by Ann Harries
At this point the first course arrived and was laid before each one of us by white-gloved Negroes: a bowl of brilliant green soup, utterly tasteless, but with overtones of spirogyra and moss, once swallowed. I laid down my spoon after two mouthfuls and blotted my lips. The wine allowed a surge of interesting emotions to beat in my breast, like uninvited humming-birds. Indeed, Mrs Kipling appeared to be humming an amused little song to herself as she sipped at her soup, the very song my mother crooned to me on the odd occasions when she remembered to bid me goodnight. Just as an extremely painful lump began to develop in my throat, a movement on my left suggested the men’s conversation was at an end, and I turned abruptly to confront Milner with Miss Schreiner’s blackmail offer, my hand in my breast-pocket. But I had no sooner opened my mouth to address him, even gaining his half-amused attention, when our host rose to his feet and banged a golden spoon against a crystal beaker.
It seemed that the topic of conversation to dominate the dinner table, with its miraculous display of porcelain and glass, was to be the compulsory washing of scab-infected sheep.
‘Tonight we have much to celebrate!’ His soprano voice rang out clearly, but I could see he was having difficulties with inhaling. ‘First I want to propose a toast to a group of men who attended a luncheon I held in this house exactly three years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, will you drink to the two hundred back-veld farmers who refused to dip their sheep in disinfectant! To the back-veld Boers!’
The company repeated this absurd toast with a great deal of merriment, and begged him to recall for them the visit to which he had referred.
It appeared that during his Premiership the entire sheep population of the Colony had become infested with highly contagious scab mite. The more sophisticated farmers who lived closer to British civilisation had immediately eliminated this pest through disinfectant dipping, but the backward Trekboers, who had effectively sealed themselves off from British influence by living hundreds of miles inland upon a lunar landscape, steadfastly refused to contradict what they saw as an act of Divine Will. The Lord had his own reasons for infesting their sheep with parasite: who were they to contradict the wishes of their creator? As a result the sheep industry collapsed, and overseas buyers got their wool from disinfected Australia.
Parliament hurriedly proposed a so-called Scab Bill which would make sheep-dipping compulsory, and two hundred Bible-thumping Boers trekked out of their disease-ridden, drought-stricken homeland into the decadent hothouse of the capital city to oppose it.
‘And what could I do,’ shrilled the Colossus, ‘but invite them all to lunch?’
Throughout these reminiscences, Mrs Kipling sat very straight, inclining her head and her frown now to our host, who dominated the talk in his blundering way; now to Milner, who somehow, out of the immensity of his education, was able to make trenchant and wittily delivered contributions to this unpromising topic; now to Jameson, who appeared to be drunk, and who shouted his opinions of the Boer with a vivacity which infected the whole male company, my stern self excepted; now to the secretaries, who quipped and quaffed and quizzed (I caught the radiant eye of the messenger-god Joubert) with wondrous displays of fine teeth beneath pliant moustaches; now to her husband, who gazed through his thick round spectacles with nothing short of devotion at both Colossus and Jameson, and said little.
By this time, the glassware upon the table had done its work and everyone was inebriated to some extent, except for Mrs K. I say this bluntly, for I myself, who, at the best of times drink only a little Hock mixed with spring water, had succumbed to the miraculous wines which filled the miraculous glasses. Each sip had transported me back to the Mediterranean with its heavy scent of lemons and olives, an olfactory combination able to flood even the most reluctant nervous system with sensations of well-being and irresponsibility. Thus it was that I found myself shouting back to our host, along with the rest of the table, words of mirthful encouragement which, had I been sober, I would have regarded as sycophantic and crude in the extreme. The Colossus, for his part, radiated a huge delight in the reception of his story and, for all he was a dying man, enmeshed us in his jovial power.
‘And Huxley would have had me put out my less costly wines for the Boers!’ He shook his head at the solemn major-domo who happened to be filling my glass at the time. ‘I ask you, just because a man has drunk only cheap brandy – that poisonous stuff they call Cape Smoke – does this mean his palate is to be forbidden the bouquet of fine French wines?’
Some sort of fish dish, lying in a bed of curry and onions, had appeared before me. I made a pretence of prodding it with my fork.
Seamlessly, Jameson continued the story. The meal was such a success that one old farmer, creaking in his unaccustomed three-piece suit, stooped down to pick a handful of gravel from the paths upon which he and his companions strolled in leisure after their six-course meal – and pocketed it!’ Sleek and groomed, the Doctor grimaced in mockery of his own smile.
‘What a strange thing to do!’ cried a lady from the far end of the table. ‘Why did he do that, do you think?’
‘He did it to remind him of his great and wondrous host, why else!’ chortled the Doctor. He turned to the Colossus, who had devoured the entire fish dish in the time that it took me to chew and swallow one mouthful. ‘What was it you sent him when you heard – one of your best silver snuff boxes, was it? A cheap price to pay for your Scab Bill, I’d say!’
With a sudden change of mood that sent a subdued shudder down the table, the great man cried out: ‘But I ask you this! Did they refuse to dip their sheep because of their sacred beliefs or because they were loafers? Some of those Boers up in the Karoo are as lazy and as unwashed as any Kaffir, sitting on their stoeps drinking coffee all day while their sheep wander for miles into other men’s property, spreading disease. Is this the will of God, or is it sloth?’ A look of revulsion contorted his face as he uttered the last word, while the secretaries stirred anxiously, mouthing a chorus of echoes … ‘Sloth undoubtedly, never seen a bar of soap in their lives, did you see their fingernails, they had their price …’
Slabs of red meat, apparently cut from the thighs of the buck or the kangaroos grazing on the mountain slopes, now replaced the fish. Sweet potatoes and cabbage, an unhappy combination, filled up the rest of my plate. As I tried to find a soft pathway among the tough sinews of the venison, I became aware that Milner was making a speech. Everyone else had stopped eating, and gazed at the softly-spoken Proconsul as if he alone had the key to their futures, indeed to the Colony’s future.
‘The Trekboer knows nothing of the ideals of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, nor of the revolution that threw up these ideals. He knows nothing of the revolutionary theories of Mr Marx nor the evolutionary theories of Mr Darwin. He lives only for his piece of land and the memories of ancestors who were slaughtered by Zulus. To him, the insect dwelling within the wool of his scraggy sheep is an essential part of his Weltanschauung. Nature is not there to be tamed or undermined, but to be lived with in partnership, for better or for worse. The Englishman, the Uitlander, is the devil in disguise, trying to catapult him into what will very soon be the twentieth century.’ Milner lifted his knife and fork and sliced his venison effortlessly. ‘His world view is as foreign to us as that of the savages in loincloths who outnumber us – is it four to one?’ He stabbed at the meat with his fork. ‘There is a solution.’
‘And what is that?’ demanded the Colossus.
Milner licked his lips. ‘Make 'em speak English,’ he said softly. ‘I believe absolutely in the civilising powers of a civilised language.’ And swallowed his forkful, quick as a snake.
The Colossus had collapsed into a posture of exhaustion, one hand fiddling with a porcelain salt cellar, the other propping up his large and heavy head as if it might slump forward in sleep were it not so supported. When Milner had indicated that he had done with speaking by blotting his Bismarck-moustache with his table napkin, my host heaved himself into an upright posit
ion. The earlier exuberance had disappeared. His eyes were now bleary, his face crumpled and his hair ruffled (he looked, in fact, as if he had just that moment crawled unwillingly out of bed), but before our eyes he summoned a new, miraculous energy that eradicated the fatigue of his physical appearance.
‘To that, I have only one reply.’ His moon eyes blazed. The company fell utterly silent and laid down their golden cutlery. ‘I have made this reply many hundreds of times in my lifetime, ever since I was a mere boy in my teens, raw among the diamond diggings of what was then the hill of Colesburg Kopje.’ He paused, inhaled as deeply as his clogged lungs would allow, and continued. ‘Look around this table. What do we all have in common?’ The company dared not look. ‘Fine, Anglo-Saxon minds, that’s what we have in common. And none of us loafers! Here is my reply: I contend that we are the first race in the world, and that the more world we inhabit the better it is for the human race!’
‘Hear hear!’ chimed the entire table, thrillingly.
Our host turned his exhausted head towards Milner and addressed him directly. ‘Every acre added to our territory means the birth of more of the English race who otherwise would not be brought into existence.’ Out of the corner of my eye I could see Milner nodding. Now our host relaxed into a ruminative smile. ‘I remember, when I was that young Digger, living in filthy tents among the stampede of English … Dutch … German … American … Australian … fortune hunters – all of us digging, sifting, sorting from morning till night, day after day, month after month … Now and then I would walk out into the immense brown – completely flat – plain that surrounded our circle of tents, to get away from the noise and turmoil and drunkenness … And as I walked, I looked up at the sky and down at the earth and I said to myself: This should be British! And it came to me in that fine, exhilarating air that the British were the best race to rule the world!’
‘Hear hear!’ we chorused again.
His voice sank to a whisper as he fastened a startled Kipling with his bloodshot eyes:
‘Take up the white man’s burden …’
A look of anguish crossed Kipling’s face.
‘Yes, Mr Kipling, I have spent a considerable time this afternoon learning the first verse of your new poem, and with your permission I should like to repeat it to the good people at this table, all of whom are admirers of your poetry and your stories.’
Kipling blushed. The company fell to begging his permission.
‘Just one verse, dear!’ sang out his wife, leaning across the table and smiling. ‘It is so very appropriate.’
‘Well – I – I don’t know that …’
The Colossus beat his glass with his spoon again. He leaned forward, his hands spread out on the table, bearing his weight. He began to declaim in his falsetto voice, his gaze moving from one member of the company to the next after every few words, as if he were issuing us with our instructions:
‘Take up the White Mans burden –
Send forth the best ye breed –
Go, bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives’ need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild –
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half-devil and half-child.’
The company remained immobile in a silence of the kind that occurs after an extraordinary performance of a Beethoven piano sonata or a Bach cantata. Perhaps our hearts beat in unison. The Colossus continued to stare round the table at individuals, as if mesmerising them, one by one, into submission. Indeed, no one dared return to their plates, where the already unpalatable food was congealing with cold, until Jameson broke the spell by clapping his hands together and shouting ‘Hoorah!’ At which point everyone clapped, shouted, swallowed wine and tried to finish their food. The Colossus seemed to be trying to cajole Kipling into reciting the rest of the poem, but the little man dimpled under his mountainous moustache, and declined.
This seemed the moment to mention Miss Schreiner’s request to Milner who was staring at a particularly fine goblet, lost in thought. I had got as far as withdrawing her Appeal from my pocket and uttering the first words of a carefully structured sentence with no mention of blackmail: ‘I wonder if I could …’ when I realised that Milner was, in fact, preparing an impromptu speech in response to the verse we had just heard. He rose to his august feet and waited for the company’s full attention.
‘As we have just heard, our responsibilities for being “the best race in the world” are indeed onerous.’ He paused, and seemed to grow in height and shrink in breadth. ‘For there can be little doubt that the British race stands for something distinctive and priceless in the onward march of humanity.’ He looked around the table. ‘We are indeed tied together by the primordial bond of common blood. And if, as Mr Darwin tells us – or is it Herbert Spencer? – the struggle for existence leads to the survival of the fittest, then we may soon have to engage in a struggle that will select a race fit to govern the whole of Southern Africa. I can have little doubt as to the outcome of such a struggle.’ He sat down.
The high seriousness with which he spoke engulfed the table in sudden gloom. Everyone stared at Milner in awe – with one notable exception. Harris’s dark eyes, too, were fastened upon the High Comissioner, but they altogether lacked the almost frightened respect that flickered in the collective gaze. Throughout Milner’s speech – indeed, throughout Kipling’s poem – an expression of deep cynicism, even dislike, was etched upon Harris’s mobile features, but his voice was languid as he addressed the Colossus.
‘You know, it’s a strange thing. I can understand God in his youth falling in love with the Jews, an extremely attractive race.’ Harris was completely at ease. ‘But in his old age to fall in love with the Anglo-Saxon is proof of a senility that I find unforgivable!’
The ladies on either side of him tittered, while the rest of the table stirred with surprise. Our host cried out: ‘You say things, Harris, that hurt!’
‘I would like to shock this idolatry of the English!’ smiled Harris. ‘Fancy the race that loves commerce and wealth more than any other, yet refuses to adopt the metric system in weights and measures and coinage!’
‘The Masters of the World, Harris!’ yelled the Colossus.
‘Nonsense – the Americans are already far stronger and more reasonable,’ mocked the little man.
Now Milner spoke. ‘Are you suggesting that the Americans are further up the evolutionary tree than the British?’ He sounded genuinely astonished.
Harris looked at him with contempt. ‘Evolution has nothing to do with it. Xenophobia has everything to do with it.’
Milner smiled thinly. ‘You don’t believe in evolution?’
‘Not in the sense that you do.’
The Colossus had had enough of this exchange. To my inexpressible horror, he fixed me with an exuberant stare, invisible as I felt myself to be.
‘You believe in evolution, don’t you, Wills?’ he yelped. ‘Fish … birds … apes … man … the Anglo-Saxon race? Isn’t that how it goes?’
The whole company smiled at me with relief. It was clear that I was expected to lift the mood, to parry the thrust with academic elegance. I caught the bright encouraging eye of Mr Joubert, and coloured, anticipating my humiliation.
I cleared my throat of the anxious phlegm that had gathered.
‘It is true,’ I said in my strangled voice, ‘that the fish, the birds, the apes, man, have all so far struggled successfully, in terms of species survival. On the “Anglo-Saxon race”, as you put it, I cannot comment, as this group is not a species. As for the hierarchy you mention, not all species of each of those orders have been equally successful in adapting themselves to a changing environment. Those that still survive are the most highly evolved. No one species, let alone race, is better than another. It is therefore pure fallacy to identify evolution with the onward march of progress. Man is no better evolved than a bird or a fish, and there is no evolutionary difference between
a naked savage and the Queen of England.’
‘I couldn’t agree more!’ laughed Harris provocatively.
‘Oh come now, man!’ responded the Doctor. ‘I’m a man of science myself. And practising my science in the real world rather than the laboratory, I can call myself an empiricist, however unfashionable that term may be today in the upper echelons of scientific thought.’ He puffed himself out a little. ‘And I can tell you that I have met the full range of humanity, from that naked savage in loincloth to Her Majesty the Queen, God bless her! I’ve fought hand to hand with that savage, you see. I’ve stared at him eyeball to eyeball. Good God, man, I’ve even doctored him and cured his gout! Surely ye’ll not deny we’re the superior race, evolved over the millennia!’ A witty thought occurred to him, and he looked at me mischievously. ‘If what you say is true, we might as well prepare ourselves for a Kaffir to run this country, live in this house, sit at this table, drink out of this remarkable flask!’ And with a flourish he tipped his head back and swallowed the remains of his wine, while the company turned their lips down at this somewhat tasteless fantasy.
It so happened that Orpheus was removing my largely untouched plate as Jameson spoke. An involuntary muscle spasm flickered between his lips and his nostrils, and under his breath he uttered a line of tribal dialect which only my ears could hear.
I said, with all the calmness I could muster: ‘I think that is an event which is altogether possible.’
‘Half-devil and half-child, Wills!’ yelped our host. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t been in Africa long enough to understand the black man’s mind.’ He drank hurriedly from his silver beaker. ‘It all boils down to power in the end: the race that can rule and control other races, that is the best race, the fittest race! Natural selection, the best race wins; that’s what Darwin says: the race that can exploit natural raw materials can stimulate industry!’
