CONTENTS
* * *
About the Author
Also by Alan Paton
Dedication
Title Page
Part One: The Defiance Campaign
Part Two: The Cleft Stick
Part Three: Come Back, Africa
Part Four: Death of a Traitor
Part Five: The Holy Church of Zion
Part Six: Into the Golden Age
Author’s Note
Copyright
About the Author
* * *
Alan Paton was born in Pietermaritzburg, Natal, South Africa, in 1903. After some years as a science teacher in white high schools, he became principal of Diepkloof Reformatory. The publication of Cry, The Beloved Country in 1948 made him famous and he planned to become a full-time writer, but was drawn into the political arena. In 1953 he became the first president of the Liberal Party of South Africa, which was forced to disband in 1968. Paton was a public figure hated by the apartheid government, but admired by many in South Africa and abroad. He received numerous awards and honorary degrees. Much of what he believed in is now enshrined in South Africa’s Bill of Rights. He died in 1988.
ALSO BY ALAN PATON
Cry, The Beloved Country
Too Late the Phalarope
Tales from a Troubled Land
South African Tragedy
For You Departed
Apartheid and the Archbishop
Knocking on the Door
Towards the Mountain
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ITS FIRST FOUR READERS:
PETER BROWN OF PIETERMARITZBURG, NATAL
ABRAHAM DE VRIES OF LADISMITH, CAPE PROVINCE
ELLIOT MNGADI OF LADYSMITH, NATAL
PAT POOVALINGAM OF DURBAN, NATAL
THEY WERE ASKED TO READ IT
TO PREVENT ME FROM COMMITTING SOLECISMS.
AH, BUT YOUR LAND IS BEAUTIFUL
Alan Paton
PART ONE
* * *
The Defiance Campaign
Mr. Bodasingh stood in front of the big picture window in the big sitting-room of his big house in Reservoir Hills. The view is fantastic, and is admired by all their visitors. At night it can draw gasps of wonder, for you can see spread out below you the lights of the city of Durban, greatest port in the whole continent of Africa, and you can see the lights of ships riding out there in the Indian Ocean, awaiting their call to enter the harbour. For Durban Bay itself, though it is the busiest port in Africa, is a small affair compared with Sydney and San Francisco and Rio.
Mr. Bodasingh is very proud of this city, for he and his forebears helped to build it. In the broad sense he is a citizen of Durban, but in the legal sense he is not, for he has no vote and therefore no say in the government of the city. But he is not political. He has never joined the Congress, and has never made a speech except at weddings and directors’ meetings and school functions. He is a rich man, although his great-grandfather came to Natal as a labourer in the 1860s and owned virtually nothing but a willing pair of hands and a mind whose real quality was revealed only in his descendants.
But he was not today thinking of the sweeping view before him or of the material success of the Bodasinghs. He was thinking of a much more personal matter, and it was clearly weighing heavily on his mind. As he looked again at his watch, his wife said to him,
– What time is it?
– Five minutes to ten.
They could both imagine the scene. Their daughter, Prem Bodasingh, their only child and the pride and joy of their lives, eighteen years of age, obedient and respectful to her parents and her elders, head-girl of Centenary High, would now be standing outside the doors of the Durban Municipal Reference Library, waiting for them to open on an event the like of which they had never opened on before in all their history. For above the doors it was clearly stated that the library was for Whites Only — Blankes Alleen. At ten o’clock their daughter would enter, take a book from the shelves, and sit down at a table to read. The young white girl at the inquiry desk would almost certainly go to tell her superior that a young Indian girl was sitting at a table in the library, and the superior, who would almost certainly be an elderly lady of learning and refinement, would go to the Indian girl and tell her that the library was for the use of whites only, and she would regret that she must ask her to leave. Their daughter will say that she knows that, and that she is there to defy the law, and that therefore she cannot leave. The superior will possibly be shocked at this, and she may possibly not be shocked at all, having heard all about the Defiance Campaign, and she will know that Indian and African people are sitting in white railway waiting-rooms, and on white benches in white parks, and are refusing to pay in their employers’ takings to tellers who are designated to serve ‘Non-Whites Only’. Therefore it is not surprising that sooner or later someone would challenge the colour bar at the Reference Library. The superior would then go to the Chief Librarian, and Mr. Bodasingh winced at this thought, for the Chief Librarian was a very nice man who had given a very nice address to the Reservoir Hills library group not long ago, and Mr. Bodasingh had been in the chair.
To go on imagining the scene now became very painful, for the Chief Librarian would leave his important work and go to the Reference Library and ask the Indian girl to leave. Then their daughter would say that she was there to defy the law and could not leave.
Now came the most painful part of all, for what would the Chief Librarian do? There was only one thing that he could do, and that was to call the police. Mr. Bodasingh could not hold back a kind of groan.
– M.K., what’s the matter?
– You see, I have been imagining it all, and I have just got to the police.
– I think faster than you. I got to the police some time ago.
– I hope they send a senior man, perhaps with a daughter like Prem. These young white constables . . . Mr. Bodasingh shuddered.
– Then what happens, M.K., when the police come?
– They take her away and charge her. Then I’m not sure where they will take her. But as soon as we know, our friend Maharaj will go there at once.
– Someone is knocking at the door.
Mr. Bodasingh winced again, but soon realised that the caller could not possibly be bringing news of their daughter. It was his old friend Jay Perumal. Both of them were in their early fifties, and had climbed up the ladder of success together. Mr. Perumal clearly looked as though something were on his mind also.
– Mrs. M.K., greetings. You both look troubled, and we all understand it. We Perumals understand it especially well, because we have troubles too.
– Your grandmother?
– Yes.
– So she agreed to carry on?
– Yes.
– Shame, said Mrs. Bodasingh. An old lady like that. How old is she?
– She’s ninety-two. But the reason why the Congress wanted her is of course because she is the only one left of the first ship from India. You remember, M.K., the s.s. Truro. She was born on that voyage, so she is now as old as the Indian people of South Africa.
Mr. Perumal spoke more vehemently.
– M.K., I blame Dr. Monty for this. And I blame him for Prem too. The old lady should be sitting in her special chair in the sun, instead of in the white waiting-room at Berea Road. And Prem should be working hard for her Matriculation instead of sitting in the Reference Library. You see, the old lady can’t say no to Dr. Monty. She can’t read and write, and he is a doctor from Edinburgh. What is more, he looks after her for nothing. He never sends an account. She thinks he is a Mahatma.
– You’re lucky, said Mrs. Bodasingh. She hasn’t been arrested. We don’t expect to be so lucky.
– Her hair is as white as snow, and she wears a clean white sari every day, said Mr. Perumal with some pride. So she looks like, you know, some angel of purity. They have warned her twice, but now they don’t warn her any more. Many of the white people greet her now when they come into the waiting-room.
He took out his wallet, and took out a picture from the wallet.
– You see what I mean. The white hair, the dark face, full of care you know, the white sari, what can they do to her? No, I don’t mean full of care, she’s not full of care, I mean her face is — what do they say? — careworn, eh? Her great-grandchildren think she is the most wonderful woman to have for a great-grandmother. The great-great-grandchildren are too small.
– How many great-grandchildren are there?
– Oh, between forty and fifty, we don’t count any more. Perhaps it’s between fifty and sixty. They had big families then, not like us with three and four. M.K., you tell me why the Congress must use old people and children. Don’t they have enough grown-up people to support them? At ninety-two your life should be finished — no, I don’t mean finished, I mean, you remember, M.K. and Mrs. M.K., what they said about King George the Fifth, that his life was drawing peacefully to its end. Well, the old lady’s life should be drawing peacefully to its end, but not in a railway station. She should be at home, in a chair, sitting in the sun.
Mr. Perumal paused a moment to pull himself together. Then he spoke with greater vehemence than ever.
– And your daughter Prem. The cleverest girl in Durban, they say, at any high school, white, black, or Indian. A wonderful future before her but what happens today? A week suspended. So she goes again and what happens then? Two weeks not suspended plus that week no longer suspended.
– Don’t talk like that, said Mr. Bodasingh with pain.
– I do talk like that. This is not the time for nice talk, M.K.
– Who said she would go again?
– My daughter, Lutchmee.
Mrs. Bodasingh cried out.
– Why didn’t Lutchmee go to the library too?
– She is not allowed to.
– Who won’t allow her? You, the clever father?
– No, not me. Prem will not allow her. Prem will not allow any of the girls to do it. They must work for their examinations. Don’t you know your own daughter? She says, Do it, and you do it. She says, Don’t do it, and you don’t do it. She will be like Mrs. Pandit.
Mr. Bodasingh looked the picture of misery, pride struggling with dread. But Mr. Perumal was now in full cry, and either ignored his friend’s misery or did not see it.
– You do nothing for your daughter, M.K., and I do nothing for my grandmother. Your daughter is very important, M.K. Her life is just beginning, but the old lady’s life is drawing peacefully to its end.
– You said just now, said Mrs. Bodasingh sharply, that it was not drawing peacefully to its end.
– I am getting mixed, Mrs. M.K. That is because I am ashamed. I do nothing for my grandmother. You ought to be ashamed too, M.K. You do nothing for your daughter. We are a disgrace to the Indian people.
– You are very clever, Jay. What do you say we do?
We go to Dr. Monty. We say we object to the way Congress interferes in our private lives, and the way it puts heavy burdens on old women and children.
– M.K. won’t go to see Dr. Monty, said Mrs. Bodasingh again sharply. He is afraid of him. You are all afraid of him, not just because of Congress, but because he went to Edinburgh.
– M.K., are you afraid of Dr. Monty?
– I don’t say I am afraid of him. Look, Jay, I am not afraid of anyone in business, but Dr. Monty isn’t in business. Outside business he’s too clever for me.
The telephone rang and Mr. Bodasingh ran to it. He could hardly hold the receiver because his hands were trembling. Both his wife and Mr. Perumal listened for every word.
– Prem’s arrested. She’s in the Smith Street charge office. Bail is twenty pounds. I must go at once. Ring Maharaj and tell him to go there as soon as he can.
– M.K.!
Mr. Bodasingh turned to his wife.
– Yes.
– M.K., you mustn’t pay bail.
– What, I mustn’t pay bail? But I want my daughter.
– If you pay bail, you’ll lose your daughter.
– Who told you that?
– She told me that.
Mr. Bodasingh looked at his wife, full of despair and frustration.
– God Almighty, he said, God Almighty. You remember, Kuniamma, when she was six years old, she would climb up on me and say, When I grow up, I’m going to marry you, daddy.
– I can pay bail and she would never know, said Mr. Perumal.
You go and pay bail for your grandmother, Jay Perumal, said Mrs. Bodasingh. You look after your family and we’ll look after ours.
– This is not a time for quarrelling, said Mr. Bodasingh. Kuniamma, I must go.
So Mr. M. K. Bodasingh, director of companies, chairman of philanthropies, welcome if somewhat over-flowery speaker at weddings, now rendered inarticulate by circumstance and weighed down by woe, departed for the Smith Street charge office to inform Mr. Maharaj that on no account was bail to be paid.
This girl Prem Bodasingh, the one who keeps going to the Durban Municipal Reference Library, is causing trouble in Pietermaritzburg also. Dr. William Johnson, Director of Education for the province of Natal, doesn’t want to take punitive steps against her, but the Chairman of the Natal Executive, Mr. Harry Mainwaring, member of the great Natal family, says that he must.
– Do you mean to say, Director, that this girl can go on breaking the law with impunity?
She is not doing it with impunity. She has been punished for it three times.
– And she goes on doing it. I may say I find it intolerable. So we are asking you to give her a warning, that if she does it again, all schools are closed to her.
– Mr. Chairman, I’m an educator, not a judge.
– Yes, I appreciate that, but you have the power in consultation with a school principal to expel a child from a school. You could call that a judicial function.
– Mr. Chairman, it’s a power I use very sparingly, and then only in extreme cases, serious theft, or a bad sex scandal, or dangerous insubordination.
– You don’t think it is dangerous insubordination to break the law of the country, openly and persistently?
Johnson did not answer immediately. He rested his chin on his hands, and looked intently at the blotter in front of him.
– You find that question difficult, said Mainwaring.
– Yes, indeed. Extremely difficult.
– I don’t need to tell you, Director, that it is a very dangerous thing when an individual decides that a law is wrong, and then disobeys it. The whole fabric of law and order breaks down. You may only be going to sit in a reading-room from which the law debars you, but you are in fact challenging the authority of Government and the State.
Again Johnson said nothing. Mainwaring irritated him but he must not show it. Mainwaring was very conscious of belonging to one of the great Natal families. Although they had both been to the same exclusive school, Johnson could lay no claim to any kind of illustrious ancestry.
– Harrington came to see you about this, didn’t he?
– Yes, he did.
– I happen to know this, not because I was snooping, but because he came to see me too. Thinks we would be doing a most un-British thing if we debar this girl from our schools. He makes me angry. He obviously doesn’t know a thing about the history of British India. And he obviously didn’t know that my grandfather was a Boer, my mother’s father. Did you know that?
– Of course. I met him at your home in the Karkloof when we were schoolboys.
– I should have remembered that. Well, Harrington has some idea in his head that English-speaking South Africans know more about justice than Afrikaners. He looked a bit silly when I told him my grandfather was a Boer. H
e also has an idea that St. Michael’s knows more about justice than all the other schools, except probably St. John’s in Johannesburg and St. Andrew’s in Grahamstown and Bishops in the Cape.
– I think I should make it quite clear, Mr. Chairman, that my reluctance to take action against this girl has nothing to do with British and Afrikaner ideas of justice. It’s just that I cannot accept the idea of ending a girl’s education because she goes to a white library. I know she’s breaking the law, but such a penalty seems to me out of all proportion to the seriousness of the offence.
– So you don’t think it is a serious offence to go on persistently breaking the law?
– From your viewpoint I can see that it is. That is partly because it’s your authority that she is flouting. But there is another point of view, equally valid. She goes to the library, she dresses quietly, she doesn’t carry a gun, she doesn’t threaten anyone, she takes out a book and sits down to read. The only visible instruction is to be silent, and she is silent enough. But for this offence you would bring her education to an end.
– You are in fact refusing to debar her from the schools of the province.
– I think I intend to do so.
– You realise it is a grave decision?
– Yes.
– Why don’t you refuse now?
– Because I have decided to go to Durban tomorrow to see the girl’s principal, and then I shall go to see the girl herself.
– In prison?
– Yes.
– I can’t stop you, Director, said Mainwaring angrily, but I disapprove totally. I don’t think it part of your duties. There are fifty thousand Indian children in our schools, not to mention whites and Africans. And one gets herself into trouble and you must go rushing off to see her. If someone has to go and see her, why don’t you send one of your inspectors?
– The province appointed me Director, and I am its servant. But they mustn’t tell me how my job must be done. And if they disapprove totally, they can get rid of me.