MARITZBURG, July 3, 1876.
I have seen two Kafir weddings lately, and, oddly enough, by the merest
chance they took place within a day or two of each other. The two
extremes of circumstances, the rudest barbarism and the culminating
smartness of civilization, seemed to jostle each other before my very
eyes, as things do in a dream. And they went backward, too, to make
it more perplexing, for it was the civilized wedding I saw first—the
wedding of people whose mothers had been bought for so many cows, and
whose marriage-rites had probably been celebrated with a stick, for
your Kafir bridegroom does not understand coyness, and speedily ends
the romance of courtship by a few timely cuffs.
Well, then, I chanced to be in town one of these fine bright winter
mornings (which would be perfect if it were not for the dust), and I
saw a crowd round the porch of the principal church. “What is going
on?” I asked naturally, and heard, in broken English dashed with Dutch
and Kafir, that there was an “umtyado” (excuse phonetic spelling),
a “bruitlof,” a “vedding.” Hardly had I gathered the meaning of all
these terms—the English being by far the most difficult to recognize,
for they put a click in it—than the bridal party came out of church,
formed themselves into an orderly procession and commenced to walk
up the exceedingly dusty street two by two. They were escorted by a
crowd of well-wishers and a still greater crowd of spectators—more or
less derisive, I regret to state. But nothing upset the gravity and
decorum of the bride and bridegroom, who walked first with a perfectly
happy and self-satisfied expression of face. Uniforms were strictly
excluded, and the groom and his male friends prided themselves on
having discarded all their miscellaneous red coats for the day, and
on being attired in suits of ready-made tweed, in which they looked
queerer than words can say. Boots also had they on their feet, to their
huge discomfort, and white felt soft hats stuck more or less rakishly
on their elaborately combed and woolly pates. The general effect of
the gentlemen, I am sorry to say, was that of the Christy Minstrels,
but the ladies made up for everything. I wish you could have seen
the perfect ease and grace of the bride as she paced along with her
flowing white skirts trailing behind her in the dust and her lace veil
thrown over a wreath of orange-flowers and hanging to the ground. It
was difficult to believe that probably not long ago she had worn a
sack or a fold of coarse salempore as her sole clothing. She managed
her draperies, all snowy white and made in the latest fashion, as if
she had been used to long gowns all her life, and carried her head as
though it had never known red clay or a basket of mealies. I could not
see her features, but face and throat and bare arms were all as black
as jet, and shone out in strong relief from among her muslin frills,
and furbelows. There were many yards of satin ribbon among these same
frills, and plenty of artificial flowers, but everything was all white,
shoes and all. I am afraid she had “disremembered” her stockings. The
principal couple were closely followed by half a dozen other pairs of
sable damsels, also “gowned in pure white” and made wonderful with
many bows of blue ribbon. Each maiden was escorted by a groomsman, the
rear-guard of guests trailing off into colored cottons and patched
suits. Everybody looked immensely pleased with him and herself, and
I gradually lost sight of them in the unfailing cloud of dust which
rises on the slightest provocation at this time of year. I assure you
it was a great event, the first smart wedding in Maritzburg among the
Kafirs, and I only hope the legal part is all right, and that the
bridegroom won’t be free to bring another wife home some day to vex the
soul of this smart lady. Kafir marriage-laws are in a curious state,
and present one of the greatest difficulties in the process of grafting
civilized habits on the customs of utter barbarism.
In spite of the imposing appearance of bride and bridegroom, in spite
of the good sign all this aping of our ways really is, in spite of
a hundred considerations of that nature which ought to have weighed
with me, but did not, I fear I took far more interest in a real Kafir
marriage, a portion of whose preliminary proceedings I saw two days
after this gala procession in white muslin and gray tweed. I was
working in the verandah after breakfast—for you must know that it is
so cold in-doors that we all spend the middle part of the day basking
like lizards in the delicious warmth of sunny air outside—when I
heard a distant but loud noise beyond the sod fence between us and
a track leading over the hills, in whose hollows many a Kafir kraal
nestles snugly. I knew it must be something unusual, for I saw all
our Kafirs come running out in a state of great excitement, calling
to each other to make haste. G—— too left the funeral obsequies of a
cat-murdered pigeon in which he was busily employed, and scampered off
to the gate, shouting to me to come and see. So I, who am the idlest
mortal in the world, and dearly love an excuse for leaving whatever
rational employment I am engaged upon, snatched up the baby, who was
supremely happy digging in the dust in the sunshine, called Maria in
case there might be anything to explain, and ran off to the gate also.
But there was nothing to be seen, not even dust: we only heard a sound
of monotonous singing and loud grunting coming nearer and nearer, and
by and by a muffled tread of bare hurrying feet shuffling through the
powdered earth of the track. My own people had clambered up on the
fence, and were gesticulating wildly and laughing and shouting, Tom
waving the great wooden spoon with which he stirs his everlasting
“scoff.” “What is it, Maria?” I asked. Maria shook her head and looked
very solemn, saying “I doan know,” but even while she spoke a broad
grin broke all over her face, and she showed her exquisite teeth from
ear to ear as she said, half contemptuously, “It’s only a wild Kafir
wedding, lady. There are the warriors: that’s what they do when they
don’t know any better.” Evidently, Maria inclined to the long white
muslin gown of the civilized bride which I had so minutely described to
her, and she turned away in disdain.
Yes, here they come—first, a body of stalwart warriors dressed in
skins, with immense plumes of feathers on their heads, their lithe,
muscular bodies shining like ebony as they flash past me—not so
quickly, however, but that they have time for the _politesse_ of
tossing up shields and spears with a loud shout of “Inkosi!” which
salutation the baby, who takes it entirely to himself, returns with
great gravity and unction. These are the vanguard, the flower of Kafir
chivalry, who are escorting the daughter of a chieftain to her new home
in a kraal on the opposite range of hills. They make it a point of
honor to go as quickly as possible, for they are like the stroke oar
and give the time to the others. After them come the male relatives of
the bride, a motley crew, numerous, but altogether wanting in the style
and bearing of the warriors. Their garb, too, is a wretched mixture,
and a compromise between clothes and no clothes, and they shuffle
breathlessly along, some with sacks over their shoulders, some with old
tunics of red or blue and nothing else, and some only with two flaps
or aprons. But all wear snuffboxes in their ears—snuffboxes made of
every conceivable material—hollow reeds, cowries, tiger-cats’ teeth,
old cartridge-cases, acorn-shells, empty chrysalises of some large
moth—all sorts of miscellaneous rubbish which could by any means be
turned to this use. Then comes a more compact and respectable-looking
body of men, all with rings on their heads, the Kafir sign and token
of well-to-do-ness, with bare legs, but draped in bright-colored rugs
or blankets. They too fling up their right arm and cry “Inkosi!” as
they race along, but are more intent on urging on their charge, the
bride, who is in their midst. Poor girl! she has some five or six miles
yet to go, and she looks ready to drop now; but there seems to be no
consideration for her fatigue, and I observe that she evidently shrinks
from the sticks which her escort flourish about. She is a good-looking,
tall girl, with a nice expression in spite of her jaded and hurried
air. She wears only a large sheet of coarse brownish cloth draped
gracefully and decently around her, leaving, however, her straight,
shapely legs bare to run. On her right arm she too bears a pretty
little shield made of dun and white ox hide, and her face is smeared
over brow and cheeks with red clay, her hair also being tinged with it.
She glances wistfully, I fancy, at Maria standing near me in her good
clothes and with her fat, comfortable look. Kafir girls dread being
married, for it is simply taking a hard place without wages. Love has
very rarely anything to do with the union, and yet the only cases of
murder of which I have heard have been committed under the influence of
either love or jealousy. This has always seemed odd to me, as a Kafir
girl does not appear at all prone to one or the other. When I say to
Maria, “Perhaps you will want to marry some day, Maria, and leave me?”
she shakes her head vehemently, and says, “No, no, I should not like to
do that: I should have to work much harder, and no one would be kind
to me.” Maria too looks compassionately at her savage sister racing
along, and murmurs, “Maria would not like to have to run so fast as
that.” Certainly, she is not in good condition for a hard gallop across
these hills, for she is bursting out of all her gowns, although she is
growing very tall as well.
There is no other woman in the bridal cavalcade, which is a numerous
one, and closes with a perfect mob of youths and boys grunting and
shuffling along. Maria says doubtfully, “I think they are only taking
that girl to look at her kraal. She won’t be married just yet, for they
say the heer is not ready so soon.” This information is shouted out
as some of the party rush past us, but I cannot catch the exact words
amid the loud monotonous song with a sort of chorus or accompaniment of
grunts.
Ever since my arrival I have wanted to see a real Kafir kraal, but the
difficulty has been to find one of any size and retaining any of the
distinctive features of such places. There are numbers of them all
about the hills which surround Maritzburg, but they are poor degenerate
things, the homes of the lowest class of Kafir, a savage in his most
disgusting and dangerous state of transition, when he is neither one
thing nor the other, and has picked up only the vices of civilization.
Such kraals would be unfavorable specimens of a true Kafir village, and
only consist of half a dozen ruinous, filthy hovels whose inhabitants
would probably beg of you. For some time past I had been inquiring
diligently where a really respectable kraal could be found, and at
last I heard of one about eight miles off, whose “induna” or head-man
gave it a very good character. Accordingly, we set out on a broiling
afternoon, so early in the day that the sun was still beating down
on us with all his summer tricks of glowing heat and a fierce fire
of brightest rays. The road was steep over hill and dale, and it was
only when we had climbed to the top of each successive ridge that a
breath of cool breeze greeted us. A strange and characteristic panorama
gradually spread itself out before and behind us. After the first steep
ascent we lost sight of Maritzburg and its bosky streets. From the next
ridge we could well see the regular ring of wooded homesteads which
lie in a wide circle outside the primitive little town. Each rising
down had a couple or so of these suburban villas hid away in gum trees
clinging to its swelling sides. Melancholy-looking sides they were now,
and dreary was the immediate country around us, for grass-fires had
swept the hills for a hundred miles and more, and far as the eye could
reach all was black, sere and arid, the wagon-tracks alone winding
about in dusty distinctness. The streams had shrunk away to nothing,
and scarcely showed between their high banks. It was a positive relief
to horse and rider when we had clambered up the rocky track across
the highest saddle we had yet needed to mount. Close on our left
rose, some three hundred feet straight up against the brass-bright
sky, a big bluff with its basalt sides cut down clean and sharp as
though by a giant’s knife. In its cold shade a few stunted bushes were
feebly struggling to keep their scraggy leaves and branches together,
and on the right the ground fell irregularly away down to a valley
in which were lovely patches of young forage, making a tender green
oasis, precious beyond words in contrast with the black and sun-dried
desolation of the hills around. Here too were the inevitable gum
trees, not to be despised at this ugly time of year, although they are
for all the world like those stiff wooden trees, all of one pattern,
peculiar to the model villages in the toys of our youth. With quite as
little grace and beauty do these gum trees grow, but yet they are the
most valuable things we possess, being excellent natural drainers of
marshy soil, kindly absorbers of every stray noxious vapor, and good
amateur lightning-conductors into the bargain. Amid these much-abused,
not-to-be-done-without trees, then, a gable peeped: it was evidently
a thriving, comfortable homestead, yet here my friendly guide and
companion drew rein and looked around with deep perplexity on his
kindly face.
“How beautiful the view is!” I cried in delight, for indeed the distant
sweep of ever-rising mountains, the splendid shadows lying broad and
deep over the hills and valleys, the great Umgeni, disdaining even this
long drought, and shining here and there like a silver ribbon, now
widening into a mere, now making almost an island of some vast tract
of country, but always journeying “with a gentle ecstasy,” were all
most beautiful. The burnt-up patches gave only a brown umber depth to
the hollows in the island hills, and the rich red soil glowed brightly
on the bare downs around us as the westering sun touched and warmed
them into life and color. I was well content to drop the reins on my
old horse’s neck whilst I gazed with greedy eyes on the fair scene,
which I felt would change and darken in a very short while. Perhaps it
was also this thought which made my companion say anxiously, “Yes, but
look how fast the sun is dropping behind that high hill; and _where_
is the kraal? It ought to be exactly here, according to Mazimbulu’s
directions, and yet I don’t see a sign of it, do you?”
If his eyes, accustomed since childhood to every nook and cranny in
these hills, could not make out where the kraal hid, little chance was
there of mine finding it out. But even he was completely at fault, and
looked anxiously around like a deer-hound which has lost the scent. The
narrow track before us led straight on into the interior for a couple
of hundred miles, and in all the panorama at our feet we could not see
trace or sign of living creature, nor could the deadliest silence bring
sound of voice or life to our strained ears.
“I dare not take you any farther,” Mr. Y—— said: “it is getting much
too late already. But how provoking to come all this way and have
to go back without finding the kraal!” In vain I tried to comfort
him by assurances of how pleasant the ride had been, beguiled by
many a hunting-story of days when lions and elephants drank at the
stream before us, and when no man’s hand ever lost its clasp of his
gun, sleeping or waking. We had come to see a kraal, and it was an
expedition _manqué_ if we could not find it. Still, the sun seemed in
a tremendous hurry to reach the shelter of that high hill yonder, and
even I was constrained to acknowledge we must not go farther along the
rocky track before us. At this moment of despair there came swiftly
and silently round the sharp edge of the bluff just ahead of us two
Kafir-women, with huge bundles of firewood on their heads, and walking
rapidly along, as though in a hurry to get home. To my companion Kafir
was as familiar as English, so he was at no loss for pleasant words and
still more pleasant smiles with which to ask the way to Mazimbulu’s
kraal.
“We go there now, O great chieftain!” the women answered with one
voice; and, true to the savage code of politeness, they betrayed no
surprise as to what _we_ could possibly want at their kraal so late. We
had scarcely noticed a faint narrow track on the burnt-up ground to our
right, but into this the women unhesitatingly struck, and we followed
them as best we could. Scarcely three hundred yards away from the main
track, round the shoulder of a down, and nestling close in a sort of
natural basin scooped out of the hillside, was the kraal, silent enough
now, for all except a few old men and babies were absent. The women,
like our guides, were out collecting firewood; some of the younger
men and bigger children had gone into town to sell poultry and eggs;
others were still at work for the farmer whose homestead stood a mile
or two away. There must have been at least a hundred goats skipping
about beneath the steep hillside down which we had just come—goats who
had ventured to the very edge of the shelf along which our bridle-path
had lain, and yet who had never by bleat or inquisitive protruded head
betrayed their presence to us. In the centre of the excavation stood a
large, high, neatly-wattled fence, forming an enclosure for the cattle
at night, a remnant of the custom when Kafir herds were ravaged by wild
animals and still wilder neighbors. A very small angle of this place
was portioned off as a sty for the biggest and mangiest pig it has ever
been my lot to behold—a gaunt and hideous beast, yet the show animal
of the kraal, and the first object which Mazimbulu pointed out to us.
Of course, Mazimbulu was at home: what is the use of being an induna
if you have to exert yourself? He came forward at once to receive us,
and did the honors of his kraal most thoroughly and with much grace and
dignity. Mr. Y—— explained that I was the wife of another inkosi, and
that I was consumed by a desire to see with my own eyes a real Kafir
kraal. It is needless to say that this was pleasantly conveyed, and a
compliment to this particular kraal neatly introduced here.
Mazimbulu—an immensely tall, powerful elderly man, “ringed” of course,
and draped in a large gay blanket—looked at me with half-contemptuous
surprise, but saluted to carry off his wonder, and said deprecatingly
to Mr. Y——: “O chief, the chieftainess is welcome; but what a strange
people are these whites! They have all they can desire, all that is
good and beautiful of their own, yet they can find pleasure in looking
at where we live! Why, chief, you know their horses and dogs have
better places to sleep in than we have. It is all most wonderful, but
the chieftainess may be sure we are glad to see her, no matter for what
reason she comes.”
There was not very much to see, after all. About twenty large,
substantial, comfortable huts, all of the beehive shape, stood in a
crescent, the largest in the middle. This belonged to Mazimbulu, and in
front of it knelt his newest wife, resting on her heels and cutting up
pumpkins into little bits to make a sort of soup, or what she called
“scoff.” I think young Mrs. Mazimbulu was one of the handsomest and
sulkiest Kafir-women I have yet seen. She was very smart in beads and
bangles, her coiffure was elaborate and carefully stained red, her
blanket and petticoat were gay and warm and new, and yet she looked
the very picture of ill-humor. The vicious way she cut up her pumpkins
and pitched the slices into a large pot, the sarcastic glances she
cast at Mazimbulu as he invited me to enter his hut, declaring that he
was so fortunate in the matter of wives that I should find it the pink
of cleanliness! Nothing pleased her, and she refused to talk to me or
to “saka bono,” or anything. I never saw such a shrew, and wondered
whether poor Mazimbulu had not indeed got a handful in this his latest
purchase. And yet he looked quite capable of taking care of himself,
and his hand had probably lost none of its old cunning in boxing a
refractory bride’s ears, for the damsel in question seemed rather on
the watch as to how far she might venture to show her temper. Such
a contrast as her healthy, vigorous form made to that of a slight,
sickly girl who crawled out of an adjoining hut to see the wonderful
spectacle of an “inkosa-casa!” This poor thing was a martyr to
sciatica, and indeed had rheumatism apparently in all her joints. She
moved aside her kilt of lynx skins to show me a terribly swollen knee,
saying plaintively in Kafir, “I ache all over, for always.” Mazimbulu
declared in answer to my earnest inquiries that they were all very kind
to her, and promised faithfully that a shilling which I put in her hand
should remain her own property. “Physic or beads, just as she likes,”
he vowed, but seemed well content when I gave another coin into his own
hand for snuff. There were not many babies—only three or four miserable
sickly creatures, all over sores and dirt and ophthalmia. Yet the youth
who held our horses whilst we walked about and Mr. Y—— chatted fluently
with Mazimbulu might have stood for the model of a bronze Apollo, so
straight and tall and symmetrical were his shapely limbs and his lithe,
active young body. He too shouted “Inkosa-casa!” in rapturous gratitude
for a sixpence which I gave him, and vowed to bring me fowls to buy
whenever the young chickens all around should be big enough.
My commissariat is always on my mind, and I never lose an opportunity
of replenishing it, but I must confess that I get horribly cheated
whenever I try bargaining on my own account. For instance, I sent out
a roving commission the other day for honey, which resulted in the
offer of a small jar containing perhaps one pound of empty, black and
dirty comb and a tablespoonful of honey, which apparently had already
been used to catch flies. For this treasure eight shillings were asked.
To-day I tried to buy a goat from Mazimbulu, but he honestly said
it would be of no use to me, nor could I extract a promise of milk
from the cows I saw coming home just then. He declared that there was
no milk to be had; and certainly, when one looks at the surrounding
pasture, it is not incredible.
Mazimbulu’s own hut contained little beyond a stool or two, some skins
and mats for a bed, a heap of mealie-husks with which to replenish the
fire, his shield and a bundle of assegais and knobkerries. There was
another smaller wattled enclosure holding a great store of mealies,
and another piled up with splendid pumpkins. At the exact top of
Mazimbulu’s hut stood a perfect curiosity-shop of lightning-charms—old
spear-points, shells, the broken handle of a china jug, and a painted
portion of some child’s toy: all that is mysterious or unknown to them
must perforce be a lightning-charm. They would no more use a conductor
than they would fly, declaring triumphantly that our houses, for all
their “fire-wires,” get more often struck by lightning than their
huts. Indeed, Mazimbulu became quite pathetic on the subject of the
personal risk I was running on account of my prejudice against his
lightning-charms, and hinted that I should come to a bad end some day
through it.
By the time we had spent half an hour in the kraal the sun had long
since gained the shelter of the western hills and sunk behind them,
taking with him apparently every vestige of daylight out of the sky.
No one who has not felt it could believe the rapidity of the change
in the temperature. So long as there was sunlight it was too hot. In
half an hour it was bitingly, bitterly cold. We could not go fast
down the rocky tracks, but we cantered over every inch of available
space—cantered for the sake of warming ourselves as much as to get
home. The young moon gave us light enough to keep on the right track,
but I don’t think I ever was so cold in my life as when we reached
home about half-past six. The wood-fire in the little drawing-room—the
only room with a fireplace—seemed indeed delicious, and so did a cup
of tea so hot as to be almost scalding. F—— declared that I was of a
bright-blue color, and I admit that I came nearer to understanding what
being frozen to death meant than I had ever done before. Yet there was
not much frost, but one suffered from the reaction after the burning
heat of the day and from the impossibility of taking any wraps with
one.
JULY 12.
Don’t think I am going to let you off from my usual monthly grumble
about the weather. Not a bit of it! It is worse than ever. At this
moment a violent and bitterly cold gale of wind is blowing, and I
hear the red tiles flying off the house, which I fully expect will
be a regular sieve by the time the rains come. Not one drop of rain
have we had these six weeks, and people remark that “the dry season
is _beginning_.” Everything smells and tastes of dust—one’s clothes,
the furniture, everything. If I sit down in an arm-chair, I disturb
a cloud of dust; my pillow is, I am convinced, stuffed with it; my
writing-table is inches deep in it. All the food is flavored with it,
and Don Quixote’s enemies could not more persistently “bite the dust”
than we do at each meal. Yet when I venture to mention this drawback
in answer to the usual question, “Is not this delicious weather?” the
answer is always, “Oh, but you can have no dust _here_: you should see
what it is in town!” Between us and the town is an ever-flying scud of
dust, through which we can but ill discern the wagons. I wonder there
are no accidents, for one often _hears_ a wagon before and behind
one when it is impossible to _see_ anything through the choking,
suffocating cloud around one. Of a still day, when you carry your own
dust quietly along with you, there is nothing for it except to stop
at home if you wish to keep your temper. The other day little G—— was
about to suffer the extreme penalty of the domestic law for flagrant
disobedience, and he remarked dryly to the reluctant executioner,
“You had better take care: _I am very dusty_.” It was quite true, for
the slipper elicited such clouds of dust from the little blue serge
suit that the chastisement had to be curtailed, much to the culprit’s
satisfaction. As for the baby, he was discovered the other day taking
a dust-bath exactly like the chickens, and considered it very hard to
be stopped in his amusement. Every now and then we have a dust-storm:
there have been two this month already, perfect hurricanes of cold
wind driving the dust in solid sheets before them. Nearer the coast
these storms have been followed by welcome rain, but here we are still
dry and parched. The only water-supply we (speaking individually)
have is brought in buckets from the river, about half a mile off, and
one has to wash in it and drink it with closed eyes. But it cannot be
unwholesome, thank Heaven! for most of us take nothing else and are
very well. I owe it a grudge, however, on account of its extraordinary
hardness. Not only does it spoil the flavor of my beloved tea, but
it chaps our skins frightfully; and what with the dust in the pores,
and the chronic irritation caused by some strange peculiarity in the
climate, we are all like nutmeg-graters, and one can understand the
common-sense of a Kafir’s toilette, into which grease enters largely.
Yet in spite of dust and dryness—for everything is ludicrously dry,
sugar and salt are so many solid cakes, not to be dealt with by means
of a spoon at all—one is very thankful for the cold, bracing weather,
and unless there is a necessity for fronting the dust, we contrive
to enjoy many of the pleasant sunshiny hours in the verandah; and I
rejoice to see the roses blooming again in the children’s cheeks. Every
evening we have a wood-fire on the open hearth in the drawing-room,
and there have been sharp frosts lately. The waving tips of the poor
bamboos look sadly yellow, but I have two fine flourishing young
camellias out of doors without shelter of any kind, and my supply of
roses has never failed from those trees which get regularly watered.
The foliage, too, of the geraniums is as luxuriant as ever, though each
leaf is white with dust, but the first shower will make them lovely
once more.
Quail passed over here a few days ago in dense, solid clouds, leaving
many weary stragglers here and there on the veldt to delight the
sportsmen. I am told it is a strange and wonderful sight to see these
birds sweep—sometimes in the dead silence of a moonlight night, flying
low and compactly, beating the air with the monotonous whir of their
untiring wings—down one of the wide, empty streets of quiet Maritzburg,
so close to the bystander that a stick would knock some over. And
to think of the distance they have traveled thus! For hundreds and
hundreds of miles, over deserts and lakes at whose existence we can but
dimly guess, the little wayfarers have journeyed, from the far interior
down to the seaboard of this great continent. Last season a weary pair
dropped down among my rose-bushes, but no sportsman knew of their
visit, for I found them established there when I came, and jealously
guarded their secret for them; but I don’t know yet whether any others
have claimed my hospitality and protection, in the same way, poor
pretty creatures!
I was seized with a sudden wish the other day to see the market here,
and accordingly got my household up very early one of these cold
mornings, hurried breakfast over, and drove down to the market-square
exactly at nine A. M., when the sales commence. Everything is sold by
auction, but sold with a rapidity which seemed magical to me. I saw
some fine potatoes a dozen yards away from where the market-master
was selling with lightning speed wagon-load after wagon-load of fresh
green forage. I certainly heard “Two and a halfpenny, two and three
farthings—thank you! gone!” coming rather near, and I had gone so far
in my own mind as to determine which of my friends—for heaps of people
I knew were there—I should ask to manage it for me. But like a wave the
bidding swept over my potatoes—I quite looked upon them as mine—and
they were gone. So, as I did not want any firewood, and there were
only about a dozen huge wagons piled high up with lopped branches and
limbs of trees, and as I had begun to perceive that a dozen wagon-loads
were nothing to the rapid utterance of the market-master, I went into
the market-hall to look at the fruit and vegetables, eggs and butter,
with which the tables were fairly well covered. There was very little
poultry, and a pair of ducks toward which I felt somewhat attracted
went for six shillings sixpence each, directly the bidding began. So I
consoled myself by purchasing, still in a vicarious manner by means
of a friend, three turkeys. _Such_ a bargain! the only cheap things I
have seen in Natal. Only nine shillings ninepence apiece!—beautiful
full-grown turkeys—two hens and a cock, just what I wanted. Of course,
everybody clustered round me, and began to damp my joy directly by
pouring statistics into my ears of the mortality among turkey-chicks
and the certain ill-fortune which would attend my efforts to rear
them. But it is too early in the season yet for such anxieties, and
I am free for the next two months to admire my turkeys as much as
I choose without breaking my heart over the untimely fate of their
offspring. Yes, these turkeys were the only cheap things: butter sold
easily at three shillings ninepence a pound, eggs at three shillings
a dozen, and potatoes and other vegetables at pretty nearly Covent
Garden prices. It gave one a good idea of the chronic state of famine
even so little a town as this lives in to see the clean sweep made of
every single thing, live and dead—always excepting my turkeys—in ten
minutes after the market-master entered the building. I am sure treble
the quantity would have been snapped up quite as quickly. Such odd
miscellaneous things!—bacon, cheese, pumpkins, all jumbled together.
Then outside for a few moments, to finish up with a few wheelbarrows of
green barley, a basket or two of mealies, and some fagots of firewood
brought in by the Kafirs; and lo! in something less than an hour it
was all over, and hungry Maritzburg had swallowed up all she could get
for the day. The market-master was now at liberty—after explaining to
a Kafir or two that it was not, strictly speaking, right to sell your
wheelbarrow-load twice over, once privately and once publicly—to show
me the market-hall, a very creditable building, large and commodious,
well roofed and lighted. Knowing as I did the exceeding slowness of
building operations in Maritzburg, it struck me as little less than
marvelous to hear that it had actually been run up in twenty-one days.
No lesser pressure than Prince Alfred’s visit about fifteen years
ago could have induced such Aladdin-like rapidity; but the loyal
Maritzburgers wanted to give their sailor-prince a ball, and there was
no room in the whole town capable of holding one-quarter of the people
who wanted to see the royal midshipman. So Kafirs and whites and men of
all colors fell to with a will, and hammered night and day until all
was finished, extempore chandeliers of painted hoops dangling in all
directions, flowers and flags hiding the rough-and-ready walls, and
the “lion and the unicorn fighting for the crown” in orthodox fashion
over the doorway, where they remain to this day. The only thing that
puzzles me is whether the floor was at all more even then than now, for
at present it is nearly as much up and down as the waves of the Indian
Ocean.
Now, too, that there were no more domestic purchases to be made, I
could look about and see how quaint and picturesque it all was. In
summer the effect must really be charming with the double bordering of
acacia trees fresh and green instead of leafless and dusty; the queer
little Dutch church, with its hugely disproportionate weathercock
shining large and bright in the streaming sunlight; the teams of
patient bullocks moving slowly off again through the dust with wagons
of forage or firewood to be dragged to their various destinations;
and the fast-melting, heterogeneous crowd of Kafirs and coolies,
Dutch and English—some with baskets, some with dangling poultry
or carefully-carried tins of eggs, but _none_ with turkeys. The
market-hall and its immediate vicinity became quite deserted, but the
crowd seemed reassembling a little lower down, where a weekly auction
was being held in a primitive fashion out in the open air beneath the
acacia trees. A stalwart Kafir wandered about listlessly ringing a
large bell, and the auctioneer, mounted on a table, was effecting what
he called a clearance sale, apparently of all the old rubbish in the
place. Condemned military stores, such as tents and greatcoats, pianos
from which the very ghost of tone had fled years ago, cracked china,
broken chairs, crinolines, fiddles, kettles, faded pictures under
flyblown glasses, empty bottles, old baskets,—all were “going, going,
gone” whilst we stood there, drifting away to other homes all over
the place. I pass every day an ingenious though lowly family mansion
made solely and entirely of the sheets of zinc out of boxes, fastened
together in some strange fashion: roof, walls, flooring, all are of it.
There is neither door nor window facing the road, so I don’t know how
they are put in, but I can imagine how that hovel must creak in a high
wind. What mysterious law of gravitation keeps it down to the ground
I have failed to discover, nor do I know how the walls are supported
even in their leaning position. Well, I saw the owner of this cot, a
Dutchman, buying furniture, and he was very near purchasing the piano
under the impression it was a folding-up bedstead. I have always taken
such an interest in the zinc dwelling that it was with difficulty I
could refrain from giving my opinion about its furniture.
But the sun is getting high, and it is ten o’clock and past—quite
time for all housewives to be at home and the men at their business;
so the clearance sale ends like a transformation-scene. Kafirs hoist
ponderous burdens on their heads and walk off unconcernedly with them,
and the odds and ends of what were once household goods disappear round
the corner. My early rising makes me feel as dissipated as one does
after going to a wedding, and I can’t help a reluctance to go back to
the daily routine of G—— ’s lessons and baby’s pinafores, it seems so
delightful to idle about in the sunshine in spite of the dust. What
is there to do or to see? What excuse can any one find at a moment’s
notice to prevent my going home just yet? It is an anxious thought,
for there is nothing to do, and nothing to see beyond wagons and
oxen, in the length and breadth of Maritzburg. Some one fortunately
recollects _the_ mill—there is only one in the whole place—and avers
that wool-scouring is going on there at the present time. At all
events, it is a charming drive, and in five minutes we are trotting
along, raising a fine cloud of dust on the road which leads to the
park. When the river-side has been reached— poor, shrunken Umsindusi!
it is a mere rivulet now, and thoroughly shrunken and depressed—we
turn off and follow the windings of the banks for a few hundred yards
till we come to where the mill-wheel catches and makes use of a tiny
streamlet just as it is entering the river. It is a very picturesque
spot, although the immediate country around is flat and uninteresting;
but there is such a profusion of willow trees, such beautiful tufts of
tall willow-ferns, such clumps of grasses, that the old brick buildings
are hidden and shaded by all manner of waving branches. Then in front
is the inevitable wagon, the long, straggling span of meagre oxen
with their tiny black forelooper and attendant Kafirs. This is indeed
beginning at the end of the story, for into the wagon big neat bales
all ready for shipment—bales which have been “dumped” and branded—are
being lowered by a crane out of a large upper story. Very different
do these bales look as they now depart from those in which the wool
arrives. With the characteristic untidiness and makeshift fashion of
the whole country, the wool is loosely and carelessly stuffed into
inferior bales, which become ragged and filthy by the time they reach
this, and are a discredit to the place as they pass along the streets.
That is the state in which it is brought here and delivered over to
the care of the wool-scourers. The first step is to sort it all, sift
the coarsest dirt out of it, and then away it goes, first into a bath
of soda and water, and afterward into many succeeding tubs of cooler
water, until at last it emerges, dripping indeed, but cleansed from
burrs and seeds, and white as the driven show, to be next laid out
on a terrace sheltered from dust and wind and dried rapidly under
the burning South African sun. Then there is the steam-press, which
squeezes it tightly into these neat, trim bales, and a hydraulic
machine which gives it that one turn more of the screw which is
supposed to constitute the difference between neuralgia and gout,
but which here marks the difference between “dumped” and “undumped”
bales. The iron bands are riveted with a resounding clang or two, the
letters are rapidly brushed in over their iron plate, and the bale is
pronounced finished. A very creditable piece of work it is, too—neat
and tidy outside and fair and honest inside. I heard none of the usual
excuses for dirt and untidiness—no “Oh, one cannot get the Kafirs to
do anything.” There was a sufficiency of Kafirs at work under the eyes
of the masters, but there was no ill-temper or rough language. All
was methodical and business-like, every detail seen to and carried
thoroughly out from first to last, and the result something to be proud
of. The machinery combed and raked and dipped with monotonous patience,
and many an ingenious connecting-rod or band saved time and labor. I
declare it was the most encouraging and satisfactory thing I have seen
since I came, apart from the real pleasure of looking at a bale of
wool turned out as it used to be from every wool-shed in New Zealand,
instead of the untidy bundles one sees slowly traveling down to Durham,
not even well packed in the wagons. Apart from this, it is inspiriting
to see the resources of the place made the best of, and everything
kept up to the mark of a high standard of excellence. There were no
incomplete or makeshift contrivances, and the two bright, active young
masters going about and seeing to everything themselves, as colonists
ought to do, were each a contrast to the ordinary loafing, pale-faced,
unkempt overseer of half a dozen creeping Kafirs that represent the
labor-market here.
I feel, however, as if I were rather “loafing” myself, and am
certainly very idle, for it is past midday before G—— has half enough
examined the establishment and tumbled often enough in and out of the
wool-press; so we leave the cool shade of the willows and the mesmeric
throb of the mill-wheel, and drive home through the dust once more to
our own little house on the hill.
Ever since I began this letter I have been wanting to tell you of an
absurd visitor I had the other day, and my poor little story has very
nearly been crowded out by other things. A couple of mornings ago I
was very busy making a new cotton skirt for “Malia”—for I am her sole
dressmaker, and she keeps me at work always, what with growing into
a stout grenadier of a girl, and what with rending these skirts upon
all occasions. Well, I was getting over the seams at a fine rate on
the sewing-machine, which I had moved out into the verandah for light
and warmth, when I became aware of a shadow between me and the sun.
It was a very little shadow, and the substance of it was the tiniest
old Dutchman you ever saw in your life. I assure you my first idea
was that I must be looking at a little goblin, he was so precisely
like the pictures one sees in the illustrations of a fairy-tale. His
long waistcoat of a gay-flowered chintz, his odd, square-tailed coat
and square shoes, his wide, short breeches and pointed hat were all
in keeping with the goblin theory. But his face! I was too startled
to laugh, but it ought to have been sketched on the spot. No apple
ever was more rosy, no snake-skin ever more wrinkled. Eyes, blue and
keen as steel, gleamed out at me from beneath enormous shaggy brows,
and his nose and chin were precisely like Punch’s. I wonder what he
thought of _me_? _My_ eyes were as round as marbles, and I do believe
my mouth was wide open. He gave a sort of nod, and in a strange dialect
said something to which I in my bewilderment answered “Ja,” being the
one single word of Dutch I know. This misleading reply encouraged my
weird visitor to sit down on the steps before me, to take off his
hat, mop his thin, long gray locks, and to launch forth with much
pantomime into a long story of which I did not understand one word,
for the simple reason that it was all literally in High Dutch. Here
was a pretty predicament!—alone with a goblin to whom I had just told
a flat falsehood, for evidently his first inquiry, of which I only
caught the word “Hollands,” and which I imagined to refer to gin, must
have been a demand as to whether I understood his language! And I had
said “Ja!” It was dreadful. In my dismay I remembered having heard
somebody say “Nic,” and I even followed it up with a faltering “Stehts
nic” (“I don’t understand”), which also came to me in my extremity.
This contradictory answer puzzled my old gentleman, and he looked
at me frowningly; but I had always heard that courage is everything
with goblins, so I smiled and said inquiringly “Ja?” again. He shook
his head reprovingly, and then by the aid of ticking off each word
on his fingers, and stopping at it until he thought I understood, he
contrived, by means of German and English and Kafir, only breaking
out into Dutch at the very interesting parts, to tell me that he was
in search of a little black ox. I must clearly understand that it was
“schwartz,” and also that the “pfennigs” it had cost were many. The ox
seems to have been a regular demon if his story was anything like true.
No rest had he had (here a regular pantomime of going to sleep); from
over Berg had he come; he had bought this wayward beast from one Herr
Schmidt, an inkosi. A great deal of shaking of the head here, which
must have meant that this Herr Inkosi had cheated him. Yet I longed to
ask how one could get the better of a goblin. I didn’t know it was to
be done. From the moment the “klein schwartz” ox changed masters my
small friend’s troubles began. “Früh in de morgen” did that ox get away
every day: in vain was it put in kraals at night, in vain did Kafirs
search for it (great acting here of following up a spoor): it was over
the berg and far away. He was drie tags mit nodings to eat av mealies.
It was a long story, but the _refrain_ was always, “Vere hat dat leetel
ox, dat schwartzen ox, got to?” If I am to say the exact truth, he
once demanded, “Vere das teufels dat leetel ox hat be?” but I looked
so shocked that he took off his steeple-crowned hat deprecatingly.
“Sprechen Sie Kafir?” I asked in despair, but it was no better. His
countenance brightened, and he went through it all again in Kafir,
and the “inkomo” was quite as prominent as the ox had been. Of course
_I_ meant that he should speak to some of my Kafirs about it if he
knew their language. I believe we should have been there to this day
talking gibberish to each other if little G—— had not appeared suddenly
round the corner and taken the matter into his own hands.
“Why, what a queer old man that is, mumsey! Wherever _did_ you find
him, and what _does_ he want?” G—— demanded with true colonial brevity.
“I _think_ he is looking for a little black ox,” I answered guardedly.
“Ja, wohl, dat is it—ein leetel black ox, my tear” (I trust he meant
G——).
“Oh, all right!” G—— shouted, springing up. “Osa (come), old
gentleman. There’s rather a jolly little black bullock over there: I
know, because I’ve been with Jack there looking for a snake.”
The goblin was on his feet in a moment, with every wrinkle on the
alert. “Danks, my tear umfan: du air ein gut leetel boy. Früh in
de morgen;” and so on with the whole story over again to G——, who
understood him much better than I did, and gave me quite a minute
account of the “leetel black ox’s” adventures. The last thing G—— saw
of it it was taking a fence like a springbok, with the goblin and three
Kafirs in full chase after it.
[Illustration: Decoration]