15
KUMALO RETURNED TO Mrs. Lithebe’s tired and dispirited. The two women were silent, and he had no desire to speak to them, and none to play with his small nephew. He withdrew into his room, and sat silent there, waiting till he could summon strength enough to go to the Mission House. But while he sat, there was a knock at his door, and Mrs. Lithebe stood there with the young white man. Fresh from the pain of their encounter, Kumalo shrank from him; and at that sign, the young man frowned, and spoke to Mrs. Lithebe in Sesuto, so that she withdrew.
Kumalo stood up, an old bowed man. He sought for humble and pleading words, but none came to him. And because he could not look at the young man, he fixed his eyes on the floor.
–Umfundisi.
–Sir?
The young man looked angrier than ever. I am sorry, umfundisi, that I spoke such angry words, he said. I have come to speak to you about this matter of a lawyer.
–Sir?
Indeed it was hard to speak to a man who stood thus before one. Umfundisi, do you wish me to speak to you?
Kumalo struggled within himself. For it is thus with a black man, who has learned to be humble and who yet desires to be something that is himself.
–Sir, he said again.
–Umfundisi, said the young man patiently, I know how it is. Will you not sit down?
So Kumalo sat down, and the young man, still frowning angrily, stood and talked to him.
–I spoke like that because I was grieved and because I try to give myself to my work. And when my work goes wrong, I hurt myself and I hurt others also. But then I grow ashamed, and that is why I am here.
And then because Kumalo was still silent, he said, do you understand?
And Kumalo said, yes, I understand. He turned his face so that the young man could see that the hurt was gone out of it. I understand completely, he said.
The young man stopped frowning. About this lawyer, he said. I think you must have a lawyer. Not because the truth must not be told, but because I do not trust your brother. You can see what is in his mind. His plan is to deny that his son and the third man were with your son. Now you and I do not know whether that will make matters worse or not, but a lawyer would know. And another thing also, Absalom says that he fired the revolver because he was afraid, with no intention of killing the white man. It needs a lawyer to make the court believe that that is true.
–Yes, I see that.
–Do you know of any lawyer, of your Church maybe?
–No, sir, I do not. But it was my plan to go to see Father Vincent at the Mission House, when I had rested for a while.
–Are you rested now?
–Your visit has put a fresh heart into me, sir. I felt….
–Yes, I know.
The young man frowned and said, as if to himself, it is my great fault. Shall we go then?
So they walked to the Mission House, and were shown into Father Vincent’s room, and there they talked for a long time with the rosy-cheeked priest from England.
–I think I could get a good man to take the case, said Father Vincent. I think we are all agreed that it is to be the truth and nothing but the truth, and that the defense will be that the shot was fired in fear and not to kill. Our lawyer will tell us what to do about this other matter, the possibility, my friend, that your nephew and the other young man will deny that they were there. For it appears that it is only your son who states that they were there. For us it is to be the truth, and nothing but the truth, and indeed, the man I am thinking of would not otherwise take the case. I shall see him as soon as possible.
–And what about the marriage? asked the young man.
–I shall ask him about that also. I do not know if it can be arranged, but I should gladly marry them if it can be.
So they rose to separate, and Father Vincent put his hand on the old man’s arm. Be of good courage, he said. Whatever happens, your son will be severely punished, but if his defence is accepted, it will not be extreme punishment. And while there is life, there is hope for amendment of life.
–That is now always in my mind, said Kumalo. But my hope is little.
–Stay here and speak with me, said Father Vincent.
–And I must go, said the young white man. But umfundisi, I am ready to help if my help is needed.
When the young man had gone, Kumalo and the English priest sat down and Kumalo said to the other, you can understand that this has been a sorrowful journey.
–I understand that, my friend.
–At first it was a search. I was anxious at first, but as the search went on, step by step, so did the anxiety turn to fear, and this fear grew deeper step by step. It was at Alexandra that I first grew afraid, but it was here in your House, when we heard of the murder, that my fear grew into something too great to be borne.
The old man paused and stared at the floor, remembering, indeed quite lost in remembering. He stared at it a long time and then he said, Msimangu said to me, why fear this one thing in a city where there are thousands upon thousands of people?
–That comforted me, he said.
And the way in which he said, that comforted me, was to Father Vincent so unendurable, that he sat there rigid, almost without breathing, hoping that this would soon be finished.
–That comforted me, said Kumalo, yet it did not comfort me. And even now I can hardly believe that this thing, which happens one time in a thousand, has happened to me. Why, sometimes, for a moment or two, I can even believe that it has not happened, that I shall wake and find it has not happened. But it is only for a moment or two.
–To think, said Kumalo, that my wife and I lived out our lives in innocence, there in Ndotsheni, not knowing that this thing was coming, step by step.
–Why, he said, if one could only have been told, this step is taken, and this step is about to be taken. If only one could have been told that.
–But we were not told, continued Kumalo. Now we can see, but we could not see then. And yet others saw it. It was revealed to others to whom it did not matter. They saw it, step by step. They said, this is Johannesburg, this is a boy going wrong, as other boys have gone wrong in Johannesburg. But to us, for whom it was life and death, it was not revealed.
Father Vincent put his hand over his eyes, to hide them from the light, to hide them from the sight of the man who was speaking. He would himself have spoken, to break the painful spell that was being woven about him, but something told him to leave it. What was more, he had no words to say.
–There is a man sleeping in the grass, said Kumalo. And over him is gathering the greatest storm of all his days. Such lightning and thunder will come there as have never been seen before, bringing death and destruction. People hurry home past him, to places safe from danger. And whether they do not see him there in the grass, or whether they fear to halt even a moment, but they do not wake him, they let him be.
After that Kumalo seemed to have done with speaking, and they were silent a long time. Father Vincent tried a dozen sentences, but none seemed fitting. But he did say, my friend, and although he said nothing more, he hoped that Kumalo would take it as a signal that other words would follow, and himself say nothing more.
So he said again, my friend.
–Father?
–My friend, your anxiety turned to fear, and your fear turned to sorrow. But sorrow is better than fear. For fear impoverishes always, while sorrow may enrich.
Kumalo looked at him, with an intensity of gaze that was strange in so humble a man, and hard to encounter.
–I do not know that I am enriched, he said.
–Sorrow is better than fear, said Father Vincent doggedly. Fear is a journey, a terrible journey, but sorrow is at least an arriving.
–And where have I arrived? asked Kumalo.
–When the storm threatens, a man is afraid for his house, said Father Vincent in that symbolic language that is like the Zulu tongue. But when the house is destroyed, there is something to do. About a storm he can do nothing, but he can rebuild a house.
–At my age? asked Kumalo. Look what has happened to the house that I built when I was young and strong. What kind of house shall I build now?
–No one can comprehend the ways of God, said Father Vincent desperately.
Kumalo looked at him, not bitterly or accusingly or reproachfully.
–It seems that God has turned from me, he said.
–That may seem to happen, said Father Vincent. But it does not happen, never, never, does it happen.
–I am glad to hear you, said Kumalo humbly.
–We spoke of amendment of life, said the white priest. Of the amendment of your son’s life. And because you are a priest, this must matter to you more than all else, more even than your suffering and your wife’s suffering.
–That is true. Yet I cannot see how such a life can be amended.
–You cannot doubt that. You are a Christian. There was a thief upon the cross.
–My son was not a thief, said Kumalo harshly. There was a white man, a good man, devoted to his wife and children. And worst of all–devoted to our people. And this wife, these children, they are bereaved because of my son. I cannot suppose it to be less than the greatest evil I have known.
–A man may repent him of any evil.
–He will repent, said Kumalo bitterly. If I say to him, do you repent, he will say, it is as my father says. If I say to him, was this not evil, he will say, it is evil. But if I speak otherwise, putting no words in his mouth, if I say, what will you do now, he will say, I do not know, or he will say, it is as my father says.
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 quarreled, 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 over 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.