Karel Schoeman - This Life

So it became Stienie, and she and Maans were married in the church in town, and afterwards the wedding guests were received in the town house, not on the farm as might have been expected. It was probably Mother who had arranged it like that, in order to show off the elegance of the town house, but it might also have been Stienie’s own choice, for during the engagement she gradually began expressing wishes and making demands, regardless of how lovingly and meekly they were made. What Maans desired no one asked, and he fetched what was needed from the farm and endured the formalities and festivities, as he endured the uncomfortable tailcoat and white gloves, or the mocking and teasing of the young men against which he had no defense.

So it was Stienie. Why do I not remember anything about their engagement or their wedding? Is it by chance that one remembers or forgets, or does the memory have its own unfathomable rules? That it was a large and stylish wedding, that I know, even if only because it was discussed in the district for such a long time afterwards, but the only memory I have retained is of the shabby silk slippers Stienie gave to one of the maidservants years later with the passing remark that those were the shoes she had worn on her wedding day, almost as if she did not care. And yet other things, seemingly insignificant, stand out in my memory so clearly after all the years; like that quick, hungry look in Stienie’s eyes and the over-eager motion with which she stooped to pick up the handkerchief Mother had dropped, the glistening of the water in the furrow at twilight, and the coldness of the window-pane against my fingertips as I stood looking out into the darkness before drawing the curtain. And the first Sunday they accompanied us to church after the wedding, Stienie in a rustling dress in mauve and green stripes that had been ordered from Cape Town, a small hat with ostrich feathers and ribbons perched on her forehead — yes, that was the fashion that year, but those colours and that little hat with its feathers were just too elegant for our village. She must have realized it herself, and she wore her clothes defiantly, as if she wanted to notify the entire congregation formally of her new status and wealth; she acknowledged no one as she followed me to our pew; nonetheless she was aware that every head in church was turning to stare after her. Was that what she had yearned for, to make her entrance in our modest, thatched church as a wealthy and elegant newly-wed wife; had that been the extent of her ambition initially, or was it only the first step along a long and lonely road, the end of which she herself could not foresee?

Actually it was only the faces around the table that changed over the years, a changing pattern in the candlelight in a house where nothing changed otherwise. Pieter returned and Father passed on, Coenraad left us and Stienie moved in, but the course of our lives remained unchanged and the silence of our communion undisturbed. Our thoughts, our plans, our doubts or anxieties were never declared outright, but slowly and along indirect paths they found their expression.

She was very affectionate — that is to say, she always behaved very affectionately towards us, her fellow-residents and new relatives. She called Mother “Oumatjie”, and was inclined to embrace and cuddle her, which Mother endured and in her own way possibly even appreciated. Quite soon Stienie began calling me “Tantetjie”, and though she may have meant it kindly, I always found it somehow disparaging and demeaning. She never attempted to embrace or cuddle me, however, and I do not believe she ever felt quite at ease in my company.

When all was said and done, however, Stienie and I managed to live together in harmony. Initially she was still feeling her way, of course, uncertain of my established authority and sensitive to my being so much older, as well as her husband’s aunt; she always had her way, but she made her influence felt gradually and revealed her strength carefully, so that there were no outright clashes. But why should the two of us clash? For all those years I had stood in Mother’s shadow and obeyed her instructions; why then should it be harder for me to defer to Stienie who would sooner or later be mistress of the house openly and undisputedly anyway? She went ahead carefully and I knew how to yield, and so we managed to live together: the changes she made, no matter how far-reaching, were carried out wordlessly, appearing suddenly as an accomplished fact, and no one could say how they had come about. During those first years of their marriage that Stienie and I lived together here on the farm, I gradually and imperceptibly lost all control over the household and saw how my procedures and methods were done away with and supplanted one after the other. The lines were never drawn, however, and the battle remained covert and secret: quietly, lovingly, affectionately and with utter relentlessness Stienie came to power during the course of those few years and saw the triumph of her own will.

What was concealed under that gentle nature? Occasionally there was a brief episode when the carefully sustained performance seemed to be taking its toll, and she would lose control, so that something of her true feelings showed: for a brief moment a glint of anger or impatience would flare, for a moment the abiding tenderness would be belied by a quick, deprecating movement of head or shoulders, or the voice would take on an unusual sharpness. These were mere moments, as I have said, and they did not occur often during those early years of her marriage, and yet it seemed to me as if that hint of rage and resentment was more honest than the unfailing kindness we were accustomed to.

She bore with me, that is what it boils down to, and why should it still be denied? She bore with my presence in her home because she had no other choice, and when the chance came to get rid of me, she was only too glad to leave me in town alone until she needed me again: let me be honest, for that is how it was. There was never any tenderness or affection for the peculiar spinster aunt she had been saddled with in her marriage. “Oh, Tantetjie has always been shy,” I once heard her tell visitors in the voorhuis as I lingered in the kitchen, unwilling to join them; and once, years later, when we were living in the new house, I entered the voorhuis and, invisible behind the net curtain, I heard Stienie, an older and mellower woman by then, remark to her guests on the stoep, “Yes, but you must realise, Tantetjie is strange,” with the same deprecating tone that I remembered from years ago. I was standing behind the net curtain in the voorhuis, among the gleaming furniture, and dispassionately and without regret I realised that in all those years I had not even managed to earn her approval. She still merely put up with me in her home and at her table.

To Pieter Stienie showed more or less the same kindness as to the rest of us, for he was family, and she called him “Oom Pieter”, but she saw him only at meals or when he accompanied us to town, and so he did not bother her. It took a while before I realised that she always spoke of “Maans’s uncle” to others, as if the mention of Maans maintained a certain distance between them; and it took even longer for me to notice that she always avoided addressing Pieter directly or looking him in the eye, no matter how hard she otherwise tried to conceal her distaste. Pieter did not fit into her plans for the future either, though she could not undertake anything against him as long as Mother was still around; later, when Mother and I were living in town, Stienie arranged it so that Pieter no longer joined them for meals, and when I returned to the farm years later, I found that his food was sent to his room outside. He probably preferred it that way himself, yet I never felt that it was right.