by Andre Brink
For a moment he was not strange to her any more; for a moment she understood his silence and his aloofness, responding to it with something she had recognized in herself. He was no longer a reserved foreigner rebuffing people with his stern reticence, no longer a traveler in a Cape coach, but a man intimately acquainted with worlds which, to her, existed only in the music of their names: Guyana and Surinam, the Amazon, Pernambuco, Tierra del Fuego, New Zealand, Fiji; names like gods or prayers. It stirred up a thirst inside her which left her breathless. And suddenly, illogically, she wanted to beg him: Here I am, explore me. Don’t you see? I am a prisoner here.
“I’m going to marry Erik Alexis Larsson,” she announced to her parents, months later. “He has asked me to wait until he comes back from his journey into the interior, but I told him I preferred to get married first and go with him.”
“Do you think it's wise?” Marcus Louw enquired cautiously.
“It's completely out of the question!” said her mother. “I’ve never heard of such madness.”
“Well, I’m going to,” said Elisabeth.
“Use your authority, Marcus,” Catharina ordered. “What will our friends think of it? A woman in the interior!”
“What's wrong with a woman in the interior?” asked Elisabeth angrily. “What's wrong with a woman anyway? Is it something to be ashamed of? You make it sound like a crime to be born a woman. If a man can go on an expedition, why shouldn’t I?”
“You will bring shame on us if you do this. In my family…”
“When you married me and decided to settle in the Cape,” Marcus reminded her quietly, “your family also wanted to deny you. Have you forgotten how you used to be just like Elisabeth? Never satisfied, quite untamed.”
“And what came of it?” she asked, resentful, complaining. “Married to a man with no ambition. Two children in the grave, my two sons who would have made all the difference. Bruised by this land, broken by it. But you refused to budge. There have been many times you could have had a transfer to Batavia or to Patria, but oh no: Marcus Louw was born here and he’ll die here. So how can one expect Elisabeth to be any different? But this time you’re going to put your foot down!”
“When my mother fled from France,” he said, “it was no use anyone trying to put a foot down.” Passion, of which he so seldom gave evidence, burnt in the network of tiny purple veins covering his cheeks.
“That was different,” said Catharina. “She had no choice, the Huguenots were persecuted. But nothing forces Elisabeth to go away from here. Why on earth should she flee into the wilderness?”
“One doesn’t have many options staying here,” said Elisabeth with quiet fury. “You can either die or go mad, that's all. Neither appeals to me.”
“There is no need to be insulting,” her mother said sharply. “Madness or death! What else awaits you among the savages and the wild beasts in the wilderness?” Her tone changed back to sulky complaint. “It's all right for a man to go in search of adventure. Even so I should have thought Larsson was old enough to know better. It's the younger ones who must get something out of their system. But you, Elisabeth: you’re used to a decent way of life, you’re held in esteem, you’re an example to others.”
“You make it sound as if I’m descending into hell. It's only the interior. Mother, can’t you understand I can no longer bear it here?”
“You have more than enough to occupy yourself with.”
“Oh yes! I attend every party and every ball and every picnic. It helps to pass the time. But for how long am I supposed to go on like this? Until I’ve caught a decent man and can start breeding in a decent way?”
“Mind your language. Marcus, say something!”
“My father rebelled against his Governor,” he said, looking down at his glass.
“ To his everlasting shame, yes!”
He banged down his glass. “Perhaps it is to my everlasting shame that I crawled back to the service of the Company against which he rebelled. It was such a safe haven. It offered security to my whole family.”
“Are you also planning to go on an expedition?” Catharina sneered.
“No, I’m too old for that. But if she wants to go, it's for her to decide. If she really loves the man.” He looked at her with anguished, piercing eyes.
Elisabeth bowed her head. After a long time she looked up at him again. “I’ve made up my mind. I want to get married and go with him.”
“That's gratitude for you,” said her mother. “But if that's the way it has to be, at least we’ll make it a wedding the Cape will never forget. But then we’ll have to wait for the next fleet.”
“How far do you plan to go?” asked her father when, later that evening, the two of them were alone, playing chess in the drawing room, his glass of arrack beside the board.
“As far as possible,” she replied. “It's impossible to predict. He is trying to plot a route, but he can’t find a reliable map anywhere and everybody comes with different information. He's now heard about a Mr. Roloff at Muizenberg…”
“I hope it works out.” He gulped down some arrack and sighed. “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, my girl? Do you really love him so much?”
“I’ll go with him as far as he wants to go, Father.”
And from here she will go on alone. It was no rational decision at all: it simply happened inside her when, after she’d heard the shot, she saw Adam coming through the bushes at the bottom of the hill. And now there is no turning back.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he drops the buck on the ground and squats down to start skinning it. She is busy on the wagon; feverish activity.
“If we are to leave for the sea tomorrow I’d better start sorting and packing now.”
His eyes narrow, watching her. She goes on working, too urgently, perhaps.
One box of clothes can stay behind untouched. Unless Adam can find a use for some of it? But she refrains from asking him, afraid that he may say yes; and she prefers not to open the box at all. The second box contains her own things. On the long journey here she used to change twice or even three times a day, what with all that dust and heat. There were enough Hottentots around to do the washing; and since they deserted the trek, she has been able to cope herself. Even before leaving the Cape she had to select her clothes with such care, there was so little space. What will she do now, with only two oxen left to carry everything?
Having skinned the buck and salted the strips of meat, Adam comes to the wagon to watch her work. It's easy for him, she thinks; there's nothing personal involved. To him it's a simple matter of going on.
“What's this?”
“His journals.”
He pages through the heavy leather-bound books, uncomprehending; then throws them aside.
“No, they must come with us,” she orders apologetically. “I must take them back to the Cape.”
He sneers. Under his silent, defiant eyes she feels unsettled. If only there were something she could send him to do, to be rid of him; but she knows beforehand that he won’t obey. It is as if he has taken over momentarily, a quiet supervising master. Resentful, she goes on sorting her belongings, refusing to look at him.
All right, so the journals will go along. That is her small victory. But there is no room for the innumerable stuffed birds, and the dried flowers— provisionally named until they could be sent to Sweden. Even their arms and ammunition must be severely restricted: two blunderbusses, a single pistol; a small quantity of powder and shot and lead. One jug of brandy for comfort in case of illness, or to buy help or friendship along the road; a small roll of tobacco; blankets. Tea and flour and sugar, salt, and what has remained of the chocolate. Most of the rest is luxury, even the beautifully hand-embroidered trousseau sheets, the iron curlers, and the pressing irons, the cologne. There may be room for one bucket, for a kettle, a pan, a minimum of cutlery; it's already too much.
Now sort it through again, he orders; throw out some more. And gradually a passio
n of destruction is kindled inside her, to discard, to strip herself, to rid herself of possessions. What are one's needs: what is the utter minimum one truly requires? After all, he arrived here with nothing whatsoever, except for the clothes stolen from her husband.
All the rejected stuff she repacks, with unnecessary care, in the boxes on the wagon, tidying everything meticulously to prevent its destruction by the wind should another storm break out: but the canvas of the wagon is torn already, and what about animals, what about marauding robbers?
Now that she has reached this point, she wants to free herself from everything that has kept her here, retaining nothing. To be virginal to any adventure which may lie ahead: anything; everything.
But afterwards, once Adam has moved out of sight, she reopens the boxes and begins to take out things again, adding them to the bundle of indispensables: cotton and needles, soap, and the cologne, her dark green dress—to wear when she arrives back home, one needs something decent.
Adam has selected the speckled ox for loading, tying it to a tree, the thong fastened to a short stick through the animal's nose to keep it still; and at the first signs of daylight streaking up from the mountains he places two large hides across the back of the ox and begins to pack all their belongings on these. Elisabeth gives him a hand to fold up the flaps—a few more things have to be discarded, dear God—so that he can secure them. The thongs are tied under the animal's belly, so tight that they cut deep folds into the skin.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” she asks.
“It's an ox.”
They have a final meal. Then Adam puts out the fire and tramples sand over it, as if that is necessary.
“Will you manage?” he asks, leading the second ox to where she can get on its back.
“Of course.” She looks him in the eyes.
“You sure you’ll be all right?”
“I won’t fall off if that is what you’re thinking.”
He takes the rein of the pack-ox and tugs at it. She digs her heels into the ribs of the animal carrying her. They move through the opening in the tattered fence.
Now she has to clench her teeth, too overcome with emotion to look back.
He's gone. He isn’t dead, he has simply disappeared. The land he wanted to explore and possess has devoured him. I’m free of him now. But there is still the child. For his sake I must get back to the Cape.
The ox has an uneasy movement, much clumsier than a horse. But I suppose one will get used to it. One gets used to everything. Or doesn’t one? Does one keep on resisting? One of these days you will begin to stir inside me. We have no choice: we shall have to get used to each other's rhythms and space, you to mine, I to yours; and both of us to that of the ox and the land.
Down the slope and up the opposite hill.
“Are you sure you know the way?”
“Yes.”
“How long will it take us to the sea?”
“Long.”
He stops briefly to look back. And now she turns her head too. Faint among the wild figs opposite is the grayish white stain of the wagon's roof. There are birds overhead. She can see them flickering among the leaves. Are they sugar-birds, weaver-birds, finches? She doesn’t know their names, and suddenly wishes she had paid more attention.
She shifts into a more comfortable position, and as they move on sees the camp growing smaller and smaller behind them. Now it seems like a final haven her heart clings to. There is so much one has to leave behind, she thinks; hope, above all. For ahead there are only the billowing shapes of hills and mountain ranges, on and on.
Adam looks back, looks at her. He wants to speak to her. There is so much to say, to ask. To touch her, to penetrate her silence, to break into her. But all he can say, when at last he dares to speak is, “Tell me about the Cape again.”
The town itself is the only one in the whole colony and is properly called the Cape, though this name is often injudiciously given to the whole settlement. The above-mentioned town is situated in an amphitheatre bounded at the back part by Table Mountain ( Tafelberg), to the westward by Lion Mountain (Leeuweberg), and towards the east, in some measure, by Devil's Mountain (Duyvelsberg), so that it is most open towards the southern and eastern sides, facing Table Bay. According to the latest measurement the shore of this bay is 550 toises above the surface of the sea, and 1344 toises in length, when taken from east to west; the middlemost part of it being situated south-east of the town and 2000 toises from it. The hills surrounding the town are in great measure bare and that part of Table Mountain that looks toward it is pretty steep. The bushes and trees (if they may be so called), which here and there grow wild, are stunted partly by their own nature, and partly by the south-east and north-west winds. Hence they often look dried up, with pale blighted leaves, and on the whole have a miserable appearance. Some of them, sheltered by the cliffs, and at the same time watered by the rills that run down the sides of the Mountain, may perhaps be somewhat more healthy and vigorous; but they are universally deficient in that lively verdure which adorns the oaks, vines, myrtles, laurels and lemon-trees planted at the bottom near the town. Still farther on the dry heathy lands and sandy plains on the strand contribute to give the country an arid and barren look. It must be owned, indeed, that a considerable quantity of the most beautiful African flowers are scattered up and down in different parts during the fine season of the year; and the verdant plantations, together with a few acres of arable land lying round the town, make a striking appearance, opposed to the African wilds and deserts with which they are surrounded. To the nature lover the real surprise lies in traveling from town past the Devil's Mountain towards Constantia, where one's pleasure in discovering so rich a collection of unknown, curious, and beautiful vernal flowers, in so unfrequented a part of the world, is easier to be conceived than described: divers ixias, gladioluses, moreas, hyacinths, cyphias, melanthias, albucas, oxalises, asperugos, geraniums, monsonias, arctotises, calendulas, wachendorfias and arctopuses, in addition to fields overgrown with a great many different sorts of heath and other shrubs and bushes, with some small trees of the protea kind. The entrance to the town, from the Castle on the shore, surrounded by its high walls and deep ditches, offers a superb view. To one side lie the Company's gardens; to the other, the fountains fed by water running from Table Mountain down a ravine or kloof visible from town. This is the source from which all the inhabitants draw their water-supply; and from the same source the batteries are daily supplied by a two-wheeled water cart. The gardens are 200 toises broad and 500 long, and consist of various quarters planted with kale, and other kinds of garden stuff, for the Governor's own table, as well as for the use of the Dutch ships and of the hospital. Fruit trees are planted in some of the quarters, which, in order to shelter them from the violence of the south-east wind, are surrounded with hedges of myrtle and elm. Besides this, the greater walks are ornamented with oaks thirty feet high, which by their shade produce an agreeable coolness, and are much resorted to by the strangers that visit the port, and choose to walk in the heat of the day. At the end of the pleasure-garden and to the east of it, is the menagerie, palisaded and railed off, in which are shown ostriches, casuaries, zebras, and sometimes different sorts antilopes, and other smaller quadrupeds. The town itself is very regularly built and quite small, about 1000 toises in length and breadth, including the gardens and orchards, by which one side of it is terminated. The streets, cutting the quarters at right angles, are broad, but not paved, this being unnecessary owing to the hard nature of the soil. Many of them are planted with oaks. None of the streets have names, excepting the Heerengracht, which runs alongside the large plain opposite the Castle. The houses, mostly uniform in style, are handsome and spacious, two stories high at the most; the greater part of them are stuccoed and white-washed on the outside, but some of them are painted green: this latter color being the favorite color with the Dutch. A number of the best houses have been built from a peculiar sort of blue stone hewn by prisoners from the quarries of Ro
bben Island. A great part of their houses are covered with a sort of dark-colored reed (Restio tectorum) which grows in dry and sandy places. It is somewhat more firm than straw, but rather finer and more brittle. The popularity of this thatching in the Cape must be ascribed to an effort to avoid the grave accidents which may result from heavier roofing being ripped off by the notorious “Black South-easter” winds raging in this region.
“Is that me?” Kneeling on the rock she leans over her reflection against a background of trees and drifting clouds. She has taken off her shoes. The pistol lies on the flat rock beside her, with the bundle of clean clothes. Shallow and still and clear the long pool lies in the narrow stream, but there is a barely perceptible trembling on the surface disturbing the reflection. Tense and surprised, she stares at the image looking back at her: Don’t you recognize me then? the face seems familiar, but…
It's only three days they have been trekking now. Is it possible that one can become a stranger to oneself so soon? On the wagon, on that long journey, there was enough time every day, more than enough, for arranging her hair in front of the mirror, for attending to herself. Back home in the large house: the mirrors surrounding her, everywhere, even, on her insistence, in the bathroom: why not, if one's only function was being beautiful? Her mother would have been satisfied with the way she kept it up during the voyage: even in the wilderness one can retain one's dignity.