It is not a week ago since a lady of my acquaintance, being surprised at her little dog’s refusal to follow her into her bedroom one night, instituted a search for the reason of the poor little creature’s terror and dismay, and discovered a snake coiled up under her chest of drawers. At this moment, too, the local papers are full of recipes for the prevention and cure of snake-bites, public attention being much attracted to the subject on account of an Englishman having been bitten by a black “mamba” (a very venomous adder) a short time since, and having died of the wound in a few hours. In his case, poor man! there does not seem to have been a chance from the first, for he was obliged to walk some distance to the nearest house, and as they had no proper remedies there, he had to be taken on a farther journey of some miles to a hospital. All this exercise and motion caused the poison to circulate freely through the veins11, and was the worst possible thing for him. The doctors here seem agreed that the treatment of ammonia and brandy is the safest, and many instances are adduced to show how successful it has been, though one party of practitioners12 admits the ammonia, but denies the brandy. On the other hand, one hears of a child bitten by a snake and swallowing half a large bottle of raw brandy in half an hour without its head being at all affected13, and, what is more, recovering from the bite and living happy ever after. I keep quantities of both remedies close at hand, for three or four venomous snakes have been killed within a dozen yards of the house, and little G—— is perpetually exploring the long grass all around or hunting for a stray cricket-ball or a pegtop in one of those beautiful fern-filled ditches whose tangle14 of creepers and plumy ferns is exactly the favorite haunt of snakes. As yet he has brought back from these forbidden raids nothing more than a few ticks and millions of burs.
As for the ticks, I am getting over my horror at having to dislodge them from among the baby’s soft curls by means of a sharp needle, and even G—— only shouts with laughter at discovering a great swollen15 monster hanging on by its forceps to his leg. They torment16 the poor horses and dogs dreadfully; and if the said horses were not the very quietest, meekest19, most underbred and depressed20 animals in the world, we should certainly hear of more accidents. As it is, they confine their efforts to get rid of their tormentors to rubbing all the hair off their tails and sides in patches against the stable walls or the trunk of a tree. Indeed, the clever way G—— ’s miserable21 little Basuto pony22 actually climbs inside a good-sized bush, and sways himself about in it with his legs off the ground until the whole thing comes with a crash to the ground, is edifying23 to behold24 to every one except the owner of the tree. Tom, the Kafir boy, tried hard to persuade me the other day that the pony was to blame for the destruction of a peach tree, but as the only broken-down branches were those which had been laden25 with fruit, I am inclined to acquit26 the pony. Carbolic soap is an excellent thing to wash both dogs and horses with, as it not only keeps away flies and ticks from the skin, which is constantly rubbed off by incessant27 scratching, but helps to heal the tendency to a sore place. Indeed, nothing frightened me so much as what I heard when I first arrived about Natal28 sores and Natal boils. Everybody told me that ever so slight a cut or abrasion29 went on slowly festering, and that sores on children’s faces were quite common. This sounded very dreadful, but I am beginning to hope it was an exaggeration, for whenever G—— cuts or knocks himself (which is every day or so), or scratches an insect’s bite into a bad place, I wash the part with a little carbolic soap (there are two sorts—one for animals and a more refined preparation for the human skin), and it is quite well the next day. We have all had a threatening of those horrid30 boils, but they have passed off.
In town the mosquitoes are plentiful31 and lively, devoting their attentions chiefly to new-comers, but up here—I write as though we were five thousand feet instead of only fifty above Maritzburg—it is rare to see one. I think “fillies” are more in our line, and that in spite of every floor in the house being scrubbed daily with strong soda32 and water. “Fillies,” you must know, is our black groom’s (Charlie’s) way of pronouncing fleas33, and I find it ever so much prettier. Charlie and I are having a daily discussion just now touching34 sundry35 moneys he expended36 during my week’s absence at D’Urban for the kittens’ food. Charlie calls them the “lil’ catties,” and declares that the two small animals consumed three shillings and ninepence worth of meat in a week I laughingly say, “But, Charlie, that would be nearly nine pounds of meat in six days, and they couldn’t eat that, you know.” Charlie grins and shows all his beautiful even white teeth: then he bashfully turns his head aside and says, “I doan know, ma’: I buy six’ meat dree time.” “Very well, Charlie, that would be one shilling and sixpence.” “I doan know, ma’;” and we’ve not got any further than that yet.
But G—— and I are picking up many words of Kafir, and it is quite mortifying37 to see how much more easily the little monkey learns than I do. I forget my phrases or confuse them, whereas when he learns two or three sentences he appears to remember them always. It is a very melodious38 and beautiful language, and, except for the clicks, not very difficult to learn. Almost everybody here speaks it a little, and it is the first thing necessary for a new-comer to endeavor to acquire; only, unfortunately, there are no teachers, as in India, and consequently you pick up a wretched, debased kind of patois39, interlarded with Dutch phrases. Indeed, I am assured there are two words, el hashi (“the horse”), of unmistakable Moorish40 origin, though no one knows how they got into the language. Many of the Kafirs about town speak a little English, and they are exceedingly sharp, when they choose, about understanding what is meant, even if they do not quite catch the meaning of the words used. There is one genius of my acquaintance, called “Sixpence,” who is not only a capital cook, but an accomplished41 English scholar, having spent some months in England. Generally, to Cape42 Town and back is the extent of their journeyings, for they are a home-loving people; but Sixpence went to England with his master, and brought back a shivering recollection of an English winter and a deep-rooted amazement43 at the boys of the Shoe Brigade, who wanted to clean his boots. That astonished him more than anything else, he says.
The Kafirs are very fond of attending their own schools and church services, of which there are several in the town; and I find one of my greatest difficulties in living out here consists in getting Kafirs to come out of town, for by doing so they miss their regular attendance at chapel44 and school. A few Sundays ago I went to one of these Kafir schools, and was much struck by the intently-absorbed air of the pupils, almost all of whom were youths about twenty years of age. They were learning to read the Bible in Kafir during my visit, sitting in couples, and helping45 each other on with immense diligence and earnestness. No looking about, no wandering, inattentive glances, did I see. I might as well have “had the receipt of fern-seed and walked invisible” for all the attention I excited. Presently the pupil-teacher, a young black man, who had charge of this class, asked me if I would like to hear them sing a hymn46, and on my assenting47 he read out a verse of “Hold the Fort,” and they all stood up and sang it, or rather its Kafir translation, lustily and with good courage, though without much tune48. The chorus was especially fine, the words “Inkanye kanye” ringing through the room with great fervor49. This is not a literal translation of the words “Hold the Fort,” but it is difficult, as the teacher explained to me, for the translator to avail himself of the usual word for “hold,” as it conveys more the idea of “take hold,” “seize,” and the young Kafir missionary50 thoroughly51 understood all the nicety of the idiom. There was another class for women and children, but it was a small one. Certainly, the young men seemed much in earnest, and the rapt expression of their faces was most striking, especially during the short prayer which followed the hymn and ended the school for the afternoon.
I have had constantly impressed upon my mind since my arrival the advice not to take Christian52 Kafirs into my service, but I am at a loss to know in what way the prejudice against them can have arisen. “Take a Kafir green from his kraal if you wish to have a good servant,” is what every one tells me. It so happens that we have two of each—two Christians53 and two heathens—about the place, and there is no doubt whatever which is the best. Indeed, I have sometimes conversations with the one who speaks English, and I can assure you we might all learn from him with advantage. His simple creed54 is just what came from the Saviour’s lips two thousand years ago, and comprises His teaching of the whole duty of man—to love God, the great “En’ Kos,” and his neighbor as himself. He speaks always with real delight of his privileges, and is very anxious to go to Cape Town to attend some school there of which he talks a great deal, and where he says he should learn to read the Bible in English. At present he is spelling it out with great difficulty in Kafir. This man often talks to me in the most respectful and civil manner imaginable about the customs of his tribe, and he constantly alludes55 to the narrow escape he had of being murdered directly after his birth for the crime of being a twin. His people have a fixed56 belief that unless one of a pair of babies be killed at once, either the father or mother will die within the year; and they argue that as in any case one child will be sure to die in its infancy57, twins being proverbially difficult to rear, it is only both kind and natural to kill the weakly one at once. This young man is very small and quiet and gentle, with an ugly face, but a sweet, intelligent expression and a very nice manner. I find him and the other Christian in our employment very trustworthy and reliable. If they tell me anything which has occurred, I know I can believe their version of it, and they are absolutely honest. Now, the other lads have very loose ideas on the subject of sugar, and make shifty excuses for everything, from the cat breaking a heavy stone filter up to half the marketing58 being dropped on the road.
I don’t think I have made it sufficiently59 clear that besides the Sunday-schools and services I have mentioned there are night-schools every evening in the week, which are fully18 attended by Kafir servants, and where they are first taught to read their own language, which is an enormous difficulty to them. They always tell me it is so much easier to learn to read English than Kafir; and if one studies the two languages, it is plain to see how much simpler the new tongue must appear to a learner than the intricate construction, the varying patois and the necessarily phonetic60 spelling of a language compounded of so many dialects as the Zulu-Kafir.
February 12.
In some respects I consider this climate has been rather over-praised. Of course it is a great deal—a very great deal—better than our English one, but that, after all, is not saying much in its praise. Then we must remember that in England we have the fear and dread17 of the climate ever before our eyes, and consequently are always, so to speak, on our guard against it. Here, and in other places where civilization is in its infancy, we are at the mercy of dust and sun, wind and rain, and all the eccentric elements which go to make up weather. Consequently, when the balance of comfort and convenience has to be struck, it is surprising how small an advantage a really better climate gives when you take away watering-carts and shady streets for hot weather, and sheltered railway-stations and hansom cabs for wet weather, and roads and servants and civility and general convenience everywhere. This particular climate is both depressing and trying in spite of the sunny skies we are ever boasting about, because it has a strong tinge61 of the tropical element in it; and yet people live in much the same kind of houses (only that they are very small), and wear much the same sort of clothes (only that they are very ugly), and lead much the same sort of lives (only that it is a thousand times duller than the dullest country village), as they do in England. Some small concession62 is made to the thermometer in the matter of puggeries and matted floors, but even then carpets are used wherever it is practicable, because this matting never looks clean and nice after the first week it is put down. All the houses are built on the ground floor, with the utmost economy of building material and labor63, and consequently there are no passages: every room is, in fact, a passage and leads to its neighbor. So the perpetually dirty bare feet, or, still worse, boots fresh from the mud or dust of the streets, soon wear out the matting. Few houses are at all prettily64 decorated or furnished, partly from the difficulty of procuring65 anything pretty here, the cost and risk of its carriage up from D’Urban if you send to England for it, and partly from the want of servants accustomed to anything but the roughest and coarsest articles of household use. A lady soon begins to take her drawing-room ornaments66 en guignon if she has to dust them herself every day in a very dusty climate. I speak feelingly and with authority, for that is my case at this moment, and applies to every other part of the house as well.
I must say I like Kafir servants in some respects. They require, I acknowledge, constant supervision67; they require to be told to do the same thing over and over again every day; and, what is more, besides telling, you have to stand by and see that they do the thing. They are also very slow. But still, with all these disadvantages, they are far better than the generality of European servants out here, who make their luckless employers’ lives a burden to them by reason of their tempers and caprices. It is much better, I am convinced, to face the evil boldly and to make up one’s mind to have none but Kafir servants. Of course one immediately turns into a sort of overseer and upper servant one’s self; but at all events you feel master or mistress of your own house, and you have faithful and good-tempered domestics, who do their best, however awkwardly, to please you. Where there are children, then indeed a good English nurse is a great boon69; and in this one respect I am fortunate. Kafirs are also much easier to manage when the orders come direct from the master or mistress, and they work far more willingly for them than for white servants. Tom, the nurse-boy, confided71 to me yesterday that he hoped to stop in my employment for forty moons. After that space of time he considered that he should be in a position to buy plenty of wives, who would work for him and support him for the rest of his life. But how Tom or Jack72, or any of the boys in fact, are to save money I know not, for every shilling of their wages, except a small margin73 for coarse snuff, goes to their parents, who fleece them without mercy. If they are fined for breakages or misconduct (the only punishment a Kafir cares for), they have to account for the deficient74 money to the stern parents; and both Tom and Jack went through a most graphic75 pantomime with a stick of the consequences to themselves, adding that their father said both the beating from him and the fine from us served them right for their carelessness. It seemed so hard they should suffer both ways, and they were so good-tempered and uncomplaining about it, that I fear I shall find it very difficult to stop any threepenny pieces out of their wages in future. A Kafir servant usually gets one pound a month, his clothes and food. The former consists of a shirt and short trousers of coarse check cotton, a soldier’s old great-coat for winter, and plenty of mealy-meal for “scoff.” If he is a good servant and worth making comfortable, you give him a trifle every week to buy meat. Kafirs are very fond of going to their kraals, and you have to make them sign an agreement to remain with you so many months, generally six. By the time you have just taught them, with infinite pains and trouble, how to do their work, they depart, and you have to begin it all over again.
I frequently see the chiefs or indunas of chiefs passing here on their way to some kraals which lie just over the hills. These kraals consist of half a dozen or more large huts, exactly like so many huge beehives, on the slope of a hill. There is a rude attempt at sod-fencing round them; a few head of cattle graze in the neighborhood; lower down, the hillside is roughly scratched by the women with crooked76 hoes to form a mealy-ground. (Cows and mealies are all they require except snuff or tobacco, which they smoke out of a cow’s horn.) They seem a very gay and cheerful people, to judge by the laughter and jests I hear from the groups returning to these kraals every day by the road just outside our fence. Sometimes one of the party carries an umbrella; and I assure you the effect of a tall, stalwart Kafir, clad either in nothing at all or else in a sack, carefully guarding his bare head with a tattered77 Gamp, is very ridiculous. Often some one walks along playing upon a rude pipe, whilst the others jog before and after him, laughing and capering78 like boys let loose from school, and all chattering79 loudly. You never meet a man carrying a burden unless he is a white settler’s servant. When a chief or the induna of a kraal passes this way, I see him, clad in a motley garb80 of red regimentals with his bare “ringed” head, riding a sorry nag70, only the point of his great toe resting in his stirrup. He is followed closely and with great empressement by his “tail,” all “ringed” men also—that is, men of some substance and weight in the community. They carry bundles of sticks, and keep up with the ambling81 nag, and are closely followed by some of his wives bearing heavy loads on their heads, but stepping out bravely with beautiful erect82 carriage, shapely bare arms and legs, and some sort of coarse drapery worn across their bodies, covering them from shoulder to knee in folds which would delight an artist’s eye and be the despair of a sculptor’s chisel83. They don’t look either oppressed or discontented. Happy, healthy and jolly are the words by which they would be most truthfully described. Still, they are lazy, and slow to appreciate any benefit from civilization except the money, but then savages84 always seem to me as keen and sordid85 about money as the most civilized86 mercantile community anywhere.
February 14.
I am often asked by people who are thinking of coming here, or who want to send presents to friends here, what to bring or send. Of course it is difficult to say, because my experience is limited and confined to one spot at present: therefore I give my opinion very guardedly, and acknowledge it is derived87 in great part from the experience of others who have been here a long time. Amongst other wraps, I brought a sealskin jacket and muff which I happened to have. These, I am assured, will be absolutely useless, and already they are a great anxiety to me on account of the swarms88 of fish-tail moths which I see scuttling89 about in every direction if I move a box or look behind a picture. In fact, there are destructive moths everywhere, and every drawer is redolent of camphor. The only things I can venture to recommend as necessaries are things which no one advised me to bring, and which were only random90 shots. One was a light waterproof91 ulster, and the other was a lot of those outside blinds for windows which come, I believe, from Japan, and are made of grass—green, painted with gay figures. I picked up these latter by the merest accident at the Baker-street bazaar93 for a few shillings: they are the comfort of my life, keeping out glare and dust in the day and moths and insects of all kinds at night. As for the waterproof, I do not know what I should have done without it; and little G—— ’s has also been most useful. It is the necessary of necessaries here—a real, good substantial waterproof. A man cannot do better than get a regular military waterproof which will cover him from chin to heel on horseback; and even waterproof hats and caps are a comfort in this treacherous94 summer season, where a storm bursts over your head out of a blue dome68 of sky, and drenches95 you even whilst the sun is shining brightly.
A worse climate and country for clothes of every kind and description cannot be imagined. When I first arrived I thought I had never seen such ugly toilettes in all my life; and I should have been less than woman (or more—which is it?) if I had not derived some secret satisfaction from the possession of at least prettier garments. What I was vain of in my secret heart was my store of cotton gowns. One can’t very well wear cotton gowns in London; and, as I am particularly fond of them, I indemnify myself for going abroad by rushing wildly into extensive purchases in cambrics and print dresses. They are so pretty and so cheap, and when charmingly made, as mine were (alas, they are already things of the past!), nothing can be so satisfactory in the way of summer country garb. Well, it has been precisely96 in the matter of cotton gowns that I have been punished for my vanity. For a day or two each gown in turn looked charming. Then came a flounce or bordering of bright red earth on the lower skirt and a general impression of red dust and dirt all over it. That was after a drive into Maritzburg along a road ploughed up by ox-wagons. Still, I felt no uneasiness. What is a cotton gown made for if not to be washed? Away it goes to the wash! What is this limp, discolored rag which returns to me iron-moulded, blued until it is nearly black, rough-dried, starched98 in patches, with the fringe of red earth only more firmly fixed than before? Behold my favorite ivory cotton! My white gowns are even in a worse plight99, for there are no two yards of them the same, and the grotesque100 mixture of extreme yellowness, extreme blueness and a pervading101 tinge of the red mud they have been washed in renders them a piteous example of misplaced confidence. Other things fare rather better—not much—but my poor gowns are only hopeless wrecks102, and I am reduced to some old yachting dresses of ticking and serge. The price of washing, as this spoiling process is pleasantly called, is enormous, and I exhaust my faculties103 in devising more economical arrangements. We can’t wash at home, for the simple reason that we have no water, no proper appliances of any sort, and to build and buy such would cost a small fortune. But a tall, white-aproned Kafir, with a badge upon his arm, comes now at daylight every Monday morning and takes away a huge sackful of linen104, which is placed, with sundry pieces of soap and blue in its mouth, all ready for him. He brings it back in the afternoon full of clean and dry linen, for which he receives three shillings and sixpence. But this is only the first stage. The things to be starched have to be sorted and sent to one woman, and those to be mangled105 to another, and both lots have to be fetched home again by Tom and Jack. (I have forgotten to tell you that Jack’s real name, elicited106 with great difficulty, as there is a click somewhere in it, is “Umpashongwana,” whilst the pickle107 Tom is known among his own people as “Umkabangwana.” You will admit that our substitutes for these five-syllabled appellations108 are easier to pronounce in a hurry. Jack is a favorite name: I know half a dozen black Jacks109 myself.) To return, however, to the washing. I spend my time in this uncertain weather watching the clouds on the days when the clothes are to come home, for it would be altogether too great a trial if one’s starched garments, borne aloft on Jack’s head, were to be caught in a thunder-shower. If the washerwoman takes pains with anything, it is with gentlemen’s shirts, though even then she insists on ironing the collars into strange and fearful shapes.
Let not men think, however, that they have it all their own way in the matter of clothes. White jackets and trousers are commonly worn here in summer, and it is very soothing110, I am told, to try to put them on in a hurry when the arms and legs are firmly glued together by several pounds of starch97. Then as to boots and shoes: they get so mildewed111 if laid aside for even a few days as to be absolutely offensive; and these, with hats, wear out at the most astonishing rate. The sun and dust and rain finish up the hats in less than no time.
But I have not done with my clothes yet. A lady must keep a warm dress and jacket close at hand all through the most broiling112 summer weather, for a couple of hours will bring the thermometer down ten or twenty degrees, and I have often been gasping113 in a white dressing-gown at noon and shivering in a serge dress at three o’clock on the same day. I am making up my mind that serge and ticking are likely to be the most useful material for dresses, and, as one must have something very cool for these burning months, tussore or foulard, which get themselves better washed than my poor dear cottons. Silks are next to useless—too smart, too hot, too entirely114 out of place in such a life as this, except perhaps one or two of tried principles, which won’t spot or fade or misbehave themselves in any way. One goes out of a warm, dry afternoon with a tulle veil on to keep off the flies, or a feather in one’s hat, and returns with the one a limp, wet rag and the other quite out of curl. I only wish any milliner could see my feathers now! All straight, rigidly115 straight as a carpenter’s rule, and tinged116 with red dust besides. As for tulle or crêpe-lisse frilling, or any of those soft pretty adjuncts to a simple toilette, they are five minutes’ wear—no more, I solemnly declare.
I love telling a story against myself, and here is one. In spite of repeated experiences of the injurious effect of alternate damp and dust upon finery, the old Eve is occasionally too strong for my prudence117, and I can’t resist, on the rare occasions which offer themselves, the temptation of wearing pretty things. Especially weak am I in the matter of caps, and this is what befell me. Imagine a lovely, soft summer evening, broad daylight, though it is half-past seven (it will be dark directly, however): a dinner-party to be reached a couple of miles away. The little open carriage is at the door, and into this I step, swathing my gown carefully up in a huge shawl. This precaution is especially necessary, for during the afternoon there has been a terrific thunderstorm and a sudden sharp deluge118 of rain. Besides a swamp or two to be ploughed through as best we may, there are those two miles of deep red muddy road full of ruts and big stones and pitfalls119 of all sorts. The drive home in the dark will be nervous work, but now in daylight let us enjoy whilst we may. Of course I ought to have taken my cap in a box or bag, or something of the sort; but that seemed too much trouble, especially as it was so small it needed to be firmly pinned on in its place. It consisted of a centre or crown of white crêpe, a little frill of the same, and a close-fitting wreath of deep red feathers all round. Very neat and tidy it looked as I took my last glance at it whilst I hastily knotted a light black lace veil over my head by way of protection during my drive. When I got to my destination there was no looking-glass to be seen anywhere, no maid, no anything or anybody to warn me. Into the dining-room I marched in happy unconsciousness that the extreme dampness of the evening had flattened120 the crown of my cap, and that it and its frill were mere92 unconsidered limp rags, whilst the unpretending circlet of feathers had started into undue121 prominence122, and struck straight out like a red nimbus all round my unconscious head. How my fellow-guests managed to keep their countenances123 I cannot tell. I am certain I never could have sat opposite to any one with such an Ojibbeway Indian’s head-dress on without giggling124. But no one gave me the least hint of my misfortune, and it only burst upon me suddenly when I returned to my own room and my own glass. Still, there was a ray of hope left: it might have been the dampness of the drive home which had worked me this woe125. I rushed into F—— ’s dressing-room and demanded quite fiercely whether my cap had been like that all the time.
“Why, yes,” F—— admitted; adding by way of consolation126, “In fact, it is a good deal subdued127 now: it was very wild all dinner-time. I can’t say I admired it, but I supposed it was all right.”
Did ever any one hear such shocking apathy128? In answer to my reproaches for not telling me, he only said, “Why, what could you have done with it if you had known? Taken it off and put it in your pocket, or what?”
I don’t know, but anything would have been better than sitting at table with a thing only fit for a May-Day sweep on one’s head. It makes me hot and angry with myself even to think of it now.
F—— ’s clothes could also relate some curious experiences which they have had to go through, not only at the hands of his washerwoman, but at those of his temporary valet, Jack (I beg his pardon, Umpashongwana) the Zulu, whose zeal129 exceeds anything one can imagine. For instance, when he sets to work to brush F—— ’s clothes of a morning he is by no means content to brush the cloth clothes. Oh dear, no! He brushes the socks, putting each carefully on his hand like a glove and brushing vigorously away. As they are necessarily very thin socks for this hot weather, they are apt to melt away entirely under the process. I say nothing of his blacking the boots inside as well as out, or of his laboriously130 scrubbing holes in a serge coat with a scrubbing-brush, for these are errors of judgment131 dictated132 by a kindly133 heart. But when Jack puts a saucepan on the fire without any water and burns holes in it, or tries whether plates and dishes can support their own weight in the air without a table beneath them, then, I confess, my patience runs short. But Jack is so imperturbable134, so perfectly135 and genuinely astonished at the untoward136 result of his experiments, and so grieved that the inkosacasa (I have not an idea how the word ought to be spelt) should be vexed137, that I am obliged to leave off shaking my head at him, which is the only way I have of expressing my displeasure. He keeps on saying, “Ja, oui, yaas,” alternately, all the time, and I have to go away to laugh.
February 16.
I was much amused the other day at receiving a letter of introduction from a mutual138 friend in England, warmly recommending a newly-arrived bride and bridegroom to my acquaintance, and especially begging me to take pains to introduce the new-comers into the “best society.” To appreciate the joke thoroughly you must understand that there is no society here at all—absolutely none. We are not proud, we Maritzburgians, nor are we inhospitable, nor exclusive, nor unsociable. Not a bit. We are as anxious as any community can be to have society or sociable139 gatherings140, or whatever you like to call the way people manage to meet together; but circumstances are altogether too strong for us, and we all in turn are forced to abandon the attempt in despair. First of all, the weather is against us. It is maddeningly uncertain, and the best-arranged entertainment cannot be considered a success if the guests have to struggle through rain and tempest and streets ankle-deep in water and pitchy darkness to assist at it. People are hardly likely to make themselves pleasant at a party when their return home through storm and darkness is on their minds all the time: at least, I know I cannot do so. But the weather is only one of the lets and hinderances to society in Natal. We are all exceedingly poor, and necessary food is very dear: luxuries are enormously expensive, but they are generally not to be had at all, so one is not tempted141 by them. Servants, particularly cooks, are few and far between, and I doubt if even any one calling himself a cook could send up what would be considered a fairly good dish elsewhere. Kafirs can be taught to do one or two things pretty well, but even then they could not be trusted to do them for a party. In fact, if I stated that there were no good servants—in the ordinary acceptation of the word—here at all, I should not be guilty of exaggeration. If there are, all I can say is, I have neither heard of nor seen them. On the contrary, I have been overwhelmed by lamentations on that score in which I can heartily142 join. Besides the want of means of conveyance143 (for there are no cabs, and very few remises) and good food and attendance, any one wanting to entertain would almost need to build a house, so impossible is it to collect more than half a dozen people inside an ordinary-sized house here. For my part, my verandah is the comfort of my life. When more than four or five people at a time chance to come to afternoon tea, we overflow144 into the verandah. It runs round three sides of the four rooms called a house, and is at once my day-nursery, my lumber-room, my summer-parlor, my place of exercise—everything, in fact. And it is an incessant occupation to train the creepers and wage war against the legions of brilliantly-colored grasshoppers145 which infest146 and devour147 the honeysuckles and roses. Never was there such a place for insects! They eat up everything in the kitchen-garden, devour every leaf off my peach and orange trees, scarring and spoiling the fruit as well. It is no comfort whatever that they are wonderfully beautiful creatures, striped and ringed with a thousand colors in a thousand various ways: one has only to see the riddled148 appearance of every leaf and flower to harden one’s heart. Just now they have cleared off every blossom out of the garden except my zinnias, which grow magnificently and make the devastated149 flower-bed still gay with every hue150 and tint151 a zinnia can put on—salmon-color, rose, scarlet152, pink, maroon153, and fifty shades besides. On the veldt too the flowers have passed by, but their place is taken by the grasses, which are all in seed. People say the grass is rank and poor, and of not much account as food for stock, but it has an astonishing variety of beautiful seeds. In one patch it is like miniature pampas-grass, only a couple of inches long each seed-pod, but white and fluffy154. Again, there will be tall stems laden with rich purple grains or delicate tufts of rose-colored seed. One of the prettiest, however, is like wee green harebells hanging all down a tall and slender stalk, and hiding within their cups the seed. Unfortunately, the weeds and burs seed just as freely, and there is one especial torment to the garden in the shape of an innocent-looking little plant something like an alpine155 strawberry in leaf and blossom, bearing a most aggravating156 tuft of little black spines157 which lose no opportunity of sticking to one’s petticoats in myriads158. They are familiarly known as “blackjacks,” and can hold their own as pests with any weed of my acquaintance.
But the most beautiful tree I have seen in Natal was an Acacia flamboyante. I saw it at D’Urban, and I shall never forget the contrast of its vivid green, bright as the spring foliage159 of a young oak, and the crown of rich crimson160 flowers on its topmost branches, tossing their brilliant blossoms against a background of gleaming sea and sky. It was really splendid, like a bit of Italian coloring among the sombre tangle of tropical verdure. It is too cold up here for this glorious tree, which properly belongs to a far more tropical temperature than even D’Urban can mount up to.
I am looking forward to next month and the following ones to make some little excursions into the country, or to go “trekking,” as the local expression is. I hear on all sides how much that is interesting lies a little way beyond the reach of a ride, but it is difficult for the mistress—who is at the same time the general servant—of an establishment out here to get away from home for even a few days, especially when there is a couple of small children to be left behind. No one travels now who can possibly help it, for the sudden violent rains which come down nearly every afternoon swell161 the rivers and make even the spruits impassable; so a traveler may be detained for days within a few miles of his destination. Now, in winter the roads will be hard, and dust will be the only inconvenience. At least, that is what I am promised.
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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mantis
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| n.螳螂 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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abrasion
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| n.磨（擦）破，表面磨损 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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45
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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47
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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48
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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49
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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50
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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51
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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52
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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53
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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54
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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55
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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57
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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58
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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phonetic
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| adj.语言的，语言上的，表示语音的 | |
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61
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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62
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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63
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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65
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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68
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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70
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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72
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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76
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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78
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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80
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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81
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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82
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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83
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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91
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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95
drenches
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| v.使湿透( drench的第三人称单数 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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100
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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101
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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102
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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103
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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104
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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105
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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106
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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108
appellations
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| n.名称，称号( appellation的名词复数 ) | |
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109
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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110
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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111
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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113
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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114
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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115
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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116
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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118
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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119
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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120
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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121
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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122
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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123
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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124
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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125
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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126
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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127
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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128
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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129
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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130
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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131
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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132
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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133
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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134
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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135
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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136
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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137
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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138
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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139
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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140
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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141
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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142
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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143
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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144
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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145
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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146
infest
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| v.大批出没于；侵扰；寄生于 | |
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147
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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148
riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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149
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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150
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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151
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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152
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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153
maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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154
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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155
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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156
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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157
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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158
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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159
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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160
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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161
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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