Chapter 3
Be Not Overly Wicked
Ecclesiastes 7:17
As for Sister Wanter's
appearance, whatever was striking about her was not beautiful, and whatever was
beautiful was not striking. Her eyes sat slightly out of level, and her mouth
pulled a little to one side, as though two opposing forces had once fought a
brief skirmish across her face. Her fair hair possessed neither curl nor wave,
and its colour was a dull, whitish yellow, untouched by even the faintest trace
of red.
Yet anyone who came to
know her better made two discoveries. The first was that, at times—even at
forty, and after all she had endured—she could look inexplicably young. Not
often, to be sure. But now and then—was it a trick of the light, or did the
light come from within?—she seemed almost a young girl again.
The second discovery lay
in her eyes. In their depths dwelt a great kindness and a gentle humility, as
though sorrow itself had refined rather than hardened her. How else could she
have borne her cross?
But now it seemed she
wished to cast that cross aside, for her voice sounded soft yet resolute when
she said to me: “Now I want to be rid of him, Pastor.”
Wanter was a brute—a
drunkard, a womaniser—and everyone wondered how his wife had endured him for so
many years. He was violent in both word and deed. As a church, we had little
direct dealings with him; he was not a member. Our contact was with his wife
and children. Whenever Wanter was out of work or short of money, he sold
whatever he could lay his hands on: the radio, the clock, even his wife's coat.
More than once, after one
of his violent outbursts had ended in blows, I spoke with her about the
possibility of at least a separation from bed and board. I urged her to think
of the welfare of her body as well as her soul, and of the children, whose young
minds were in danger of being poisoned by their father's example. But she would
never consent. She would only shake her head and say, "I cannot do that,
Pastor."
Whenever a little one was
born, I visited her. Those, I think, were her best days. She lay quietly in
bed, as though she had at last earned the right to be tired, and to let others
care for her. It was also the only time I ever saw her smile. When I praised
the child, or when she held it in her arms, that peculiar smile would
appear—almost making her beautiful, and younger than she had ever seemed.
Beside the bed stood the
cradle—her pride. And it was a cradle worth looking at: so neatly kept, with
spotless curtains that she replaced each time a new birth drew near. Soon enough
the baby would be moved to a little cot, and the cradle carried up to the
attic, where it would stand beneath an old curtain until the next time. But as
long as she lay in bed, the cradle remained beside her. With careful fingers
she would adjust the luminescent tulle; or she would lift herself on one elbow
to see whether the veil covered the baby’s tiny head properly. Then she would
sink back into the pillow, contented and at peace.
But now she sat across
from me, and there was something final in her words: “I want to be rid of him,
Pastor.”
I could not draw much more
from her in the conversation that followed. I asked what had happened, but her
answers remained vague: “It cannot go on… I cannot keep it up any longer.”
And when I suggested that
she had surely made her decision also for the sake of the children, she only
nodded and said, “Yes, yes—for the children too.”
I suspected she was
expecting another baby. She did not speak of it, and I did not raise the
subject.
The next day her husband
came to see me. He had no idea why his wife had suddenly wanted to leave him.
He drank a glass of beer now and then, but otherwise was conscious of no
wrongdoing, and he asked me to try to persuade her to change her mind. I could
see he was confused. He had never expected that she would finally leave him. In
him, disbelief and fear wrestled in a manner that was almost painful to
witness. His feigned indifference, his selfishness, his hollow promises of
improvement—everything about him bore the mark of what was base and ugly.
And indeed, that evening
he sent his eldest daughter with the message that Mother wanted to see me. She
was a sweet child of thirteen. I kept her talking for a moment.
She already knew: Mother
was leaving Father.
Good thing too.
“And now,” I said, “you
will surely be extra kind to your mother.”
She nodded vigorously.
“I’m going to help Mother
with everything, and if she can pay for it, I may even take sewing lessons.”
She leaned closer, confidentially: “It’s
Father’s own fault. He shouldn’t have sold the cradle.”
A light went on in me.
“Is Mother so angry about
that?”
“No, she only cried
terribly, and then she said: now I can’t go on.”
Again I saw before me that
beautiful cradle beside the mother’s bed, her brief happiness, her rare smile.
The cradle was sold, for
beer money. Yes—but it had been far more than a cradle. It had been the symbol
of the only happiness she still knew. In losing it, she lost her last refuge.
Now there was nowhere left for her to retreat with the meagre remnants of her
love and longing. For a brief time after each birth she had been untouchable,
as though she had been enclosed in a garden whose gate was closed to all
others.
Now even that sanctuary
had been violated, and nothing remained to her but flight.
There is a limit to all
things, even to the capacity to suffer.
I could picture her—after
the discovery in the attic—sitting at the table with red, tear‑swollen eyes
staring into emptiness, her fists pressed against her cheeks, her wispy hair
falling over her forehead.
“I can’t go on.”
And so it was. She could not go on.
Translation
of “Wees Niet al te Goddeloos—Prediker 7:17” by M. E. Voila, p. 13ff in De
Weleerwaarde Heer.” (Kok: Kampen, 1961).
