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De Kaap

14th January 1793

Dear Baltasar,

You were a fool not to join me. It is a warm, clear morning and I am off to hunt baboons. My life is an adventure, my friend, and you too could have been here, gathering up stories to tell your children – assuming, of course, that you manage one day to entice some wretched creature to be your wife.

Yesterday I found a position, not a moment too soon, because I had not a stuiver left. One might think that a recent student of Leiden University could enjoy his pick of tutoring positions here, as you did in Amsterdam, but the burghers of this town care no more for my knowledge of the natural sciences than would a goose. The children are taught by a supply of rickety old soldiers hired from the Castle. So I was relieved when, after a month of my looking for work, a man requested my services yesterday. I was to replace his son’s previous tutor, who had taken to getting drunk before the morning lessons, rather than following sound pedagogical principles and delaying until lunch.

I accepted immediately (no sense in waiting, and I received fifteen rixdollars in advance) and we went together to his house in Long Street. I shall be living there while I instruct the son, who – I should say now, while my dislike is fresh – is a nincompoop, a fat-faced twelve-year-old boy who cannot multiply or divide, reads simple stories of horses and farmers in a halting, sullen voice, and stares at me as if I am the idiot. It is not easy to imagine any satisfaction arising from our association.

I was directed to wait at the fireplace – unlit, since it is summer here – until dinner time. There I spent a dismal period with the boy’s paternal grandfather, a man as wrinkled as a prune, and a brown short-haired dog. Each occupied a chair. The conversation between the three fireplace companions went as follows:

I: Good evening to you, Sir.

Prune continues staring into the empty grate.

I: A fine dusk.

Prune slaps his hand against the arm of his chair.

Dog cringes against the back of its chair, anticipating a blow.

Prune (apparently speaking to both man and dog): Sit quietly and let us have some peace.

There was not a book to be seen among the contents of the room – which included a threadbare lion’s hide on the wall, a painting above the fireplace depicting with damning fidelity a pinched-lipped woman (could this have been Prune’s bride?), and several rifles on racks. After looking around for a while, I spent my time staring at my hands, until I became aware of an evil odour. At this I looked up, but nothing in the face of man or dog alerted me as to who might be responsible; perhaps they had both contributed. I sat in this silent tableau until I was called to the dining room.

At the head of the table sat my employer, Mijnheer Vandenbroeck. He was – indeed, is – short but imposing, dense with muscle and fat, like the side of beef that was served to us for dinner. His wife is thin and stern. You have already become acquainted with Prune and the boy. But the remaining person at the table is a rare gem: the daughter, Elisabeth, about seventeen years old. Her smile on seeing me, though swift, was a sunlit blessing. She sat next to her father, who guarded her like a troll his treasure, so I could take only little sips of her appearance during the meal. Slender, with long dark hair and pale, luminous skin – how the female sex can tauten the threads of our hearts! She said nothing at dinner except to refuse a dish of vegetables in sheep’s fat.

My employer cut a mass of flesh for himself as he spoke of the prices fixed by the Company for the sale of his cattle to the Castle. I gathered that he was being cheated and ought to have been far richer than he was already. An outrage, he said, gesturing with his fork, its long tines glinting. He punctuated his anger by ramming chunks of meat into his mouth, and soon his plate was empty but for a few bloody tracks.

When I was asked a question about the Netherlands, I took care to answer pleasantly and in a melodious voice. It was not difficult for my words to shine in comparison to the speech of this place, where the use of Dutch has grown slovenly as a result of distance from the mother country, and is mixed with who knows what barbarous tongues. And I felt her attention as I spoke. I felt her eyes on me.

Vandenbroeck discoursed on a variety of topics, including one that seemed to be a favourite, the threat of revolution. How it threw its dark French shadow this far south over the peaceful Cape. But this barbarous force would not overwhelm the tip of Africa, the most civilised place on this continent, he said. I asked why. Because here we comprehend the hierarchy of man, he explained, from the white man down to Ham’s descendants: a place for everyone, and everyone in his place.

He wiped the grease from his hands with a cloth brought from the kitchen by a slave before continuing. “Compare the males of this species,” he said. It seems, Baltasar, that the Negro male possesses not only a feeble mind but even a poor body, perceptibly inferior to the classical proportions of the European. The male member, for example: both the wife and Elisabeth averted their eyes as Vandenbroeck discoursed on the comparison between the peoples, with Homo sapiens europaeus apparently enjoying an organ not so gross in dimension but markedly more aesthetic in appearance. Mevrouw Vandenbroeck coughed discreetly, but her husband took no notice. When I asked him for evidence of this distinction, which I do not recall from Blumenbach’s treatise The Natural Varieties of Mankind, Vandenbroeck waved me away, saying that I did not understand how life was here, coming from the mother country.

Presently a slave brought in a bottle of dessert wine, and my employer poured for us all. It was delicious, so I had a number of glasses more, thinking that I ought to be more careful, but damn it, I had begun to feel open to life and ready for anything, and consequently the final part of the evening progressed more smoothly than had the previous. After dinner, I sat in a stupor for some time at the fireplace with the dog and Prune, the rest of the family having gone to bed. At last I said an exuberant good night to my companions – I think – before climbing the steep steps to the bedrooms, holding a candle with great care.

I felt dizzy at the top. Would you believe me if I said I tried the wrong door first, hoping it might be Elisabeth’s? Let me tell you a foolish thing: I imagined being greeted by the daughter of the house, and enjoying her blushes as she sat up in bed in nightgown and cap, before she pointed me to my own room and we said good night in mutual embarrassment. That is how I thought, and can you blame me, Baltasar? It is surely natural, on having partaken of so much sweet wine. The door was unlocked and opened smoothly. I was about to enter when I heard footsteps behind me and I twisted quickly to find myself facing the man of the house, his build making him seem even more squat and malign. I could not see his face clearly, as he carried no candle.

“That is not your bedroom, Sir,” he said.

“A misapprehension.” I could think of nothing more to say.

“You are an inquisitive fellow, that is clear.” He paused, apparently considering. “Perhaps you would care to see something.” Vandenbroeck took my candle from me and walked into the room. “Come along,” he called.

When I entered, I saw that he had placed the light on a table, next to a statue about a foot high: a soldier, muscular in his tunic, brandishing a short sword and shield. Done in silver gilt, or perhaps even solid silver. The fellow was wounded – there were gashes on his bare legs, across his chest – but this was not a man for surrender; in the candlelight his expression was fierce, implacable.

“Horatius?” I asked, standing in the darkness.

Vandenbroeck grunted assent. “At the bridge, defending Rome against an army. It was given to me two years ago. For valour.”

“In battle?”

“Yes, of a sort. The creation of the office of Slave Protector – a scandalous new thing, an intrusion on the rights of the burghers that surely heralds further incursions – needed to be fought. I took up the burden. For two years I met with Company officials, wrote letters of protest, even led a delegation to the Castle. The battle was lost. Unfortunately, we now have that entity: Slave Protector.” A mist of spittle journeyed through the dark air, settling lightly on my skin. “But my fellow citizens honoured my efforts. They purchased and presented to me the work of a European master sculptor. It is immodest to say, but – to be truthful – the valiant Horatius, fighting on despite overpowering odds, reminds them of me.” His thickset body made for a comic contrast with the classically constructed Horatius.

Then his loquaciousness dried up as quickly as it had begun. “It is late,” he said. I made my way towards my bedroom, shut the door and slept too deeply to remember my dreams. Now it is morning, and I am sending off these words to you.

It should be a fine day. My employer was pleasant at breakfast and said that we should take a trip up the mountain this morning so that I could get my bearings. We also hope to shoot some baboons; they are a pest in these parts. Two slaves are going with us to carry the rifles.

A ship is about to leave the harbour – a drummer has been shouting news of its imminent departure – and I will go out to pay the captain for the privilege of transporting my message to you.

I feel, just this moment, a strange desire to tell you that our friendship is dear to me, and that I would like you to be with me now so that we could laugh and enjoy these humorous circumstances together in this rustic colony. So consider it said, Baltasar. Even my appointment with the baboons this morning cannot provide comfort, since they will only remind me of you.

Your old Leiden comrade,

Menno