Produced by Charles Klingman
KAFIR STORIES
SEVEN SHORT STORIES
BY
WILLIAM CHARLES SCULLY
AUTHOR OF
"POEMS," ETC., ETC.
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
1895
COPYRIGHT BY T. FISHER UNWIN
for Great Britain and the United States of America.
TO
KATE FREILIGRATH KROEKER
AND
J. H. MEIRING BECK
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED.
"So geographers, in Afric maps,
With savage pictures fill their gaps,
And o'er uninhabitable downs
Place elephants for want of towns."
SWIFT.
Glossary
Allemagtig, almighty
Boomslang, an innocuous colubrine snake
*Donga, a gully with steep sides
Drift, the ford of a river
*E-hea, exactly so
*Ewe, yes
Hamel, a wether sheep
*Icanti, a fabulous serpent, the mere appearance of which is supposed
to cause death
*Impandulu, the lightning bird. The Kafirs believe the lightning to be
a bird
*Impi, an army or any military force on the war path
*Induna, a Zulu councilor or general
Kapater, a wether goat
Kerrie, a stick such as is almost invariably carried by a Kafir
Kloof, a gorge or valley
Kaffirboom, a large arboreal aloe
Kopje, an abrupt hillock
Kraal, (1) an enclosure for stock; a fold or pen. (2) a native hut, or
collection of huts
Krantz, a cliff
*Lobola, the payment of cattle by a man to the father of the girl he
wants to marry
*Mawo, an exclamation of surprise
Mealies, maize
Op togt, on a trading trip
Ou Pa, grandfather
Outspan, to unyoke a team
Raak, hit
Reim, a leather thong
Reimje, diminutive of foregoing
Schulpad, a tortoise
Sjambok: a heavy whip made of rhinocerous hide
Stoep, a space about two yards, in width along the front or side of a
house. Usually covered by a verandah in the case of South African
houses
Taaibosch, "tough bush," a shrub. Rhus lucida
*Tikoloshe, a water spirit who is supposed, when people are drowned, to
have pulled them under water by the feet
"Ukushwama, the feast of first fruits;--celebrated by the Bacas and
some other Bantu tribes
*Umtagati, magic;--witchcraft
Veldt. unenclosed and uncultivated land. The open country
Veldschoens, home-made boots such as those in general use amongst South
African Boers
Voor-huis, the dining and sitting-room in a Dutch house
*Yebo, yes
*Kafir terms are marked by an asterisk.
Contents
CHAP.
I. THE EUMENIDES IN KAFIRLAND
II. THE FUNDAMENTAL AXIOM
III. KELLSON'S NEMESIS
IV. THE QUEST OF THE COPPER
V. GHAMBA
VI. UKUSHWAMA
VII. UMTAGATI
THE EUMENIDES IN KAFIRLAND.
"Fate leadeth through the garden shews
The trees of Knowledge, Death, and Life;
On this, the wholesome apple grows,--
On that, fair fruit with poison rife.
Yet sometimes apples deadly be.
Whilst poison-fruits may nourish thee."
SHAGBAG'S Advice to Beginners.
I.
THIS is how it all happened. They met at the canteen on Monday morning
at eight o'clock--Jim Gubo, the policeman, and Kalaza, who had just
been released from the convict station where, for five long years, he
had been expiating a particularly cruel assault with violence upon a
woman. 'Ntsoba, the fat Fingo barman, leant lazily over the counter,
but as the regular customers for the morning "nip" had all departed,
and no one else had yet come, he went outside and sat in the sunshine,
smoking his oily pipe with thorough enjoyment. He did not in the least
mind leaving Jim Gubo in the canteen, because Jim and he had long since
come to an understanding, and this with the full approval of the
proprietor. Jim was, so to say, free of the house, and got his daily
number of tots of poisonous "dop" brandy measured out in the thick
glass tumbler, the massive exterior of which was quite out of
proportion to the comparatively limited interior space. These tots
(and an occasional bottle) were Jim's reward for not exercising too
severe a supervision over the canteen, and for always happening to be
round the corner when a row took place. Moreover, the till, besides
being as yet nearly empty, was well out of reach; the counter was high
and broad, and the shelving, sparsely filled with filthy looking black
bottles, was fixed well back, so as to be out of the way of the
whirling kerries which were often in evidence, especially on Saturday
afternoons. The great brown, poisonous looking hogsheads--suggestive
of those very much swollen and unpleasant looking fecund female insects
which are to be found in the nethermost chamber of the city of the
termites, and which lay thousands of eggs daily--had safety taps, of
which 'Ntsoba's master kept the keys.
Jim Gubo and Kalaza talked about many things--of life at the convict
station, for Kalaza was the nephew of Jim's father's second wife, and
Jim consequently knew all about his companion; of the decadence of the
times, in which it was so difficult for a poor man to live without
working; of the strictness with which the locations were managed; of
how the inspectors inquired inconveniently as to strangers therein
sojourning, and chiefly about the decline in Jim's particular line of
business.
"Son of my father," said Jim, "times are very bad indeed. There is
little or no stock-stealing going on. The farmers come to the office
and report losses of sheep; we are sent to hunt for the thieves, but
instead of catching them, we find that the sheep have simply strayed
into some other farmer's flock. Will you believe it; for two months we
have not run in a single thief?"
"Mawo," replied Kalaza, "how very discouraging."
"Yes, and Government thinks we are not doing our duty, and my officer
says we are no good."
"But can you not make them steal, or make the magistrate think they
do?" rejoined Kalaza, after a pause.
"Wait a bit, that is what I am coming to," said Jim, in a low tone.
"There is one man whom I know to be a thief, but though I have tried
to, over and over again, I cannot catch him."
"Who is that?"
"Maliwe, the son of Zangalele, the Kafir whose brother Tambiso gave
evidence against you when you were tried by the judge."
Here the beady eyes of Kalaza gave a kind of snap, and he leant forward
with an appearance of increased interest.
"Tell me about Maliwe," he said.
"Maliwe," replied Jim, "is the shepherd of Gert Botha, whose farm is
near the Gangili Hill, where the two rivers join."
Kalaza pondered for a few seconds, and then asked:
"But what makes you think he steals?"
"Well, you know what a Kafir is. Maliwe lives alongside the sheep, in
a hut on the mountain--all alone. The kraal is far from the homestead.
Gert Botha never gives his servants enough to eat, and Maliwe must
often be hungry. There you have it--a man hungry night after night, and
close to him a kraal fall of fat sheep. You know!"
"Does Maliwe ever go to beer-drinks?"
"Not often, for being a Kafir, the Fingoes would most likely beat him
to death. No, he lives quietly and to himself. He has been in Botha's
service since just after he was circumcised, three years ago. He gets
a cow every year as wages, and each cow as he receives it is given to
old Dalisile, who lives on another part of Botha's farm, and whose
daughter Maliwe is paying lobola for. They say he means to earn two
more cows and then to marry the girl. But I fear he is hopeless."
Kalaza again pondered, his beady eyes twinkling incessantly.
"Do you ever employ detectives now?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," said Jim lightly, "we do so now and then. But he that is
hired must prove that duty has been done before he gets paid."
"How so?"
"By making some one guilty, and causing him to be sentenced by the
magistrate. When he has done this, the detective gets fifteen
shillings. Well, I must go to the camp. Have a drink?"
'Ntsoba came lazily in at Jim's call, and handed him a tot. This Jim
took into his mouth. He rolled it round his gums, he wagged his tongue
in it. He let it flow far back into his throat, and then brought it
forward again. Kalaza came and stood before him, and opened his mouth
wide. Into this, Jim deliberately, and with an aim so sure that not a
drop was lost, squirted about half the tot. Kalaza thereupon wagged
his tongue, rolled the liquor round ins gums, and then swallowed it
slowly.
At the door of the canteen they parted.
"Good-bye, son of my father," said Kalaza.
"Yes, my friend," replied Jim, and walked away slowly towards the
police camp.
Kalaza shouldered his stick and went off quickly in the direction of
the native location.
II.
Maliwe drove home his flock at sunset, and penned them safely in the
kraal, which was constructed of heavy thorn bushes. The old kapater
goat, which acted as bellwether of the flock, strode proudly into the
enclosure, well ahead of the others, and took his station on a rock
which rose up in the middle. On this he lay down, chewing his cud and
surveying the sheep which lay thickly around him. Maliwe then closed
the gate, tied it securely with a reim, and pulled several large bushes
against it. He then walked on to his little hut, situated only a few
yards distant. He had carried in from the veldt a small number of dry
sticks, and he now placed a few of the smallest of these in a little
heap on the raised stone which served as fireplace. He then drew out
his tinder-box from the leather bag which he always carried. This bag
was simply the skin of a kid, the head of which had been cut off, and
the body drawn out through the aperture at the neck thus made. He
struck a spark with his flint, and when the tinder glowed, he shook out
a little of it on to some dry grass, which soon blazed up, and which he
then placed under the twigs. In a few minutes he had a cheerful fire,
and then he untied his little three-legged pot from where it hung from
one of the wattles of the roof. This pot was half full of mealies
already cooked, and which he simply meant to warm for his supper. The
remainder of his week's ration of meat (the skinny ribs of a goat that
had died of debility down near his master's homestead) was also hanging
from the roof, but with a sigh he determined to reserve that delicacy
for the morrow, remembering that two days would elapse before a fresh
supply was due. His dog, Sibi--a starved looking mongrel greyhound--lay
at his feet and gazed up with expectant eyes, waiting for the handful
of tough mealies which would be flung to him when his master had
finished supper.
It was a clear starlit night in Spring. Supper over, Maliwe sat on the
ground just outside the floor of the hut, and thought of Nalai, the
daughter of old Dalisile, for whom he was paying lobola. In a month
more, another year's service would be completed, and another cow would
be his. This he meant to take as he had taken the two already earned,
and deliver to his prospective father-in-law. His mother had promised
him the calf of her only cow as soon as it should be weaned, and then
he hoped that old Dalisile, skinflint as he was, would deliver the
girl, trusting him for payment of the fifth and last beast in course of
time. In two or, at the outside, three months this calf would be
weaned. It was a red bull with white face and feet--he knew every mark,
and one might almost say every hair on the animal, having looked at it
so often. It was a remarkably fine calf, but Maliwe thought it took a
strangely long time in growing up. He lit his pipe, and dreamt dreams.
Soon he would be no longer alone in his hut. He loved the girl Nalai,
and she seemed to love him, so the future was bright. She was tall and
straight, still unbent by that toil which is the portion of the female
Kafir. Her teeth gleamed very white, and her breast swelled each year
more temptingly over the edge other red blanket. As boy and girl they
had grown up together, and long before she was of a marriageable age,
he had determined eventually to marry her. So he went away and worked
for three long years; his strong, self-contained nature needing nothing
but this one fixed idea to steady it. Maliwe was not what is known as a
"School Kafir." He was quite uncivilised in every respect, and was
utterly heathen. He could speak no word of any language except his
own, and he believed implicitly in "Tikoloshe" and the "Lightning
Bird."
His pipe finished, Maliwe arose and fetched a musical instrument from
the hut. This consisted of a stick about three feet long, bent into a
bow by a string made of twisted sinews. About eight inches from one end
was fixed a small dry gourd, with a hole large enough, to admit a five
shilling piece cut out of the side furthest from the point of
attachment. Music is made on such an instrument by holding it so that
that part of the gourd where the aperture is, is pressed against the
naked breast, and then twanging on the string with a small stick. About
four notes can be extracted by a skilful player. The result is not
cheerful, and to the civilised ear the strains of a Jew's harp are
preferable. But the twanging eased the burthen of longing which Maliwe
bore, and no lute-player in passionate Andalusia ever poured out his
love in melody with more genuine feeling than did this savage on his
"U-hade."
Maliwe had waited through these long years--and how long are not the
years under such circumstances?--with a kind of contented impatience,
and as time went by, the impatience waxed and the contentment waned.
With the premonition of genuine love he had seen the budding woman of
today in the child of three years ago. He had worked and waited. His
reward was now near, and anticipation was sweet. In imagination he saw
the little brown babies with the weasel-tooth necklets, tumbling about
the hut and toddling up the path to meet him when he drove home his
nock in the evening, whilst Nalai stood at the door looking with pride
on their progeny.
Sibi, the dog, gave a low growl, and then rushed along the footpath
barking furiously. A man emerged from the darkness, keeping the dog at
bay with his kerrie. Maliwe, seeing nothing suspicious about the
stranger, called off the dog, which retired still growling into the
hut. The man approached.
"Greeting, Maliwe," he cried. "Do you not know me?"
"Greeting," replied Maliwe, "but I do not know you. Where are you
thinking of?" [A native idiom. It means "Where are you going to?"]
"Hear him," cried the visitor. "He does not know me. He does not know
Kalaza, the only Fingo his father Zangalele ever made a friend of. He
does not know the man who used to cut sticks for him when he was a
little boy."
"Sit down, Kalaza," replied Maliwe, "I meant no offence. I do not
remember you, but if you were my father's friend, you are mine."
So they went into the hut, and they refreshed the fire, and they
talked, and they put some dry mealies to roast with fat in the
three-legged pot, and they talked of Maliwe's relations, of old Dalisile,
and of his daughter Nalai whom Maliwe was going to marry.
Kalaza said that he lived in Kwala's location beyond the Keiskamma,
that he was a very rich man with a large herd of cattle, and that he
was now seeking two cows lately received as lobola for one of his
daughters from a man in the Albany district, and which were supposed to
have strayed homewards. He also said, that although a Fingo, he always
preferred the society of Kafirs, and that for this reason he had come
to spend the night with Maliwe instead of with the Fingoes in the
village location.
By and by the mealies began to "pop" in the pot, so guest and host
began to chew them. "It is sad to be old and have such bad teeth," said
Kalaza, as he paused in his chewing. "Have you not got a little meat?"
Maliwe stood up, and reaching to the roof of the hut, handed down the
emaciated ribs of the goat. Kalaza took the meat, turned it over
critically, and handed it back.
"That is the meat of an old, tough goat," he said, "I could no more
chew that than the mealies."
"I am very sorry," replied Maliwe, "but I have none other."
At this Kalaza sighed, said he was an old man, and he supposed times
had changed since he was young, but in his day no old man would be so
treated by the son of his best friend. Maliwe remained silent for some
time, and then said politely that he was a servant, and had to be
content with what food his master gave him. Breaking up some tobacco in
his hand, he reached it over to Kalaza, asking if he cared, to smoke.
Kalaza refused the offer, saying that since becoming old he had been
unable to enjoy tobacco on an empty stomach. He then sighed heavily,
and sat looking at the fire until the silence became oppressive.
By and by Maliwe asked if he would not go to sleep, and then Kalaza
began to wax indignant.
"You call yourself a man," he said, "and you let your father's best
friend die of hunger. Did I not know you had been circumcised, I should
think you were still a boy."
"Friend of my father," replied Maliwe, "I have given you all I have. Do
you want to eat my dog?"
"Given me all you have? What are those animals that I hear bleating
outside?"
"My master's sheep."
"Your master's sheep? Ho! ho! When hungry men are about, sheep have
no master. Would your father have let me die rather than take a hamel
from the flock of a rich, lazy boer, who never counts his sheep. Many a
sheep your father and I have lifted in the old days. We never wanted
meat. If my son were to let your father hunger, I would break his
head."
In the foregoing remarks the tempter had accidentally hit upon a fact.
Gert Botha, after a three years' experience of Maliwe's honesty and
carefulness, very seldom took the trouble to count his sheep.
"Friend of my father," said Maliwe, "I have never yet taken what
belonged to another. If you say my father stole, it may be so--but such
must have happened when he was young. He is now dead. When I was a lad
he told me he would kill me if I stole."
"Just as you say, when he was young," rejoined Kalaza. "And are you,
then, old? I wonder does old Dalisile know what a coward he is giving
his daughter to. In the good old days he would have sent you to show
that you could steal like a man--a young man--before you got your wife.
But it does not matter, I shall not die tonight, although I am old."
All this time Maliwe sat looking fixedly at the speaker, who, after a
pause, continued:
"My son Tentu wants a wife. I will go to Dalisile tomorrow and see
whether seven fat oxen will not tempt him to return your three skinny
cows, and send his daughter to my kraal across to Keiskamma, I have
heard of Nalai, and I think she will suit Tentu; at my kraal she will
never want milk."
Here again chance favoured the tempter. The one dread of Maliwe's life
was the rivalry of a rich suitor.
Maliwe bent his head over his knees, and remained in this posture for a
few minutes. He then stood up suddenly and strode out of the hut. Just
afterwards a sound as of sheep rushing about might have been heard
coming from the direction of the kraal. Kalaza heard it, and smiled. A
few minutes elapsed, and then Maliwe returned, carrying a young sheep
with its throat cut on his shoulder. This he flung down on to the
ground before Kalaza, saying:
"Friend of my father, here is meat. Eat!"
Maliwe then seized his stick, called Sibi the dog, and left the hut.
Kalaza skinned the sheep, and eat about a third of the meat, selecting
the choicest parts. He then buried the remainder of the carcase, with
the skin, in the loose, dry dung at the side of the kraal. Having done
this he walked off quickly in the direction of the village.
After leaving the hut, Maliwe climbed a rocky ridge, which rose steeply
for about a hundred yards at the back of the kraal. On the comb of the
ridge stood an immense boulder, and Maliwe spent the rest of the night
sitting to lee-ward of this, Sibi, the dog, curled up at his feet,
growling at intervals, and every now and then looking in the direction
of the hut, which was, like the kraal, out of sight, with cars cocked
and nostrils dilated.
III.
Just before dawn, Maliwe suddenly fell into the deep sleep of nervous
exhaustion. His knees were drawn up, and his head, bent forward, rested
on them sideways, He was still asleep when the sun arose and warmed
his chilled limbs. He was wakened suddenly by the loud barking of the
dog, so he bounded to his feet and ran round the boulder, to a spot
from whence he could see the hut and the kraal. Some people on
horseback had just reached the hut, and one dismounted and looked in.
He recognized them all. There was his master, Gert Botha, on his old
grey mare; there was the European sergeant, of the Cape Police; there
was private Jim Gubo of the same force, and there was Kalaza, the
"friend of his father" and his guest of the previous night.
As he stood looking, some one called out, "There he is!" The wretched
man then realised his situation. His first impulse was to fly--all the
savage in him prompting towards an escape into the bush, which lay
temptingly near. He sprang back and ran--fleet as a bush-buck towards
the cover. But after running a few yards he stopped dead still, and
then, turning round, walked slowly back over the ridge in the direction
of the hut. As he crossed the comb, he was met by the sergeant and Jim
Gubo, breathless from running up the steep hill. By them he was
promptly hand-cuffed, and then led down to where his master was
standing, between the hut and the kraal. The old goat was walking up
and down inside the kraal gate, tinkling his bell and wondering why he
and his flock had not been let out at the usual time. Kalaza pointed
out to Gert Botha the blood stains which were to be seen plentifully
distributed over the floor and poles of the hut, and then walked round
the kraal. When he reached a certain spot he paused, and began probing
in the loose dung with his stick. He then called out to Jim Gubo, who
joined him, and the skin and other remains of the slaughtered animal
were soon brought to light.
Maliwe, when confronted with his master, looked him straight in the
face. Gert Botha lifted the heavy sjambok which he usually carried, and
struck the prisoner heavily over the bare head and face. A thick, grey
wheal immediately followed the blow, but Maliwe did not even wince.
"Jou verdomde parmantig schepsel," cried the irate Boer. "Ik neuk jou
uit jou hartnakigheid." (You infernal, insolent fellow, I will have you
out of your stiff-neckedness.) Botha would have struck him again, had
not the sergeant interfered.
So Maliwe was marched, carrying the corpus delicti, in to the gaol.
Within an hour after his arrival, the magistrate sentenced him to
receive twenty-live lashes with a cat o' nine tails on the bare back,
and to pay a fine of five pounds, being five times the value of the
slaughtered sheep according to Gert Botha's computation. In levying the
fine, the two cows which he had given as lobola were seized--much
against the will of old Dalisile. Out of the proceeds, Gert Botha was
paid the value of the sheep, and Kalaza received fifteen shillings,
which he, in company with Jim Gubo, spent the same day at the canteen.
Sibi, the dog, hung about the gaol howling, until he was driven away
with stones. He then returned to his master's hut, and howled there all
the afternoon and through the night. Next morning, Gert Botha's son
Andries shot him.
Maliwe received his twenty-five lashes, and was discharged from prison,
after his back had, under the superintendence of the District Surgeon,
been well washed with brine, to prevent evil results. Neither under the
flogging nor the pickling did Maliwe exhibit the slightest sign of the
torture which he suffered.
On the same evening Maliwe went to a certain tree, just at the back of
old Dalisile's huts, and gave a long, low whistle, which was the
established signal between himself and Nalai. Unfortunately, however,
Nalai did not hear him, but her two big brothers, Kawana and Joli, did.
Old Dalisile, anticipating Maliwe's visit, had kept Nalai out of the
way, and put his two sons to watch. These fell upon Maliwe and smote
him so hard with their kerries, that he lay for a long time senseless
on the ground. When he regained consciousness, he limped quietly away.
He has not since been heard of in the neighbourhood.
THE FUNDAMENTAL AXIOM.
The wild ass of the desert knows,
By inborn knowledge, friends from foes.
The tame ass of the village browses
Contentedly between the houses.
He has no foes, he has no friends,
He toils and eats until he ends.
But this time, Fate, on grim jokes bent,
A wild ass to the village sent.
Oh, what a tempest shook the village,
'Twas worse than flood, or fire, or pillage!
Now if an ass I needs must be,
The desert's joys and pains for me.
Broodigrass.
I.
It was evening. In the old mission house the frugal supper was over,
and the missionary, his wife, the two lady-teachers, the eleven native
female boarders and the native probationer, all knelt down to prayers.
The eleven boarders and the probationer had come in at the sound of the
bell, the eldest boarder leading, and the probationer bringing up the
rear.
A few seconds later, the old black housemaid and cook combined strode
heavily in and knelt down just inside the door. Prayers over, Miss
Elizabeth Blake, the senior lady teacher, sat down to the harmonium and
played the first few bars of a hymn. Then the little congregation stood
up and sang. They kept good time, and their singing was fairly in tune,
but the voices of some of the native girls were very harsh and shrill,
and somewhat spoilt the general effect. The probationer, Samuel Gozani,
led the singing from his place close to the instrumentalist. The choir
stood facing the right-hand end of the harmonium, and the leader stood
just on Miss Blake's left hand, and to see the choir he had to look
over her head. The hymn happened to be Luther's "Ein feste Burg ist
unser Gott"; it was sung in English, but the Reverend Gottlieb Schultz,
the missionary, forgetting the English words, drifted into the original
German at the second verse, rather to the detriment of the performance.
Miss Blake sang out her clear, simple soprano tones, very rich in the
low notes. She was a handsome girl, rather stout, with blue eyes and
dull yellow hair. Her face was somewhat pale from overwork and want of
fresh air. Altogether, she had a strongly Teutonic look, and was, in
fact, almost an exact counterpart of what her German mother had been at
her age. Of her Irish father she showed absolutely no trace in either
appearance or character.
Whilst the hymn was being sung, the probationer's earnest eyes rested
as often on the yellow-haired girl at the harmonium as on his
particular charge, the dusky choir. The eleven girls stood in a
crescent, some modest and demure enough, but others looking bold, their
wanton, roving eyes and generously developed figures being much in
evidence. The youngest girl might have been twelve years of age, and
the eldest twenty. The latter, a girl named Martha Kawa, was of a much
lighter colour than any of her schoolmates, but her physiognomy was of
the usual Kafir type. Her father was an Englishman, and her mother a
Gaika Kafir; she had passed her childhood in a native hut, and when,
five years previously, she was sent to the mission, she was in a
condition of absolute savagery. In the mission school her Aryan blood
told; she kept easily ahead of the other girls, and took all the best
prizes.
The hymn over, the girls curtsied "good-night" to the missionary and
his wife, and went to the dormitory escorted by the junior teacher.
This room was the very picture of neatness. The whitewashed walls were
decorated with Biblical pictures and illuminated texts, and the beds,
with blue counterpanes and snow-white linen, were without crease or
wrinkle. On each bed, near the foot, the occupier's shawl was folded,
and the manner of folding varied considerably. Small prizes were given
for the best folding designs, and considerable individuality was shown
in the competition. Several of the designs were marvels of ingenuity,
and indicated a true artistic faculty.
In a few moments, eleven dusky heads were reposing on eleven snowy
pillows.
II.
The Reverend Gottlieb Schultz was far more intellectual and cultivated
than the average of his class. Sent to labour in the Lord's Vineyard in
reclaiming the heathen of South Africa, immediately after his
ordination as a minister of the German Evangelical Church, at the age
of twenty-four, he had spent thirty-five years at his task. His wife
Amalia, selected for him by the Missionary Society, was sent out under
invoice five years after his arrival. She had thus been his helpmeet,
and a faithful one, for thirty years. Although childless, she was of a
placid and contented disposition; so much so that her smile became
rather wearisome from its very continuousness.
The good old missionary had outlived many illusions, and of the few
still remaining, the larger proportion related to the Fatherland he had
left so long ago and which he never more would see. His passionate
loyalty to the Hohenzollerns was, long after the events now recorded
had happened, the cause of his removing a resplendent portrait of
Bismarck from a prominent place in the dining-room; and hiding it
ignominiously behind a book-shelf, where it remained until 1893, when
the reconciliation between Emperor William and the ex-chancellor took
place. Then the portrait was again brought forth, and hung next to that
of Count Caprivi which had supplanted it.
On his top bookshelf, triumphant over a dreary jungle of theological
literature, might have been found the works of Goethe, Schiller,
Lessing and Freiligrath, and in a secret receptacle behind his little
drug cabinet reposed a complete edition of Heine. He was very well read
in English theological literature. He thought Luther the greatest of
all theologians, but his favourite reading was Tauler. He had an
emotional understanding of, and sympathy with, the "Friends of God."
And what illusions had he not outlived! Had he not seen the natives,
for whose benefit his blameless and strenuous life had been
ungrudgingly spent, sinking lower and lower, exchanging the virtues of
barbarism for the vices of civilisation? Had he not seen the chosen
lambs of his flock sink back into the savagery that surrounded them,
lured by those tribal rites which bear a fundamental resemblance to the
ritual of the worship of the Cyprian Venus? Had he not seen the land
covered with plague-spots in the shape of canteens from which poisonous
liquor was set flowing far and wide, ruining the natives, body and
soul? All this and more he had seen; all this and more he had prayed
and struggled against through the weary years. He still prayed, but he
had almost ceased from struggling.
One illusion he still retained. This was the firm belief that the
average barbarian was fully the equal of the average civilised man--an
illusion so common amongst the missionary fraternity early in this
century, that this equality was almost, if not quite, a fundamental
axiom in all missionary reasoning. In Mr. Schultz's case, this illusion
had paled from time to time in the face of striking experiences, but it
was too deeply ingrained in his character ever to disappear. Experience
after experience faded out of his memory, but the fundamental axiom
remained. These experiences he, so to say, preached away, for whenever
he found the fundamental axiom waxing dim, he polished it up with a
liberal administration of theological logic, abstruse reasoning, and
illustrations from standard authorities.
Samuel Gozani, the probationer, was in several respects a remarkable
character. Son of a native headman of the Gealeka tribe, which
considers itself as forming, as it were, the Kafir aristocracy; he had,
fourteen years previously, been placed at the mission school. For six
years he was as backward in acquirement as he was unsatisfactory and
troublesome in conduct. But a change came. A native revivalist visited
the mission, and, behold--a shaking! Amongst the dry bones that moved,
none showed so much energy as Samuel. His whole life changed, and he at
once declared his intention of entering the ministry. He took to
theological study with the greatest avidity, and for several years was
looked upon as the coming man of the mission. Suddenly he again
changed; his moral conduct remained free from reproach, but his faculty
for serious study appeared to have left him. He brooded deeply, taught
the junior pupils in an irregular and, on the whole, very perfunctory
manner, and seemed to be consumed by a deep and abiding sadness. It was
afterwards noticed that this change dated from about a year after Miss
Blake had taken up her residence at the mission.
Samuel possessed A rich, full baritone voice, and he seemed to regain
his old vigour and enthusiasm only on those occasions when he sang in
the choir. There his voice rang out clear above the others as he led;
his eye flashed, and his countenance lit up. He was a tall and strongly
built man, with a face unlike the usual Kafir type. His lips were thin,
his nose narrow and prominent, and his eyes large and somewhat
protruding. In point of physiognomy, he somewhat resembled a North
American Indian.
III.
It was on a warm night in late Spring that Miss Elizabeth Blake sat
under the verandah which ran along the whole front of the mission
house. A slight thunderstorm had just passed, and another was following
on its trail. Summer lightnings were gleaming through the soft haze,
and distant thunders muttered from time to time. Brown, furry beetles
dashed themselves violently against the windows of the dining-room,
where a lamp still burned, and the pneumoras wailed their melancholy
love-songs from the willow trees along the water-furrow. The junior
teacher was seeing her charges to bed, for prayers were just over, and
Miss Blake was enjoying a few moments' rest in the mild air before
taking up her task of preparing the next day's work. The missionary and
his wife were away, visiting at the next-neighbouring mission, and were
not expected back until the following afternoon.
Hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, Miss Blake looked round,
and saw Samuel Gozani approaching. He came slowly up the steps, and
stood silently before her, leaning against one of the verandah poles.
"Good evening, Samuel," she said.
"Good evening, Miss Elizabeth; you do not often take a rest."
"I seldom have time."
Samuel remained silent, and the girl regarded him intently. She had
long noticed his demeanour, and had often wondered as to what was on
his mind.
"Samuel," she said, sympathetically, "why have you been so strange of
late? Is anything the matter with you?"
Samuel cleared his throat as if to speak, shifted his feet, but said
nothing.
"Do you not know," she continued, "that your class is going backward,
that you often forget to set the lessons, and that half the time you
are teaching you appear as if you do not know what you are doing? Tell
me, is there anything on your mind? Have you done anything you are
sorry for?"
Samuel again cleared his throat, shifted his feet, and with an evident
effort replied:
"I have not committed any sin, but I know my work is done badly. My
heart is so heavy that I can hardly bear the weight."
"What is this heaviness?"
Samuel did not reply, but after a pause asked this question:
"Miss Elizabeth, do you believe that all men, white and black, are
equal?"
The girl paused for a moment. In her heart of hearts she knew she did
not think so, but the fundamental axiom weighed heavily on her, the
well-worn arguments of the missionary arose and threatened her,
pointing with skinny fingers at the abyss which lay in the road of the
opposite view, so she muffled her answer up carefully in a platitude,
and handed it to her hearer, trusting that the muffler would somewhat
conceal its nakedness.
"Of course," she said, "the bad are not equal to the good; but if God
holds that otherwise all men are equal, it would be wrong of any one to
think differently."
"But white people never really think that we blacks are equal to them,"
said Samuel, speaking in a strained tone, "no matter what they say."
Miss Blake felt unable to reply, so after a short pause Samuel
continued:
"When a black man walks in the ways of the whites, he becomes a
stranger to his own kind, and he has really no friends. The white man
says 'Come here to us,' and when the black man comes as near as he can,
there is still a gulf that he cannot pass. I am a lonely man, Miss
Elizabeth; I have left my own people, and there is no one that I can
call a friend. Even you only tolerate me because you think it pleasing
to God that you should do so; but you would never be my friend or let
me be yours."
"There you are wrong, Samuel," replied the girl, moved by a sense of
great pity; "I have the warmest friendship and regard for you, and I
like you as well as if you were white."
Samuel then did an unusual thing--he held out his hand to the girl, who
took it and pressed it cordially.
"Good night. Miss Elizabeth," he said. "I will do my duty better, and
try to be worthy of your friendship. You have lightened my heart."
Miss Blake went in to the empty class-room and arranged the morrow's
work. She was filled with a vague sense of uneasiness, and she felt
that in her conversation with Samuel she had not been quite ingenuous;
especially in her closing remark.
Samuel went to his room, and, as was his wont, read several chapters of
the Bible before going to bed. On this occasion his choice fell upon
the Song of Solomon. This he read right through. He began it again, and
read until he reached the words, "I am black but comely." He went to
sleep with these words on his lips, and with a strange dream at his
heart.
IV.
The mission was perplexed by another change in Samuel. He bought a new
suit of clothes; he parted his hair on the left side, teasing it up
into two high, unequal ridges; he became redolent of cheap scent; he
applied himself anew to his studies, with feverish activity, and he
pulled his disorderly class together so effectively, that when the
school inspector again came to the mission, that official dealt out
almost unstinted praise instead of the censure which was usually
Samuel's well-deserved portion.
Moreover, Samuel notified his intention of qualifying forthwith for his
next step towards the ministry. In the choir, his voice rang out with
an almost birdlike rapture that astonished all hearers.
It was then noticed that Martha Kawa began to lose her place at the top
of the class. It should be mentioned that all the boarders, as well as
the senior day pupils, were taught by Miss Blake, and that Samuel
taught the second class. The very small pupils were instructed by the
second lady-teacher. Martha grew thin and ill-tempered. On several
occasions she was very impertinent to Miss Blake. In church, or when
singing after evening prayers, she hardly ever took her eyes from
Samuel. This was, of course, remarked by the other girls, but a
chaffing allusion to the fact was met by such a burst of fury, that the
experiment was not repeated.
Samuel hardly ever spoke to Miss Blake; in fact he appeared to avoid
her. His usual taciturnity was unchanged, but it did not convey the
idea of moroseness. His general demeanour was as that of one in a
dream, but in Miss Blake's presence he became alert, with almost an
expectant look; and he gave, generally, the idea of being under the
influence of strong, but suppressed excitement.
Miss Blake was very fond of flowers, and on the hills around the
mission, watsonias, purple orchids, and other flowers grew; whilst on
the edges of the kloofs, sweet-scented clematis trailed. Samuel got
into the habit of gathering flowers--generally on Saturday afternoons,
when he was free from duty. After one of his rambles, a bouquet would
generally be sent to each of the teachers and to Mrs. Schultz, but it
was noticed that the choicest selection always reached the senior
teacher.
The Reverend Robley Wilson, a young Wesleyan minister who had been
ordained three years previously, became a more or less constant visitor
at the mission. He was in charge of a station about thirty miles
distant. A tall, spare man, with dark eyes and hair, he had the
reputation of being extremely shrewd. Belonging to the more modern
school, the fundamental axiom did not weigh heavily upon him; in fact
it was hardly a burthen at all, but rather a cloak that could be donned
or doffed as occasion demanded.
Mr. Wilson's attentions to the senior teacher became somewhat marked.
Strange to say, this fact appeared to be quite unnoticed by Samuel, who
still pursued his course of feverish study, and became more and more
abstracted in his manner. The unhappy man was consumed by a passionate
love. It was for Miss Blake that he was striving to qualify as a
minister; it was of her that he thought all day and dreamt all night.
Into his wild and elemental nature, in which hereditary savagery was
simply covered by a thin veneer of civilisation, this strong love for a
woman of an alien race had struck its roots deep down, and absorbed all
into itself. But instead of the savage element being transmuted into
gentleness, his love absorbed into itself the savage, and thus became
savage in its character. This resultant was a highly explosive psychic
compound. He never spoke to another being of what his mind was full of,
and the repression which he had to exercise at all natural vents caused
tidal waves of passion to roll back on his soul, fraught with
destruction to himself and to others.
Martha Kawa was as passionately attached to Samuel, as he was to Miss
Blake. In Martha, the Aryan element manifested itself mainly in force
of character, and ability; for in her tastes and desires, as in her
physiognomy, she followed her mother's race. Whilst Samuel was
secretive by nature, she was rendered so by force of circumstances; she
had hardly any opportunities of communicating with the man she loved,
and on the rare occasions when she diffidently attempted to gain his
confidence and friendship, she was met by a cold and impenetrable
indifference, She was not on terms of intimacy with any of the other
pupils, the fact of her being partly of another race preventing
anything of the kind.
It will be seen that the moral and social atmosphere of the mission was
heavily charged with tragic potentialities.
V.
In course of time, Miss Blake went away to spend her Christmas holidays
at a distant town, her native place. The Reverend Robley Wilson took a
holiday shortly afterwards, and followed her. He asked her to be a
helpmeet unto him, and she agreed. Whatever love existed between them
was mainly on his side. She came back to the mission engaged, but by
agreement the fact was to be kept secret for a time, even from the
Missionary and his wife.
During the holidays, Samuel had continued his course of feverish study.
His face had become thin and drawn, and his eyes looked unnaturally
bright and prominent. Martha was more ill-tempered and sulky than ever,
and repeated disobedience had led to talk of her expulsion. During the
holidays she had volunteered to stay at the mission rather than go back
to her mother's kraal. She was allowed to stay on condition that she
did the house-work, helping the old domestic, who was far from well.
She thus had many opportunities of cultivating Samuel's acquaintance,
and it was not long before her suspicions as to his passion for Miss
Blake were fully confirmed. Samuel allowed her to talk to him, but he
said very little in reply.
About a week after Miss Blake's return, Mr. Wilson managed to get an
invitation to preach at the mission on the following Sunday. He
arrived on Friday, and then, for the first time, Samuel began to
suspect the true state of affairs. On Saturday evening Miss Blake and
her lover were sitting together in a little summer-house in the garden,
Samuel had watched them enter and then, stealthily as a cat, had crept
up to the trellis, and taken a position where he could hear every word
spoken. What he heard left no room for any doubt as to the true state
of affairs. At first he felt as if stunned by the shock, the very force
of the blow precluding suffering for the time being. The mention of his
own name brought him to himself, and every word of the conversation
that followed burned itself into his brain.
"What a strange character that Samuel Gozani is," said Mr. Wilson; "I
have sometimes thought him slightly mad."
"So have I," replied the girl, and she then gave a rapid sketch of
Samuel's career at the mission.
"Has it never struck you that he may have presumed to fall in love with
you?"
"I do not like to speak about such a thing, but it has; and for some
time back I have hardly been able to bear his presence. I shudder
whenever he comes near me."
"I think it is such a mistake to let these fellows think they can be on
an equality with us," said Mr. Wilson, after a pause; "it always leads
to unpleasantness. The idea of his presuming even to think of you in
that way."
"I often recall his asking me such a strange question one night last
year. He asked if I thought all men, black and white, were equal, It
was not so much the question, as his manner of putting it, that struck
me as being strange."
"And what did you say in reply?"
"Oh, I said that before God all men were equal. He then asked whether I
thought one who was white could ever look on a black man as really his
equal. I did not like to say what I truly thought, and felt, so I made
an evasive answer."
"I know old Schultz and his school teach a lot of nonsense on that
point," said Mr. Wilson, scornfully, "although none of them truly
believe what they say. The equality idea is quite an exploded one, and
the black savage, superficially civilised, is no more the equal of the
European, than a Basuto pony is equal to a thoroughbred horse. But I
hope you will keep that fellow in his place!"
"Yes, of course I will. But I pity him nevertheless."
"Do you? I cannot say that I do. But after all, he is not so much to
blame as is the system which filled his head with nonsense. These old
missionaries have done a lot of harm in giving the natives false
notions as to equality, and making them generally conceited."
Samuel had heard enough. He crept away as noiselessly as he came.
Next day the Rev. Robley Wilson preached one of his very best sermons.
His preaching was ex tempore, and full of vigour. He discoursed of
righteousness, of temperance, and of judgment to come on the
unrighteous and the intemperate. He waxed more and more didactic. He
called upon his hearers to thank the Lord that such men as he, the
Reverend Robley Wilson, had thought fit to devote their lives to the
service of the children of Ham, instead of shining in metropolitan
pulpits and pouring vials of saving grace over the heads of the elect
of the children of Shem. He dwelt on the inconveniences of mission life
in South Africa, and drew a moving picture of the contrast between
such, and existence in a civilised, European city--comforted by the
appliances of Science and cheered by the achievements of Art. He again
called upon the children of Ham to thank their common Maker for the
blessings bestowed on them by the children of Shem, and he wound up
with a prayer so audaciously comprehensive, that had all thereby asked
for been granted, the members of the congregation, and all their
friends and relations--to say nothing of the whole human race which was
included in a general clause--would have had nothing more to hope for,
and must have succumbed to sheer repletion. It was a rousing sermon,
but it contained not a single reference to the fundamental axiom.
Whilst the blessings conferred upon the natives by the Europeans were
being enumerated, Miss Blake (quite involuntarily) thought of the
canteens in the village close at hand, coming from which, drunken men
and women often staggered past; the mission, and during the fascinating
description of life in a European city, she could not help recalling
certain accounts she had recently read of the experiences of
venturesome persons who explored regions called slums, said to exist to
a considerable extent in most large British cities. But it was a
rousing sermon; and well delivered.
Samuel led the choir, and his voice had, if possible, a more exultant
and triumphant ring than usual.
At evening service, the old missionary preached--or rather read his
sermon. His was a much humbler effort than that of his locum tenens of
the forenoon, but it left a more salutary and peaceful impression. None
of the ideas were original, the illustrations were commonplace, and
what passed for argument was rather threadbare. The fundamental axiom
was there, but was not aggressively flaunted: it was rather implied
than expressed. But in spite of all this, the hearers, or most of them,
were the better of the discourse, for the simple loving kindness and
faith of the old man permeated the congregation as a gentle and
soothing influence.