Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton
Here were heavy things indeed, too heavy for a woman who had not gone beyond the fifth standard of her country school. She was respectful to him, as it behooved her to be to an elder brother and a parson, and they exchanged conventional conversation; but never again did they speak of the things that had made her fall on the floor with crying and weeping.
But the good Mrs. Lithebe was there, and she and Gertrude talked long and simply about things dear to the heart of women, and they worked and sang together in the performance of the daily tasks.
Yes, it was to the small serious boy that he turned for his enjoyment. He had bought the child some cheap wooden blocks, and with these the little one played endlessly and intently, with a purpose obscure to the adult mind, but completely absorbing. Kumalo would pick the child up, and put his hand under the shirt to feel the small warm back, and tickle and poke him, till the serious face relaxed into smiles, and the smiles grew into uncontrollable laughter. Or he would tell him of the great valley where he was born, and the names of hills and rivers, and the school that he would go to, and the mist that shrouded the tops above Ndotsheni. Of this the child understood nothing; yet something he did understand, for he would listen solemnly to the deep melodious names, and gaze at his uncle out of wide and serious eyes. And this to the uncle was pleasure indeed, for he was homesick in the great city; and something inside him was deeply satisfied by this recital. Sometimes Gertrude would hear him and come to the door and stand shyly there, and listen to the tale of the beauties of the land where she was born. This enriched his pleasure, and sometimes he would say to her, do you remember, and she would answer, yes, I remember, and be pleased that he had asked her.
But there were times, some in the very midst of satisfaction, when the thought of his son would come to him. And then in one fraction of time the hills with the deep melodious names stood out waste and desolate beneath the pitiless sun, the streams ceased to run, the cattle moved thin and listless over the red and rootless earth. It was a place of old women and mothers and children, from each house something was gone. His voice would falter and die away, and he would fall silent and muse. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps he clutched suddenly at the small listening boy, for the little one would break from the spell, and wriggle in his arms to be put down, to play again with his blocks on the floor. As though he was searching for something that would put an end to this sudden unasked-for pain, the thought of his wife would come to him, and of many a friend that he had, and the small children coming down from the hills, dropping sometimes out of the very mist, on their way to the school. These things were so dear to him that the pain passed, and he contemplated them in quiet, and some measure of peace.
Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who indeed knows why there can be comfort in a world of desolation? Now God be thanked that there is a beloved one who can lift up the heart in suffering, that one can play with a child in the face of such misery. Now God be thanked that the name of a hill is such music, that the name of a river can heal. Aye, even the name of a river that runs no more.
Who indeed knows the secret of the earthly pilgrimage? Who knows for what we live, and struggle, and die? Who knows what keeps us living and struggling, while all things break about us? Who knows why the warm flesh of a child is such comfort, when one’s own child is lost and cannot be recovered? Wise men write many books, in words too hard to understand. But this, the purpose of our lives, the end of all our struggle, is beyond all human wisdom. Oh God, my God, do not Thou forsake me. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, if Thou art with me ¦.
But he stood up. That was Msimangu talking at the door. It was time to continue the search.
And this is ShantyTown, my friend.
Even here the children laugh in the narrow lanes that run between these tragic habitations. A sheet of iron, a few planks, hessian and grass, an old door from some forgotten house. Smoke curls from vents cunningly contrived, there is a smell of food, there is a sound of voices, not raised in anger or pain, but talking of ordinary things, of this one that is born and that one that has died, of this one that does so well at school and that one who is now in prison. There is drought over the land, and the sun shines warmly down from the cloudless sky. But what will they do when it rains, what will they do when it is winter? It is sad for me to see. Yet see them building over there. And that they have not done for many a year. Some good may come of this. And this too is Dubula’s work. He is everywhere, it seems. See, there is one of our nurses. Does she not look well in her red and white, and her cap upon her head? She looks well indeed. The white people are training more and more of them. It is strange how we move forward in some things, and stand still in others, and go backward in yet others. Yet in this matter of nurses we have many friends amongst the white people. There was a great outcry when it was decided to allow some of our young people to train as doctors at the European University of the Wit-watersrand. But our friends stood firm, and they will train there until we have a place of our own. Good morning, nurse. Good morning, umfundisi. Nurse, have you been working here long? Yes, as long as the place is here. And did you ever know a young man, Absalom Kumalo? Yes, that I did. But he is not here now. And I can tell where he stayed. He stayed with the Hlatshwayos, and they are still here. Do you see the place where there are many stones so that they cannot build? See, there is a small boy standing there. Yes, I see it. And beyond it the house with the pipe, where the smoke is coming out? Yes, I see it. Go down that lane, and you will find the Hlatshwayos in the third or fourth house, on the side of the hand that you eat with. Thank you, nurse, we shall go.
Her directions were so clear that they had no difficulty in finding the house. Good morning, mother.
The woman was clean and nice-looking, and she smiled at them in a friendly way. Good morning, umfundisi. Mother, we are looking for a lad, Absalom Kumalo. He stayed with me, umfundisi. We took pity on him because he had no place to go. But I am sorry to tell you that they took him away, and I heard that the magistrate had sent him to the reformatory. The reformatory? Yes, the big school over there, beyond the soldiers hospital. It is not too far to walk. I must thank you, mother. Stay well. Come, my friend. They walked on in silence, for neither of them had any words. Kumalo would have stumbled, though the road was straight and even, and Msimangu took his arm. Have courage, my brother.
He glanced at his friend, but Kumalo’s eyes were on the ground. Although Msimangu could not see his face, he could see the drop that fell on the ground, and he tightened his grip on the arm. Have courage, my brother. Sometimes it seems that I have no more courage. I have heard of this reformatory. Your friend the priest from England speaks well of it. I have heard him say that if any boy wishes to amend, there is help for him there. So take courage. I was afraid of this. Yes, I too was afraid of it. Yes, I remember when you first became afraid. The day at Alexandra, when you sent me on, and you returned to speak again to the woman. I see that I cannot hide from you. That is not because I am so wise. Only because it is my son. They walked out of ShantyTown into Orlando, and out along the tarred street that leads to the high road to Johannesburg, to the place where the big petrol station of the white people stands at the gates of Orlando; for the black people are not allowed to have petrol stations in Orlando. What did the woman say to you, my friend? She said that these two young men were in some mischief. Many goods, white people’s goods, came to the house. This reformatory, can they reform there? I do not know it well. Some people say one thing, some the other. But your friend speaks well of it.
And after a long while, during which Msimangu’s thoughts had wandered elsewhere, Kumalo said again, It is my hope that they can reform there. It is my hope also, my brother.
After a walk of about one hour, they came to the road that led up to the reformatory. It was midday when they arrived, and from all directions there came boys marching, into the gates of the reformatory. From every place they came, until it
One of their own people, a pleasant fellow with a smiling face, came up to them and asked them what they wanted, and they told him they were searching for one Absalom Kumalo. So this man took them to an office, where a young white man enquired of them in Afrikaans what was their business. We are looking, sir, for the son of my friend, one Absalom Kumalo, said Msimangu in the same language. Absalom Kumalo. Yes, I know him well. Strange, he told me he had no people. Your son told him, my friend, that he had no people, said Msimangu in Zulu. He was no doubt ashamed, said Kumalo. I am sorry, he said to Msimangu in Zulu, that I speak no Afrikaans. For he had heard that sometimes they do not like black people who speak no Afrikaans. You may speak what you will, said the young man. Your son did well here, he said. He became one of our senior boys, and I have great hope for his future. You mean, sir, that he is gone? Gone, yes, only one month ago. We made an exception in his case, partly because of his good behaviour, partly because of his age, but mainly because there was a girl who was pregnant by him. She came here to see him, and he seemed fond of her, and anxious about the child that would be born. And the girl too seemed fond of him, so with all these things in mind, and with his solemn undertaking that he would work for his child and its mother, we asked the Minister to let him go. Of course we do not succeed in all these cases, but where there seems to be real affection between the parties, we take the chance, hoping that good will come of it. One thing is certain that if it fails, there is nothing that could have succeeded. And is he now married, sir? No, umfundisi, he is not. But everything is arranged for the marriage. This girl has no people, and your son told us he had no people, so I myself and my native assistant have arranged it. That is good of you, sir. I thank you for them. It is our work. You must not worry too much about this matter, and the fact that they were not married, the young man said kindly. The real question is whether he will care for them, and lead a decent life. That I can see, although it is a shock to me. I understand that. Now I can help you in this matter. If you will sit outside while I finish my work, I will take you to Pimville, where Absalom and this girl are living. He will not be there, because I have found work for him in the town, and they have given me good reports of him. I persuaded him to open a Post Office book, and he already has three or four pounds in it. Indeed I cannot thank you, sir. It is our work, said the young man. Now if you will leave me, I shall finish what I have to do and then take you to Pimville.
Outside the pleasant-faced man came and spoke to them and hearing their plans, invited them to his house, where he and his wife had a number of boys in their charge, boys who had left the big reformatory building and were living outside in these free houses. He gave them some tea and food, and he too told them that Absalom had become a head-boy, and had behaved well during his stay at the reformatory. So they talked about the reformatory, and the children that were growing up in Johannesburg without home or school or custom, and about the broken tribe and the sickness of the land, until a messenger came from the young man to say that he was ready.
It was not long before the motorcar had reached Pimville, which is a village of half-tanks used as houses, set up many years before in emergency, and used ever since. For there have never been houses enough for all the people who came to Johannesburg. At the gate they asked permission to enter, for a white man may not go into these places without permission.
They stopped at one of these half-tank houses, and the young white man took them in, where they were greeted by a young girl, who herself seemed no more than a child. We have come to enquire after Absalom, said the young white man. This umfundisi is his father. He went on Saturday to Springs, she said, and he has not yet returned. The young man was silent awhile, and he frowned in perplexity or anger. But this is Tuesday, he said. Have you heard nothing from him? Nothing, she said. When will he return? he asked. I do not know, she said. Will he ever return? he asked, indifferently, carelessly. I do not know, she said. She said it tonelessly, hopelessly, as one who is used to waiting, to desertion. She said it as one who expects nothing from her seventy years upon the earth. No rebellion will come out of her, no demands, no fierceness. Nothing will come out of her at all save the children of men who will use her, leave her, forget her. And so slight was her body, and so few her years, that Kumalo for all his suffering was moved to compassion. What will you do? he said. I do not know, she said. Perhaps you will find another man, said Msimangu bitterly. And before Kumalo could speak, to steal away the bitterness and hide it from her I do not know, she said.
And again before Kumalo could speak, Msimangu turned his back on the girl, and spoke to him privately. You can do nothing here, he said. Let us go. My friend ¦ ¦. I tell you, you can do nothing. Have you not troubles enough of your own? I tell you there are thousands such in Johannesburg. And were your back as broad as heaven, and your purse full of gold, and did your compassion reach from here to hell itself, there is nothing you can do.
Silently they withdrew. All of them were silent, the young white man heavy with failure, the old man with grief, Msimangu still bitter with his words. Kumalo stood at the car though the others were already seated. You do not understand, he said. The child will be my grandchild. Even that you do not know, said Msimangu angrily. His bitterness mastered him again. And if he were, he said, how many more such have you? Shall we search them out, day after day, hour after hour? Will it ever end? Kumalo stood in the dust like one who has been struck. Then without speaking any more he took his seat in the car.
Again they stopped at the gate of the village, and the young white man got out and went into the office of the European Superintendent. He came back, his face set and unhappy. I have telephoned the factory, he said. It is true. He has not been at work this week.
At the gates of Orlando, by the big petrol station, they stopped yet again. Would you like to get out here? the young man asked. They climbed out, and the young man spoke to Kumalo. I am sorry for this, he said. Yes, it is very heavy. As if his English had left him, he spoke in Zulu to Msimangu. I am sorry too for this end to his work, he said. He too is sorry for this end to your work, said Msimangu in Afrikaans. Yes, it is my work, but it is his son. He turned to Kumalo and spoke in English. Let us not give up all hope, he said. It has happened sometimes that a boy is arrested, or is injured and taken to hospital, and we do not know. Do not give up hope, umfundisi. I will not give up the search. They watched him drive away. He is a good man, said Kumalo. Come, let us walk. But Msimangu did not move. I am ashamed to walk with you, he said. His face was twisted, like that of a man much distressed.
Kumalo looked at him astonished. I ask your forgiveness for my ugly words, said Msimangu. You mean about the search? You understood, then? Yes, I understood. You are quick to understand. I am old, and have learnt something. You are forgiven. Sometimes I think I am not fit to be a priest. I could tell you It is no matter. You have said you are a weak and selfish man, but God put his hands upon you. It is true, it seems. Huh, you comfort me. But I have something to ask of you.
Msimangu looked at him, searching his face, and then he said, it is agreed. What is agreed? That I should take you again to see this girl. You are clever too, it seems. Huh, it is not good that only one should be clever. Yet they were not really in the mood for jesting. They walked along the hot road to Orlando, and both fell silent, each no doubt with many things in mind.
11
I HAVE BEEN thinking, said Msimangu, as they were sitting in the train that would take them back to Sophiatown, that it is time for you to rest for a while. Kumalo looked at him. How can I rest? he said. I know what you mean. I know you are anxious, but the young man at the reformatory will do better at this searching than you or I could do. Now this is Tuesday; the day after tomorrow I must go to Ezenzeleni, which is the place of our blind, to hold a service for them, and to attend to our own people. And that night I shall sleep there, and return
It was a pleasant evening at the Mission House. Father Vincent, the rosy-cheeked priest, was there, and they talked about the place where Kumalo lived and worked. And the white man in his turn spoke about his own country, about the hedges and the fields, and Westminster Abbey, and the great cathedrals up and down the land. Yet even this pleasure was not to be entire, for one of the white priests came in from the city with the Evening Star, and showed them the bold black lines. MURDER IN PARKWOLD. WELL-KNOWN CITY ENGINEER SHOT DEAD. ASSAILANTS THOUGHT TO BE NATIVES. This is a terrible loss for South Africa, said the white priest. For this Arthur Jarvis was a courageous young man, and a great fighter for justice. And it is a terrible loss for the Church too. He was one of the finest of all our young laymen. Jarvis? It is indeed a terrible thing, said Msimangu. He was the President of the African Boys Club, here in Claremont, in Gladiolus Street
. Perhaps you might have known him, said Father Vincent to Kumalo. It says that he was the only child of Mr. James Jarvis, of High Place, Carisbrooke. I know the father, said Kumalo sorrowfully. I mean I know him well by sight and name, but we have never spoken. His farm is in the hills above Ndotsheni, and he sometimes rode past our church. But I did not know the son. He was silent, then he said, yet I remember, there was a small bright boy, and he too sometimes rode on his horse past the church. A small bright boy, I remember, though I do not remember it well.