moved in his soul by that which was holy and went reaching out for that which was vile, that was held in respect by men and was baser than them all. He thought he would go to Johannesburg, and see one of these psychiatrists, who might tell him some secret of salvation, for he had no more trust in his own power; nor any trust that he could find the secret of God’s power. And he thought of the words that are written, ask and it shall be given, search and it shall be found, knock and it shall be opened, but they too held some secret that he could not find. And he thought of those other words that are written, no man shall be tempted beyond his power, but they too held some meaning that he could not find.
When he had cleansed his body he put on his pyjamas and dressing gown, and went and spoke to Nella. And this time because he was cleansed without even if unclean within, he put his head in at the door, and said to Nella, I’m going to work.
She said to him, I’ll bring you some coffee.
He went into his study, and looked there amongst his learned books that told all the sins and weaknesses of men, hoping to find himself, though this he had already done, finding nothing. And he thought that perhaps he had expected to find it too easily, under some title readymade, and that perhaps he should read more carefully.
Nella brought him his coffee and rusks, and said to him, what, another cigarette?
— It helps me to concentrate, he said.
— You’ll have Hannes after you, she said.
And he smiled at her, not like a man who is master of himself, but one who is humble. And when she came to get the cup and plate, he would not let her carry them but carried them himself. And though it was not her habit, he was afraid that she might put her arm through his, and speak gentle words to him that he could not have borne.
Then she said, I’m tired, I’m going to bed, and held up her face to be kissed. And he kissed her on the brow, and did not open his lips; and sometimes when he did that, she said, what a kiss, and sometimes she did not, thinking nothing of it. And this night she did not, for which he was grateful.
So he went back to his books, but could not find himself there, at least not in any way that he could say, this is myself, this is myself beyond all doubt. So he read there of the misery of other men’s lives, and the dark crimes and sins that they committed, and he did not know if they were sinning, or asking and seeking, and knocking at strange and terrible doors. And he found himself in a sad tormented company, and had pity for all twisted souls, and most for himself that found himself with them.
And all the day following he was filled with this new humility, and was full of helpfulness and small courtesies. And he would not allow Nella to do this and that, but did it for her, with some kind of sad gentleness, like a man who takes farewell of his friends, who know that he goes on some journey whose nature and end they do not understand. But this nature and end he understands, and is therefore silent because it is always in his mind, and is sad because of his knowledge, and is gentle as though it is his friends not he that stand in need of some compassion.
And I saw him in the street. He was standing outside the Royal talking to Abraham Kaplan, the brother of Kappie his friend. And Abraham Kaplan remembered only afterwards the courtesy and gentleness. For when his friends talked to the lieutenant, they knew only that he was talking to them, and they would not notice this or that; except Kappie, who being like myself set apart from the world, would notice this and that. While they were talking, Abraham Kaplan’s daughter Rachel, the one that plays the violin, came out to go to school, out of their house that is next to the hotel, for Abraham Kaplan would not let his wife and daughter live in any hotel, not even a decent and quiet place like the Royal. And the lieutenant said to the girl, Rachel, how’s the violin?
The girl blushed and made some answer, but Abraham Kaplan said with pride, it’s going well, lieutenant.
And the lieutenant said to the girl, when are you going to play for us again?
For sometimes the girl played in some concert in Venterspan.
— My father doesn’t like it, she said.
Abraham Kaplan shrugged his shoulders and put out his hands, and the lieutenant said to her, your father’s right, your time will come. But don’t worry; sometimes I hear you playing when I pass in the street.
Then he said to her, then I say just what your uncle says, that one day they will hear you play in far bigger places than this, not only here, but in other countries.
And the girl was filled with pleasure, and the father too, as any father is who hears such praise for his child; and proud too, because it was the lieutenant that gave the praise.
— One more year, said Abraham Kaplan and she goes away to study. And her mother goes too, so the old man will be left alone.
Then the lieutenant left them, and walked away down van Onselen Street. And they stood and watched him go, and spoke about him, as one speaks about a man who has given pleasure. But it was only afterwards that Abraham Kaplan remembered, that there was something in it not quite like other times.
And when I saw him in van Onselen Street, I turned at once into Kappie’s store, for I remembered only the hard and bitter words that were spoken to me amongst the rocks of the krantz at Buitenverwagting, and was still ashamed that a man should think me a woman to whom such words could be spoken. And though I had seen him since, I could not face him alone and in an open street.
But he came after me into the store, where I stood at the counter talking to Kappie. He put his arm through mine, and put his hand on my arm above the wrist, and held it tightly, and talked to Kappie, and with his hand asked my forgiveness. So with my arm I pressed his own against me, and talked to Kappie, and with my arm forgave him. And he left us there.
Then he went to the Police Station, and took the inspection with Sergeant Steyn, and then went to his office. And it was the end of June, and pay day, and the young boy Vorster brought him another pound, and said to him, lieutenant, that leaves eighteen pounds. And the lieutenant said, I told you you were clever.
After his work he went home again, and again was full of helpfulness. With the children he was not loud or rough, nor dark and silent, but stood over them quietly when they were in the bath, and afterwards dried them with love and care, and took them to the room and heard their prayers. After dinner they sat before the fire, his wife busy with some work, and he with a book, not of twisted souls, but some sweeter book. He feared that she migh
t speak to him or touch him, and did not know what he would say or do. And he would have suffered it, but she neither spoke nor touched him, and when she said she would go to bed, he rose and kissed her, but this time on her lips, for he felt cleaner.
Then he sat alone by the fire, and the thought, the hope, came to him that this strange mood of humility and gentleness might be some turning point, and that this perhaps might be the finding of that which was sought, and the opening of the door that was knocked on. So with some kind of peace he went to his bed.
Ag, what things are moods, that come and go like the wind that blows where it lists. For a man can be happy and free, and be cast down by a word. And a woman can be in the depths of misery, and be lifted up by an asking for forgiveness. So one goes from joy to dejection, and hurt to exaltation, and certainty to doubt, as when with some summer storm the whole world is dark and sombre, till suddenly the sun breaks through, almost at its setting, and bathes tree and grass and hill in green and yellow light, the like of which, as the English say, was never seen on land or sea.
AND THE NEXT DAY the quiet and humble mood persisted, until the young dominee telephoned, and said he had had a letter from Hippo du Toit, who as everyone knows, is the famous rugby coach at Stellenbosch, and the greatest in the country.
— Pieter, he thinks you’re a certainty.
— Does he? And what about yourself?
— Well, he doesn’t feel too badly about that either.
— Good for you.
— Wouldn’t that be good, Pieter?
— It would be good.
— Two Springboks from Venterspan, Pieter. Have they had one before?
— No, never.
The young dominee sat at the other end of the telephone, contemplating the future with bliss. Then he said, Pieter.