by Alan Paton
— They called him the Lion of the North, he said to Nella. When you talk football, it’s one of the things you must know. There are perhaps ten names like that, he said.
He smiled at my nephew with apology, knowing the man was constrained.
Then he said haltingly, as though he would make his praise less great, say twenty names like that.
— Tell me, he said now quite formal himself, how’s the rugby here?
— It’s good for a small place, said my nephew. You’ll play?
At the thought of that the young dominee was formal no more, and his face was again shining and eager.
— I’ll play, he said. It’s …
He smiled at us all with that smile of his. He looked shocked at himself.
— It’s almost my religion, he said.
And my brother looked at him with the heavylidded eyes that told nothing, and one did not know whether he cared or did not care, that it should be likened to religion to run round kicking at a ball.
The young dominee turned again to my nephew.
— You’ll get your cap, he said.
My nephew shook his head.
— I’m getting old, he said.
— Nonsense. It was only the war that stopped you.
And then we said no more, because you do not speak much about the war when my brother is there, however innocent the thing you want to say. So the young dominee looked round, and there were still other people waiting to speak to him.
— I must go, he said.
This time he turned to Nella first.
— Expect me soon, mevrou, he said.
She said to him, you’ll be welcome, and thank you for your message.
And my sister-in-law and I thanked him also for his message, and so did my nephew, though still a bit stiff. Only my brother did not, but he bowed to the young man as you bow to a man you recognise through a telescope; and when the young man had gone, he walked off stiffly to the road.
And I thought to myself, how wonderful it will be at tea this afternoon, for my nephew and his family came to us every Sunday afternoon. And no sooner had my brother and the young dominee gone, than Japie joined us, more like a clown than ever.
— I didn’t want to meet him, he said. He talked too much about me in the sermon, you know, the man who watches the clock. Especially four o’clock. That’s my favourite time.
He laughed, not too loudly, but louder than another man would laugh near a church.
— But he was wrong in one thing, he said. I don’t do it because I want to die.
And I thought of what he said, that one deceit was to deceive for some base end, and the other was to deceive from fear; and for this deceit a man would have mercy, if it were confessed. And I thought, I could tell this man. And I was moved to the depths when he said this mercy was beyond all computation, for no lesser mercy could have healed me of my sin.
But then I was appalled, knowing that I deceived, not only from fear, but for a base and ugly end; and I thought, I could not tell this man.
And then when he hit the wood with his hand, and cried out that it was a lie that we were in chains, when I saw that he believed, I said to myself again, I could speak to this man.
Then when he came to me outside the church, as a boy comes to a man, calling me the Lion of the North, I knew I could not tell him. Then he fell in love with my sister, and from her he learned to hold me even in greater honour than before. By asking me to be a diaken in the church, he silenced me for ever.
For at this time I had but one thought in my mind, and that was to tell one human soul of the misery of my life, that I was tempted by what I hated, to seize something that could bring no joy. I would have humbled myself before him, as I made the boy Dick humble himself. I would have told him every thought of my mind, I would have prayed to the Lord to give him some deep knowledge, so that he could find me a salvation, and make me clean and sweet and at peace, like my own brother Frans, like my friends, like young Vorster, like the young dominee himself.
And yet, though my need was so great, I never spoke. Was it pride that prevented me? Ah, that I do not know.
The Lion of the North! How little do men see, that a man so fresh and clean as he, should call me the Lion of the North!
Ah, was it pride that prevented me? Then to be proud, I destroyed them all!
THE NEW DOMINEE PREACHED AGAIN on that Sunday evening. The congregation was not so great, because few of our farmer people came in at nights, but it was bigger than usual, because the new dominee was to preach again. And I was glad I came, because my nephew sat with us, Nella having stayed with the children at home. And this time the young dominee preached that he that asked would be given, and he that searched would find, and to him that knocked would be opened, out of the mercy of the Lord. But if a man asked with half his heart he would not be given, and if he knocked half fearing that the door would open, so that he would go in and be thus shut off from the pleasures and comforts of the world, then it would not open. Nor if he feared to lose the pleasures and comforts of one world, would he find the joys of another, nor would he know the joys of any world at all, being lost between them forever. For if God’s mercy be great, great also must be man’s obedience.
And at the sound of the word obedience, my brother, who had been grim and silent all the day, was suddenly alive, for this was a word he understood, better than he understood the word of love. And my nephew sat there in a tight silence, and the knuckles of his hand were white through the skin, so that I knew he was moved, but I did not know why. Nor did I know till I read what he wrote. And I must tell you too that to my brother our Afrikaans language was a holy tongue, given by God in the wilderness, but never before had he heard it quite like this, for there was nothing that it could not say, nothing too deep or too strong or too quiet, so that the young man who had said to him, I did not realise who you were, meaning I did not realise whose father you were, had him nevertheless under a kind of authority.
My nephew left us soon outside the church, and walked home by himself, for he and his father were still in a constraint. The sky was clear and full of stars, and the pines gave a sound to the wind, which though it was summer was cold and fresh with the sharpness of a highveld night. It gave to the face and body a sense of cleanness and strength, restoring to a man something of youth’s innocence, and a joy that one was alive.
When I reached my home I was calm and quiet, and I must have kissed Nella with especial tenderness, for I could see at once that she was touched.
— A fire, I said.
— I thought you’d be cold, Pieter.
She felt my hands.
— You are cold, she said.
I saw that she was solicitous for me, but nervous, and for that I was ashamed.
— Coffee, she said.
I smiled at her, and suddenly she was weeping. I took her in my arms, and she clung to me hungrily, like a child taken back into affection.
— Why are you weeping, I asked.
— Because …
— Yes.
— Because you smiled at me.
— I’m sorry, I whispered, I’m sorry.
— I try to love you, she said. I try every way to love you. I pray to love you more. Then …
— Yes, I whispered.
— You shut me out.
I held her close to me, confessing it without words. Then she drew away from me, and wiped her eyes.
—Let’s have the coffee, she said.
I sat down by the fire, and she came and put the tray on the floor, and drew the small footstool against my knees, and sat on it, attending to the coffee. Then suddenly she looked up at me.
—Remember, she said.
Yes, I remembered, for so had we sat the first time I had ever touched her, in the courtship that had been so shy and simple, advancing day by day, week by week, by a word or a look, or by the accidental brushing of a hand, long enough and yet not long enough, so that it might be meant and might not be meant
, so that I could lie awake afterwards and wonder, was it meant, or was it not? Our courtship was like that, long and shy and protracted; some people said it was the times, but it was not only the times, it was also our natures. I had put my hand on her shoulders, shy and my heart beating, almost as though I had made some mistake and had meant to put them somewhere else, and might take them away at any moment. Then suddenly she had put up her own, and drawn mine down to her breasts, and so astonishing was this action from one so timid and gentle, that I had buried my face in her hair, but she would have none of it, and turned up her face to my own, so that after the fashion of those times we had agreed at once to be married.
As I thought of it now I caught my breath suddenly, to think that I should have turned from that guileless boy into the grave and sombre man, not proud and selfpossessed as the world took him to be, but full of unnameable desires and penitences, of resolves and defeats, not understanding himself, withdrawing and cold and silent, a creature of sorrow and evil. Why had it come about? Some people said that boys should grow up wild, and they would settle down into model husbands and fathers. Would that have been better for me?
But my upbringing could hardly have been otherwise, with a father and mother such as I had had, one strict and stern, and the other tender and loving; for one I could never openly have disobeyed, and the other I could never knowingly have hurt. My father had a code about women, as strict and stern as himself, and once I had heard him say, in a company where I was by many years the youngest, that he had never touched a woman, as a man touches a woman, other than his wife, nor had he ever desired to do so.
I remembered it well, for the company had been telling rough stories; then suddenly there was a lull, and my father suddenly said this thing, naturally and simply, as though it were a fitting part of the conversation. I felt a sudden pride, I remember, and a sudden feeling of love for him, and for his strength and certitude; and a feeling of envy too, and wonder that I was otherwise. And as he was, so was my brother Frans; but Frans was gentle and simpler, more like my mother, and every thought he ever had could be seen in his very face, even if he did not speak it.
Then I thought I had perhaps been too obedient as a boy, too anxious to please and win approval, so that I learned to show outwardly what I was not within. Yet I was no mother’s son, but could shoot and ride with them all. I can still remember, when we were all at the farm Vredendal, that my mother’s cousin Hester took me suddenly into her arms and said, Pieter, you come like a wind into the house.
But perhaps when you were too obedient, and did not do openly what others did, and were quiet in the church and hardworking at school, then some unknown rebellion brewed in you, doing harm to you, though how I do not understand.
—You’re quiet, Pieter. What are you thinking?
And I thought, what I am thinking would frighten the wits from your mind and the peace from your eyes, and I would tell it if I could.
— I was thinking, I said with part of the truth, of what you told me to remember.
And I would have liked to remind her of it, by slipping my hands down to her breasts, but could not do it, because something had gone wrong with it, and it would embarrass her now, here in a lighted room. She put her head back on my knees, and I put my hand on her cheek and throat.
— How did the new dominee preach, she asked.
— Well, I said.
— I am thinking, Pieter, she said with her eyes shut and her voice earnest, that I need to be better, not to worry, worry, worry, but to trust in God’s providence.
And my voice caught in my throat, and I said to her, you need to be better?
Yes, I, Pieter. When you’re down, and I get down, there’s no help in either of us. It grieves me to see you down.
— Does it, liefste?
— Yes. I want to help you, to get you out of the mood. But if I’m down, you think only that I’m angry, and being sorry for myself, and you hate me for it, don’t you, Pieter?
I bent down and pressed my face against her with sudden fierceness and penitence.
— I couldn’t hate you, I said. Only sometimes I’m grieved for you.
— Shall we go to bed, she whispered.
I smiled at her invitation in grave agreement, for such a thing had never been a jest between us.
— Do you want to, I said.
— Yes, she whispered.
Up in the room she prayed for a long time, much longer than usual. After a while I stood up and watched her, knowing for what she prayed, for the black moods and the angers and the cold withdrawals that robbed her of the simple joys of her quiet and humble life. I said to myself, God listen to her, God listen to her, ask and it shall be given, knock and it shall be opened, search and it shall be found, before the gift and the opening and the finding are too late.
In the bed she turned on her side and pressed against me and pulled my head down to her own, and kissed me on eyes and mouth and cheeks, with a kind of fierce protection, and touched me as she knew I hungered to be touched by her, and put my hand on her breasts, and pressed the tresses of her hair against my eyes and lips, and yielded herself to me with all the childlike arts of love; and finished, curled up away from me but pressed close, and sighed with happiness and content. And I lay against her, pressing my face against her hair.
After a time I said to her, are you asleep?
— Nearly, she said.
— Why did you say, the other day, you couldn’t go over it all again?
She made no answer, and I spoke quickly to reassure her, as though if I did not she might fly away.
— It was this that I meant, I said.
I raised myself up on my elbow, and looked down at her.
— You think I’m talking of physical things, I said, but I’m not. It’s all together, the body and mind and soul, between a man and a woman. When you love me as you’ve done, I’m comforted in them all. And when I love you as I’ve done, it’s you I love, your body and mind and soul. I’m healed, strengthened, I’ll live my life as it’s appointed, without the black moods and the angers.
I stopped and could not go on; but I wanted to go on, and she knew enough to know that.
— Yes, Pieter.
I knew that I was taking her again into the world that she feared, foolishly, not knowing it was the same world where she was safe and sure, not knowing that it could be yet safer and surer, but fearing it because she feared some foolish unknown that was not there at all. But it was urgent, and it must be done, and if not now and in this kind of place and at this kind of time, then never at all.
So I said to her, if you could love me more often, I’d be safe, I said.
She turned over towards me.
— Safe? Against what, Pieter?
— Against anything, my love. Against fear and danger. And the black moods.
I wanted to say, against temptation, I wanted to say, against the thing that tempts me, the thing I hate; I wanted to tell her every word, to strip myself naked before her, so that she could see the nature of the man she loved, with all his fears and torments, and be filled by it with such compassion as would heal and hold him forever.
— I pray to be made more patient and understanding, she said.
And I wanted to cry out at her that I could not put the body apart from the soul, and that the comfort of her body was more than a thing of the flesh, but was also a comfort of the soul, and why it was, I could not say, and why it should be, I could not say, but there was in it nothing that was ugly or evil, but only good. But how can one find such words?
So I said to her, I love you for that, but I ask no more than you have given me tonight.
And she was at once silent, and she was unsure, because of some idea she had, some idea that was good and true but twisted in some small place, that the love of the body, though good and true, was apart from the love of the soul, and had a place where it stayed and had to be called from, and when it was called and done then it went back to its place, and stayed
till it was called again, according to some rule and custom.
— A woman has her nature, Pieter. I’ve told you that.
But I was silent.
— And if she goes against her nature … well …
— Well, what?
— It wouldn’t be the love you want.
— I’m not talking of physical love, I said.
And she was helpless, because I was talking of that, and because I was not.
I bent down and kissed her.
—I’m sorry, I said.
She put her arms round me.
— I’m stupid, she said. But I’m going to get better.
— Thank you for loving me, I said.
— I’m going to try to do better, she said. Honestly.
Then she was suddenly bright and gay, and smoothed the pillow for me, and made me lie down first, and tucked in the clothes behind my back, as you would to a child. Then she lay down too with her back to me, and nestled against me, with pleasure and content, and took my arm that was over her, and put my hand against her breast, and said, I’m happy, and in a moment was asleep.
AH, HAD a man wanted my love, that is the love I should have given, not of any rule or custom, nor with any fear of the flesh, nor any withholding, but with the charity of love. Child, child, what thing had you done, that you should have been destroyed? For the mean and cruel were not destroyed, only the kind and gentle. And God forgive me that I should write such words, which seem to doubt His Providence, but I will be obedient even when the words seem disobedient, and will obey the voice that says to me, what thou seest, write it in a book. So child, child, what did you do to be destroyed?
And I suddenly thought to myself, I’ll tell Kappie. I was full of excitement, wondering why I had not thought of him before. I thought of him with new affection, and with trust also, for he knew all the ways of the world, and judged them not. So I had comfort after all, and was asleep myself within the hour, which I did not think could be.