Part 14 (1/2)

He is a stranger, he said, I cannot touch him, I cannot reach him. I see no shame in him, no pity for those he has hurt. Tears come out of his eyes, but it seems that he weeps only for himself, not for his wickedness, but for his danger.

The man cried out, can a person lose all sense of evil? A boy, brought up as he was brought up? I see only his pity for himself, he who has made two children fatherless. I tell you, that whosoever offends one of these little ones, it were better....

Stop, cried Father Vincent. You are beside yourself. Go and pray, go and rest. And do not judge your son too quickly. He too is shocked into silence, maybe. That is why he says to you, it is as my father wishes, and yes that is so, and I do not know.

k.u.malo stood up. I trust that is so, he said, but I have no hope any more. What did you say I must do? Yes, pray and rest.

There was no mockery in his voice, and Father Vincent knew that it was not in this man's nature to speak mockingly. But so mocking were the words that the white priest caught him by the arm, and said to him urgently, sit down, I must speak to you as a priest.

When k.u.malo had sat down, Father Vincent said to him, yes, I said pray and rest. Even if it is only words that you pray, and even if your resting is only a lying on a bed. And do not pray for yourself, and do not pray to understand the ways of G.o.d. For they are secret. Who knows what life is, for life is a secret. And why you have compa.s.sion for a girl, when you yourself find no compa.s.sion, that is a secret. And why you go on, when it would seem better to die, that is a secret. Do not pray and think about these things now, there will be other times. Pray for Gertrude, and for her child, and for the girl that is to be your son's wife, and for the child that will be your grandchild. Pray for your wife and all at Ndotsheni. Pray for the woman and the children that are bereaved. Pray for the soul of him who was killed. Pray for us at the Mission House, and for those at Ezenzeleni, who try to rebuild in a place of destruction. Pray for your own rebuilding. Pray for all white people, those who do justice, and those who would do justice if they were not afraid. And do not fear to pray for your son, and for his amendment.

I hear you, said k.u.malo humbly.

And give thanks where you can give thanks. For nothing is better. Is there not your wife, and Mrs. Lithebe, and Msimangu, and this young white man at the reformatory? Now, for your son and his amendment, you will leave this to me and Msimangu; for you are too distraught to see G.o.d's will. And now my son, go and pray, go and rest.

He helped the old man to his feet, and gave him his hat. And when k.u.malo would have thanked him, he said, we do what is in us, and why it is in us, that is also a secret. It is Christ in us, crying that men may be succoured and forgiven, even when He Himself is forsaken.

He led the old man to the door of the Mission and there parted from him.

I shall pray for you, he said, night and day. That I shall do and anything more that you ask.

16.

THE NEXT DAY k.u.malo, who was learning to find his way about the great city, took the train to Pimville to see the girl who was with child by his son. He chose this time so that Msimangu would not be able to accompany him, not because he was offended, but because he felt he would do it better alone. He thought slowly and acted slowly, no doubt because he lived in the slow tribal rhythm; and he had seen that this could irritate those who were with him, and he had felt also that he could reach his goal more surely without them.

He found the house not without difficulty, and knocked at the door, and the girl opened to him. And she smiled at him uncertainly, with something that was fear, and something that was child-like and welcoming.

And how are you, my child?

I am well, umfundisi.

He sat down on the only chair in the room, sat down carefully on it, and wiped his brow.

Have you heard of your husband? he asked. Only the word does not quite mean husband.

The smile went from her face. I have not heard, she said.

What I have to say is heavy, he said. He is in prison.

In prison, she said.

He is in prison, for the most terrible deed that a man can do.

But the girl did not understand him. She waited patiently for him to continue. She was surely but a child.

He has killed a white man.

Au! The exclamation burst from her. She put her hands over her face. And k.u.malo himself could not continue, for the words were like knives, cutting into a wound that was still new and open. She sat down on a box, and looked at the floor, and the tears started to run slowly down her cheeks.

I do not wish to speak of it, my child. Can you read? The white man's newspaper?

A little.

Then I shall leave it with you. But do not show it to others.

I shall not show it to others, umfundisi.

I do not wish to speak of it any more. I have come to speak with you of another matter. Do you wish to marry my son?

It is as the umfundisi sees it.

I am asking you, my child.

I can be willing.

And why would you be willing?

She looked at him, for she could not understand such a question.

Why do you wish to marry him? he persisted.

She picked little strips of wood from the box, smiling in her perplexedness. He is my husband, she said, with the word that does not quite mean husband.

But you did not wish to marry him before?

The questions embarra.s.sed her; she stood up, but there was nothing to do, and she sat down again, and fell to picking at the box.

Speak, my child.

I do not know what to say, umfundisi.

Is it truly your wish to marry him?

It is truly my wish, umfundisi.

I must be certain. I do not wish to take you into my family if you are unwilling.

At those words she looked up at him eagerly. I am willing, she said.

We live in a far place, he said, there are no streets and lights and buses there. There is only me and my wife, and the place is very quiet. You are a Zulu?

Yes, umfundisi.

Where were you born?

In Alexandra.