AN AFRICAN NOVEL.*
WE do not know whether The Story of an African Farm is its author's first book or no, and this uncertainty makes our criti- cism more hesitating than it would otherwise be. If this is a first book, it would incline us to think the author capable of very good, if not very great things. He writes clear, grammatical, and even graceful English. He has the gift of putting un- familiar scenes and circumstances before us vividly, instead of piling up words in the vain effort to do so. He is not without humour—though there are passages in the book which, taken separately, would suggest that he is — and finally, he can understand partially and sketch lovingly a character whose simple goodness is the natural outcome of the Christianity which he apparently rejects. All this would make us disposed to say to a new writer, " Go on and prosper," for the faults of his work are such as experience and good-sense may easily rectify. But if those faults are the results of a confirmed habit of thought, it is a great pity, for the book is much above the limits of the common-place, and we should be glad to see another with all its virtues and without its defects.
By far the cleverest, most interesting, and most original part of The Story of an African Farm is that which justifies its title. The farm, a remote one, appropriately called " Kopje Alone," is in temporary possession of a Boer woman, widow of its late English owner, and guardian of his daughter and niece. " Taut Sannie " is capitally drawn, and one soon becomes intimately acquainted with the fat, lazy, superstitious woman, keen after her interests, easily imposed upon by flattery, vindictive when offended, but not generally ill-tempered, sitting motionless for hours with her feet on a stove (apparently a kind of " scaldino "), and drinking coffee from morning till night. She is a widow for the second time, and is quite prepared for a third matri- monial venture, as soon as her stepdaughter shall attain the age of seventeen, and become mistress of the farm. In the mean- time, she finds and dismisses a lover, whose portrait is one of the defects of the book. He is a most repulsive compound of Mr. Chadband and Mr. Alfred Jingle, painted with• strokes so broad and black that his originals fade into the most delicate colours beside him. But when Taut Sannie's "fixed period" does arrive, her wooing is characteristic.
It appears that an " npsitting " is a necessary preliminary to a Boer wedding,—that is to say, the betrothed, or about to be betrothed, pair are expected to sit up together for a whole night, while the rest of the household are quietly reposing. Tant Sannie's Kaffir maid looks out one evening, and sees a horseman approaching :—
H* The Story of an African Farm. By Ralph Irons. London Chain= and
" The coloured woman, having duly inspected him, dashed into the dwelling. 'Here is another one,' she cried, a widower ; I see it by his hat.'—' Good Lord !' said Taut' Bennie, it's the seventh I've had this month ; but the mon know where sheep and good looks and money in the bank are to be found,' she added, winking knowingly. 'How does he look ?'—' Nineteen, weak eyes, white hair, little round nose,' said the maid. Then it's he ! then it's he !' said Tant' Sannie, triumphantly ; little Piet Vander Walt, whose wife died last month,—two farms, twelve thousand sheep. I've not seen him, but my sister-in-law told me about him, and I dreamed about him last night.' Here Pieta black hat appeared in the doorway, and the Boer woman drew herself up in dignified silence, extended the tips of her fingers, and motioned solemnly to a chair. The young man seated himself, sticking his feet under it as far as they would go, and said, mildly, 'I am Little Piet Vander Walt, and my father is Big Piet Vander Walt'—Tant' Sannie said solemnly, Yes.'—' Aunt,' said the young man, starting up spasmodically, can I off-saddle ?'—' Yes.' He seized his hat, and disappeared with a rash through the door.—' I told you so ! I knew it !' said Taut' Sannie. The dear Lord does not send dreams for nothing. Did not I tell you this morning that I dreamed of a great beast like a sheep, with red eyes, and that I killed it ? Was not the white wool his hair, and the red eyes his weak eyes ? and my killing him meant marriage. Get supper ready quickly; the sheep's inside and roaster cakes. We shall sit up to- night.' Nevertheless, when all the rest of the house had retired, when the long candle was lighted, when the coffee kettle was filled, when she sat in her elbow-chair, with her lover on a chair close beside her, and when the vigil of the night was fairly begun, she began to find it wearisome. The young man looked chilly, and said nothing. Won't you put your feet on my stove ?' said Taut' Sannie.—` No, thank you, aunt,' said the young man, and they both lapsed into silence. At last, Tent' Sannie, afraid of going to sleep, tapped a strong cup of coffee for herself, and handed another to her lover. This visibly revived both.—' How long were you married, cousin ?'— Ten months, aunt.' It's very hard when we must give our husbands and wives to the Lord !' said Taut' Bennie She
was such a good wife, aunt ; I've known her break a churn-stick over a maid's head for only letting dust come on a milk cloth.' Tant' Sannie felt a twinge of jealousy. She had never broken a churn-stick over a maid's head. I hope your wife made a good end,' she said.
The next morning at dawn, as Em passed throngh Taut' Sannie's bedroom, she found the Boer woman pulling off her boots, preparatory to climbing into bed. Where is Piet Vander Walt ?'— ' Just gone,' said Taut' Bennie, and I'm going to marry him this day four weeks. I am dead sleepy,' she added ; 'the stupid thing doesn't know how to talk love-talk at all,'—and she climbed into the four- poster, clothes and all, and drew np the quilt to her chin."
Unfortunately, neither Tant' Sannie nor her stepdaughter Em is the heroine of the story. That post is filled by Em's orphan cousin, Lyndall, who is attractive as a pretty and thoughtful child, but becomes quite tiresome in her womanhood. Not that she is common-place. She is, on the contrary, very remarkable in her actions, though more loquacious than wise in her words. She is one of those lovely creatures, generally supposed to be invented by female novelists, with whom every man must needs fall in love, and she is fully conscious of her power. "Look at this little chin of mine," she says, "with the dimple in it. I can win money with it ; I can win love ; I can win power with it; I can win fame." She does not, however, win any of these, except the second, and that not of the most creditable or comfortable kind. After robbing Em of her betrothed, Gregory Rose, she
goes away with a mysterious stranger, wanders about the Transvaal with him, leaves him, and dies, by no means of a broken heart. The oddest part of her history is that Gregory, having traced her, and found her lying ill at a country inn, dis- guises himself as a woman, and nurses her for weeks, or months, without being ever suspected either by her or by the doctor. To this episode we decidedly object.
Lyndall, it has been said, talks too much. Another char- acter, perhaps, thinks too much. This is Waldo, the son of Taut' Sannie's German overseer. For the greater part of the first volume, this boy is charming, and he never quite ceases to be interesting. He is a sort of dumb poet, unable to express his feelings and fancies, otherwise than in wood-carving of a primitive order. The son of a deeply-religious and simple- minded father, Waldo as a child goes through the sort of reli- gious experience not very uncommon to imaginative children.
He prays, and is wretched because he finds no visible or imme- diate answer to prayer. He despairs and trusts and despairs again, and in the description of his perplexities and wretched- ness there is power and vividness that make one feel it to be true, though only a part of the truth. But before the end of
the first volume the boy's honest questionings are replaced by a vague, chilly, and yet high-flown philosophy, and the interest he has inspired almost dies out.
The Story of an African Farm has the merit of being in two volumes instead of three. We are inclined to think that if it could be reduced to one by the almost complete excision of Lyndall and the cutting-short of Waldo's meditations, it would be entitled to a high rank among recent novels. But it is quite probable that these are the very last portions Mr. Irons would be willing to cut away.
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