And he was silent again, for who is not silent when someone is dead, who was a small bright boy? Shall I read this? said Father Vincent:
At 1:30P.M . today Mr. Arthur Jarvis, of Plantation Road, Parkwold, was shot dead in his house by an intruder, thought to be a native. It appears that Mrs. Jarvis and her two children were away for a short holiday, and that Mr. Jarvis had telephoned his partners to say that he would be staying at home with a slight cold. It would seem that a native, probably with two accomplices, entered by the kitchen, thinking no doubt that there would be no one in the house. The native servant in the kitchen was knocked unconscious, and it would appear that Mr. Jarvis heard the disturbance and came down to investigate. He was shot dead at short range in the passageway leading from the stairs into the kitchen. There were no signs of any struggle.
Three native youths were seen lounging in Plantation Road shortly before the tragedy occurred, and a strong force of detectives was immediately sent to the scene. Exhaustive inquiries are being made, and the plantations on Parkwold Ridge are being combed. The native servant, Richard Mpiring, is lying unconscious in the Non-European Hospital, and it is hoped that when he regains consciousness he will be able to furnish the police with important information. His condition is serious however.
The sound of the shot was heard by a neighbour, Mr. Michael Clarke, who investigated promptly and made the tragic discovery. The police were on the scene within a few minutes. On the table by the bed of the murdered man was found an unfinished manuscript on The Truth about Native Crime, and it would appear that he was engaged in writing it when he got up to go to his death. The bowl of a pipe on the table was found still to be warm. Mr. Jarvis leaves a widow, a nine-year-old son, and a five-year-old daughter. He was the only son of Mr. James Jarvis, of High Place Farm, Carisbrooke, Natal, and a partner in the city engineering firm of Davis, van der Walt and Jarvis. The dead man was well known for his interest in social problems, and for his efforts for the welfare of the non-European sections of the community. There is not much talking now. A silence falls upon them all. This is no time to talk of hedges and fields, or the beauties of any country. Sadness and fear and hate, how they well up in the heart and mind, whenever one opens the pages of these messengers of doom. Cry for the broken tribe, for the law and the custom that is gone. Aye, and cry aloud for the man who is dead, for the woman and children bereaved. Cry, the beloved country, these things are not yet at an end. The sun pours down on the earth, on the lovely land that man cannot enjoy. He knows only the fear of his heart.
Kumalo rose. I shall go to my room, he said. Goodnight to you all. I shall walk with you, my friend.
They walked to the gate of the little house of Mrs. Lithebe. Kumalo lifted to his friend a face that was full of suffering. This thing, he said. This thing. Here in my heart there is nothing but fear. Fear, fear, fear. I understand. Yet it is nevertheless foolish to fear that one thing in this great city, with its thousands and thousands of people. It is not a question of wisdom and foolishness. It is just fear. The day after tomorrow we go to Ezenzeleni. Perhaps you will find something there. No doubt, no doubt. Anything but what I most desire. Come and pray. There is no prayer left in me. I am dumb here inside. I have no words at all. Goodnight, my brother. Goodnight.
Msimangu watched him go up the little path. He looked very old. He himself turned and walked back to the Mission. There are times, no doubt, when God seems no more to be about the world.
12
HAVE NO DOUBT it is fear in the land. For what can men do when so many have grown lawless? Who can enjoy the lovely land, who can enjoy the seventy years, and the sun that pours down on the earth, when there is fear in the heart? Who can walk quietly in the shadow of the jacarandas, when their beauty is grown to danger? Who can lie peacefully abed, while the darkness holds some secret? What lovers can lie sweetly under the stars, when menace grows with the measure of their seclusion?
There are voices crying what must be done, a hundred, a thousand voices. But what do they help if one seeks for counsel, for one cries this, and one cries that, and another cries something that is neither this nor that. It’s a crying scandal, ladies and gentlemen, that we get so few police. This suburb pays more in taxes than most of the suburbs of Johannesburg, and what do we get for it? A third-class police station, with one man on the beat, and one at the telephone. This is the second outrage of its kind in six months, and we must demand more protection.
(Applause).
Mr. McLaren, will you read us your resolution?
I say we shall always have native crime to fear until the native people of this country have worthy purposes to inspire them and worthy goals to work for. For it is only because they see neither purpose nor goal that they turn to drink and crime and prostitution. Which do we prefer, a law-abiding, industrious and purposeful native people, or a lawless, idle and purposeless people? The truth is that we do not know, for we fear them both. And so long as we vacillate, so long will we pay dearly for the dubious pleasure of not having to make up our minds. And the answer does not lie, except temporarily, in more police and more protection. (Applause). And you think, Mr. de Villiers, that increased schooling facilities would cause a decrease in juvenile delinquency amongst native children? I am sure of it, Mr. Chairman. Have you the figures for the percentage of children at school, Mr. de Villiers? In Johannesburg, Mr. Chairman, not more than four out of ten are at school. But of those four not even one will reach his sixth standard. Six are being educated in the streets. May I ask Mr. de Villiers a question, Mr. Chairman? By all means, Mr. Scott. Who do you think should pay for this schooling, Mr. de Villiers? We should pay for it. If we wait till native parents can pay for it, we will pay more heavily in other ways. don’t you think, Mr. de Villiers, that more schooling simply means cleverer criminals? I am sure that is not true. Let me give you a case. I had a boy working for me who had passed Standard Six. Perfect gentleman, bow-tie, hat to the side, and the latest socks. I treated him well and paid him well. Now do you know, Mr. de Villiers, that this self-same scoundrel ¦. They should enforce the pass laws, Jackson. But I tell you the pass laws don’t work. They d work if they were enforced. But I tell you they’re unenforceable. Do you know that we send one hundred thousand natives every year to prison, where they mix with real criminals? That’s not quite true, Jackson. I know they’re trying road camps, and farm-labour, and several other things. Well, perhaps you know. But it doesn’t alter my argument at all, that the pass laws are unenforceable. You can send ‘em to road-camps or farms or anywhere else you damn well please, but you can’t tell me it’s a healthy thing even to convict one hundred thousand people. What would you do then?
Well now you’re asking. I don’t know what I d do. But I just know the pass laws don’t work.
We went to the Zoo Lake, my dear. But it’s quite impossible. I really don’t see why they can’t have separate days for natives.
I just don’t go there any more on a Sunday, my dear. We take John and Penelope on some other day. But I like to be fair. Where can these poor creatures go? Why can’t they make recreation places for them? When they wanted to make a recreation centre on part of the Hillside Golf Course, there was such a fuss that they had to drop it. But my dear, it would have been impossible. The noise would have been incredible. So they stay on the pavements and hang about the corners. And believe me, the noise is just as incredible there too. But that needn’t worry you where you live. don’t be catty, my dear. Why can’t they put up big recreation centres somewhere, and let them all go free on the buses? Where, for example? You do persist, my dear. Why not in the City? And how long will it take them to get there? And how long to get back? How many hours do you give your servants off on a Sunday?
Oh, it’s too hot to argue. Get your racquet, my dear, they’re calling us. Look, it’s Mrs. Harvey and Thelma. You’ve got to play like a demon, do you hear? And some cry for the cutting up of South Africa without delay into separate areas, where white can li
ve without black, and black without white, where black can farm their own land and mine their own minerals and administer their own laws. And others cry away with the compound system, that brings men to the towns without their wives and children, and breaks up the tribe and the house and the man, and they ask for the establishment of villages for the labourers in mines and industry.
And the churches cry too. The English-speaking churches cry for more education, and more opportunity, and for a removal of the restrictions on native labour and enterprise. And the Afrikaans-speaking churches want to see the native people given opportunity to develop along their own lines, and remind their own people that the decay of family religion, where the servants took part in family devotions, has contributed in part to the moral decay of the native people. But there is to be no equality in church or state.
Yes, there are a hundred, and a thousand voices crying. But what does one do, when one cries this thing, and one cries another? Who knows how we shall fashion a land of peace where black outnumbers white so greatly? Some say that the earth has bounty enough for all, and that more for one does not mean less for another, that the advance of one does not mean the decline of another. They say that poor-paid labour means a poor nation, and that better-paid labour means greater markets and greater scope for industry and manufacture. And others say that this is a danger, for better-paid labour will not only buy more but will also read more, think more, ask more, and will not be content to be forever voiceless and inferior.
Who knows how we shall fashion such a land? For we fear not only the loss of our possessions, but the loss of our superiority and the loss of our whiteness. Some say it is true that crime is bad, but would this not be worse? Is it not better to hold what we have, and to pay the price of it with fear? And others say, can such fear be endured? For is it not this fear that drives men to ponder these things at all?
We do not know, we do not know. We shall live from day to day, and put more locks on the doors, and get a fine fierce dog when the fine fierce bitch next door has pups, and hold on to our handbags more tenaciously; and the beauty of the trees by night, and the raptures of lovers under the stars, these things we shall forego. We shall forego the coming home drunken through the midnight streets, and the evening walk over the star-lit veld. We shall be careful, and knock this off our lives, and knock that off our lives, and hedge ourselves about with safety and precaution. And our lives will shrink, but they shall be the lives of superior beings; and we shall live with fear, but at least it will not be a fear of the unknown. And the conscience shall be thrust down; the light of life shall not be extinguished, but be put under a bushel, to be preserved for a generation that will live by it again, in some day not yet come; and how it will come, and when it will come, we shall not think about at all. They are holding a meeting in Parkwold tonight, as they held one last night in Turffontein, and will hold one tomorrow night in Mayfair. And the people will ask for more police, and for heavier sentences for native housebreakers, and for the death penalty for all who carry weapons when they break in. And some will ask for a new native policy, that will show the natives who is the master, and for a curb on the activities of Kafferboeties and Communists. And the Left Club is holding a meeting too, on A Long-term Policy for Native Crime, and has invited both European and non-European speakers to present a symposium. And the Cathedral Guild is holding a meeting too, and the subject is The Real Causes of Native Crime. But there will be a gloom over it, for the speaker of the evening, Mr. Arthur Jarvis, has just been shot dead in his house at Parkwold.
Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much. Mr. Msimangu? Ah, it is Mrs. Ndlela, of End St. Mr. Msimangu, the police have been to me. The police? Yes, they want to know about the son of the old umfundisi. They are looking for him. For what, mother? They did not say, Mr. Msimangu. Is it bad, mother? It looks as if it were bad. And then, mother? I was frightened, umfundisi. So I gave them the address. Mrs. Mkize, 79 Twenty-third Avenue, Alexandra. And one said yes, this woman was known to deal in heavy matters. You gave them the address?
He stood silent in the door. Did I do wrong, umfundisi? You did no wrong, mother. I was afraid. It is the law, mother. We must uphold the law. I am glad, umfundisi.
He thanks the simple woman, and tells her to go well. He stands for a moment, then turns swiftly and goes to his room. He takes out an envelope from a drawer, and takes paper money from it. He looks at it ruefully, and then with decision puts it into his pocket, with decision takes down his hat. Then dressed, with indecision looks out of the window to the house of Mrs. Lithebe, and shakes his head. But he is too late, for as he opens his door, Kumalo stands before him. You are going out, my friend?
Msimangu is silent. I was going out, he says at last. But you said you would work in your room today. And Msimangu would have said, can I not do as I wish, but something prevented him. Come in, he said. I would not disturb you, my friend. Come in, said Msimangu, and he shut the door. My friend, I have just had a visit from Mrs. Ndlela, at the house we visited in End Street, here in Sophiatown.
Kumalo hears the earnest tones. There is news? he asks, but there is fear, not eagerness, in his voice. Only this, said Msimangu, that the police came to her house, looking for the boy. She gave them the address, Mrs. Mkize, at 79 Twenty-third Avenue in Alexandra. Why do they want the boy? asked Kumalo in a low and trembling voice. That we do not know. I was ready to go there when you came. Kumalo looked at him out of sad and grateful eyes, so that the resentment of the other died out of him. You were going alone? the old man asked. I was going alone, yes. But now that I have told you, you may come also. How were you going, my friend? There are no buses. I was going by taxi. I have money. I too have money. No one must pay but me. It will take a great deal of money.
Kumalo opened his coat, and took out his purse eagerly. Here is my money, he said. We shall use it then. Come, let us look for a taxi. Mrs. Mkize!
She drew back, hostile. Have the police been here? They have been, not long since. And what did they want? They wanted the boy. And what did you say? I said it was a year since he left here. And where have they gone? To ShantyTown. She draws back again, remembering. To the address you did not know, he said coldly. She looks at him sullenly. What could I do, she said. It was the police. No matter. What was the address? I did not know the address. ShantyTown, I told them. Some fire came into her. I told you I did not know the address, she said. Mrs. Hlatshwayo!
The pleasant-faced woman smiled at them, and drew aside for them to enter the hessian house. We shall not come in. Have the police been here? They were here, umfundisi. And what did they want? They wanted the boy, umfundisi. For what, mother? I do not know, umfundisi. And where have they gone? To the school, umfundisi. Tell me, he said privately, did it seem heavy? I could not say, umfundisi. Stay well, Mrs. Hlatshwayo. Go well, umfundisi. Good morning, my friend. Good morning, umfundisi, said the native assistant. Where is the young white man? He is in the town. It was now, now, that he went. Have the police been here? They have been here. It was now, now, that they left. What did they want? They wanted the boy, Absalom Kumalo, the son of the old man there in the taxi. Why did they want him? I do not know. I had other work, and went out while they came in with the white man. And you do not know what they wanted? I truly do not know, umfundisi.
Msimangu was silent. Did it seem heavy? he asked at last. I do not know. I really could not say. Was the young white man well, disturbed? He was disturbed. How did you know?
The assistant laughed. I know him, he said. And where did they go? To Pimville, umfundisi. To the home of the girl. Now, now, you said. Now, now, indeed. We shall go then. Stay well
. And tell the white man we came. Go well, umfundisi. I shall tell him. My child! Umfundisi. Have the police been here? They have been here, now, now, they were here. And what did they want? They wanted Absalom, umfundisi. And what did you tell them? I told them I had not seen him since Saturday, umfundisi. And why did they want him? cried Kumalo in torment. She drew back frightened. I do not know, she said. And why did you not ask? he cried.
The tears filled her eyes. I was afraid, she said. Did no one ask? The women were about. Maybe one of them asked. What women? said Msimangu. Show us the women. So she showed them the women, but they too did not know. They would not tell me, said a woman.
Msimangu turned privately to her. Did it seem heavy? he asked. It seemed heavy, umfundisi. What is the trouble? she asked. We do not know. The world is full of trouble, she said.
He went to the taxi, and Kumalo followed him. And the girl ran after them, as one runs who is with child. They told me I must let them know if he comes.
Her eyes were full of trouble. What shall I do? she said. That is what you ought to do, said Msimangu. And you will let us know also. Wait, you must go to the Superintendent’s office and ask him to telephone to the Mission House in Sophiatown. I shall write the number here for you. 49-3041. I shall do it, umfundisi. Tell me, did the police say where they would go? They did not say, umfundisi. But I heard them say, die spoor loop dood, the trail runs dead. Stay well, my child. Go well, umfundisi. She turned to say go well to the other, but he was already in the taxi, bowed over his stick. How much is your charge, my friend? asks Msimangu. Two pounds and ten shillings, umfundisi.