PART VII.
Maritzburg, April 4.
Can you believe that we are crying out for rain already, and anxiously scanning the clouds as they bank up over the high hills to the south-west? But so it is. It would be a dreadful misfortune if the real dry weather were to set in so early, and without the usual heavy downfall of rain which fills the tanks and spruits, and wards off the evil day of a short water-supply and no grass. Besides which, everybody here faithfully promises pleasanter weather—weather more like one’s preconceived idea of the climate of Natal—after a regular three days’ rain. It is high time—for my temper, as well as for the tanks—that this rain should come, for the slow, dragging summer days are now only broken by constant gales of hot wind. These same hot winds are worse than anything—more exasperating and more exhausting—nor does a drop of dew fall at night to refresh the fast-browning vegetation over which they scatter a thick haze of dust. Hot winds are bad enough in India, lived through in large, airy, lofty rooms, with mats of fragrant grass kept constantly wet and hung at every door and window—with punkahs and ice, and all the necessary luxury and idle calm of Indian life. What must they be here—and remember, the wind is just as hot, only it blows for shorter intervals, instead of continuously for months—in small houses, with low rooms of eight or ten feet square, and in a country where the mistress of the house is head-cook, head-nurse, head-housemaid, and even head-coachman and gardener, and where a glass of cold water is a luxury only dreamed of in one’s feverish slumbers? Nature demands that we should all be lotos-eaters and lie “propt on beds of amaranth and moly”—at all events from November to April. Necessity insists on our rising early and going to bed late, and eating the bread of carefulness during all those hot weeks. That is to say, one must work very hard one’s self if one desires to have a tolerably clean and comfortable house and to live in any sort of rational and civilized fashion. For my part, I like hard work, speaking generally, but not in a hot wind. Yet people seem to be pretty well, except their tempers—again speaking for myself—so I suppose the climate is disagreeable rather than actually unhealthy.
I feel it is exceedingly absurd the way I dilate incessantly upon three topics—roads (I promise faithfully not to say a word about them this time), weather (I have had my grumble at that, and feel all the better for it), and servants. We have lately added to our establishment a Kafir-girl who is a real comfort and help. Malia—for Kafirs cannot pronounce the letter r: “red” is always “led” with them, and so on—is a short, fat, good-humored-looking damsel of fifteen years of age, but who looks thirty. Regarded as a servant, there is still much to be desired, in spite of the careful and excellent training she has enjoyed in the household of the bishop of Natal, but as a playmate for G——, who is teaching her the noble game of cricket, or as a nursemaid for the baby, she is indeed a treasure of sweet-temper and willingness. To be sure, she did race the perambulator down a steep hill the other day, upsetting the baby and breaking the small vehicle into bits, but still English nursemaids do the same, and do not tell the truth about it at once, as Malia did. It was done to amuse the two children, and answered that part of the programme excellently well, even the final upset eliciting peals of laughter from both the mischievous monkeys. It is also rather singular that in spite of the extreme slowness and deliberation of her movements she breaks quite as much crockery in a week as any one else would in a year. And she is so inexpressibly quaint about it all that one has neither the heart nor the command of countenance requisite to scold. I handed her a saucer last night to put down. The next moment she remarked in her singularly sweet and gentle voice and pretty, musical accent, “Now, here is the saucer in three pieces.” So it was; and how she broke it without dropping it must ever be a mystery to me. It was like a conjuring trick, but it occurs somewhat too often. Malia ought not to be a housemaid at all, for she has a thirst for knowledge which is very remarkable, and a good deal of musical talent. She speaks and reads three languages—Kafir, English and Dutch—with perfect ease and fluency; and is trying hard to learn to write, practicing incessantly on a slate; she is always whistling or singing, or picking out tunes on a sort of pipe, on which she plays some airs very prettily. Every spare moment of her time she is poring over a book, and her little Kafir Bible is ever at hand. I wish with all my heart that I had time to teach her to write and to learn Kafir from her myself, but except on Sunday, when I read with her and hear her say some hymns, I never have a moment. She is so anxious to learn, poor girl! that she watches her opportunity, and when I sit down to brush my hair or lace my boots she drops on one knee by my side, produces her book from her pocket, and says in the most câlinante voice, “Sall I lead to you a little, inkosa casa?” Who could have the heart to say no, although my gravity is sorely tried by some peculiarities of pronunciation? She cannot say “such:” it is too harsh, and the nearest we can arrive at, after many efforts, is “sush.” Almost every word has a vowel tacked on to the end, so as to bring it as near to her own liquid, soft-sounding Zulu as possible. I think what upsets me most is to hear our first parents perseveringly called “’Dam and Eva,” but indeed most of the Bible names are difficult of recognition. Yet her idioms are perfect, and she speaks in well-chosen, rather elegant phraseology. Every alternate Sunday, Malia goes down to town dressed in the smartest of bright pink cotton frocks, made very full and very short, a clean white apron, and a sky-blue kerchief arranged on her head in a becoming turban. Malia’s shy grins of delight and pride as she comes thus arrayed to make me her parting curtsey are quite charming to behold, and display a set of teeth which it would be hard to match for beauty anywhere out of Kafirland. Indeed, all these people seem to possess most exquisite teeth, and they take great care of them, rinsing their mouths and polishing these even, glistening pearls at every opportunity.
The more I see of the Kafirs, the more I like them. People tell me they are unreliable, but I find them gay and good-humored, docile and civil. Every cowherd on the veldt has his pretty “sako” bow (phonetic spelling again, on my part) as he passes me when I am fern or grass-seed hunting in the early morning, and I hear incessant peals of laughter from kitchen and stable. Of course, laughter probably means idleness, but I have not the heart to go out every time (as indeed I ought, I believe) and make them, as Mr. Toots calls it, “resume their studies.” Their mirth is very different from that of my old friends the West Indian negroes, who are always chattering and grinning. The true Kafirs wear a stolid expression of countenance in public, and are not easily moved to signs of surprise or amusement, but at home they seem to me a very merry and sociable people. Work is always a difficulty and a disagreeable to them, and I fear that many generations must pass before a Kafir will do a hand’s turn more than is actually necessary to keep his body and soul together. They are very easily trained as domestic servants, in spite of the drawback of not understanding half what is said to them, and they make especially good grooms. The most discouraging part of the training process, however, is that it is wellnigh perpetual, for except gypsies I don’t believe there is on the face of the earth a more restless, unsettled human being than your true Kafir. Change he seems to crave for, and change he will have, acknowledging half his time that he knows it must be for the worse. He will leave a comfortable, easy place, where he is well treated and perfectly happy, for harder work, and often blows, just for the sake of a change. No kindness can attach him, except in the rarest instances, and nothing upon earth could induce him to forego his periodical visits to his own kraal. This means a return, for the time being, to barbarism, which seems very strange when a man has had time to get accustomed to clothes and a good room and good food, and the hundred and one tastes which civilization teaches. Imagine laying aside the comforts and decencies of life to creep in at the low door of a big beehive, and squat naked round a huge fire, smoking filthy tobacco and drinking a kind of beer which is made from mealies! I’ve often seen this beer, and Charlie is very anxious I should taste it, bringing me some occasionally in an old biscuit-tin with assurances that “Ma’” will find it very good. But I cannot get beyond looking at it, for it is difficult to associate the idea of beer with a thick liquid resembling dirty chocolate more than anything else. So I always stave off the evil day of tasting with ingenious excuses.
Perhaps the Kafirs are more behindhand in medical faith than in any other respect. The other day one of our Kafirs had a bad bilious attack, and, declining all offers of more civilized treatment, got one of his own physicians to bleed him in the great toe, with, as he declared, the happiest effect. Certain it is that in the afternoon he reported himself as perfectly well. But the most extraordinary kind of remedy came before me quite lately. Tom had a frightful headache, which is not to be wondered at, considering how that boy smokes the strongest tobacco out of a cow’s horn morning, noon and night, to say nothing of incessant snuff-taking. The first I heard of Tom’s headache was when Charlie came to ask me for a remedy; which I thought very nice on his part, because he and Tom live in a chronic state of quarreling, and half my time is taken up in keeping the peace between them. However, I told Charlie that I knew of no remedy for a bad headache except going to bed, and that was what I should advise Tom to do. Charlie smiled rather contemptuously, as if pitying my ignorance, and asked if I would give him a box of wooden matches. Now, matches are a standing grievance in a Kafir establishment, and go at the rate of a box a day if not carefully locked up; so I, failing to connect wooden matches and Tom’s headache together, began a reproachful catalogue of how many boxes he had asked for lately. Charlie, however, hastily cut me short by saying, “But, ma’, it for make Tom well.” So of course I produced a box of Bryant & May, and stood by to watch Charlie doctoring Tom. Match after match did Charlie strike, holding the flaming splinter up Tom’s exceedingly wide nostrils, until the box was empty. Tom winced a good deal, but bore this singeing process with great fortitude. Every now and then he cried out, as well he might, when Charley thrust a freshly-lighted match up his nose, but on the whole he stood it bravely, and by the time the matches were all burned out he declared his headache was quite cured, and that he was ready to go and chop wood; nor would he listen to the idea of going to bed. “It very good stuff to smell, ma’,” said Charlie: “it burn de sickness away.” Kafirs are inexpressibly queer, too, about their domestic arrangements; and I had a long argument with a Kafir-woman only the other day, through Malia’s interpretation, as to the propriety of killing one of her babies when she chanced to have twins. My dusky friend declared it was much the best plan, and one which was always followed when the whites did not interfere. If both children were kept alive, she averred they would both be wretched, puny little creatures, and would be quite sure to die eventually; so, as a Kafir looks to his children to take care of and work for him, even in his middle age, the sons by their wages, the daughters by their dowries, or rather by the prices paid for them, she declared it was very bad economy to try and rear two babies at once, and calmly recapitulated the instances in her own and her neighbors’ families where one wretched twin had been killed to give the other a better chance. She confessed she had been much puzzled upon one occasion when the twins were a girl and a boy, for both would have been useful hereafter. “I thought of the cows I should get for the girl,” she said, “and then I thought of the boy’s wages, and I didn’t know which to keep; but the girl, she cry most, so I kill her, and the boy grow up very good boy—earn plenty money.” That was Malia’s interpretation, for, although she speaks excellent English, when another person’s words have to be reproduced her tenses get a little confused and jumbled up. But she is a capital mouthpiece, and it always amuses me to bargain, through her, for my eggs and chickens and mealies. Sorry bargaining it is, generally resulting in my paying double the market-price for these commodities. Lately I have been even more fleeced than usual, especially by my egg-man, who is an astute old Kafir, very much adorned with circlets of copper wire on his legs and arms. He brings his eggs in a bag, which he swings about so recklessly that it is a perpetual marvel to me how they escape annihilation. Every time he comes he adds threepence to the price of his eggs per dozen on account of the doubled hut-tax; and I assure him that in time it will end in my having paid the whole amount instead of him. Hitherto, the natives have paid a tax of seven shillings per annum on each hut, but this year it has been doubled; so the Kafirs very sensibly make their white customers pay a heavy percentage on the necessaries of life with which they supply them. It is exactly what it used to be in London three or four years ago, when coals were so costly: everything rose in price, from china vases down to hairpins; so now this doubled hut-tax is the excuse for a sudden rise in the value of eggs, fowls, cows, mealies and what not. I don’t understand political economy myself, but it always seems to me a curious fact that although every article of food or clothing is only too ready to jump up in price on the smallest excuse, it never comes down again. I try to chaff my old Kafir egg-merchant, and show him by figures that his extra charge for eggs pays his extra seven shillings in about six weeks. I endeavor to persuade him, after this increased tax is thus provided for, to go back to his original price, but he smiles knowingly and shakes his head, murmuring, “Ka, ka,” which appears to mean “No.”
All this time, however, I am longing to tell you of a famous tea-party I have had here lately—a regular “drum,” only it beat all the London teas hollow, even with dear little “Minas”[1] thrown into the bargain, because in the corner of my cards were the words “Tea and witches.” Now, I ask you, could any one wish for a greater excitement than that to enliven a summer afternoon? Attractive as was the bait, it was a blunder or a fib—which you choose—for, so far from being witches, my five extraordinary performers were the sworn enemies of witches, being, in fact, “witch-finders,” or “witch-doctors,” as they are just as often called. I am quite sure that no one has ever suffered so much anxiety about a small entertainment as I did about that tea-party. Of course, there was the usual thunderstorm due that afternoon, and not until the last moment, when the clouds rolled off toward the Umgeni valley, leaving us a glorious sky and a pleasant breeze, did I cease to fear that the whole thing might prove a fiasco. By the time I had begun to have confidence in the weather came a distracted message from the obliging neighbor who supplies me with milk, to say that, as ill-luck would have it, her cows had selected this particular afternoon of all the year to stray away and get themselves impounded, and that consequently the delivery of sundry bottles (everything is sold in bottles here) of new milk was as uncertain as—what shall I say?—Natal weather, for nothing can be more uncertain than that. Imagine my dismay! No one even dared to suggest preserved milk to me, so well known is my antipathy to that miserable makeshift. I should have sat me down and wept if at that moment I had not discovered a small herd of cattle wending their way across the veldt to my neighbor’s gate. Oh joy! the milk and the weather were all right! But what was that enormous mob of shouting, singing Kafirs clamoring outside my garden fence? They were my witch-finders, escorted by nearly the whole black population of Maritzburg: they had arrived about three hours before the proper time, and were asking for some place to dress in, not from any fastidiousness, but simply because they didn’t want profane eyes to witness the details of assuming their professional decorations. Remember, there was not a white man nearer than Maritzburg, and there was nothing upon earth to prevent any number of these excited, shouting men and boys from walking into my little house, or at least helping themselves to anything off the tea-tables, which the servants were beginning to arrange in the verandah. But they were as docile and obedient as possible, readily acceding to my desire that they should remain outside the fence, and asking for nothing except copious draughts of water. Certainly, I was armed with a talisman, for I went out to them myself, with one of my numerous “Jacks” as an interpreter, and told them they must all sit down and wait patiently until Mr. S—— (their own beloved inkosi) came, adding that he would be there immediately. That was a fib, for he could not come until late, but an excellent substitute very soon appeared and set my mind partly at rest. I say, only “partly,” because I had been so teased about my party. F—— had been especially aggravating, observing from time to time that my proceedings were at once illegal and improper, adding that “he was surprised at me.” Can you imagine anything more trying? And yet I knew quite well all the time that he was just as anxious to see these people as we were, only he persisted in being semi-official and disagreeable. Never mind: I triumphed over him afterward, when it all went off so well. When I had leisure to think of anything but whether there would be a riot or not, I had horrible misgivings about the compulsory scantiness of my invitations. I should have liked to ask all my acquaintances, as well as the few friends I had invited, but what is one to do with a doll’s house and a dozen tea-cups? Those were my resources, and I taxed them to the uttermost as it was. One cannot hire things here, and I had no place to put them if I could; but it is horrid to feel, as I did, that heaps of people must have wondered why they were left out.
[1] A wonderful performing dog exhibited by Madame Häger, and much in request last season.
At last five o’clock came, bringing with it a regiment of riders, thirsting for tea and clamorous to see the witches, wanting their fortunes told, their lost trinkets found, and Heaven knows what besides. “They are not witches at all,” I said gravely: “they are witch-finders, and I believe the whole thing is very wrong.” There was a depressing announcement for one’s hostess to make! But it had a good effect for the moment, and sent my guests quietly off to console themselves with their tea: that, at least, could not be wrong, especially as the milk had arrived, new and delicious. In the mean time, kind Mr. F—— had gone off to fetch the witches, as everybody persisted in calling them, and presently they appeared in full official dress, walking along in a measured, stately step, keeping time and tune to the chanting of a body-guard of girls and women who sang continuously, in a sort of undertone, a monotonous kind of march. They made an excellent stage-entrance—grave, composed, erect of carriage and dauntless of mien. These Amazonian women walked past the verandah, raising their hand, as the men do, with the low cry of “Inkosi!” in salutation. Their pride is to be looked upon as men when once they take up this dread profession, which is also shared with them by men. They are permitted to bear shield and spear as warriors, and they hunt and kill with their own hands the wild beasts and reptiles whose skins they wear. Their day is over and ended, however, for the cruelties practiced under their auspices had risen to a great height, and it is now against the law to seek out a witch by means of these pitiless women. It is not difficult to understand—bearing in mind the superstition and cruelty which existed in remote parts of England not so very long ago—how powerful such women became among a savage people, or how tempting an opportunity they could furnish of getting rid of an enemy. Of course, they are exceptional individuals, more observant, more shrewd and more dauntless than the average fat, hard-working Kafir-women, besides possessing the contradictory mixture of great physical powers and strong hysterical tendencies. They work themselves up to a pitch of frenzy, and get to believe as firmly in their own supernatural discernment as any individual among the trembling circle of Zulus to whom a touch from the whisk they carry in their hands is a sentence of instant death. It gave a certain grim interest to what a Scotch friend called the “ploy” to know that it had once been true, and I begged Mr. F—— to explain to them before they began that the only reason I had wanted to see them arose from pure curiosity to know what they looked like, how they were dressed, and so forth, and that I quite understood that it was all nonsense and very wrong and against the law to do, really, but that this was only a play and pretence. Shall I confess that I felt rather ashamed at making this public avowal? But my conscience demanded it clamorously, and I felt many misgivings lest I should indeed be causing any “weak brother to offend.” However, it was too late now for scruples, and a sort of shout came up from the good-humored, well-behaved crowd outside, assuring me they knew it was only for fun and that it was quite right, and they were glad for the English “inkosa-casa” and her friends to see an old custom which it was a good thing to have done with. This little speech, so full of true tact, put me at my ease at once, and we all took up our position at one side of the little semicircular lawn, where the dance-crescent was already formed, supplying ourselves the place of the supposed ring of spectators and victims. I wish I could make you see the scene as I saw it, and shall ever see it when I look back upon it. The first original “tail” of my witch-finders had been supplemented by a crowd of people who formed a background, keeping perfectly quiet, and, though uninvited and unexpected, giving not the slightest trouble. That is the odd part of a colony: individuals are rougher, less polite and more brusque and overbearing than the people one is accustomed to see in England, but the moment it comes to a great concourse of people, then the absolute respectability of class asserts itself, and the crowd—the “rough” element being conspicuous by its absence—is far more orderly than any assemblage of a dozen people elsewhere. Imagine a villa at Wimbledon or Putney, and some four or five hundred uninvited people calmly walking into the grounds to look at something they wished to see, without a ghost of a policeman or authority in charge! Yet that was our predicament for an hour or two, and not a leaf or rosebud or blade of grass was touched or injured in any way, nor was there a sound to be heard to mar the tranquil beauty of that summer evening. It was indeed “a beauteous evening, calm and free”—in spite of my chronic state of grumbling at the climate and weather, I must acknowledge that—an evening which might have been made to order. Recent rains had washed the surrounding hills, brightened the dust-laden grass to green once more, and freshened up everything. The amphitheatre of rising ground which surrounds Maritzburg had never looked more beautiful, with purple and blue shadows passing over it from the slow-sailing clouds above. Toward the west the sky was gently taking that peculiar amethystic glow which precedes a fine sunset, and the sun itself laid long, parting lances of pure golden light across hill and dale around. A fresh air came up from the south, blowing softly across the downs, and sleepy, picturesque little Maritzburg—empty for the afternoon of its inhabitants, I should fancy—nestled cozily up against the undulating ground opposite. Then, to come nearer home, just outside our sod-fence a line of dusky faces rose above the ferns and waving grasses— faces whose gleaming eyes were riveted on the performers within. The little drive and garden-paths were crowded with strangers, white and colored—all, as I said before, perfectly quiet and orderly, but evidently interested and amused. A semicircle of girls and women—some in gay civilized garb, some in coarsest drapery, some with drowsy babies hung at their backs, some with bright beads on wrist and neck, but all earnest and intent on their part—stood like the chorus of a Greek play, beating their hands together and singing a low monotonous chant, the measure and rhythm of which changed every now and again with a stamp and a swing. A pace or two in front of these singers were the witch-finders in full ceremonial dress. Collectively, they are known by the name of the “Izinyanga” or “Abangoma,” but each had of course her distinctive name, and each belonged to a separate tribe. Conspicuous from her great height, Nozinyanga first caught my eye, her floating, helmet-like plume of the tail-feathers of the saka-bula bird shading her fierce face, made still more gruesome by wafers of red paint on cheek and brow. In her right hand she held a light sheaf of assegais or lances, and on her left arm was slung a small pretty shield of dappled ox hide. Her petticoat was less characteristic than that of her sister-performers, being made of a couple of large gay handkerchiefs worn kiltwise. But she made up for the shortcomings of characteristic decoration in her skirts by the splendor of the bead necklaces and armlets, fringes of goat’s hair and scarlet tassels, with which she was covered from throat to waist. A baldric of leopard skin was fastened across her capacious chest, and down her back hung a beautifully dried and flattened skin of an enormous boa constrictor. This creature must have been of a prodigious length, for, whilst its hooded head was fastened at the broad nape of Nozinyanga’s neck, its tail dragged some two feet or so on the ground behind her. Now, Nozinyanga stood something like six feet two inches on her bare feet, but although I first looked at her, attracted by her tall stature and defiant pose, the proceedings were really opened by a small, lithe woman with a wonderfully pathetic, wistful face, who seemed more in earnest than her big sisters, and who in her day must doubtless have brushed away many a man’s life with the quagga’s tail she brandished so lightly.