I buttoned up my jacket because of the night wind that came whistling through the thorn-trees (Oom Schalk Lourens said); my fingers on the reins were stiff with the cold.
There were four of us in the mule-cart, driving along the Government Road on our way back from the dance at Withaak. I sat in front with Dirk Prinsloo, a young school-teacher. In the back were Petrus Lemmer and his sister’s step-daughter, Annie.
Petrus Lemmer was an elder in the Dutch Reformed Church. He told us that he was very strongly opposed to parties, because people got drunk at parties, and all sorts of improper things happened. He had only gone to the dance at Withaak, he said, because of Annie. He explained that he had to be present to make quite sure that nothing unseemly took place at a dance that his sister’s step-daughter went to.
We all thought that it was very fine of Petrus Lemmer to sacrifice his own comfort in that way. And we were very glad when he said that this was one of the most respectable dances he had ever attended.
He said that at two o’clock in the morning. But before that he had said a few other things of so unusual a character that all the women walked out. And they only came back a little later on, after a number of young men had helped Petrus Lemmer out through the front door. One of the young men was Dirk Prinsloo, the school-teacher, and I noticed that there was quite a lot of peach brandy on his clothes. The peach brandy had come out of a big glass that Petrus Lemmer had in his hand, and when he went out of the door he was still saying how glad he was that this was not an improper party, like others he had seen.
Shortly afterwards Petrus Lemmer fell into the dam, backwards. And when they pulled him out he was still holding on to the big glass, very tightly. But when he put the glass to his mouth he said that what was in it tasted to him a lot like water. He threw the glass away, then.
So it came about that, in the early hours of the morning, there were four of us driving along the road back from Withaak. Petrus Lemmer had wanted to stay longer at the dance, after they had pulled him out of the dam and given him a dry pair of trousers and a shirt. But they said, no, it wasn’t right that he should go on sacrificing himself like that. Petrus Lemmer said that was nothing. He was willing to sacrifice himself a lot more. He said he would go on sacrificing himself until the morning, if necessary, to make quite sure that nothing disgraceful took place at the dance. But the people said there was no need for him to stay any longer. Nothing more disgraceful could happen than what had already happened, they said.
At first, Petrus Lemmer seemed pleased at what they said. But afterwards he grew a bit more thoughtful. He still appeared to be thinking about it when a number of young men, including Dirk Prinsloo, helped him on to my mule-cart, heavily. His sister’s step-daughter, Annie, got into the back seat beside him. Dirk Prinsloo came and sat next to me.
It was a cold night, and the road through the bush was very long. The house where Dirk Prinsloo boarded was the first that we would come to. It was a long way ahead. Then came Petrus Lemmer’s farm, several miles further on. I had the longest distance to go of us all.
In between shivering, Petrus Lemmer said how pleased he was that nobody at the dance had used really bad language.
“Nobody except you, Uncle,” Annie said then.
Petrus Lemmer explained that anybody was entitled to forget himself a little, after having been thrown into the dam, like he was.
“You weren’t thrown, Uncle,” Annie said. “You fell in.”
“Thrown,” Petrus persisted.
“Fell,” Annie repeated firmly.
Petrus said that she could have it her way, if she liked. It was no use arguing with a woman, he explained. Women couldn’t understand reason, anyway. But what he maintained strongly was that, if you were wet right through, and standing in the cold, you might perhaps say a few things that you wouldn’t say ordinarily.
“But even before you fell in the dam, Uncle,” Annie went on, “you used bad language. The time all the women walked out. It was awful language. And you said it just for nothing, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Uncle. And you an elder in the Reformed Church.”
But Petrus Lemmer said that was different. He said that if he hadn’t been at the dance he would like to know what would have happened. That was all he wanted to know. Young girls of today had no sense of gratitude. It was only for Annie’s sake that he had come to the dance in the first place. And then they went and threw him into the water.
The moon was big and full above the Dwarsberge; and the wind grew colder; and the stars shone dimly through the thorn-trees that overhung the road.
Then Petrus Lemmer started telling us about other dances he had attended in the Bushveld, long ago. He was a young man, then, he said. And whenever he went to a dance there was a certain amount of trouble. “Just like tonight,” he said. He went to lots of dances, and it was always the same thing. They were the scandal of the Marico, those dances he went to. And he said it was no use his exercising his influence, either; people just wouldn’t listen to him.
“Influence,” Annie said, and I could hear her laughter above the rattling of the mule-cart.
“But there was one dance I went to,” Petrus Lemmer continued, “on a farm near Abjaterskop. That was very different. It was a quiet sort of dance. And it was different in every way.”
Annie said that perhaps it was different because they didn’t have a dam on that farm. But Petrus Lemmer replied, in a cold kind of voice, that he didn’t know what Annie was hinting at, and that, anyway, she was old enough to have more sense.
“It was mainly because of Grieta,” Petrus Lemmer said, “that I went to that dance at Abjaterskop. And I believed that it was because she hoped to see me there that Grieta went.”
Annie said something about this, also. I couldn’t hear what it was. But this time Petrus Lemmer ignored her.
“There were not very many people at this dance,” he went on. “A large number who had been invited stayed away.”
“It seems that other people besides Grieta knew you were going to that dance, Uncle,” Annie remarked then.
“It was because of the cold,” Petrus Lemmer said shortly. “It was a cold night, just like it is tonight. I wore a new shirt with stripes and I rubbed sheep-fat on my veldskoens, to make them shine. At first I thought it was rather foolish, my taking all this trouble over my appearance, for the sake of a girl whom I had seen only a couple of times. But when I got to the farmhouse at Abjaterskop, where the dance was, and I saw Grieta in the voorkamer, I no longer thought it was foolish of me to get all dressed up like that.”
Petrus Lemmer fell silent for a few moments, as though waiting for one of us to say what an interesting story it was, and would he tell us what happened next. But none of us said anything. So Petrus just coughed and went on with his story without being asked. That was the sort of man Petrus Lemmer was.
“I saw Grieta in the voorkamer,” Petrus Lemmer repeated, “and she had on a pink frock. She was very pretty. Even now, after all these years, when I look back on it, I can still picture to myself how pretty she was. For a long time I stood at the far end of the room and just watched her. Another young man was wasting her time, talking to her. Afterwards he wasted still more of her time by dancing with her. If it wasn’t that I knew that I was the only one in that voorkamer that Grieta cared for, I would have got jealous of the way in which that young fellow carried on. And he kept getting more and more foolish. But afterwards I got tired of standing up against that wall and watching Grieta from a distance. So I sat down on a chair, next to the two men with the guitar and the concertina. For some time I sat and watched Grieta from the chair. By then that fellow was actually wasting her time to the extent of tickling her under the chin with a piece of grass.”
Petrus Lemmer stopped talking again, and we listened to the bumping of the mule-cart and the wind in the thorn-trees. The moon was large and full above the Dwarsberge.
“But how did you know that this girl liked you, Oom Petrus?” Dirk Prinsloo asked. It seemed as though the young school-teacher was getting interested in the story.
“Oh, I just knew,” Petrus Lemmer replied. “She never said anything to me about it, but with these things you can always tell.”
“Yes, I expect you can,” Annie said softly, in a faraway sort of voice. And she asked Petrus Lemmer to tell us what happened next.
“It was just like I said it was,” Petrus Lemmer continued. “And shortly afterwards Grieta left that foolish young man, with his piece of grass and all, and came past the chair where I was sitting, next to the musicians. She walked past me quickly, and what she said wasn’t much above a whisper. But I heard all right. And I didn’t even bother to look up and see whether that other fellow had observed anything. I felt so superior to him, at that moment.”
Once again Petrus Lemmer paused. But it was obvious that Annie wanted him to get to the end of the story quickly.
“Then did you go and meet Grieta, Oom Petrus?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Petrus answered. “I was there at the time she said.”
“By the third withaak?” Annie asked again. “Under the moon?”
“By the third withaak,” Petrus Lemmer replied. “Under the moon.”
I wondered how Annie knew all that. In some ways there seemed little that a woman didn’t know.
“There’s not much more to tell,” Petrus Lemmer said. “And I could never understand how it happened, either. It was just that, when I met Grieta there, under the thorn-tree, it suddenly seemed that there was nothing I wanted to say to her. And I could see that she felt the same way about it. She seemed just an ordinary woman, like lots of other women. And I felt rather foolish, standing there beside her, wearing a new striped shirt, and with sheep-fat on my veldskoens. And I knew just how she felt, also. At first I tried to pretend to myself that it was the fault of the moon. Then I blamed that fellow with the piece of grass. But I knew all the time that it was nobody’s fault. It just happened like that.
“As I have said,” Petrus Lemmer concluded sombrely, “I don’t know how it came about. And I don’t think Grieta knew, either. We stood there wondering – each of us – what it was that had been, a little while before, so attractive about the other. But whatever it was, it had gone. And we both knew that it had gone for good. Then I said that it was getting cold. And Grieta said that perhaps we had better go inside. So we went back to the voorkamer. It seemed an awfully quiet party, and I didn’t stay much longer. And I remember how, on my way home, I looked at the moon under which Grieta and I had stood by the thorn-tree. I watched the moon until it went down behind the Dwarsberge.”
Petrus Lemmer finished his story, and none of us spoke.
Some distance further on we arrived at the place where Dirk Prinsloo stayed. Dirk got off the mule-cart and said good night. Then he turned to Annie.
“It’s funny,” he said, “this story of your uncle’s. It’s queer how things like that happen.”
“He’s not my uncle,” Annie replied. “He’s only my stepmother’s brother. And I never listen to his stories, anyway.”
So we drove on again, the three of us, down the road, through the thorn-trees, with the night wind blowing into our faces. And a little later, when the moon was going down behind the Dwarsberge, it sounded to me as though Annie was crying.