Mrs van der Merwe was almost as stout as her husband, who was also her cousin. It was, however, evident that when young she must have possessed great beauty. The house was full of children; these were of all ages and they strongly resembled each other in appearance. All were blue-eyed, flaxen-haired and rosy-cheeked. There was one grown-up daughter—Gertrude—a girl of eighteen. She only lacked animation to be a most beautiful woman. Her dead-gold hair lay in a dense mass upon her shoulders; her calm, deep eyes of a most tender blue were set beneath a broad, smooth, white brow; her teeth were dazzlingly white and her face pure oval in shape.
It was just after sundown when I arrived at the homestead. Supper over, I was invited to visit Sarei van der Merwe—the old, blind grandfather—who had not left his room for many years. I found him sitting in a very large home-made chair, with his feet upon a wooden stool containing a pan of charcoal. His bulk was huge; in fact, he was, probably, the biggest man I had ever seen. He had a long white beard and a mass of silvery hair. On a table, within reach of his hand, were several pipes and a large tobacco-pouch—the latter made out of a portion of the stomach of a sheep, brayed. Close to his feet a diminutive Hottentot crouched upon a sheep-skin. The face of this creature was old-looking and monkey-like. His duties were to attend to the old man’s needs; more especially to hold a burning coal, when required, to the often-replenished pipe. This he did with a skill evidently born of long practice—picking up the glowing lumps in his naked fingers with the utmost unconcern.
The room was comfortably furnished; almost everything in it appeared to be home-made. There were no blankets on the bed, their place being taken by karosses made of the skins of the fat-tailed sheep. Unlike the other rooms, this one had no ceiling, the thatch being visible between the rafters. Upon the rafters lay a coffin, evidently, from its size, built to accommodate old Sarei’s prospective mortal remnants.
I grasped the old man’s outstretched hand. He retained mine for a few seconds, feeling first the palm, then the back and lastly the fingers carefully over. I looked the while into his eyes; these were clear and blue and gave no suggestion of blindness.
“You work your brain too much and your body too little,” said he, dropping my hand. “Your mind travels without rest on an endless road.”
I was somewhat startled; it was so unexpected and at the same time so tersely true.
“It is clear,” I replied, “that you do not need eyes to see. My brain is busy turning out barren thoughts, like a mill grinding sawdust.”
“When young, one runs after thoughts; but when you grow old the thoughts will come and wait, like servants, until you wish to use them.”
“My thoughts are less like servants than like dogs hunting me to death,” I replied.
“A dog will obey if he be trained; if you do not train him he will bite you.”