D’URBAN, January 3, 1876.
I must certainly begin this letter by setting aside every other topic
for the moment and telling you of our grand event, our national
celebration, our historical New Year’s Day. We have “turned the first
sod” of our first inland railway, and, if I am correctly informed, at
least a dozen sods more, but you must remember, if you please, that
our navvies are Kafirs, and that they do _not_ understand what Mr.
Carlyle calls the beauty and dignity of labor in the least. It is all
very well for you conceited dwellers in the Old and New Worlds to
laugh at us for making such a fuss about a projected hundred miles of
railway—you whose countries are made into dissected maps by the magic
iron lines—but for poor us, who have to drag every pound of sugar and
reel of sewing-cotton over some sixty miles of vile road between this
and Maritzburg, such a line, if it be ever finished, will be a boon and
a blessing indeed.
I think I can better make you understand _how_ great a blessing
if I describe my journeys up and down—journeys made, too, under
exceptionally favorable circumstances. The first thing which had to be
done, some three weeks before the day of our departure, was to pack and
send down by wagon a couple of portmanteaus with our smart clothes. I
may as well mention here that the cost of the transit came to fourteen
shillings each way for three or four small, light packages, and that on
each occasion we were separated from our possessions for a fortnight
or more. The next step to be taken was to secure places in the daily
post-cart, and it required as much mingled firmness and persuasion to
do this as though it had reference to a political crisis. But then
there were some hundreds of us Maritzburgians all wanting to be taken
down to D’Urban within the space of a few days, and there was nothing
to take us except the open post-cart, which occupied six hours on
the journey, and an omnibus, which took ten hours, but afforded more
shelter from possible rain and probable sun. Within the two vehicles
some twenty people might, at a pinch, find places, and at least a
hundred wanted to go every day of that last week of the old year. I
don’t know how the others managed: they must have got down somehow, for
there they were in great force when the eventful day had arrived.
This first journey was prosperous, deceitfully prosperous, as though
it would fain try to persuade us that after all there was a great
deal to be said in favor of a mode of traveling which reminded one
of the legends of the glories of the old coaching days. No dust—for
there had been heavy rain a few days before—a perfect summer’s day,
hot enough in the sun, but not disagreeably hot as we bowled along,
fast as four horses could go, in the face of a soft, balmy summer
breeze. We were packed as tightly as we could fit—two of us on the
coach-box, with the mail-bags under our feet and the driver’s elbows
in our ribs. The ordinary light dog-cart which daily runs between
Maritzburg and D’Urban was exchanged for a sort of open break, strong
indeed, but very heavy, one would fancy, for the poor horses, who had
to scamper along up and down veldt and berg, over bog and spruit, with
this lumbering conveyance at their heels. Not for long, though: every
seven miles, or even less, we pulled up—sometimes at a tidy inn, where
a long table would be set in the open verandah laden with eatables
(for driving fast through the air sharpens even the sturdy colonial
appetite), sometimes at a lonely shanty by the roadside, from whence
a couple of Kafir lads emerged tugging at the bridles of the fresh
horses. But I am bound to say that although each of these teams did
a stage twice a day, although they were ill-favored and ill-groomed,
their harness shabby beyond description, and their general appearance
most forlorn, they were one and all in good condition and did their
work in first-rate style. The wheelers were generally large, gaunt
and most hideous animals, but the leaders often were ponies who, one
could imagine, under happier circumstances might be handsome little
horses enough, staunch and willing to the last degree. They knew their
driver’s cheery voice as well as possible, and answered to every cry
and shout of encouragement he gave them as we scampered along. Of
course, each horse had its name, and equally of course “Sir Garnet” was
there in a team with “Lord Gifford” and “Lord Carnarvon” for leaders.
Did we come to a steep hillside, up which any respectable English horse
would certainly expect to walk in a leisurely, sober fashion, then our
driver shook out his reins, blew a ringing blast on his bugle, and
cried, “Walk along, Lord Gifford! think as you’ve another Victoriar
Cross to get top o’ this hill! Walk along, Lord Carnarvon! you ain’t
sitting in a cab’net council _here_, you know. Don’t leave Sir Garnet
do all the work, you know. Forward, my lucky lads! creep up it!” and
by the time he had shrieked out this and a lot more patter, behold! we
were at the top of the hill, and a fresh, lovely landscape was lying
smiling in the sunshine below us. It was a beautiful country we passed
through, but, except for a scattered homestead here and there by the
roadside, not a sign of a human dwelling on all its green and fertile
slopes. How the railway is to drag itself up and round all those
thousand and one spurs running into each other, with no distinct valley
or flat between, is best known to the engineers and surveyors, who have
declared it practicable. To the non-professional eye it seems not only
difficult, but impossible. But oh how it is wanted! All along the road
shrill bugle-blasts warned the slow trailing ox-wagons, with their
naked “forelooper” at their head, to creep aside out of our way. I
counted one hundred and twenty wagons that day on fifty miles of road.
Now, if one considers that each of these wagons is drawn by a span
of some thirty or forty oxen, one has some faint idea of how such a
method of transport must waste and use up the material of the country.
Something like ten thousand oxen toil over this one road summer and
winter, and what wonder is it not only that merchandise costs more to
fetch up from D’Urban to Maritzburg than it does to bring it out from
England, but that beef is dear and bad! As transport pays better than
farming, we hear on all sides of farms thrown out of cultivation, and
as a necessary consequence milk, butter, and so forth are scarce and
poor, and in the neighborhood of Maritzburg, at least, it is esteemed a
favor to let you have either at exorbitant prices and of most inferior
quality. When one looks round at these countless acres of splendid
grazing-land, making a sort of natural park on either hand, it seems
like a bad dream to know that we have constantly to use preserved milk
and potted meat as being cheaper and easier to procure than fresh.
No one was in any mood, however, to discuss political economy that
beautiful day, and we laughed and chatted, and ate a great many
luncheons, chiefly of tea and peaches, all the way along. Our driver
enlivened the route by pointing out various spots where frightful
accidents had occurred to the post-cart on former occasions: “You see
that big stone? Well, it war jest there that Langabilile and Colenso,
they takes the bits in their teeth, those ‘osses do, and they sets off
their own pace and their own way. Jim Stanway, he puts his brake down
hard and his foot upon the reins, but, Lord love you! them beasts would
ha’ pulled his arms and legs both off afore they’d give in. So they
runs poor Jim’s near wheel right up agin that bank and upsets the whole
concern, as neat as needs be, over agin that bit o’ bog. Anybody hurt?
Well, yes: they was all what you might call shook. Mr. Bell, he had his
arm broke, and a foreign chap from the diamond-fields, he gets killed
outright, and Jim himself had his head cut open. It was a bad business,
you bet, and rough upon Jim. Ja!”
All the driver’s conversation is interlarded with “_Ja_” but he never
says a worse word than that, and he drinks nothing but tea. As for a
pipe, or a cigar even, when it is offered to him he screws up his queer
face into a droll grimace and says, “No—thanks. I want all my nerves, I
do, on this bit of road.—Walk along, Lady Barker: I’m ashamed of you,
I am, hanging your head like that at a bit of a hill!” It was rather
startling to hear this apostrophe all of a sudden, but as my namesake
was a very hard-working little brown mare, I could only laugh and
declare myself much flattered.
Here we are at last, amid the tropical vegetation which makes a green
and tangled girdle around D’Urban for a dozen miles inland; yonder is
the white and foaming line of breakers which marks where the strong
current, sweeping down the east coast, brings along with it all the
sand and silt it can collect, especially from the mouth of the Umgeni
River close by, and so forms the dreaded bar which divides the outer
from the inner harbor. Beyond this crisp and sparkling line of heaving,
tossing snow stretches the deep indigo-blue of the Indian Ocean,
whilst over all wonderful sunset tints of opal and flame-color are
hovering and changing with the changing, wind-driven clouds. Beneath
our wheels are many inches of thick white sand, but the streets are gay
and busy, with picturesque coolies in their bright cotton draperies
and swiftly-passing Cape carts and vehicles of all sorts. We are in
D’Urban indeed—D’Urban in unwonted holiday dress and on the tippest
tiptoe of expectation and excitement. A Cape cart, with a Chinese
coolie driver, and four horses apparently put in harness together for
the first time, was waiting for us and our luggage at the post-office.
We got into it, and straightway began to plunge through the sandy
streets once more, turning off the high-road and beginning almost
immediately to climb with pain and difficulty the red sandy slopes of
the Berea, a beautiful wooded upland dotted with villas. The road
is terrible for man and beast, and we had to stop every few yards to
breathe the horses. At last our destination is reached, through fields
of sugar-cane and plantations of coffee, past luxuriant fruit trees,
rustling, broad-leafed bananas and encroaching greenery of all sorts,
to a clearing where a really handsome house stands, with hospitable,
wide-open doors, awaiting us. Yes, a good big bath first, then a cup
of tea, and now we are ready for a saunter in the twilight on the wide
level terrace (called by the ugly Dutch name “stoop”) which runs round
three sides of the house. How green and fragrant and still it all is!
Straightway the glare of the long sunny day, the rattle and jolting of
the post-cart, the toil through the sand, all slip away from mind and
memory, and the tranquil delicious present, “with its odors of rest and
of love,” slips in to soothe and calm our jaded senses. Certainly, it
is hotter here than in Maritzburg—that assertion we are prepared to die
in defence of—but we acknowledge that the heat at this hour is _not_
oppressive, and the tropical luxuriance of leaf and flower all around
is worth a few extra degrees of temperature. Of course, our talk is of
to-morrow, and we look anxiously at the purpling clouds to the west.
“A fine day,” says our host; and so it ought to be with five thousand
people come from far and wide to see the sight. Why, that is more than
a quarter of the entire white population of Natal! Bed and sleep become
very attractive suggestions, though made indecently soon after dinner,
and it is somewhere about ten o’clock when they are carried out, and,
like Lord Houghton’s famous “fair little girl,” we
Know nothing more till again it is day.
A fine day, too, is this same New Year’s Day of 1876—a glorious
day—sunny of course, but with a delicious breeze stealing among the
flowers and shrubs in capricious puffs, and snatching a differing
scent from each heavy cluster of blossom it visits. By mid-day F—— has
got himself into his gold-laced coat and has lined the inside of his
cocked hat with plaintain-leaves. He has also groaned much at the idea
of substituting this futile head-gear for his hideous but convenient
pith helmet. I too have donned my best gown, and am horrified to
find how much a smart bonnet (the first time I have needed to wear
one since I left England) sets off and brings out the shades of tan
in a sun-browned face; and for a moment I too entertain the idea of
retreating once more to the protecting depths of my old shady hat. But
a strong conviction of the duty one owes to a “first sod,” and the
consoling reflection that, after all, everybody will be equally brown
(a fallacy, by the way: the D’Urban beauties looked very blanched by
this summer weather), supported me, and I followed F—— and his cocked
hat into the waiting carriage.
No need to ask, “Where are we to go?” All roads lead to the first sod
to-day. We are just a moment late: F—— has to get out of the carriage
and plunge into the sand, madly rushing off to find and fall into
his place in the procession, and we turn off to secure our seats in
the grand stand. But before we take them I must go and look at the
wheelbarrow and spade, and above all at the “first sod.” For some weeks
past it has been a favorite chaff with us Maritzburgians to offer
to bring a nice fresh, lively sod down with us, but we were assured
D’Urban could furnish one. Here it is exactly under the triumphal arch,
looking very faded and depressed, with a little sunburned grass growing
feebly on it, but still a genuine sod and no mistake. The wheelbarrow
was really beautiful, made of native woods with their astounding names.
All three specimens of the hardest and handsomest yellow woods were
there, and they were described to me as, “stink-wood, breeze-wood and
sneeze-wood.” The rich yellow of the wood is veined by handsome dark
streaks, with “1876” inlaid in large black figures in the centre. The
spade was just a common spade, and could not by any possibility be
called anything else. But there is no time to linger and laugh any
longer beneath all these fluttering streamers and waving boughs, for
here are the Natal Carbineers, a plucky little handful of light horse
clad in blue and silver, who have marched, at their own charges, all
the way down from Maritzburg to help keep the ground this fine New
Year’s Day. Next come a strong body of Kafir police, trudging along
through the dust with odd shuffling gait, bended knees, bare legs,
bodies leaning forward, and keeping step and time by means of a queer
sort of barbaric hum and grunt. Policemen are no more necessary than
my best bonnet: they are only there for the same reason—for the honor
and glory of the thing. The crowd is kept in order by somebody here and
there with a ribboned wand, for it is the most orderly and respectable
crowd you ever saw. In fact, such a crowd would be an impossibility
in England or any highly-civilized country. There are no dodging
vagrants, no slatternly women, no squalid, starving babies. In fact,
our civilization has not yet mounted to effervescence, so we have no
dregs. Every white person on the ground was well clad, well fed, and
apparently well-to-do. The “lower orders” were represented by a bright
fringe of coolies and Kafirs, sleek, grinning and as fat as ortolans,
especially the babies. Most of the Kafirs were dressed in snow-white
knickerbockers and shirts bordered by gay bands of color, with fillets
of scarlet ribbon tied round their heads, while as for the coolies,
they shone out like a shifting bed of tulips, so bright were the
women’s _chuddahs_ and the men’s jackets. All looked smiling, healthy
and happy, and the public enthusiasm rose to its height when to the
sound of a vigorous band (it is early yet in the day, remember, O flute
and trombone!) a perfect liliputian mob of toddling children came on
the ground. These little people were all in their cleanest white frocks
and prettiest hats: they clung to each other and to their garlands
and staves of flowers until the tangled mob reminded one of a May-Day
fête. Not that any English May Day of my acquaintance could produce
such a lavish profusion of roses and buds and blossoms of every hue
and tint, to say nothing of such a sun and sky. The children’s corner
was literally like a garden, and nothing could be prettier than the
effect of their little voices shrilling up through the summer air, as,
obedient to a lifted wand, they burst into the chorus of the national
anthem when the governor and mayor drove up. Cheers from white throats;
gruff, loud shouts all together of _Bayete!_ (the royal salute) and
_Inkosi!_ (“chieftain”) from black throats; yells, expressive of
excitement and general good-fellowship, from throats of all colors.
Then a moment’s solemn pause, a hushed silence, bared heads, and the
loud, clear tones of a very old pastor in the land were heard imploring
the blessing of Almighty God on this our undertaking. Again the sweet
childish trebles rose into the sunshine in a chanted Amen, and then
there were salutes from cannon, feux-de-joie from carbines, and more
shoutings, and all the cocked hats were to be seen bowing; and then
one more tremendous burst of cheering told that _the_ sod was cut and
turned and trundled, and finally pitched out of the new barrow back
again upon the dusty soil—all in the most artistic and satisfactory
fashion. “There are the Kafir navvies: they are _really_ going to work
now.” (This latter with great surprise, for a Kafir _really_ working,
now or ever, would indeed have been the raree-show of the day.) But
this natural phenomenon was left to develop itself in solitude, for the
crowd began to reassemble into processions, and generally to find its
way under shelter from sun and dust. The five hundred children were
heralded and marched off to the tune of one of their own pretty hymns
to where unlimited buns and tea awaited them, and we elders betook
ourselves to the grateful shade and coolness of the flower-decked new
market-hall, open to-day for the first time, and turned by flags and
ferns and lavish wealth of what in England are costliest hot-house
flowers into a charming banqueting-hall. All these exquisite ferns
and blossoms cost far less than the string and nails which fastened
them against the walls, and their fresh fragrance and greenery struck
gratefully on our sun-baked eyes as we found our way into the big room.
Nothing could be more creditable to a young colony than the way
everything was arranged, for the difficulties in one’s culinary path
in Natal are hardly to be appreciated by English housekeepers. At one
time there threatened to be almost a famine in D’Urban, for besides
the pressure of all these extra mouths of visitors to feed, there was
this enormous luncheon, with some five hundred hungry people to be
provided for. It seems so strange that with every facility for rearing
poultry all around it should be scarce and dear, and when brought to
market as thin as possible. The same may be said of vegetables: they
need no culture beyond being put in the ground, and yet unless you
have a garden of your own it is very difficult to get anything like a
proper supply. I heard nothing but wails from distracted housekeepers
about the price and scarcity of food that week. However, _the_ luncheon
showed no sign of scarcity, and I was much amused at the substantial
and homely character of the _menu_, which included cold baked sucking
pig among its delicacies. A favorite specimen of the confectioner’s art
that day consisted of a sort of solid brick of plum pudding, with, for
legend, “The First Sod” tastefully picked out in white almonds on its
dark surface. But it was a capital luncheon, and so soon as the mayor
had succeeded in impressing on the band that they were not expected
to play all the time the speeches were being made, everything went on
very well. Some of the speeches were short, but oh! far, far too many
were long, terribly long, and the whole affair was not over before five
o’clock. The only real want of the entertainment was ice. It seems
so hard not to have it in a climate which can produce such burning
days, for those tiresome cheap little ice-machines with crystals are
of no use whatever. I got one which made ice (under pressure of much
turning) in the ship, but it has never made any here, and my experience
is that of everybody else. Why there should not be an icemaking or
an ice-importing company no one knows, except that there is so little
energy or enterprise here that everything is dawdly and uncomfortable
because it seems too much trouble to take pains to supply wants. It is
the same everywhere throughout the colony: sandy roads with plenty of
excellent materials for hardening them close by; no fish to be bought
because no one will take the trouble of going out to catch them. But I
had better stop scribbling, for I am evidently getting tired after my
long day of unwonted festivity. It is partly the oppression of my best
bonnet, and partly the length of the speeches, which have wearied me
out so thoroughly.
MARITZBURG, January 6.
Nothing could afford a greater contrast than our return journey. It
was the other extreme of discomfort and misery, and must surely have
been sent to make us appreciate and long for the completion of this
very railway. We waited a day beyond that fixed for our return, in
order to give the effects of a most terrific thunderstorm time to
pass away, but it was succeeded by a perfect deluge of rain. Rain is
not supposed to last long at this season of the year, but all I can
say is that this rain did last. When the third day came and brought
no sign of clearing up with it, and very little down to speak of, we
agreed to delay no longer; besides which our places in the post-cart
could not be again exchanged, as had previously been done, for the
stream of returning visitors was setting strongly toward Maritzburg,
and we might be detained for a week longer if we did not go at once.
Accordingly, we presented ourselves at the D’Urban post-office a few
minutes before noon and took our places in the post-cart. My seat was
on the box, and as I flattered myself that I was well wrapped up, I
did not feel at all alarmed at the prospect of a cold, wet drive. Who
would believe that twenty-four hours ago one could hardly endure a
white muslin dressing-gown? Who would believe that twenty-four hours
ago a lace shawl was an oppressive wrap, and that the serious object
of my envy and admiration all these hot days on the Berea has been a
fat Abyssinian baby, as black as a coal, and the strongest and biggest
child one ever saw. That sleek and grinning infant’s toilette consisted
of a string of blue beads round its neck, and in this cool and airy
costume it used to pervade the house, walking about on all fours
exactly like a monkey, for of course it could not stand. Yet, how cold
that baby must be to-day! But if it is, its mother has probably tied it
behind her in an old shawl, and it is nestling close to her fat broad
back fast asleep.
But the baby is certainly a most unwarrantable digression, and we must
return to our post-cart. The discouraging part of it was that the
vehicle itself had been in all the storm and rain of yesterday. Of
course no one had dreamed of washing or wiping it out in any fashion,
so we had to sit upon wet cushions and put our feet into a pool of red
mud and water. Now, if I must confess the truth, I, an old traveler,
had done a very stupid thing. I had been lured by the deceitful beauty
of the weather when we started into leaving behind me everything except
the thinnest and coolest garments I possessed, and I therefore had to
set out on this journey in the teeth of a cold wind and driving rain
clad in a white gown. It is true, I had my beloved and most useful
ulster, but it was a light waterproof one, and just about half enough
in the way of warmth. Still, as I had another wrap, a big Scotch plaid,
I should have got along very well if it had not been for the still
greater stupidity of the only other female fellow-passenger, who calmly
took her place in the open post-cart behind me in a brown holland gown,
without scarf or wrap or anything whatever to shelter her from the
weather, except a white calico sunshade. She was a Frenchwoman too, and
looked so piteous and forlorn in her neat toilette, already drenched
through, that of course I could do nothing less than lend her my Scotch
shawl, and trust to the driver’s friendly promises of empty corn-bags
at some future stage. By the time the bags came—or rather by the time
we got to the bags—I was indeed wet and cold. The ulster did its best,
and all that could be expected of it, but no garment manufactured in a
London shop could possibly cope with such wild weather, tropical in the
vehemence of its pouring rain, wintry in its cutting blasts. The wind
seemed to blow from every quarter of the heavens at once, the rain came
down in sheets, but I minded the mud more than either wind or rain: it
was more demoralizing. On the box-seat I got my full share and more,
but yet I was better off there than inside, where twelve people were
squeezed into the places of eight. The horses’ feet got balled with the
stiff red clay exactly as though it had been snow, and from time to
time as they galloped along, six fresh ones at every stage, I received
a good lump of clay, as big and nearly as solid as a croquet-ball,
full in my face. It was bitterly cold, and the night was closing in
when we drove up to the door of the best hotel in Maritzburg, at long
past eight instead of six o’clock. It was impossible to get out to our
own place that night, so there was nothing for it but to stay where we
were, and get what food and rest could be coaxed out of an indifferent
bill of fare and a bed of stony hardness, to say nothing of the bites
of numerous mosquitoes. The morning light revealed the melancholy state
of my unhappy white gown in its full horror. All the rivers of Natal
will never make it white again, I fear. Certainly there is much to
be said in favor of railway-traveling, after all, especially in wet
weather.
JANUARY 10.
Surely, I have been doing something else lately besides turning this
first sod? Well, not much. You see, no one can undertake anything in
the way of expeditions or excursions, or even sight-seeing, in summer,
partly on account of the heat, and partly because of the thunderstorms.
We have had a few very severe ones lately, but we hail them with joy
on account of the cool clear atmosphere which succeeds to a display of
electrical vehemence. We walked home from church a few evenings ago on
a very wild and threatening night, and I never shall forget the weird
beauty of the scene. We had started to go to church about six o’clock:
the walk was only two miles, and the afternoon was calm and cloudless.
The day had been oppressively hot, but there were no immediate signs
of a storm. While we were in church, however, a fresh breeze sprang
up and drove the clouds rapidly before it. The glare of the lightning
made every corner of the church as bright as day, and the crash of the
thunder shook the wooden roof over our heads. But there was no rain
yet, and when we came out—in fear and trembling, I confess, as to how
we were to get home—we could see that the violence of the storm had
either passed over or not yet reached the valley in which Maritzburg
nestles, and was expending itself somewhere else. So F—— decided that
we might venture. As for vehicles to be hired in the streets, there are
no such things, and by the time we could have persuaded one to turn
out for us—a very doubtful contingency, and only to be procured at the
cost of a sovereign or so—the full fury of the storm would probably be
upon us. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to walk, and so we
set out as soon as possible to climb our very steep hill. Instead of
the soft, balmy twilight on which we had counted, the sky was of an
inky blackness, but for all that we had light enough and to spare. I
never saw such lightning. The flashes came literally every second, and
lit up the whole heavens and earth with a blinding glare far brighter
than any sunshine. So great was the contrast, and so much more intense
the darkness after each flash of dazzling light, that we could only
venture to walk on _during_ the flashes, though one’s instinct was
rather to stand still, awestricken and mute. The thunder growled and
cracked incessantly, but far away, toward the Inchanga Valley. If the
wind had shifted ever so little and brought the storm back again,
our plight would have been poor indeed; and with this dread upon us
we trudged bravely on and breasted the hillside with what haste and
courage we could. During the rare momentary intervals of darkness we
could perceive that the whole place was ablaze with fireflies. Every
blade of grass held a tiny sparkle of its own, but when the lightning
shone out with its yellow and violet glare the modest light of the poor
little fireflies seemed to be quite extinguished. As for the frogs,
the clamorous noise they kept up sounded absolutely deafening, and so
did the shrill, incessant cry of the cicalas. We reached home safely
and before the rain fell, but found all our servants in the verandah
in the last stage of dismay and uncertainty what to do for the best.
They had collected waterproofs, umbrellas and lanterns; but as it was
not actually raining yet, and we certainly did not require light on our
path—for they said that each flash showed them our climbing, trudging
figures as plainly as possible—it was difficult to know what to do,
especially as the Kafirs have, very naturally, an intense horror and
dislike to going out in a thunderstorm. This storm was not really
overhead at all, and scarcely deserves mention except as the precursor
of a severe one of which our valley got the full benefit. It was quite
curious to see the numbers of dead butterflies on the garden-paths
after that second storm. Their beautiful plumage was not dimmed or
smirched nor their wings broken: they would have been in perfect order
for a naturalist’s collection; yet they were quite dead and stiff. The
natives declare it is the lightning which kills them thus.
My own private dread—to return to that walk home for a moment—was of
stepping on a snake, as there are a great many about, and one especial
variety, a small poisonous brown adder, is of so torpid and lazy a
nature that it will not glide out of your way, as other snakes do,
but lets you tread on it and then bites you. It is very marvelous,
considering how many snakes there are, that one hears of so few bad
accidents. G—— is always poking about in likely places for them, as his
supreme ambition is to see one. I fully expect a catastrophe some day,
and keep stores of ammonia and brandy handy. Never was such a fearless
little monkey. He is always scampering about on his old Basuto pony,
and of course tumbles off now and then; but he does not mind it in
the least. When he is not trying to break his neck in this fashion he
is down by himself at the river fishing, or he is climbing trees, or
down a well which is being dug here, or in some piece of mischief or
other. The sun and the fruit are my _bêtes noires_, but neither seems
to hurt him, though I really don’t believe that any other child in the
world has ever eaten so many apricots at one time as he has been doing
lately. This temptation has just been removed, however, for during
our short absence at D’Urban every fruit tree has been stripped to
the bark—every peach and plum, every apple and apricot, clean gone.
Of course, no one has done it, but it is very provoking all the same,
for it used to be so nice to take the baby out very early, and pick
up the fallen apricots for breakfast. The peaches are nearly all pale
and rather tasteless, but the apricots are excellent in flavor, of a
large size and in extraordinary abundance. There was also a large and
promising crop of apples, but they have all been taken in their unripe
state. As a rule, the Kafirs are scrupulously honest, and we left plate
and jewelry in the house under Charlie’s care whilst we were away,
without the least risk, for such things they would never touch; but
fruit or mealies they cannot be brought to regard as personal property,
and they gather the former and waste the latter without scruple. It
is a great objection to the imported coolies, who make very clean and
capital servants, that they have inveterate habits of pilfering and are
hopelessly dishonest about trifles. For this reason they are sure to
get on badly with Kafir fellow-servants, who are generally quite above
any temptation of that kind.
JANUARY 14.
A few days ago we took G—— to see the annual swimming sports in the
small river which runs through the park. It was a beautiful afternoon,
for a wonder, with no lowering thunder-clouds over the hills, so
the banks of the river were thronged for half a mile and more with
spectators. It made a very pretty picture, the large willow trees
drooping into the water on either shore, the gay concourse of people,
the bright patch of color made by the red coats of the band of the
regiment stationed across the stream, the tents for the competitors to
change in, the dark wondering faces of Kafirs and coolies, who cannot
comprehend _why_ white people should take so much trouble and run so
much risk to amuse themselves. We certainly must appear to them to be
possessed by a restless demon of energy, both in our work and our play,
and never more so than on this hot afternoon, when, amid much shouting
and laughing, the various water-races came off. The steeplechase
amused us a great deal, where the competitors had to swim over and
under various barriers across the river; and so did the race for very
little boys, which was a full and excellent one. The monkeys took to
the water as naturally as fishes, and evidently enjoyed the fun more
than any one. Indeed, the difficulty was to get them out of the water
and into the tents to change their swimming costume after the race was
over. But the most interesting event was one meant to teach volunteers
how to swim rivers in case of field service, and the palm lay between
the Natal Carbineers and a smart body of mounted police. At a given
signal they all plunged on horseback into the muddy water, and from
a very difficult part of the bank too, and swam, fully accoutred and
carrying their carbines, across the river. It was very interesting to
watch how clever the horses were, and how some of their riders slipped
off their backs the moment they had fairly entered the stream and swam
side by side with their steeds until the opposite bank was reached; and
then how the horses paused to allow their dripping masters to mount
again—no easy task in heavy boots and saturated clothes, with a carbine
in the left hand which had to be kept dry at all risks and hazards.
When I asked little G—— which part he liked best, he answered without
hesitation, “The assidents” (angliçè, accidents), and I am not sure
that he was not right; for, as no one was hurt, the crowd mightily
enjoyed seeing some stalwart citizen in his best clothes suddenly
topple from his place of vantage on the deceitfully secure-looking
but rotten branch of a tree and take an involuntary bath in his own
despite. When that citizen further chanced to be clad in a suit of
bright-colored velveteen the effect was much enhanced. It is my private
opinion that G—— was longing to distinguish himself in a similar
fashion, for I constantly saw him “lying out” on most frail branches,
but try as he might, he could not accomplish a tumble.
JANUARY 17.
I have had an opportunity lately of attending a Kafir _lit de justice_,
and I can only say that if we civilized people managed our legal
difficulties in the same way it would be an uncommonly good thing
for everybody except the lawyers. Cows are at the bottom of nearly
all the native disputes, and the Kafirs always take their grievance
soberly to the nearest magistrate, who arbitrates to the best of his
ability between the disputants. They are generally satisfied with his
award, but if the case is an intricate one, or they consider that the
question is not really solved, then they have the right of appeal, and
it is this court of appeal which I have been attending lately. It is
held in the newly-built office of the minister for native affairs—the
prettiest and most respectable-looking public office which I have seen
in Maritzburg, by the way. Before the erection of this modest but
comfortable building the court used to be held out in the open air
under the shade of some large trees—a more picturesque method of doing
business, certainly, but subject to inconveniences on account of the
weather. It is altogether the most primitive and patriarchal style of
business one ever saw, but all the more delightful on that account.
It is inexpressibly touching to see with one’s own eyes the wonderfully
deep personal devotion and affection of the Kafirs for the kindly
English gentleman who for thirty years and more has been their real
ruler and their wise and judicious friend. Not a friend to pamper
their vices and give way to their great fault of idleness, but a true
friend to protect their interests, and yet to labor incessantly for
their social advancement and for their admission into the great field
of civilized workers. The Kafirs know little and care less for all
the imposing and elaborate machinery of British rule; the queen on
her throne is but a fair and distant dream-woman to them; Sir Garnet
himself, that great inkosi, was as nobody in their eyes compared to
their own chieftain, their king of hearts, the one white man to whom of
their own free will and accord they give the royal salute whenever they
see him. I have stood in magnificent halls and seen king and kaiser
pass through crowds of bowing courtiers, but I never saw anything
which impressed me so strongly as the simultaneous springing to the
feet, the loud shout of _Bayete!_ given with the right hand upraised
(a higher form of salutation than _Inkosi!_ and only accorded to Kafir
royalty), the look of love and rapture and satisfied expectation in
all those keen black faces, as the minister, quite unattended, without
pomp or circumstance of any sort or kind, quietly walked into the
large room and sat himself down at his desk with some papers before
him. There was no clerk, no official of any sort: no one stood between
the people and the fountain of justice. The extraordinary simplicity
of the trial which commenced was only to be equaled by the decorum
and dignity with which it was conducted. First of all, everybody sat
down upon the floor, the plaintiff and defendant amicably side by side
opposite to the minister’s desk, and the other natives, about a hundred
in number, squatted in various groups. Then, as there was evidently a
slight feeling of surprise at my sitting myself down in the only other
chair—they probably considered me a new-fashioned clerk—the minister
explained that I was the wife of another inkosi, and that I wanted to
see and hear how Kafirmen stated their case when anything went wrong
with their affairs. This explanation was perfectly satisfactory to
all parties, and they regarded me no more, but immediately set to
work on the subject in hand. A sort of _précis_ of each case had
been previously prepared from the magistrate’s report for Mr. S—— ’s
information by his clerk, and these documents greatly helped me to
understand what was going on. No language can be more beautiful to
listen to than either the Kafir or Zulu tongue: it is soft and liquid
as Italian, with just the same gentle accentuation on the penultimate
and antepenultimate syllables. The clicks which are made with the
tongue every now and then, and are part of the language, give it a very
quaint sound, and the proper names are excessively harmonious.
In the first cause which was taken the plaintiff, as I said before, was
not quite satisfied with the decision of his own local magistrate, and
had therefore come here to restate his case. The story was slightly
complicated by the plaintiff having two distinct names by which he had
been known at different times of his life. “Tevula,” he averred, was
the name of his boyhood, and the other, “Mazumba,” the name of his
manhood. The natives have an unconquerable aversion to giving their
real names, and will offer half a dozen different aliases, making it
very difficult to trace them if they are “wanted,” and still more
difficult to get at the rights of any story they may have to tell.
However, if they are ever frank and open to anybody, it is to their own
minister, who speaks their language as well as they do themselves, and
who fully understands their mode of reasoning and their habits of mind.
Tevula told his story extremely well, I must say—quietly, but
earnestly, and with the most perfectly respectful though manly bearing.
He sometimes used graceful and natural gesticulation, but not a
bit more than was needed to give emphasis to his oratory. He was a
strongly-built, tall man, about thirty-five years of age, dressed in a
soldier’s great-coat—for it was a damp and drizzling day—had bare legs
and feet, and wore nothing on his head except the curious ring into
which the men weave their hair. So soon as a youth is considered old
enough to assume the duties and responsibilities of manhood he begins
to weave his short crisp hair over a ring of grass which exactly fits
the head, keeping the woolly hair in its place by means of wax. In
time the hair grows perfectly smooth and shining and regular over this
firm foundation, and the effect is as though it were a ring of jet or
polished ebony worn round the brows. Different tribes slightly vary the
size and form of the ring; and in this case it was easy to see that
the defendant belonged to a different tribe, for his ring was half the
size, and worn at the summit of a cone of combed-back hair which was as
thick and close as a cap, and indeed looked very like a grizzled fez.
Anybody in court may ask any questions he pleases, and in fact what we
should call “cross-examine” a witness, but no one did so whilst I was
present. Every one listened attentively, giving a grunt of interest
whenever Tevula made a point; and this manifestation and sympathy
always seemed to gratify him immensely. But it was plain that, whatever
might be the decision of the minister, who listened closely to every
word, asking now and then a short question—which evidently hit some
logical nail right on the head—they would abide by it, and be satisfied
that it was the fairest and most equitable solution of the subject.
Here is a _résumé_ of the first case, and it is a fair sample of the
intricacies of a Kafir lawsuit: Our friend Tevula possesses an aged
relative, a certain aunt, called Mamusa, who at the present time
appears to be in her dotage, and consequently her evidence is of very
little value. But once upon a time—long, long ago—Mamusa was young
and generous: Mamusa had cows, and she _gave_ or _lent_—there was
the difficulty—a couple of heifers to the defendant, whose name I
can’t possibly spell on account of the clicks. Nobody denies that of
her own free will these heifers had been bestowed by Mamusa on the
withered-looking little old man squatting opposite, but the question
is, Were they a loan or a gift? For many years nothing was done about
these heifers, but one fine day Tevula gets wind of the story, is
immediately seized with a fit of affection for his aged relative, and
takes her to live in his kraal, proclaiming himself her protector and
heir. So far so good: all this was in accordance with Kafir custom, and
the narration of this part of the story was received with grunts of
asseveration and approval by the audience. Indeed, Kafirs are as a rule
to be depended upon, and their minds, though full of odd prejudices and
quirks, have a natural bias toward truth. Two or three years ago Tevula
began by claiming, as heir-at-law, though the old woman still lives,
twenty cows from the defendant as the increase of these heifers: _now_
he demands between thirty and forty. When asked why he only claimed
twenty, as nobody denies that the produce of the heifers has increased
to double that number, he says naïvely, but without hesitation, that
there is a fee to be paid of a shilling a head on such a claim if
established, and that he only had twenty shillings in the world; so,
as he remarked with a knowing twinkle in his eye, “What was the use of
my claiming more cows than I had money to pay the fee for?” But times
have improved with Tevula since then, and he is now in a position to
claim the poor defendant’s whole herd, though he generously says he
will not insist on his refunding those cows which do not resemble the
original heifers, and are not, as they were, dun and red and white.
This sounded magnanimous, and met with grunts of approval until the
blear-eyed defendant remarked, hopelessly, “They are all of those
colors,” which changed the sympathies of the audience once more. Tevula
saw this at a glance, and hastened to improve his position by narrating
an anecdote. No words of mine could reproduce the dramatic talent that
man displayed in his narration. I did not understand a syllable of his
language, and yet I could gather from his gestures, his intonation, and
above all from the expression of his hearers’ faces, the sort of story
he was telling them. After he had finished, Mr. S—— turned to me and
briefly translated the episode with which Tevula had sought to rivet
the attention and sympathy of the court. Tevula’s tale, much condensed,
was this: Years ago, when his attention had first been directed to the
matter, he went with the defendant out on the veldt to look at the
herd. No sooner did the cattle see them approaching than a beautiful
little dun-colored heifer, the exact counterpart of her grandmother
(Mamusa’s cow), left the others and ran up to him, Tevula, lowing and
rubbing her head against his shoulder, and following him all about
like a dog. In vain did her reputed owner try to drive her away: she
persisted in following Tevula all the way back to his kraal, right up
to the entrance of his hut. “I was her master, and the inkomokazi knew
it,” cried Tevula triumphantly, looking round at the defendant with a
knowing nod, as much as to say, “Beat that, if you can!” Not knowing
what answer to make, the defendant took his snuff-box out of his left
ear and solaced himself with three or four huge pinches. I started the
hypothesis that Mamusa might once have had a _tendresse_ for the old
gentleman, and might have bestowed these cows upon him as a love-gift;
but this idea was scouted, even by the defendant, who said gravely,
“Kafir women don’t buy lovers or husbands: we buy the wife we want.” A
Kafir girl is exceedingly proud of being bought, and the more she costs
the prouder she is. She pities English women, whose bridegrooms expect
to receive money instead of paying it, and considers a dowry as a most
humiliating arrangement.
I wish I could tell you how Mamusa’s cows have finally been disposed
of, but, although it has occupied three days, the case is by no means
over yet. I envy and admire Mr. S—— ’s untiring patience and unfailing
good-temper, but it is just these qualities which make his Kafir
subjects (for they really consider him as their ruler) so certain that
their affairs will not be neglected or their interests suffer in his
hands.
Whilst I was listening to Tevula’s oratory my eyes and my mind
sometimes wandered to the eager and silent audience, and I amused
myself by studying their strange head-dresses. In most instances the
men wore their hair in the woven rings to which I have alluded, but
there were several young men present who indulged in purely fancy
head-dresses. One stalwart youth had got hold of the round cardboard
lid of a collar-box, to which he had affixed two bits of string, and
tied it firmly but jauntily on one side of his head. Another lad had
invented a most extraordinary decoration for his wool-covered pate,
and one which it is exceedingly difficult to describe in delicate
language. He had procured the intestines of some small animal, a lamb
or a kid, and had cleaned and scraped them and tied them tightly, at
intervals of an inch or two, with string. This series of small clear
bladders he had then inflated, and arranged them in a sort of bouquet
on the top of his head, skewering tufts of his crisp hair between, so
that the effect resembled a bunch of bubbles, if there could be such
a thing. Another very favorite adornment for the head consisted of a
strip of gay cloth or ribbon, or of even a few bright threads, bound
tightly like a fillet across the brows and confining a tuft of feathers
over one ear; but I suspect all these fanciful arrangements were only
worn by the gilded youth of a lower class, because I noticed that the
chieftains and _indunas_, or headmen of the villages, never wore such
frivolities. They wore indeed numerous slender rings of brass or silver
wire on their straight, shapely legs, and also necklaces of lions’ or
tigers’ claws and teeth round their throats, but these were trophies of
the chase as well as personal ornaments.