A Tale of Love, Alas: And Other Episodes

By David Lytton

Mr J, blind from birth, tells the story of his life and loves and peculiar friendships among the English colony at the Cape. His method is to imitate the random action of memory, choosing those episodes which reveal most clearly the strange elements of his society and his own eccentric response to them. He begins with a love affair that occupied a large part of his early manhood and distils from it a sad poetry of frustration. This calls to mind its opposite and he recounts his association with a rumbustious Coloured woman, epically large and loud, a reluctant abortionist, foster mother and, eventually, anarchist, dominating the slum in which she lives with her vivid personality.

Against the life of the slums, he contrasts his own privileged upbringing, an only child in the care of his widowed mother and proconsular aunts attempting to impose an Edwardian order on the crude contours of their country life. He discovers in a dramatic incident the deep antagonism existing between Afrikanerdom and the English and, with a handful of friends, lives in increasing isolation from and amazement at the policies of the State. Although they are able to laugh at the ludicrous aspects of apartheid (Emergency Mark IV), one by one they are forced to leave the country. Eventually Mr J takes the same step and tells what it costs him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781448205479

David Lytton

David Lytton was born, and spent his first twenty one years, in South Africa.He chose to leave at the fall of the Smuts government, but periodically returned to report on condition there for the BBC. His novels concern different aspects of the South African condition, covering all levels of social life in the country. This book is complementary to the author's The Paradise People, which presented aspects of the Afrikaner way of life, and completes his design of six works each dealing with a different strata in the strange geology of South African society. The style of each is adapted to the idiom and rhythms of the strata it is set in.

Book preview

A Tale Of Love, Alas

A tale of love to tell, alas, no less, hesitant as I am about it as about all things, prodding my way forward with gentle taps and raps and knocks, asking politely who, in fact, gets knocked. Mostly only myself, being I suppose ungainly, awkward in adapting to the immense immovability of the four-cornered world. If I do murmur in the constant dark through which I thread it is mainly self-pity or to recite the roll-call of the other blind, Tiresias, Homer, Thamyris, Maionides, Milton, companions of the ever-during night.

A tale of love, however, in another country, unable, of course, to be described beyond certain smells and sounds resonant of the season and the day’s weather, for the most part warm, Capricornian.

Hesitant particularly about the street which slopes at least one foot in four, being, so they tell me, part of the base-works of the mountain which dominates the city to the extent of three thousand arrogant, table-topped feet (can you imagine), a familiar and welcome landfall to sailors in the southern oceans.

Not, however, in any doubt about the smell of mimosa along that street or the corner where honeysuckle must be rank or the stretch where pines suffuse a dry balsam, nor about the two steps down when I come to the gate. It is iron, it is heavy, it thirsts for oil. I leave it open, for I am merely calling to collect. And then there are two steps up before I locate the bell-pull and lean some strength on it and even then I may have to repeat the action before the inert thing will tell of me, a sullen tang-tong deep in the interior where it hangs in the cobwebs, no doubt.

I stand in the portico absorbing the sour influence of Virginia creeper clamped to the plaster for its alkaline nourishment, so I am assured. It is always cool in this portico and the visitor is always kept waiting a sufficient duration for any rash temperatures to subside and all necessary adjustments of dress to be made. They are extremely particular here. They have charge over that precious commodity, reputation, and charge highly for it.

I remove my straw hat and wipe away all traces of haste and heat from my forehead and dab round my neck with the large silk handkerchief I favour in midsummer. I do not have a large forehead, alas, although it is curiously bossed above the eye-sockets, a sign, so they tell me, of second sight. Ah me.

Then you should hear that door, which has such a responsible duty over the inmates of that institution. I have, on occasion, imagined the tomb opening with such a sound and such a cool draught of musty air swirling to escape although one cannot imagine a use for quite so much polish in a tomb.

The woman is so confident in the virtues of her door she can be cheerful.

– Good morning, Mr J. Do step inside. She will be along in the briefest of moments. I shall inform her.

The woman is careful not to disturb too many echoes as she goes away across the stone floor and then on to resilient boards. I am certain the ceilings are high and, after a few moments accustoming my senses to polish, I am sure of roses in this hallway and will venture they are set in the brightest of brass vessels, and there are undoubtedly magazines on which the gloss still breathes warmly. Gently and rhythmically I tap with my stick on the stone, by which token she will know it is me and, when she receives this intimate signal, will respond with a particular rhythm of her stick so that, in a sense, we are independent of the woman who accompanies her on her steady progress down what is possibly an exceptionally long corridor I shall never myself traverse. It is not permitted.

– Here she is then, Mr J, and a picture, if I may say so. Shall I tell you what she is wearing, Mr J, besides this beautiful wide hat? Oh, it is so appropriate, my dear, and suits you so well and the ribbons, I can tell you, are just exactly right now, precisely the right length down the back. And shall I describe the rest of the ensemble? Or Miss Marshall might wish to do that herself, wouldn’t you, my dear?

– Yesterday I was too warm during our walk. Today possibly I may feel a trifle chilly should any clouds occur.

– I am sure there will be no clouds of any nature. It is the perfect dress. Shall I describe it, Mr J, that you may envisage what a perfection people will undoubtedly turn to stare at?

– I shall learn it, Miss Williams, in due course, no doubt.

– Perhaps not, after all.

And there is the difficult note of the coquette, although I have not kept her waiting a minute beyond our usual time, so I must affect indifference, for the moment.

– Then it will remain a mystery, my dear, which might be preferable. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Williams?

– Ah my dears, it is of no consequence on a day like this. I only wish I could afford the time myself to bask beside roses, if that is what you intend today.

– Need we say today, need we?

I am disinclined to surrender my plans to others.

– I am responsible, Mr J, after all, I must answer, for her at least. You would not deceive me, I know, but one never knows what may happen and I must answer and accept the ultimate responsibility.

– We might afterwards leave the rose-garden for the aviary.

– Well, that is quite usual, yes, and sufficiently public, nor are they far apart.…

– Although we may pause awhile at the tea-room.

– Admirable, Mr J. It is on the way between the rose-garden and aviary, certainly, although you will not spoil her appetite, I hope, with anything sticky or sweet.

– Mr J dislikes eating in public, Miss Williams, as I have, I believe, assured you, and I, most certainly, would never do such a thing.

– Then do have a lovely morning, my dears, and be good children and careful, won’t you, Mr J, especially careful. I must ultimately answer; it is my responsibility.

– Do not concern yourself, Miss Williams. We have so many obliging friends, we are only too well looked after.

At which point we used to shake hands, the starched woman and I, for reassurances, tokens of integrity. A dry, matronly hand, quilted, soft, with one loose ring presented or acquired under circumstances she would probably never divulge and possibly could not distinctly remember, alas. Then the door is wheeled-to behind us and we prod towards the two steps where I touch her bare arm to assist.

– You must not tease her, J. She tries.

– Oh, my dear, they all try. They try so hard. It is such a strain. But now, are we to run away today?

– As always, yes. To the Carpathians, I think, for a change. We shall have difficulties with snow and distantly hear the sounds of wolves.

– Fugitives from a cruel hospodar pursuing us with retainers and dogs. You were promised in marriage to him. You found him repulsive, drunk nightly on hot spiced wine.

– No doubt I could be entertained by such an extravagance if I was clear what a hospodar was.

– Formerly, a lord governor of a province of Wallachia and Moldavia. Men with huge appetites and swathed in furs, with peculiar tastes in winter entertainment, for I do not suppose, in those times, they could go out and do much hospodaring in winter.

– They would have in jugglers and acrobats and a minstrel.

– I doubt it.

– Sometimes, J, I suspect you of a certain coarseness, a certain perversity about people and their motives. People are good, J. I must always emphasise that to you.

– I am sure they will always be good to you, my dear, and that thought does frequently console me.

– For what, in heaven’s name? But surely, J, horses have passed this way?

We would pause and take stock and I would still keep my arm through hers, our fingers not clasped, as I might have wished, but occasionally in contact.

– Yes, it is possible. To the higher slopes. They will gallop eventually along the broad contour paths.

– Wouldn’t that be dangerous? There are stones, I am told, and the boulders of the frequent landslips after rain. Decidedly dangerous, don’t you think?

– I do, and think also that is why they will gallop.

– I could not be sympathetic to such foolhardiness. I once stroked the muzzle of a horse or a pony. It fluttered its lips.

– These things occur in the country.

Having established the past presence of horses, we could resume, she tapping to the left, I to the right, although there was hardly need at that time of the morning and in that street which, as someone mentioned to us, we could walk along blindfolded. She did squeeze my hand then. We laughed a great deal later.

– Oh, if we could really run away, J, into an entirely blind wilderness.

– We should feel very much more accommodated.

– Blind tigers and elephants and horses.

– They are nearly so, I am told reliably, elephants.

– Moles are.

– Bats, certainly.

– We are not unique, J.

– That would be the worst affliction, my dear.

And then, always, ten steps past the honeysuckle.

– Here is where we should be able to see the sea beyond the city.

– It must be immensely cheering, my dear.

– It is hardly important though, if you are going to sulk about it.

– I only say it must be cheering to those who bother to look and register the fact of a sea existing with all its possibilities of adventure. And escape. The variety of countries and customs one might discover by simply setting forth.

Here she might just squeeze my hand again with a comforting pressure and say,

– Dear J, dear J, sometimes you are so extraordinarily restless, as if you no longer wished to accept our perfectly ordinary limitations.

And she would lean that slight degree towards me, turning her head so that I was conscious of sweet warm breath and a weight I could quite easily bear or be borne by, such was the momentary turmoil of my pulse.

Whether consciously or not, however, it would be so timed to coincide with the interruption of Mr L (one must respect the living, I think) and his boisterous enthusiasms.

– Good morning, good morning (Mr L would bugle), isn’t it a loverlee mor-ning, and I’m on the dot, on the dot, as always, although there was a chance I might be late this morning and do you know what I did?

– Nothing excessive, Mr L, I hope.

– Monstrous, and for your sakes, my dears. Monstrous. I rang off!

– In the middle?

– Before the middle, as I guess, knowing a windbag when I hear it puffing. Rang off!

Mr L’s life was full of triumphs.

– It is too generous of you, Mr L.

Either or both of us would express some such sentiment and continue, because of the circumstances,

– We put you to too much trouble.

– Nonsense, my dears, I shall never fail you.

– Is that then possible?

I frequently wished he would. Any irregularity counted, with me, as an achievement. But Mr L could be confident, always, of order.

– There will be a succession, I assure you. Mr L is dead, long live Mr M. I would personally arrange for that. What a gorgeous dress, my dear. It makes a man dream quite impossibly. I shall certainly never fail you, my dear.

This particularity was a torment, as can be imagined, and needed to be nipped.

– Of course eventually (I said with no note of distress, I hope), eventually they might build a pedestrian’s bridge at this point.

For Mr L had made himself indispensable, as he thought, by always being on hand to ferry us over the wide road junction.

– Unlikely. A bridge? Very unlikely. Besides, the double deckers.

– Of course (she would be angry with me afterwards), and trolleys with their overhead wires. J, you are not being practical.

– There may even have to be triple deckers, the way things are going (Mr L added in the smoothest of spirits).

– It does sound slightly extreme, Mr L.

– It’s an extreme world, my dear, and the reasons for triple deckers are proliferating every minute of the day, in India alone, not to speak of China. Something will have to be done.

– Or not done, Mr L (my biting tone).

If I was to be accused of impracticality it was time to refer to certain fundamentals. Mr L was prompt and fulsome, though.

– It is open to invention, open to invention. A good man leaveth inheritance to his children’s children. Shall we join hands now?

– By all means. J, how argumentative you are this morning, as if you had left all your gratitude at home.

And so we would cross the junction in the care of Mr L who would command the angry traffic. And Mr L’s reward, or perhaps his reason, for the daily samaritanism, was to take her hand or arm. It is possible that he made much of that contact after leaving us to impress his optimism and geniality on others. It is possible that contact vivified his fantasy during the rest of his day and sustained him through the nights when the memory of it was to be renewed in the morning, if the weather permitted. It is possible Mr L made some sort of prayer for fine weather. I do not, of course, say that with the least degree of bitterness. It is simply speculation about another human being. Occasion for bitterness has long since passed.

Mr L, I must say, generally transferred some of his elation to us before he released us to our separate way. We were always glad because of Mr L and because we had so safely passed through the hazards of the traffic. Then we would enter the Avenue, gravel and oaks, that led down to the city past gardens and a museum and the Art Gallery, but principally