What Was In Her Heart
by Herman Charles Bosman
No – Oom Schalk Lourens said – I don’t know why it is that people always ask me to tell them stories. Even though they all know that I can tell better stories than anybody else. Much better. What I mean is, I wonder why people listen to stories. Of course, it is easy to understand why a man should ask me to tell him a story when there’s a drought in the Marico. Because then he can sit on the stoep and smoke his pipe and drink coffee, while I’m talking, so that my story keeps him from having to go to the borehole, in the hot sun, to pump water for his cattle.
By the earnest manner in which the farmers of the Marico ask me for stories at certain periods, I’m always able to tell that there’s no breeze to drive the windmill, and that the pump-handle’s heavy, and that the water’s very far down. And at such times I’ve often observed the look of sorrow that comes into a man’s eyes, when he knows that I am near the end of my story and that he will shortly have to reach for his hat.
And when I have finished the story, he says: ‘Yes, Oom Schalk. That’s the way of the world. Yes, that story’s very deep.’
But I know that all the time he’s really thinking of how deep the water is in the borehole.
As I’ve said, it’s when people have other reasons for asking me to tell them a story that I start wondering as I do now. When they ask me at those times when there’s no ploughing to be done and there are no barbed-wire fences to be put up in the heat of the day. And I think that these reasons are deeper than any stories and deeper than the water in the boreholes when there is a drought.
There was young Krisjan Geel, for instance. He once listened to a story. It was foolish of him to have listened, of course, especially as I hadn’t told it to him. He’d heard it from the Indian behind the counter of the shop in Ramoutsa. Krisjan Geel related this story to me, and I told him straight out that I didn’t think much of it. I said anybody could guess, right from the start, why the princess was sitting beside the well. Anybody could see that she hadn’t come there just because she was thirsty. I also said that the story was too long, and that even if I was thinking of something else, I would still have told it in such a way that people would have wanted to hear it to the end. I pointed out lots of other details like that.
Krisjan Geel said he had no doubt that I was right, but that the man who had told him the story was an Indian, after all, and that for an Indian, perhaps, it wasn’t too bad. He also said that there were quite a number of customers in the place, and that that made it more difficult for the Indian to tell the storyproperly, because he had to stand at such an awkward angle, all the time, weighing out things with his foot on the scale.
By his tone, it sounded as though Krisjan Geel was quite sorry for the Indian.
So I spoke to him very firmly.
‘The Indian in the store at Ramoutsa,’ I said, ‘has told me much better stories than that before today. He once told me that there were no burnt mealies mixed with the coffee beans he sold me. Another one that was almost as good was when he said …’
‘And to think that the princess went and waited by the well,’ Krisjan Geel interrupted me, ‘just because once she had seen the young man there.’
‘Another good one,’ I insisted, ‘was when he said there was no Kalahari sand in the sack of yellow sugar I bought from him.’
‘And she had only seen him once,’ Krisjan Geel went on, ‘and she was a princess.’
‘And I had to give most of that sugar to the pigs,’ I said. ‘It didn’t melt or sweeten the coffee. It just stayed like mud at the bottom of the cup.’
‘She waited by the well because she was in love with him,’ Krisjan Geel ended up, lamely.
‘I just mixed it in with the pigs’ mealie-meal,’ I said. ‘They ate it very fast. It’s funny how fast a pig eats.’
Krisjan Geel didn’t say any more after that one. No doubt he realised that I wasn’t going to allow him to impress me with a story told by an Indian, and not very well told either. I could see what the Indian’s idea was. Just because I had stopped buying from his shop after that unpleasantness about the coffee beans and the sugar – which were only burnt mealies and Kalahari sand, as I explained to a number of my neighbours – he had hit on this uncalled-for way of paying me back. He was setting up as my rival. He was also going to tell stories.
And on account of the long start I had on him, he was using all sorts of unfair methods. Like putting princesses in his stories. And palaces. And elephants that were all dressed up with yellow and red hangings and that were trained to trample on the king’s enemies at the word of command. Whereas the only kind of elephants I could talk about were those that didn’t wear red hangings or gold bangles, and that didn’t worry about whether or not you were the king’s enemy: they just trampled on you first, anyhow; and without any sort of training, either.
At first I felt it was very unfair of the Indian to come along with stories like that. I couldn’t compete. But when I thought it over carefully, I knew that it didn’t matter. The Indian could tell all the stories he liked about a princess riding around on an elephant. For there was one thing I knew I could always do better than the Indian. In just a few words, and without even talking about the princess, I would be able to let people know, subtly, what was in her heart. And this was more important than the palaces and the temples and the elephants with gold ornaments on their feet.
Perhaps the Indian realised the truth of what I’m saying now. At all events, after a while he stopped wasting the time of his customers with stories of emperors. In between telling them that the price of sheep-dip and axle-grease had gone up. Or perhaps his customers grew tired of listening to him.
~
The days passed, and the drought came, and the farmers of the Marico put in much of their time at the boreholes, pushing the heavy pump-handles up and down. The Indian’s brief period of storytelling was almost forgotten. Even Krisjan Geel came to admit that there was such a thing as overdoing these storiesof magnificence.
‘All these things he says about temples, and so on,’ Krisjan Geel said, ‘with white floors and shining red stones in them. And rajahs. Do you know what a rajah is, Oom Schalk? No, I don’t know, either. You can have too much of that. It was only that one story of his that was any good. The one about the princess. She had rich stones in her hair, and pearls sewn on to her dress. And so the young man never guessed why she'd come there. He didn’t guess that she loved him. But perhaps I didn’t tell you the story properly the first time, Oom Schalk. Perhaps I should tell it to you again. I’ve already told it to many people.’
But I declined this offer hurriedly. I replied that there was no need for him to go over all that again. I said that I remembered the story very well, and that if it was all the same to him, I should prefer not to hear it a second time. He might just spoil it in telling it all over again.
‘Why you’re so interested in that story,’ I said, ‘is because you like to imagine yourself as that young man.’
Krisjan Geel agreed with me that this was the reason why the Indian’s story had appealed to him so much. And he went on to say that a young man had no chance, really, in the Marico. What with the droughts, and the cattle getting miltsiek, and the mosquitoes buzzing around so that you couldn’t sleep at night.
And when Krisjan Geel left me, I could see – very clearly – how much he envied the young man in the Indian’s story.
As I have said before, there are some strange things about stories, and about the people who listen to them. I thought so particularly on a hot afternoon, a few weeks later, when I saw Lettie Viljoen. The sun shone on her upturned face, and on her bright yellow hair. She sat with one hand pressed in the dry grass of last summer, and I thought of what a graceful figure she was, and how slender her wrists were.
And because Lettie Viljoen hadn’t come there riding on an elephant with orange trappings and gold bangles, and because she wasn’t wearing a string of red stones at her throat, Krisjan Geel knew, of course, that she wasn’t a princess.
And I suppose this was the reason why, during all the time he was talking to her, telling her the story about the princess at the well, Krisjan Geel never guessed about Lettie Viljoen, and what it was that had brought her there, in the heat of the sun, to the borehole.
Om In Die Geskiedenis Te Kom
Uit The Music-Maker
deur Herman Charles Bosman
Natuurlik weet ek van geskiedenis – het oom Schalk Lourens gesê – dis die goed wat kinders in die skool leer. Dit was net nou die dag, by Thys Lemmer se poskantoor, dat Thys se klein seuntjie uit sy geskiedenis boek gelees het van ’n man met die naam Vasco da Gama wat die Kaap besoek het. Dadelik het Dirk Snyman vir jong Stoffeltjie begin vertel van die keer toe hy self die Kaap besoek het, maar die jonge Stoffel het hom nie veel aan Dirk Snyman gesteur nie. En Dirk Snyman het gesê: “Daar het jy dit nou.”
~
Ja, dis ’n snaakse ding, om graag in die geskiedenis te probeer kom.
Vat byvoorbeeld Manie Kruger se geval.
Manie Kruger was een van die beste boere in die Marico. Hy het presies geweet hoeveel perskebrandewyn om vir die belastingsinspekteur te skink om te verseker dat hy dromerig sou kopknik op alles wat Manie te sê gehad het. En in ’n tyd van droogte kon Manie Kruger vinniger as enige man wat ek ooit geken het, regering toe hardloop vir hulp.
Toe het Manie eendag in die Kerkbode ’n artikel oor ’n musikant gelees wat gesê het dat hy meer van musiek af geweet het as Napoleon. Daarna – ná hy eers ’n ander artikel gelees het om uit te vind wie Napoleon was – was Manie Kruger ’n ander persoon. Hy kon oor niks anders praat as sy plek in die geskiedenis en van sy loopbaan in musiek nie.
Natuurlik het almal geweet dat niemand in die Marico by Manie Kruger kon kers vashou wanneer dit gekom het by die speel van die konsertina nie.
Geen bosvelddans was volmaak sonder Manie Kruger se konsertina nie. Wanneer hy ’n vastrap gespeel het, kon jy nie jou voete stilhou nie. Maar ná hy besluit het om daardie soort musikant te word wat in die geskiedenis boeke sou beland, was die manier wat Manie Kruger verander het, vreemd. Een ding wat hy gesê het, was dat hy nooit weer op ’n dans sou gaan speel nie. Daaroor het ons almal baie treurig gevoel. Daar sou perskebrandewyn in die kombuis wees, en in die voorkamer sou die voete van die dansers deur die stappies van die schottische en die polka en die wals en die mazurka gaan, maar op die riempiesbank in die hoek waar die musikante gesit het, sou daar geen Manie Kruger wees nie. En hulle sou “Die Vaal Hare en die Blou Oge” en “Vat Jou Goed en Trek Ferreira” gespeel het, maar dit sou iemand anders se vingers wees wat oor die knoppieklawers van die konsertina gevee het. En dan, met die gedansery en die perskebrandewyn, sou die jongkêrels uitroep: “Dagbreek toe,” en dan sou dit nie Manie Kruger se kop wees wat met die applous knik nie.
Dit was hartseer om oor al dié dinge te dink.
Manie Kruger was vir só lankal die belangrikste musikant by die bosvelddanse.
En vir almal wat bedroef was oor die verandering wat Manie ondergaan het, kon ons sien dat niemand meer bedroef was as Lettie Steyn nie.
En af en toe het Manie sulke vreemde dinge gesê. Een keer het hy gesê dat wat hy moes doen om in die geskiedenis te kom, was om in die arms van ’n prinses aan tering te sterf, soos ’n ander musikant van wie hy gelees het. Maar dit was moeilik om aan tering in die Marico te sterf, want die klimaat dáár was so gesond.
Hoewel Manie opgehou het om sy konsertina op danse te speel, het hy op ’n ander manier dikwels gespeel. Hy het begin om, soos hy gesê het, uitvoerings te gee. Ek het verskeie van hulle bygewoon. Hulle was indrukwekkend.
By die eerste uitvoering wat ek bygewoon het, het ek gesien dat daar in die voorste deel van Manie se voorkamer twee rye banke en stoele geplaas is. Dit het hy van sy bure geleen wat nie omgegee het om hulle etes op kersbokse en omgekeerde emmers te geniet nie. Aan die verste kant van die voorkamer is ’n wye groen gordyn aan ’n stukkie lyn opgehang. Toe ek ingekom het, was die plek vol. Ek het daarin geslaag om op ’n bank tussen Jan Terblanche en ’n jong dametjie met ’n blou kappie op, in te skuif. Jan Terblanche het probeer om die jong dametjie se hand vas te hou.
Manie Kruger het agter die groen gordyn gesit. Hy was alreeds daar toe ek ingekom het. Ek het geweet dit was Manie aan sy velskoene wat onder die gordyn uitgesteek het. Lettie Steyn het voor my gesit. Af en toe wanneer sy omgedraai het, kon ek sien dat daar ’n blos op haar gesig en ’n uitdrukking van groot opwinding in haar oë was.
Uiteindelik was alles gereed, en Joel – die plaasarbeider aan wie Manie die taak opgedra het – het stadig die groen gordyn oopgetrek. ’n Paar van die jongkêrels het uitgeroep: “Middag ou Manie,” en Jan Terblanche het gevra of dit nie te beknop en bedompig was om so daar agter die stuk groen gordyn te sit nie.
Toe het hy begin speel.
En ons almal het geweet dat dit die mooiste konsertinamusiek was waarna ons nog ooit geluister het. Dit was Manie Kruger op sy beste. Hy het lank vir hierdie uitvoering geoefen; sy vingers het oor die knoppies gevlieg; die klanke van die konsertina het ons harte geroer, en Manie Kruger se musiek het ons uit die voorkamer weggevoer na ’n vreemde, ryk en stralende wêreld.
Dit was puik.
Die toejuiging gedurende sy optrede was wonderbaarlik. Aan die einde van elke stuk, het Joel die gordyne voor Manie toegetrek en ons moes vir ’n paar minute sit en wag totdat die gordyne weer oopgetrek is. Maar ná die eerste keer was daar nie weer gelag oor dié handelswyse nie. Die voordrag het vir omtrent ’n uur en ’n half aangehou, en die applous aan die einde was selfs groter as aan die begin. En gedurende daardie negentig minute het Manie net een keer opgestaan. Dit was toe daar een of ander probleem met die gordyn was, en hy opgestaan het om vir Joel ’n skop te gee.
Aan die einde van die voordrag het Manie nie vorentoe gekom om met ons hande te skud soos ons verwag het nie. In plaas daarvan het hy agter die groen gordyn weggeglip kombuis toe, en vir ons laat weet dat ons hom daar agter kon besoek. Ons het eers gedink dat dit ’n bietjie snaaks was, maar Lettie Steyn het gesê dat dit só reg was. Sy het verduidelik dat in ander lande al die groot musikante en verhoogkunstenaars hulle bewonderaars agter die verhoog ontvang het. Jan Terblanche het gesê dat as daardie akteurs hulle kombuise gebruik het om hulle besoekers in te vermaak, het hy gewonder waar hulle hul kokery gedoen het.
Nietemin het die meeste van ons agter na die kombuis toe gegaan, en dit terdeë geniet om Manie geluk te wens en met hom blad te skud. En Manie het baie te sê gehad oor sy musikale toekoms, en die segetogte wat hom in die groot stede van die wêreld sou beval, en hoe hy voor die gordyn sou staan en in erkenning van die toejuiging sou buig.
Daarna het Manie nog ’n paar ander uitvoerings gegee. Hulle was almal ook net so besonder uitstekend. Maar omdat hy die heel dag moes oefen, kon hy nie veel aandag aan sy boerdery gee nie. Met die gevolg dat sy plaas tot niet gegaan het en hy in die skuld geraak het. Die balju het gekom en beslag gelê op die helfte van sy beeste terwyl hy besig was om vir sy vierde voordrag te oefen. En hy was besig om vir sy sewende voordrag te oefen toe hulle gekom het om sy ossewa en muilwa te vat.
Uiteindelik, toe Manie Kruger se musikale loopbaan daardie stadium bereik het dat hulle sy ploeg en die laaste van sy beeste gevat het, het hy wat oorgebly het van sy besittings verkoop, die bosveld verlaat en die pad gevat na daardie groot stede toe waarvan hy so baie gepraat het. Die afskeidsgeleentheid was ’n pronkerige affêre. Beide die predikant en die lid van die volksraad het toesprake gelewer oor hoe trots Transvaal was op hulle vermaarde seun. Toe het Manie daarop geantwoord, maar in plaas daarvan om sy gehoor te bedank, het hy begin om ons van voor tot agter sleg te sê en uit te kryt as ’n klomp boewe en siellose Filistyne, en gesê hoe hy ons verafsku het.
Natuurlik was ons besonder verras deur hierdie uitbarsting, want ons was altyd gaaf en vriendelik teenoor Manie, en het hom soveel as moontlik aangemoedig. Maar Lettie Steyn het verduidelik dat Manie nie regtig die dinge wat hy kwytgeraak het, bedoel het nie. Sy het gesê dat dit só was dat daar van alle groot kunstenaars verwag was om op daardie manier te praat oor die plek waarvandaan hulle gekom het.
Ons het dus geweet dat dit reg was, en hoe meer beledigend die dinge was wat Manie oor ons gesê het, hoe harder het ons geskree: “Hoor, hoor vir Manie.” Daar was ’n besonderse entoesiastiese applous, toe hy gesê het dat ons soveel van kuns af weet soos ’n boomslang. Sy taalgebruik was vuriger as enigiets wat ek al ooit gehoor het – behalwe een keer. En dit was toe De Wet gesê het wat hy gedink het van Cronje se oorgawe aan die Engelse by Paardeberg. Ons kon voel dat Manie se toespraak die ware Jacob was. Ons was daardie dag hees van al die toejuiging.
En só het Manie toe vertrek. Ons het een brief gekry wat gesê het dat hy Pretoria bereik het. Maar daarna het ons nie weer van hom gehoor nie.
Maar altyd wanneer Lettie Steyn van Manie gepraat het, was dit soos ’n kind wat van ’n droom gepraat het, so half hunkerend, en altyd, met die stem van ’n verlangende kind, het sy my vertel hoe hy eendag, eendag sou terugkeer. En menigmaal het ek haar met sononder op die stoep sien sit, al starende uit oor die veld tot laat in die aand. Sy het in die stowwerige pad afgekyk na waar dit deur die doringbome en anderkant die Dwarsberge verdwyn het – al wagtende vir die minnaar wat nie weer na haar toe sou terugkeer nie.
Dit het lank geneem voor ek Manie Kruger weer gesien het. En toe was dit in Pretoria. Ek het daarheen gegaan om ’n onderhoud te voer met die volksraadslid oor ’n verkiesingsbelofte. Ek het Manie heel per ongeluk gesien. En hy het die konsertina gespeel – en ek het gedink dat dit net so mooi soos altyd was. Ek het gou weggegaan.
Maar wat my baie vreemd aangegryp het, was net daardie een vlugtige blik wat ek gekry het van die groen gordyn van die kroeg agter Manie Kruger, daar waar hy gespeel het.
Wanting To Get Into History
Of course, I know about history – Oom Schalk Lourens said – it’s the stuff children learn in school. Only the other day, at Thys Lemmer’s post office, Thys’s little son, Stoffel, started reading out of his history book, about a man called Vasco da Gama, who visited the Cape. At once, Dirk Snyman started telling young Stoffel about the time when he himself visited the Cape, but young Stoffel didn’t take much notice of him. So Dirk Snyman said that that showed you.
~
Yes, it’s a queer thing about wanting to get into history.
Take the case of Manie Kruger, for instance.
Manie Kruger was one of the best farmers in the Marico. He knew just how much peach brandy to pour out for the tax-collector, to make sure that he would nod dreamily at everything Manie said. And at a time of drought, Manie Kruger could run to the Government for help much quicker than any man I ever knew.
Then, one day, Manie Kruger read an article in the Kerkbode about a musician who said that he knew more about music than Napoleon did. After that – having first read another article, to find out who Napoleon was – Manie Kruger was a changed man. He could talk of nothing but his place in history, and of his musical career.
Of course, everybody knew that no man in the Marico could be counted in the same class with Manie Kruger, when it came to playing the concertina.
No Bushveld dance was complete without Manie Kruger’s concertina. When he played a vastrap, you couldn’t keep your feet still. But after he had decided to become the sort of musician that gets into history books, it was strange the way that Manie Kruger altered. For one thing, he said he would never again play at a dance. We all felt sad about that. There would be the peach brandy in the kitchen; in the voorkamer the feet of the dancers would go through the steps of schottische and the polka and the waltz and the mazurka, but on the riempies bench in the corner, where the musicians sat, there would be no Manie Kruger. And they would play ‘Die Vaal Hare en die Blou Oge’ and ‘Vat Jou Goed en Trek, Ferreira’, but it would be another’s fingers that swept over the concertina keys. And when, with the dancing and the peach brandy, the young men called out ‘Dagbreek toe,’ it would not be Manie Kruger’s head that bowed down to the applause.
It was sad to think about all this.
For so long, at the Bushveld dances, Manie Kruger had been the chief musician.
And of all those who mourned this change that had come over Manie, we could see that there was no one more grieved than Letta Steyn.
And Manie said such queer things at times. Once he said that what he had to do to get into history was to die of consumption in the arms of a princess, like another musician he had read about. Only it was hard to get consumption in the Marico, because the climate was so healthy.
Although Manie stopped playing his concertina at dances, he played a great deal in another way. He started giving what he called recitals. I went to several of them. They were very impressive.
At the first recital I went to, I found that the front part of Manie’s voorkamer was taken up by rows of benches and chairs that he had borrowed from those of his neighbours who didn’t mind having to eat their meals on candle-boxes and upturned buckets. At the far end of the voorkamer, a wide green curtain was hung on a piece of string. When I came in, the place was full. I managed to squeeze in, on a bench between Jan Terblanche and a young woman in a blue kappie. Jan Terblanche had been trying to hold this young woman’s hand.
Manie Kruger was sitting behind the green curtain. He was already there when I came in. I knew it was Manie by his veldskoens, which were sticking out from underneath the curtain. Letta Steyn sat in front of me. Now and again, when she turned round, I saw that there was a flush on her face, and a look of dark excitement in her eyes.
At last everything was ready, and Joel – the farm labourer to whom Manie had given this job – slowly drew the green curtain aside. A few of the younger men called out ‘Middag, ou Manie,’ and Jan Terblanche asked if it wasn’t very close and suffocating, sitting there like that behind that piece of green curtain.
Then he started to play.
And we all knew that it was the most wonderful concertina music we had ever listened to. It was Manie Kruger at his best. He had practised a long time for that recital; his fingers flew over the keys; the notes of the concertina swept into our hearts; and the music of Manie Kruger lifted us right out of that voorkamer and into a strange, rich and dazzling world.
It was fine.
The applause right through was terrific. At the end of each piece, Joel closed the curtains in front of Manie, and we sat waiting for a few minutes until the curtains were drawn aside again. But after that first time, there was no more laughter about this procedure. The recital lasted for about an hour and a half, and the applause at the end was even greater than at the start. And during those ninety minutes, Manie left his seat only once. That was when there was some trouble with the curtain, and he got up to kick Joel.
At the end of the recital, Manie did not come forward and shake hands with us, as we had expected. Instead, he slipped through, behind the green curtain, into the kitchen, and sent word that we could come and see him round the back. At first we thought this a bit queer, but Letta Steyn said it was all right. She explained that in other countries, the great musicians and stage performers all received their admirers at the back. Jan Terblanche said that if these actors used their kitchens for entertaining their visitors in, he wondered where they did their cooking.
Nevertheless, most of us went round to the kitchen, and we had a good time congratulating Manie Kruger and shaking hands with him; and Manie spoke much of his musical future, and of the triumphs that would come to him in the great cities of the world, when he would stand before the curtain and bow to the applause.
Manie gave a number of other recitals, after that. They were all equally fine. Only, as he had to practise all day, he couldn’t pay much attention to his farming. The result was that his farm went to pieces, and he got into debt. The court messengers came and attached half his cattle, while he was busy practising for his fourth recital. And he was practising for his seventh recital, when they took away his ox-waggon and mule cart.
Eventually, when Manie Kruger’s musical career reached that stage when they took away his plough and the last of his oxen, he sold up what remained of his possessions and left the Bushveld, on his way to those great cities that he had so often talked about. It was very grand, the send-off that the Marico gave him. The predikant and the Volksraad member both made speeches about how proud the Transvaal was of her great son. Then Manie replied. Instead of thanking his audience, however, he started abusing us left and right, calling us a mob of hooligans, and soulless Philistines, and saying how much he despised us.
Naturally, we were very much surprised at this outburst, as we had always been kind to Manie Kruger, and had encouraged him all we could. But Letta Steyn explained that Manie didn’t really mean the things he said. She said it was just that every great artist was expected to talk in that way about the place he came from.
So we knew it was all right, and the more offensive the things were that Manie said about us, the louder we shouted ‘Hoor, hoor vir Manie.’ There was a particularly enthusiastic round of applause when he said that we knew as much about art as a boomslang. His language was hotter than anything I had ever heard – except once. And that was when De Wet said what he thought of Cronje’s surrender to the English at Paardeberg. We could feel that Manie’s speech was the real thing. We cheered ourselves hoarse that day.
And so Manie Kruger went. We received one letter to say that he had reached Pretoria. But after that, we heard no more of him.
Yet always, when Letta Steyn spoke of Manie, it was as a child speaks of a dream, half-wistfully; and, always, with the voice of a wistful child, she would tell me how one day, one day he would return. And often, when it was dusk, I would see her sitting on the stoep, gazing out across the veld into the evening, down the dusty road that led between the thorn-trees and beyond the Dwarsberge, waiting for the lover who would come to her no more.
It was a long time before I again saw Manie Kruger. And then it was in Pretoria. I had gone there to interview the Volksraad member about an election promise. It was quite by accident that I saw Manie. And he was playing the concertina – playing as well as ever, I thought. I went away quickly.
But what affected me very strangely was just that one glimpse I had of the green curtain of the bar in front of which Manie Kruger played.
Stellenbosch, Ronnie and Me
by Annatjie Melck
Then came the wonderful years of being a student. It’s the only time in your life that you’re so free and without responsibility. The only ‘contract’ to be fulfilled is the obligation you owe towards the person or persons who gave you the opportunity to study.
Those were the golden years of laughter and, once more, of song – just as Griet and I had danced and sung on the ashheap at Doornkraal. But this time it was with a different rythmn, with different games, and with new friends. My father had extracted from me a promise that I would write him a letter every Sunday evening telling him what had happened the previous week. He also promised me five pounds at the end of my first year if I remained fancy free and, as he put it, part of the group, rather than becoming too involved with anyone in particular.
I first saw Ronnie in my botany class – we were in the same class. Ronnie was English-speaking, and could speak very little Afrikaans. I, on the other hand, could speak no English at all. By way of example, I remember that my residence friends and I used to take the train to Cape Town on a Saturday morning to go shopping. We dressed up very smartly – the gloves had to match the shoes and the handbag – and sometimes we even wore hats. We knew that there were street-photographers in Adderley Street, and if we were lucky enough to be photographed by them, that would be a great compliment. We bought nothing fancier than reels of thread or buttons, or maybe a pair of gloves, but it was wonderful to wander through shops like Garlicks, Stuttafords and Cleghorns, and to admire all the beautiful things that were available. Whenever we wanted to buy something and made enquiries in Afrikaans, the English-speaking sales ladies would glare at us severely, and say: ‘Speak in English, please.’ Time and again, I turned away empty-handed because I wasn’t able to express myself in English.
I told these stories to my father in my Sunday evening letters to him. When I was at home during the university holidays, he encouraged me to go to Rhodes University after I had finished my degree at Stellenbosch, so that I could learn to speak English. My father was very ill during my third year, and he died on the day I began my final exams. I kept my promise to him and the next year I went to Rhodes, where I obtained a teaching diploma.
I think the final spur was when Ronnie invited me to his parents’ house in Constantia: the only words I spoke all evening were: ‘I’m fine thank you,’ in reply to their ‘How do you do?’ after Ronnie had introduced me to them. The worst thing about that evening was the large photograph of Jan Smuts on their diningroom wall. I wrote to my father about all of this. This was a great shock because my father was an Ossewa-Brandwag man.
Before we knew it, our student years were gone and the adult world lay in wait for us. We didn’t, then, sufficiently appreciate that the next phase of our lives ought not to be undertaken without adequate preparation.
~
Ronnie and my paths had begun to converge more and more after our first year at university. We understood each other, and there was a strong energy between us. We had a large and interesting circle of friends, and we really enjoyed our student life, with all the fun that went with it. We played the games of youth to the full, but always responsibly.
After I graduated, I kept my promise to my father and went to Rhodes University for a year, in order to learn English. Ronnie and I began dreaming about our future. We decided that we would walk together, and that we would one day build a house, with children and many friends. And that we would prepare good food together.
Ronnie was a wine man through and through; and the combination worked. Our house was always open; our house was always friendly; our house always had the aroma of food being prepared in the kitchen; there was always good music; and there were many friends who enjoyed our hospitality, and never abused it. Our children grew up in this environment, and we always encouraged them to bring their friends home, just as we did. They could decide for themselves whether or not their friends would fit in.
Those were our golden years of good fortune, many guests, wine people, business people, and lots of cooking.
The Connoisseur’s Guild that was started in Stellenbosch, at the instance of the KWV, was begun by five women, of whom I was one. Our objective was to promote and expand the food and wine culture of the Stellenbosch wine district. Ronnie and my cooking became more expansive and, during our many overseas trips and with our exposure to other food cultures, the bond between us strengthened.
At home we had several different tables: a kitchen table, a casual visiting – or kuier – table, and a diningroom table. Each was nicer than the other. So many interesting people have sat around these tables that I sometimes wish we’d kept a visitors’ book – but in truth, we were not visitors’ book sort of people.
Everyone was equally welcome, and equally special.
Stellenbosch, Ek en Ronnie
Uit Koljander, koljander, so deur die Bosch
deur Annatjie Melck
Toe kom die wonderlike jare van studentwees. Dis net een maal in ’n leeftyd dat ’n mens werklik so ongebonde en sonder verantwoordelikheid kan wees. Die enigste kontrak wat vervul moet word, is die verantwoordelikheid teenoor die persoon of persone wat jou die geleentheid gun om te studeer.
Dit was die goue dae van lag, en weer eens van sing, soos ek en Griet gedans en gesing het daar op die ashoop by Doornkuil. Maar hierdie keer met ’n ander ritme, ander speletjies en nuwe vriende. My pa het my laat belowe dat ek elke Sondagaand vir hom ’n brief sou skryf om te vertel wat gedurende die weekgebeur het. Hy het ook vir my vyf pond belowe aan die einde van my eerste jaar as ek myself nie aan een kêrel verbind het nie maar – soos hy dit gestel het – in die bondel gebly het.
In my botanieklas het ek vir die eerste maal vir Ronnie gesien; ons het saam klasgeloop. Ronnie was Engelssprekend en kon baie min Afrikaans praat. Ek weer kon glad nie Engels praat nie. So onthou ek byvoorbeeld dat ek en van my koshuismaats graag op ’n Saterdag die trein Kaap toe gevat het om te gaan inkopies doen. Ons het ons baie mooi aangetrek, die handskoene moes by die skoene en die handsak pas, en soms selfs met ’n hoed ook op. Ons het geweet daar was straatfotograwe in Adderleystraat en as ons dalk afgeneem sou word, was dit ’n groot kompliment. Ons het niks meer gekoop as tolletjies garing of ’n knoop of miskien ’n handskoen nie, maar dit was wonderlik om in die groot, pragtige winkels soos Garlicks, Stuttafords en Cleghorns te kon ingaan en ons aan al die mooi goed te verwonder. Wanneer ons iets wou koop en in Afrikaans daarvoor gevra het, het die Engelse verkoopdames ons streng aangekyk en gesê: “Speak in English, please.” Keer op keer moes ek omdraai sonder aankope, want ek kon nie in Engels koop nie.
Hierdie stories het ek vir my pa vertel in my Sondagaandbriewe aan hom. Wanneer ek dan vakansies by die huis was, het hy my aangemoedig om, nadat ek my graad op Stellenbosch gekry het, na Rhodes-universiteit te gaan om Engels te leer praat. My pa was reeds in my derde jaar baie siek en het gesterf die dag toe ek met my finale ekasmen begin het. Ek het my belofte gehou en wel na Rhodes gegaan waar ek ’n onderwysdiploma behaal het.
Ek dink die finale aansporing was toe Ronnie my na sy ouers se huis in Constantia nooi en ek daar aankom en al wat ek die hele aand gesê het, was: “I’m fine thank you” in antwoord op hulle beleefde “How do you do?” toe Ronnie my aan hulle voorstel. Die ergste van daardie aand was dat daar ’n gróót foto van Jan Smuts in hulle eetkamer gehang het! Dit het ek alles vir my pa geskryf. Dit was nogal erg, want my pa was ’n Ossewa-Brandwag-man.
Voor ons ons oë kon uitvee, was ons studentjare verby. En toe wag die grootmenslewe vir ons. Ons het nie daardie tyd besef dat die volgende fase in ons lewe nie kaalhand aangepak moes word nie.
~
My en Ronnie se paadjies het meer en meer begin saamloop ná ons eerste jaar op universiteit. Ons het mekaar verstaan en daar was ’n sterk energie tussen ons. Ons het ’n groot en interessante vriendekring gehad en ons het die studentjare met al die pret wat daarmee gepaard gegaan het, terdeë geniet. Ons het die jeugspel ten volle gespeel, maar altyd met verantwoordelikheid.
Nadat ek my graad gekry het, het ek my belofte aan my pa gehou en vir een jaar na die Rhodes-universiteit gegaan om te leer Engels praat. Ek en Ronnie het saam begin droom oor ons toekoms. Ons het besluit dat ons gaan saamloop en dat ons eendag ’n mooi huis gaan bou met kinders en baie vriende. Ons sou saam kos maak.
Ronnie was ’n wynman in murg en been. Die kombinasie het gewerk. Ons huis was oop, ons huis was vriendelik, ons huis het geruik na kos wat kook, en daar was altyd mooi musiek en baie vriende wat ons gasvryheid geniet het, maar nooit misbruik het nie. Ons kinders het in hierdie omstandighede en omgewing grootgeword en ons het hulle aangemoedig om hulle vriende – net soos ons – huis toe te bring. Hulle kon self besluit of hulle vriende sou inpas or nie.
Dit was die goue jare van geluk met interessante vriende, gaste, wynmense, sakemense en baie kos maak.
Die Fynproewersgilde wat op Stellenbosch begin is deur vyf vroue (waarvan ek een was) was ’n opdrag van die KWV. Ons moes die kos- en wynkultuur van die Stellenbosse wynstreek uitbou en bevorder. My en Ronnie se koskokery het meer omvattend geword en tesame met ons vele oorsese besoeke en blootstelling aan ander koskulture, het ons ’n sterk band met mekaar gebou.
Ons het verskillende tafels gehad: ’n kombuistafel, ’n kuiertafel en ’n eetkamertafel. Die een was lekkerder as die ander. Daar het so baie interessante mense om daardie tafels gesit dat ek soms wens ek het ’n besoekersboek gehou, maar ons was nie “besoekersboekmense” nie.
Almal was ewe welkom, en ewe spesiaal.
Teen die tyd wat ek gaan sit het, het ek gevoel asof ek die beskuldigde was
Uit Koljander, koljander, so deur die Bosch
deur Annatjie Melck
Toe kom die wonderlike jare van studentwees. Dis net een maal in ’n leeftyd dat ’n mens werklik so ongebonde en sonder verantwoordelikheid kan wees. Die enigste kontrak wat vervul moet word, is die verantwoordelikheid teenoor die persoon of persone wat jou die geleentheid gun om te studeer.
Dit was die goue dae van lag, en weer eens van sing, soos ek en Griet gedans en gesing het daar op die ashoop by Doornkuil. Maar hierdie keer met ’n ander ritme, ander speletjies en nuwe vriende. My pa het my laat belowe dat ek elke Sondagaand vir hom ’n brief sou skryf om te vertel wat gedurende die weekgebeur het. Hy het ook vir my vyf pond belowe aan die einde van my eerste jaar as ek myself nie aan een kêrel verbind het nie maar – soos hy dit gestel het – in die bondel gebly het.
In my botanieklas het ek vir die eerste maal vir Ronnie gesien; ons het saam klasgeloop. Ronnie was Engelssprekend en kon baie min Afrikaans praat. Ek weer kon glad nie Engels praat nie. So onthou ek byvoorbeeld dat ek en van my koshuismaats graag op ’n Saterdag die trein Kaap toe gevat het om te gaan inkopies doen. Ons het ons baie mooi aangetrek, die handskoene moes by die skoene en die handsak pas, en soms selfs met ’n hoed ook op. Ons het geweet daar was straatfotograwe in Adderleystraat en as ons dalk afgeneem sou word, was dit ’n groot kompliment. Ons het niks meer gekoop as tolletjies garing of ’n knoop of miskien ’n handskoen nie, maar dit was wonderlik om in die groot, pragtige winkels soos Garlicks, Stuttafords en Cleghorns te kon ingaan en ons aan al die mooi goed te verwonder. Wanneer ons iets wou koop en in Afrikaans daarvoor gevra het, het die Engelse verkoopdames ons streng aangekyk en gesê: “Speak in English, please.” Keer op keer moes ek omdraai sonder aankope, want ek kon nie in Engels koop nie.
Hierdie stories het ek vir my pa vertel in my Sondagaandbriewe aan hom. Wanneer ek dan vakansies by die huis was, het hy my aangemoedig om, nadat ek my graad op Stellenbosch gekry het, na Rhodes-universiteit te gaan om Engels te leer praat. My pa was reeds in my derde jaar baie siek en het gesterf die dag toe ek met my finale ekasmen begin het. Ek het my belofte gehou en wel na Rhodes gegaan waar ek ’n onderwysdiploma behaal het.
Ek dink die finale aansporing was toe Ronnie my na sy ouers se huis in Constantia nooi en ek daar aankom en al wat ek die hele aand gesê het, was: “I’m fine thank you” in antwoord op hulle beleefde “How do you do?” toe Ronnie my aan hulle voorstel. Die ergste van daardie aand was dat daar ’n gróót foto van Jan Smuts in hulle eetkamer gehang het! Dit het ek alles vir my pa geskryf. Dit was nogal erg, want my pa was ’n Ossewa-Brandwag-man.
Voor ons ons oë kon uitvee, was ons studentjare verby. En toe wag die grootmenslewe vir ons. Ons het nie daardie tyd besef dat die volgende fase in ons lewe nie kaalhand aangepak moes word nie.
~
My en Ronnie se paadjies het meer en meer begin saamloop ná ons eerste jaar op universiteit. Ons het mekaar verstaan en daar was ’n sterk energie tussen ons. Ons het ’n groot en interessante vriendekring gehad en ons het die studentjare met al die pret wat daarmee gepaard gegaan het, terdeë geniet. Ons het die jeugspel ten volle gespeel, maar altyd met verantwoordelikheid.
Nadat ek my graad gekry het, het ek my belofte aan my pa gehou en vir een jaar na die Rhodes-universiteit gegaan om te leer Engels praat. Ek en Ronnie het saam begin droom oor ons toekoms. Ons het besluit dat ons gaan saamloop en dat ons eendag ’n mooi huis gaan bou met kinders en baie vriende. Ons sou saam kos maak.
Ronnie was ’n wynman in murg en been. Die kombinasie het gewerk. Ons huis was oop, ons huis was vriendelik, ons huis het geruik na kos wat kook, en daar was altyd mooi musiek en baie vriende wat ons gasvryheid geniet het, maar nooit misbruik het nie. Ons kinders het in hierdie omstandighede en omgewing grootgeword en ons het hulle aangemoedig om hulle vriende – net soos ons – huis toe te bring. Hulle kon self besluit of hulle vriende sou inpas or nie.
Dit was die goue jare van geluk met interessante vriende, gaste, wynmense, sakemense en baie kos maak.
Die Fynproewersgilde wat op Stellenbosch begin is deur vyf vroue (waarvan ek een was) was ’n opdrag van die KWV. Ons moes die kos- en wynkultuur van die Stellenbosse wynstreek uitbou en bevorder. My en Ronnie se koskokery het meer omvattend geword en tesame met ons vele oorsese besoeke en blootstelling aan ander koskulture, het ons ’n sterk band met mekaar gebou.
Ons het verskillende tafels gehad: ’n kombuistafel, ’n kuiertafel en ’n eetkamertafel. Die een was lekkerder as die ander. Daar het so baie interessante mense om daardie tafels gesit dat ek soms wens ek het ’n besoekersboek gehou, maar ons was nie “besoekersboekmense” nie.
Almal was ewe welkom, en ewe spesiaal.
By the time I sat down, I felt that I was the accused
From A Life At Law
by Isie Maisels
~
Foreword
by Sydney Kentridge QC
‘Reminiscences of advocates are sometimes no more than a dry account of long forgotten (and often justly forgotten) court cases. These memoirs of Isie Maisels are something completely different. First, many of Isie’s cases, especially during the long years of apartheid, were not merely cases between two litigants. They were cases about the sort of country we were then living in. The notorious Bethal farm labourer cases of the 1950s and the great treason trial which ran from 1956 to 1961 are only two examples. Secondly, Isie seemed to attract to his practice cases which, even without any political dimension, were of extraordinary interest, such as the De Melker case or the Bubbles Schroeder murder case. What is more, the stories of these cases are told in Isie’s individual voice. He was a great raconteur, and this talent is vividly present on the printed page.
‘This is not a book simply for lawyers. No reader, I think, can fail to find it fascinating and, indeed, compulsively readable. For a lawyer it is enthralling. Over the years South Africa has known great advocates, whose names survive in legal legend – Beauclerk Upington and Graeme Duncan of Cape Town, Graham Mackeurtan of Natal and Harry Morris of Johannesburg. Isie Maisels is among these greats and, I suspect, as an all-round advocate, the greatest of them all. I say ‘all-round’ because Isie was known to the public during his years of practice at the Bar primarily as a formidable cross-examiner. That he was, but he was much more. His forensic skills were based on sound knowledge of the law. If I have a favourite case in this book it is R v Manasawitz. I shall not give away the story, which Isie tells so well. The reader will find that it illustrates perfectly the combination of legal acumen and sheer forensic panache which made Isie the advocate he was. And he was not yet 30 years old when he argued that case.
‘Isie’s power as a cross-examiner does, however, deserve more than passing mention. It is not easy to describe, let alone analyse. In some uncanny way Isie would, from the outset, achieve domination over the unfortunate witness, which usually enabled him to extract exactly the answers he wanted. A prime example of this was his cross-examination of Professor Andrew Murray, the prosecution’s expert on communism in the treason trial. In that instance he used a weapon of cross-examination which young advocates are not advised to imitate, but which could be deadly in Isie’s hands – good natured humour at the expense of the discomfited witness. All in all, I have never seen Isie’s equal as a cross-examiner in any jurisdiction in which I have practised.
‘Isie was a lawyer, not a politician, but his fierce detestation of apartheid was unconcealed. Time and again he appeared in the courts to vindicate the rights of the individual against the oppression of the apartheid state. The reader may learn from Isie’s life in the law what it is that goes to make a truly great advocate – legal learning, eloquence combined with lucidity, wise judgment – but above all, courage. We are fortunate to have had him among us.’
One day an old friend of mine, Reuben Kahanowitz, asked me whether I would be prepared to go to Bloemfontein to argue an application for leave to appeal, for a fee of 35 guineas. I was then 28, and as I had never been to the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court, I would have been prepared to go there for nothing; and a fee of 35 guineas was certainly good compensation in those days. He then told me what the appeal was about.
A man called Manasewitz, who practised as an attorney in Witbank, had been found guilty of fraud. In those days – the early 1930s – farmers could obtain loans from the Land Bank amounting to two thirds of the value of the cattle that they owned: for example, if the farmer had cattle valued at £1 500 he could get a loan of £1 000. Manasewitz and a local valuer thought of a way of getting greater loans for farmers, and at the same time enriching themselves. Instead of valuing the cattle at £1 500, they were to be valued at £3 000, enabling the farmer to get a loan of £2 000. The extra money so received would then be shared by Manasewitz, his co-conspirator, and the farmer. Fraud can only be said to be committed if there is prejudice, or potential prejudice, to the person defrauded. As the farmer in question probably never intended to repay the loan, whether it was £1 000 or £2 000, he was apparently a willing accomplice. However, the fraud was discovered, and Manasewitz was charged with fraud to the prejudice of the Department of Lands.
He was duly convicted, and he appealed to the Transvaal Provincial Division against his conviction. This appeal was heard by Judge NJ de Wet and Judge of Appeal Mr Justice Grindley Ferris. Judge De Wet had been a Minister of Justice and he was well aware of the workings of government. He took the view, with which his brother judge concurred, that it was not the Department of Lands that had suffered prejudice, but the Union government. The court, therefore, upheld the appeal and the conviction and sentence were set aside.
The Attorney General of the Transvaal decided to re-indict Manasewitz, now alleging that fraud had been committed to the prejudice of the Union government. Manasewitz appeared before the magistrate in Witbank, and his counsel took the point of autrefois acquit – arguing that Manasewitz had already been acquitted on this charge, and could not be charged again on the same charge. The magistrate rejected this defence and found Manasewitz guilty.
Again there was an appeal. This time the court consisted of two of the most eminent judges I have ever appeared before, Judges Tindall and Greenberg. That court apparently considered itself bound by the previous decision of Judges De Wet and Grindley Ferris, which had decided that if there had been fraud, it had been fraud on the Union government. Consequently the court dismissed the appeal.
For a junior such as I to think that Tindall and Greenberg could ever be wrong, was probably heresy. As if the fact that this was to be an application for leave to appeal against their judgment was not sufficiently daunting, to add to my dismay I was shown an opinion, written in his own handwriting by Advocate Philip Millin, in which he said that an application for leave to appeal was without merit, was bound to be dismissed, and that he was not prepared to argue it. However, I duly went to argue the appeal in Bloemfontein. The Chief Justice was Sir John Wessels, a great judge, but well known for the hostile treatment that he meted out to counsel when not in agreement with a point being argued.
As this case was to be my first appearance before the court, I decided to spend some time listening to another appeal being argued before mine was to be heard. The appeal court in Bloemfontein is one of the most beautiful courts I have ever seen. It is a large room, all panelled in stinkwood. The story is that the court was being built during the tenure of a previous Chief Justice, JA de Villiers, who, being an expert on timber, had insisted on this panelling. The members of the Bench were Chief Justice Wessels, Judges of Appeal Curlewis, Stratford, FW Beyers, and Sir Etienne de Villiers.
I confess that I cannot think of a single defended case, or appeal, or opposed application – and indeed some unopposed applications – where I was not nervous when starting to argue. In this case, my client was hardly one deserving of sympathy; and I was likely to get a rough hearing, particularly from Chief Justice Wessels. I began: ‘M’Lord, this is an application for leave to appeal.’ Wessels said loudly: ‘Leave, leave!’ and, turning to my opponent – WG Hoal KC, Attorney General of the Orange Free State, who was appearing for the Crown – said: ‘Oh, you don’t oppose leave, do you?’ Hoal wanted to, but the manner in which these words were delivered indicated to me, and I’m sure that Hoal felt the same way, that Wessels was going to dispose of this application in a summary manner.
I then commenced my argument. I had, as anticipated, a very rough time from Chief Justice Wessels, so much so that by the time I sat down, I felt that I was the accused. As I sat down, Judge Wessels said in a whisper to Judge Curlewis – heard by me, and probably audible at the back of the court – ‘You don’t want to hear Hoal do you?’ The significance of that question, of course, was that he, Wessels, had made up his mind to dismiss the application, and did not feel it necessary to hear the Crown’s argument in reply. Curlewis agreed with Wessels, as did Stratford and Beyers.
When Wessels looked at Sir Etienne to find out whether he agreed as well, Sir Etienne indicated that he did not agree. He then did a thing that I have never seen since – and I gather from my colleagues that neither have they seen it in their experience of an appeal court. Sir Etienne got up and walked right across the court to where the Chief Justice was sitting, and he and the Chief Justice had a discussion behind the chair. The Chief Justice’s chair is a very high one, and I did not hear what was said between them; but whatever was said, the result was that Hoal was called upon to argue. He had a smooth passage. I replied – I cannot remember what I said – but the court reserved judgment.
The result came as a surprise to me. All the members of the court, except Curlewis, who dissented, decided to give leave to appeal. The main judgment of those deciding to grant leave to appeal was that of De Villiers. He pointed out that, unlike the judges in the Transvaal Provincial Division (Tindall and Greenberg), the Appellate Division was not bound by the previous decision of Judges NJ de Wet and Grindley Ferris, which in his view was incorrect. The accused should have been found guilty on this charge, but having been found not guilty, was entitled to the benefit of the plea of autrefois acquit. He was in jeopardy of having been found guilty on the first trial and first appeal. De Villiers’s judgment – like all his judgments – was a model of clarity and logical reasoning.
The report of the case says that the appeal was then allowed. As I have already pointed out, there was not an appeal at that stage, but an application for leave to appeal. Chief Justice Wessels said that the court could not finally decide the matter until the full record of the proceedings in the courts below was before the Appellate Division. Sir Etienne did not think so; and correctly in my opinion, because the point was essentially one of law, and a sufficient portion of the record was before the court on the application.
The appeal itself was heard the following year, and the result was a foregone conclusion. It was a formality, and the appeal was duly upheld.
