Ah But Your Land Is Beautiful

by Alan Paton

  – We have our duty to do, and we shall not go.

  – Then, said Mr. Maguza, I apologise to the professor that we cannot hear him speak. The meeting is now closed.

  But the professor held up his hand, and said a few words to the chairman. Mr. Maguza smiled and said to the meeting,

  – The professor is sorry he cannot speak, but he wants you to know that there is one Boer here who will do all he can to save your homes and your land.

  The closing words were received with the clapping of hands and other expressions of approval.

  Quite a number of the people of Drayton Moor have come to the station to see Emmanuel Nene take the train home. Among those who come to see him off is Mrs. Dorcas Nyembe, at whose home he had slept the night before. The Security Police have also come to see him off, but they stand apart from the others. As the train passes through the settlement of Drayton Moor itself, which is about two miles away, many people will come to wave and shout their farewells to him.

  But it does not happen that way. When the train is passing through the settlement, the police stand on the track and order the train to halt. When the train has stopped, the police ask in loud voices,

  – Is there a passenger called Emmanuel Nene on the train? Emmanuel says,

  – Yes, I am on the train.

  Then he is ordered to pick up his bag and to descend from the train. The train is then ordered to proceed. Then passenger Nene is ordered to get into the police vehicle.

  This of course has been seen by hundreds of people. They have seen with their own eyes what can happen to a man who defies the Government, and who advises people to fight for their land. The police drive off with Emmanuel Nene. There is no smile on his face, nor on the faces of those hundreds who have witnessed this event. They came here smiling, but now they smile no more. They have been insulted by six foolish men, who, as Mr. Maguza has said, are sowing the seeds of their own destruction, the seeds that are known as dragons’ teeth.

  – Will you come?

  – Yes, I will come.

  – To the park?

  – Yes.

  – When?

  – Tonight. At eight. Where in the park?

  – Do you know the pond?

  – Yes.

  – You know the trees there?

  – Yes.

  – Wait for me in the trees. Or if I get there first I shall wait for you.

  – You know that it is dangerous?

  – Yes.

  – I must go now.

  – Tell me quickly. What is your name?

  – Elizabeth.

  It was a dark night, and warm. With a beating heart he went to the park. Then as quietly as he could he went to the trees by the pond. A low call told him she was there. He went quietly into the trees and took her into his arms. She was tense and trembling and showed no passion.

  – Don’t be afraid, Elizabeth.

  – Are you not afraid?

  – No. There is no one here.

  – You know that it is dangerous?

  – Yes, I know, but I love you. You are beautiful, Elizabeth. Kiss me, Elizabeth. No, not like that. Can’t you open your lips?

  She opened her lips but she was still both tense and trembling. She kissed him, still without passion.

  – Elizabeth.

  – Yes.

  – I want to kiss your breasts.

  With shaking hands she opened her dress. She was still trembling, with fear no doubt. He was trembling with passion. Her breasts were soft beyond all imagination, warm and beautiful.

  – Let us lie down, Elizabeth.

  And then the white blinding light, the white pitiless light, the light that strips away all the pretensions of a man, and destroys him for ever. Men come running, with lights and cameras.

  – Dr. Fischer, I arrest you under the Immorality Act of 1927.

  The captain added with a kind of grim joy . . .

  – Amended as you know, I am sure, in 1950.

  But Dr. Fischer does not hear the jest. He is full of terror. His life, his honours, his fame, all come to an end. A black policeman says to the girl,

  – Daughter, you may go now, go quickly home.

  She turns to go. She does not look at the man she has destroyed. She makes haste to get out of the park with the pond and the trees. She wants never to see it again.

  White Pretoria is struck dumb by the Fischer arrest. There are of course those who enjoy the story, who indeed enjoy the story of any of the mighty who have fallen. But they are not laughing up there at the university, and they are not laughing at the big Kerk in Plein Street. They are not laughing at Ohrigstad, where they have just changed the name of Jan Smuts Street to Jan Fischer Street. And they are certainly not laughing at the Palace of Justice. There is an air of apprehensive expectation, for they are waiting for the Minister to arrive, and when he arrives he looks like some angel of vengeance. He sends for Van Onselen, who expects to bear the burden of the Minister’s wrath. But the Minister confines himself to departmental business, and does not mention the man who has brought such shame on the Palace of Justice and on the Afrikaner nation.

  . . . The Fischer affair has cast gloom over the Palace of Justice, and indeed over the Union Buildings also. My Minister is grim and controlled, but his anger is immeasurable. At ten o’clock he telephoned me and told me that he wanted me in his office. Fischer’s mother was coming to see him, and he did not want to interview her alone.

  So I was waiting there with the Minister when she arrived, a small frail woman. I must admit, my dear aunt, that my heart went out to her, but the Minister did not look at her except for the briefest of moments. If he had looked at her. perhaps he would not have loosed upon her the torrent of his anger that such a scandal to the nation had come from the Palace of Justice. He is a hard and severe man, but his pride in the Palace of Justice is immense. He motioned Mrs. Fischer to a seat and introduced me to her.

  ‘Minister . . . ’

  The small woman’s opening word seemed to open the floodgates of the Minister’s wrath. His grim self-control had gone.

  ‘Mevrou Fischer, you must understand that justice must take its course. There is no way that anything could be done to change that course. Nothing can be done to soften the blow that must fall on you and your house . . . ’

  ‘Minister . . . ’

  ‘Let me finish, mevrou. Remember that you are the mother of a man who has disgraced the university, the church, and most unforgivable of all, the nation. We are sorry for you, but your personal happiness can never be the first concern of this department . . . ’

  ‘Minister . . . ’

  ‘I said, Let me finish, mevrou. This disgrace will be felt deeply by the university, the church and the nation. But nowhere will it be felt more deeply than in the Palace of Justice. Your son has damaged beyond computation the cause of justice. He has brought bitter shame to all those who honoured him. Look at this cutting, mevrou. Only a few days ago the Town Council of Ohrigstad changed the name of Jan Smuts Street to Jan Fischer Street. Now Jan Smuts is not a hero to true Afrikaners, but at least he was the Prime Minister. He was also Minister of Justice and in his own way upheld the honour of the Palace of Justice. But now the Town Council has removed his name, and has given the street the name of a man who has brought disgrace to the nation.’

  I must say, my dear aunt, that I was overwhelmed by the Minister’s treatment of this small, frail woman. But what could I do? One does not say to the Minister, Minister, I think you have said enough. He sat there, obviously exhausted by passion, and she sat there, with her burden of grief. I watched the Minister struggling with himself. He knew he had lost his self-control and he did not like to think of it. He is the tallest man in the House, and she must be one of the smallest women in Pretoria.

  ‘Minister.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I did not come here to ask for mercy. I did not come here to ask you to change the course of justice. I came to express my sorrow to you, and t
o the Department of Justice, that my son should have brought this disgrace upon you. That is why I came, Minister.’

  A tear gathered in one of her eyes, and rolled down her cheek. She took out her handkerchief to wipe it away. The Minister could hardly not see it. He sat exhausted and bitterly ashamed. His remorse struggled with his pride and his anger, and his pride and anger triumphed.

  ‘It is fitting that you should have done so, mevrou. It was your duty and you did it. If there is any essential matter that must be dealt with, any matter connected with your son and the department, I must ask you to deal directly with Mr. van Onselen. I do not wish to deal with it. And now, mevrou, I must bid you good day.’

  The Minister did at least stand up, but he did not look at her or offer his hand to her. She stood up also, and seeing that he would not offer his hand to her she bowed to him and turned to go. She stumbled and nearly fell, like a drunken woman. She put one hand on a chair to steady herself and the other she put on her breast. She started to walk again, and again looked as though she would fall, so that I went quickly to her and took her arm.

  ‘Come, mevrou.’

  She gave me a little smile, and I could see that she was full of grief and pain. I guided her to the door and, aunt, I was glad to get her and myself out of that office.

  – Where do you live, mevrou?

  – In Sunnyside, meneer. In Hofman Street. I can get a bus from here.

  – You cannot go on a bus. I shall take you home.

  So he took her home.

  – Meneer, will you have a cup of coffee? It will not take long.

  – Yes, mevrou, I’ll have a cup of coffee.

  – What is your Christian name?

  – Gabriel, mevrou.

  – Gabriel. The archangel. It is a good name for you. You have been as an angel to me. May I call you by your name?

  – Of course, mevrou.

  She left him to make the coffee, and to think strange thoughts. He was drawn to her by strange and inexplicable forces. Pity, of course, because of her smallness and her frailty, and because of her grief also. Well, perhaps the forces were not strange and inexplicable. She looked like his mother. She brought him his coffee, and said to him,

  – Gabriel.

  – Yes, mevrou.

  – I have something big to ask of you.

  – What is it, mevrou?

  – I have no one to help me, and I need a man’s help. Read this letter. It is from my late husband’s sister.

  He took the letter and read it. It had been delivered by hand, by one Johannes.

  Dear Alida,

  I have just seen the news. I have no words to describe my feelings. I am afraid we must rather wait for your next visit, till things settle a bit. You must not take this too badly. We are all in a state of turmoil.

  Hannah

  – She lost no time, mevrou.

  – The others will do the same, Gabriel. All my husband’s family. And I have no family of my own. That’s why I am asking your help. Can you find out when the case is to be?

  – I’ll do that, mevrou. The case will no doubt be adjourned, and they will let your son come home.

  – That’s why I need your help, Gabriel. How can he come home through the streets? I know him. He will be filled with terror. The higher you go, the harder you fall. All the bones of his soul must be broken. Will you go quickly and find out, and bring him home?

  – I’ll do that, mevrou.

  – I do not know how to thank you.

  – It will not be necessary.

  – This day has been a day of grief for me. But sometimes God sends an angel in the hour of one’s need. That’s what He has done for me. May I tell you something?

  – Tell me, mevrou.

  – My son said of you that you were the perfect public servant.

  He flinched, but he bowed to her. She did not know how he had come to hate those words.

  – Will you need money, Gabriel? For the court?

  – It is possible.

  – How much?

  – A hundred. Two hundred maybe. Don’t worry now. I’ll stand good for it. They know me well. I think the sooner I go the better. Goodbye, mevrou.

  – Goodbye, Gabriel. I shall not thank you again. But my heart is full.

  She stood at the door and watched him go down the path to the gate. At the gate he turned to salute her, a small, frail figure who would now face the contempt and the ostracism of the righteous world.

  – I will read to you a passage from the Pretoria Times. These are the words: Any white man who offends against the Immorality Act offends against the law. But any Afrikaner who offends against it offends against the nation. It is in fact the greatest of all offences. No punishment can be too great for the offender. Do you know who said those words?

  – . . .

  – I cannot hear you, Dr. Fischer.

  – I said them.

  – Do you remember where you said them?

  – . . .

  – I cannot hear you, Dr. Fischer.

  – In the church. The church in Plein Street.

  – That is right. I shall read another passage to you. These are the words: He is one of the most distinguished sons of the Church. His career in the law has been one of outstanding achievement, and we esteem him as one of the most brilliant sons of the university. But it is as a son of Afrikanerdom that he is most cherished, and one of our most revered Afrikaner theologians has called him, God’s gift to the nation. Did you ever hear those words?

  – . . .

  – I cannot hear you, Dr. Fischer.

  – Yes, I heard them.

  – On what occasion did you hear them?

  – . . .

  – Dr. Fischer, you must answer me.

  – At the university.

  – Yes, go on.

  – My honorary graduation.

  – Did you not think to yourself, I do not deserve these words? Did you not think of crying out, Stop the graduation, I am not a gift to the nation, I am a traitor?

  – . . .

  – Please lift up your head. I cannot hear what you are saying.

  – I did not think of saying that.

  – Why did you not?

  – Because I am two men. The one who received the degree. The other . . .

  – Yes, continue.

  – The other . . .

  – Shall I continue for you? The other is the man who went to the park. The man who went at night to the park, to break the most sacred law of the nation. Is that right?

  – Yes.

  – But there are not two men in this court. There is only one. The one who received the honorary degree is the same as the man who went to the park. I must ask you one last question. I shall read you another passage. These are the words: To offend against the Immorality Act is not to commit a sin of the flesh. It is to commit treason against the nation. It is to break the law that was made to preserve the purity of the nation. There is no offence greater than to sin against the purity of the nation. Do you remember these words?

  – Yes.

  – Who spoke them?

  – I spoke them.

  – My lord, I have finished my examination.

  – Prisoner in the dock, have you anything to say?

  – No, my lord.

  – Then I must do my awful duty. Jan Woltemade Fischer, B.A., B.Ed., LL.B., Ph.D., and of course honorary LL.D., I find you guilty and I pass on you sentence of death.

  The man cried out,

  – You cannot do that.

  – Why not?

  – There is no death penalty under the Act of 1927, nor the amended Act of 1950.

  – I do not sentence you under either of those Acts. I sentence you to death for the crime of treason.

  – Treason?

  – Did you not say yourself that to offend against the Immorality Act was to commit treason against the nation?

  – . . .

  – You must answer me, Dr. Fischer.

  – Y
es, I said it.

  – Therefore I sentence you to death. Gentlemen of the police, lift up the prisoner. I cannot speak to a man scrabbling on the floor. Dr. Jan Woltemade Fischer, it is an act of mercy that I am doing. Where could you live now? Could you live in Pretoria, where you are known to many? Or in Cape Town, where you are known also? Or would you perhaps seek refuge in Ohrigstad, the town that named a street after you, the town you plunged into shame? Whom will you ever look in the face again? When will you ever smile or laugh again? Or tell a witty joke perhaps, as you sometimes did to your friends? Therefore mercy is shown to you, and you are sentenced to death. And may God have mercy on your soul.

  And a small, frail woman stands up at the back of the court, and cries out, God have mercy, Christ have mercy. But the messengers rush to her and take her away. One may not cry out for mercy in this court.

  Dr. Jan Woltemade Fischer

  17 Hofman Street

  Sunnyside

  Pretoria

  So they caught you with your trousers down, eh? The great speaker, the great leader, caught in a park with his trousers down. You’re a clever man, Dr. Fischer, but you never thought you would be caught. You never thought that the black dolly might be a policeman’s daughter. How stupid can a clever man be, ha! ha!

  What were you doing in the park, doctor? Looking for flowers, the kind that open up at night, ha! ha!

  I suppose you’ll get six months, suspended perhaps. But a man like you should be shot to death. You are a disgrace to the white nation.

  I sign myself

  Proud White Christian Woman

  Dr. Fischer will not get your letter, Proud White Christian Woman. For, as you wished, he has been shot to death. He took his father’s revolver and went to the bathroom and shot himself in the temple. His mother came running, and took a small wet cloth and wiped away the blood from the wound. Then she knelt and took his head to her breast, and said to him, My kind, my arme kind. That means in English, My child, my poor child. But the deep meaning of it cannot be written in any language, for its grief is unutterable.

  Ah, but your land is beautiful. Cruel and beautiful. A man is destroyed for a small sin of the flesh. For it is not a small sin of the flesh but a great sin against the nation. When you know that you will never look any man or woman in the eyes again, when you know that you will never smile or laugh again, when you know that you will never jest again, then it is better to die than to live.