Too Late the Phalarope

by Alan Paton

  And my brother said, no one will ask help from this house.

  The captain looked at him, and then again at my sister-in-law, and he said to her, I’ll stand by the boy. Then he looked again at my brother and said to him, I’ll stand by the boy.

  And my brother said, you will do what you wish, and then he looked at the captain, waiting for him to go. So the captain left us.

  I followed the captain, and my brother said to me, lock the door and bolt it, and bring me the key.

  I brought him the key, and he said to us, the door shall not be opened again.

  Then he said to me, telephone to Buitenverwagting and tell Frans to come at once, alone.

  I went to the telephone, and left husband and wife together, and they sat there neither moving nor speaking. When I came back I said, he is coming at once.

  — You will take the book, he said, and the pipe, and everything that the man ever gave to me, and every likeness of him, and everything in this house that has anything to do with him, and you will burn and destroy them all. And bring me paper to write.

  So while I collected together the pipe, and the book of birds, and every likeness of the man, and everything that had ever anything to do with him, he sat and wrote; he wrote to Dominee Stander, and to the Nationalist Party, and to the Farmers’ Society, and to every other thing to which he belonged, and gave up all his offices and honours. And while I did the collecting and he did the writing, which took upwards of the hour, the mother of the man, of the child who had first opened the womb, sat with her hands in her lap, not moving, not speaking.

  And then Frans came, and knocked at the door which would never be opened, and I told him to come in by the door at the side of the house. My brother pointed him to the Book, and said you know whose name was there. And Frans said, yes, father, and stood there with his heart beating and his face white, because he knew that some terrible thing had befallen us. Then my brother told him what the man had done, and that his name must never again be spoken in that house, nor any likeness of him be seen there, nor any thing that had been his or had to do with him. Then he ordered Frans to go at once, and to take the man’s wife and his children at once to Buitenverwagting, and to give them the old house where he and my sister-in-law had lived when they were married; and he told Frans to let Nella’s father and mother know what terrible fate had befallen their house also, and also to let his own sisters know at once.

  Then he told me to telephone to the lawyer de Villiers, and tell him to come at once, and after that to tell the telephone people to come and take away the telephone that very day. Then the lawyer de Villiers came, and I had to bring him in by the door at the side of the house; and they changed the will, giving Frans the portion of the elder son, and giving the second portion to Nella and her children, on condition that neither she nor they ever again had any commerce with the man.

  When Frans and the lawyer de Villiers had gone, my brother ordered me to sit down, and though it was still day, he took the Book and read the words of the Hundred and Ninth Psalm, which are the most terrible words that man has ever written, and should not be in any holy book. For it is written there

  When he shall be judged, let him be condemned; and let his prayer become sin.

  Let his days be few; and let another take his office.

  Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.

  Let his children be continually vagabonds, and beg; and let them seek their bread also out of their desolate places.

  Let the extortioner catch all that he hath; and let the strangers spoil his labour.

  Let there be none to extend mercy unto him; neither let there be any to favour his fatherless children.

  Let his posterity be cut off; and in the generation following let their name be blotted out.

  Let the iniquity of his fathers be remembered with the Lord; and let not the sin of his mother be blotted out.

  Let them be before the Lord continually, that he may cut off the memory of them from the earth.

  Because that he remembered not to show mercy, but persecuted the poor and needy man, that he might even slay the broken in heart.

  WHEN MY brother had finished reading, he suddenly bowed himself over the Book, and my sister-in-law moved at last, and lifted her head to look at him. Perhaps he heard it, and it moved him in some deep place within, for he said in a voice of agony, I shall not pray. She stood up and went to him, and put her arm on his shoulder, nothing more; and his head bowed still further over the Book, till his face almost rested upon it. He stayed there for a minute maybe, till he had mastered himself; then he raised his head and closed the Book, and stood up from his chair, turning away from us, and making for the stairs to his room. When he had climbed two or three, she followed him, and said, Jakob, I must go to him. He stopped, and without turning he said to her, you must do what you wish, but if you once go out of this house, you shall not enter it again.

  Then she looked at me, and I said to him, I will go then.

  — You are leaving us, he asked.

  — If it must be, I said.

  — If you go out, he said, it must be.

  — Then it must be, I said.

  Now I had lived in my brother’s house these thirty years, which is not something so easily brought to an end; therefore he turned.

  — Then I will say farewell to you, he said, and he bowed his head to me.

  — I wish you well, he said.

  Then he waited a moment, two moments, for an answer, but the only answer that came to my mind was I wish you well also, but how could I say such a thing? So without my answer he turned and went up the stairs, and my sister-in-law watched him from the stairs, and I from the room below, till we heard the sound of his closing door.

  Then she came down the stairs to me, and we embraced, but not weeping.

  At last she said, did you burn them all?

  — Not all.

  — What did you keep?

  — A photograph, I said.

  — Give it to me, she said.

  So we went to my room, and I took the photograph from under my pillow, and gave it to her; and it was one of which she was most fond, of the soldier away at the war, and she looked at it with grief and love.

  — What did you keep for yourself, she said.

  So fearing, I took out the book of the birds, and she cried out for what might have been, and for the memory of the night the book was given, and for sorrow of the thought of the deep things of fathers and sons and childhood, that no man understands. And she told me how from the years of childhood she had feared for him, and had known that he was hiding away, in some deep place within, things that no man might safely conceal; and how, not knowing what they might be, she had prayed ceaselessly that they might be removed. Yet now she knew, her love was multiplied.

  And she remembered, when he had been so happy in love, that her hope had been renewed; but soon she had known that even then he had not revealed himself, so that the girl Nella had married a stranger, whom the oldest and wisest could neither help nor understand. And she said to me, she has no blame, let the whole world know it.

  Then she said to herself, dear child, unhappy child.

  Then she said to me, who will dare to judge her? Neither you nor I. For God is both Lover and Judge of men, and it is His commandment that we join Him in loving, but to judge we are forbidden. You will say both to my son and to my daughter that my love is multiplied, and although I am shut off from them by the door of a house, all the doors of my heart are open; I will remember them by day and by night, till I am permitted to go to my rest. But this love that I may not show, you will show for me.

  And I could not answer her, being rebuked and shamed; and afraid also, never having heard such words from her before.

  — And you will say to my son, she said, that though he may suffer under the law, there is no law that can cut him off from our love, nor from the love of his friends. His life is God’s, and mine and yours, and his wife’s and children�
��s, and all his friends’; and he will therefore cherish it and not despair.

  — Now go, she said, and quickly.

  She kissed me and said, I am going to my husband.

  So I went and packed some clothes, and when I was done I went out, but I did not dare to go quickly as she had bidden me, for the darkness of the street was not yet dark enough. And I did not dare to go back into the house, partly because it was now forbidden, and partly because I did not wish to face my sister-in-law, who would have gone in any dark or light. And because I did not wish to face the girl Martha when she came home, I went and sat in the garden; and while I was sitting there, she came, and the young dominee with her, and knocked on the door which would not be opened, and I heard my sister-in-law’s voice from the house, low and quiet, telling them to go to the other door, and they passed near to me, and even in that light I could see that they knew. Therefore it was known, and would go like fire from every house to every house, and from every farm to every farm in the grass country, and down with kloof and precipice to the hot world of rock and flower, and to every kraal and hut of Maduna’s people, and over the telephone wires and the telegraph wires, into every town and city, and into the newspapers, and into the homes of soldiers who had fought in the war, and into the offices of Pretoria, and even into the great rugby fields where tens of thousands came to see the game. Therefore I waited till the darkness was complete.

  Then I ventured out into the street with the three pools of light, and when I came near to the Royal Hotel I crossed over into the dark, and so came to the Police Station, and went to the captain’s office, and said, where is he?

  — He’s just gone home, he said.

  — There’s no one there, I said. My brother had them taken away.

  — Come at once, he said.

  As we hurried into the street, he said to me anxiously, he wanted to tell her himself, he was desperate to tell her himself. And in thirty minutes I was to go there myself.

  — Did you take the guns?

  — All the guns and his revolver.

  — And his own revolver? His private revolver?

  — I didn’t know he had one. Can you go faster?

  — I can run, I said.

  FOR AS SOON AS IT WAS DARK, Sergeant Fourie had taken the ex-lieutenant to his house. And the ex-lieutenant had shown him the guns, but himself stood listening, for there was no sound in the house, of woman, or of children playing in the bath. Then the sergeant went, and the boy Johannes came out of the kitchen, all smiles and cheerfulness; and because the boy was smiling and cheerful, the man was able to say to him, almost as though it were nothing, who fetched the mistress and the children? And the boy said, Baas Frans came with the car. And the man said carelessly, is there a letter? And the boy said, there is a letter.

  The boy went to the kitchen and came back with the letter, which was heavy and addressed to P. van Vlaanderen. He tore it open, and it was full of paper money, with a note on which was written, Hiermee jou agtien pond, J. Vorster, which is, Herewith your eighteen pounds. But the English is not the same as the Afrikaans, for the word jou when used in this way, is a word of supreme contempt.

  Then he saw it was beyond all reason, and he went to the bedroom and took out the revolver from the cupboard where it was kept, and put his big coat over his uniform, and went out into the darkness of the town.

  Therefore when the captain and I came, he was already gone. But we saw the money and the letter, and though we did not understand about the money, we knew it was a letter of supreme contempt. I went to the bedroom and looked round it helpless, not knowing where the thing was kept, and therefore not knowing if it were gone. I went running to the captain and said to him, where shall we go?

  — God knows, he said. But we can try.

  Therefore we went hurrying through the town, to Pretorius Street, where the stinking kakiebos grows on the vacant ground.

  Now Kappie came also hurrying to the house, when he heard that his friend was there alone. And he too saw the money and the letter of supreme contempt. Therefore he went out at once, but he did not go to the vacant ground, but to Slabbert’s Field; and there on the lowest row of seats he saw his friend in the dark, sitting with his hands held together on his knees, and his head bowed into his breast. And Kappie came down quietly over the rows of seats, till he was standing two or three rows behind him.

  Then he said, lieutenant.

  And the man did not turn, but he said at once, who are you?

  — Kappie, lieutenant. Lieutenant, in God’s name, and in the name of your Lord Jesus Christ, put down that revolver.

  And the man said, I am not a lieutenant.

  So Kappie said, Pieter, in God’s name, put it down.

  Then he heard the revolver fall from his friend’s hands, and he came down over the rows of seats, and sat down beside him, and put his arm about him, not round the shoulders, for he could not, being so small a man. And he spoke to him there, as one speaks to a child, as a woman speaks, as most men would fear to speak in the presence of any other person, about friends and courage, and about no one deserving to suffer for ever, and about a plan for man and wife and children to go to some new country, where they could forget the terror and suffering.

  — My wife and children, Kappie? They’ve gone already.

  Then Kappie had to speak to him again, about panic and danger, and how one turned to flee, and could not then remember past love and mercies. He spoke as a woman speaks to her child when sobbing is past, one questioning and questioning, the other answering and comforting, so that the present is secure and warm, and it seems almost that the future will not come.

  Then Kappie stood up, and picked up the revolver.

  — Pieter, let us go home.

  — Kappie.

  — Yes?

  — Did you know?

  — I knew there was something, but I didn’t know what it was.

  — I tried to tell you, Kappie.

  And Kappie stood there remembering, and out of the silence of Slabbert’s Field came suddenly, rising and falling in the dark, the music of the great Concerto, matching the sorrow of this night and the world, so loud and clear he wondered that the other did not hear.

  Yet perhaps he heard, for he said, I went there to tell you.

  And together they listened to the music of that time, when a man went to speak and did not speak, not even a word of the coldness and beauty of the winter’s night, when a man pursued by mortal danger drew back from the very edge of his salvation, and was destroyed.

  And the music died away, and Slabbert’s Field was a field again, cold and dark, and one knew that the future must come.

  So in silence they walked back to the town, and passed us in the dark; and when they had gone into the house, the captain and I came slowly after.

  BUT THOUGH THE CAPTAIN AND I FOLLOWED, we did not go into the room, but stood at the door; for he was saying that he was cleansed, once and for ever, and that this blow that had struck him down had cleansed him for ever, but why must a man be struck down to be cleansed, and why could not the man who had struck him down have warned him, for by this very warning he would have been cleansed for ever, and why could not God have warned him, and why must God strike him down so utterly, and why must the innocent also be struck down, and why and why and why?

  So I knew that he had been destroyed. For he was like a man who had lived famous by some legend, that underneath his clothes he was not like other men, but had the parts of a god; but some enemy had made him drunken, and stripped him and left him in the streets for men’s derision. And the thought came to me, sudden and shocking, that the broken and the contrite heart is something far more terrible than penitence. Ah, why must we armour ourselves? Oh that we had some deeper love and knowledge, that no child would ever again be hurt.

  — And Kappie, my mother?

  And Kappie said, we must wait for your aunt. Therefore I went in and said, your mother sends her love. And Kappie went out, and the boy p
ut his arms about me, and pressed his head into my breasts, and was as he had been as a child, before the time he humbled me.

  And whether because of this, or whether because of something other, but he ceased to torment himself, and began to speak, as one speaks after the first agony of bereavement is past, as one might stand up and say, would you like to see his picture as a child?

  So now he said to me, do you understand it all?

  — Something, I said. Not all.

  He stood up and went into his study, and brought back a leather bag which must have been in the chimney, for it was black with soot. Out of it he took a paper parcel, which he opened out on to the floor, and out of the parcel a big envelope. His hands were sooty, and he said to me earnestly and like a boy, open it, Tante, it’s clean.

  I took it up and on it was written

  In the event of my death to be given

  unopened to

  Matthew Kaplan

  Southern Transvaal Trading Store

  Venterspan.

  P. van Vlaanderen.

  I opened it and in it was a thick black book, such as the older children use at school.

  — It’s all there, he said, I wrote it all down.

  — Is this for Nella, I said.

  — For Nella, he said, and if she wishes, for my mother and yourself.

  Then we talked no more, and the captain and Kappie came in when they heard us silent.

  Kappie said, Pieter, can I sleep here tonight?

  So I, who had wished to sleep there myself, was humble and took up my case, and was ready to go with the captain.

  In the street he said to me, did you mean to sleep there?

  — Yes.

  Then he would have taken me to my brother’s house, but I told him that I was forbidden to return, and would go to the hotel.

  — You’ll go to no hotel, he said. You’ll come to my mother’s house.

  After that he spoke no more, till we reached the gate of the house; then he stopped, and said to me in a strange and trembling voice, an offender must be punished, mejuffrou, I don’t argue about that. But to punish and not to restore, that is the greatest of all offences.