ENTRY TEN -- Christ's Faithful Apostle

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An Excerpt from the Travel Journal of the Rev. H. Nigel Fox Jr. circa 1920

ENTRY TEN -- Christ's Faithful Apostle

For the life of me, I did not know what to make of it all. The flavour of reality during the ‘episode’ was most perplexing, for it could not be other than some fantastic hallucination. Energised by my experience, nevertheless it crossed my mind that I was as mad as a hatter! Yet the vision was powerful to the point of being overwhelming. Immediately I knew what I must do. I rang up my dear friend Dean Inge - an Anglican priest, professor of divinity, and Dean of Saint Paul's Cathedral. Known for his keen intellect and for his pessimistic views of where the world was heading, he has often been referred to as the “gloomy dean.” I first came to know him some years ago when he helped me work through a previous mystical experience. His great insight had changed the whole of my inner life.

He believes the world as it is, "is the world as God sees it, not as we see it. Our vision is distorted, not so much by the limits of finitude as by sin and ignorance. The more we can raise ourselves in the scale of being, the more shall our ideas about God and the world correspond to the reality." A vision begins where the conscious mind ends. It differs from a hallucination, because there is no organic disturbance; it differs from a dream, because the subject is not asleep.

Dean Inge and I had quite an in depth conversation; we came to realise that my vision was not so much about predicting the future as preparing me for that future. The gloomy dean explained that humanity is in for some dark times and I had an important role to play as Christ's faithful apostle. (This actually seemed 'normal' as mother had told me I had been 'born in a caul' which had great significance for Irvingites.)

After my consultation with Dean Inge I continued to ponder these mystical changes and transmutations effected by some mysterious alchemy of my mind. I also scrutinised the Scriptures feverishly looking for some sort of clue as to what was to come. My working frenzy was broken by Sipho. "Pastor Hoff has arrived, mFundisi."

-ii-
Dressing rapidly, I collected my wits and descended the staircase. In the front passage stood Hans, leaning on his formidable knobkerrie*. He was very much as I remembered him: tall, handsome, with flaxen hair, a genuine warmth reflected in soft blue eyes. His air of gentle confidence endeared him to all women and most men.

"Good afternoon, mFundisi," he said with a smile. The rich timbre of his voice with its perfect enunciation was truly remarkable: the more so considering the fact that his mother tongue had been Afrikaans and his father was of German descent. Hans Hoff was one of those rare souls who spoke English (not American English or British English, but English). It would be impossible to put a name to his accent; his vocabulary was modern and all encompassing. Feeling a bit sheepish, I explained that I was generally out of my bed clothes before teatime, but had passed a very difficult night.

Sipho had wanted to take Hans' hat and coat, but was in a quandary regarding the light brown hardwood staff gripped in our guest's hand. In Somerset, as in many parts of Britain, one's walking stick or umbrella was surrendered at the door. However, at Sipho's kraal in British Kaffraria, such a stick was a traditional weapon and a symbol of one's manhood. Even touching it would be a serious insult. The result was that Sipho went into a sort of culture shock and was unable to move for some little time. Everyone was relieved when I took Hans' hat and coat and he proceeded into our dwelling house, knobkerrie in hand. Yet the feeling in the room could only be described with one word: awkward.

-iii-
Adjusting his clerical collar in an uneasy fashion, the young divine enquired cautiously. "Sipho has told me of your episodes . . . How are you finding your 'retirement' ?"

"Jolly good," was my dishonest reply. "And how is your ministry in London?"

"London is not as beautiful as Cape Town of course, but I do rather enjoy the challenges -- and the history of the place."

Inviting him to sit down in the parlour with me, I indicated to Sipho that tea would be in order. Hans seated himself in one of my overstuffed armchairs, making it look almost small.

I marvelled at the grace with which he moved, and the dignity he had acquired. No longer as thin as a lath, Hans Hoff had grown into his height and seemed so very robust and healthy. Next to him I felt rather old, short and small (although at six feet had never considered myself dwarfish).

As we reminisced, our conversation covered every subject from his love of Negro spirituals, his passion for bull-fighting and his strong pacifist views. He was always a person of contradictions, a brilliant theologian on one hand, yet a terrible automobile driver. It took him three failed attempts before he acquired a motor vehicle licence. Luckily, he drove very, very slowly, as he was forever bumping into things. He explained that his most recent mishap was a couple of months ago. He had run into a Coca Cola lorry. As per usual nobody was hurt. There was little damage to his vehicle and only slight damage to the loading door of the truck. Yet it was going to be one of his more expensive claims. As Hans backed away there was a shearing sound of metal and half the driver's load came crashing down onto the road making a frightful mess. By the time the police arrived there was a major fly infestation as Coca Cola had been sprayed everywhere.

The talk was pleasant, yet something was not quite right. There was clearly some reason for our gathering. Sipho returned with the tea and 'delectables', put down the tray, and then stood eyeing our visitor, who sat staring into the fireplace. "Is anything wrong?" I queried, tapping my pipe. Sipho's features darkened while looking over at Hans. Both were silent, waiting for the other person to speak -- an ill omen indeed.

-iv-
Finally, Sipho, still with a deeply serious expression, shook his head almost imperceptibly. "We have some grievous news. It has been too difficult to tell you, as we are very much concerned about your health."

"Well, speak up man," I said, feeling more than a little vexed at how the Xhosa can go round and round the mulberry bush, never coming to the point.

Hans nodded at Sipho, who continued: "There is a too small chance that Miss Anna may have gone to Shanghai."

"She is visiting China?" was my perplexed reply. I felt totally at sea.

"Shanghaied," interjected Hans in a fashion that indicated he was finally prepared to give me every information.

Sipho recovered. "Miss Anna has gone missing. She may be no more. It is too awful."

The Train to London

The train to London had been late in departing, yet I scarcely noticed. Hans helped me board the coach; my whole being was in a state of shock, unable to fathom the possibility of this entire business. As the locomotive steamed out the station, I did note that we were in a private compartment, with all the amenities including a foot-warmer. For that I was most grateful. Hans thought I looked faint and opened the window to give me some air. Just before catching my death of cold, a smut flew in my eye.

Finally, Hans stopped tending to my 'health', closed the window, adjusted my travelling-rug and the demise of one Nigel Fox was narrowly averted. As the express train sped along without let or hindrance, the rhythmic motion was soothing and allowed me to forget our horrid state of affairs. My thoughts gradually drifted away from the present as the countryside flew past.

-ii-
My relationship with Anna and her family went back some years. Although Hans and I had inherited our wealth, Anna's father, Dr. Howard Fuchs, was a self-made man who had ascended from a somewhat lower station in life. He had ventured into a new field of medicine: cosmetic surgery. Ridiculed by his colleagues, he steadfastly maintained that certain deformities and disproportions could be very damaging to some individuals.

Of course he had been correct. Simply by smoothing a few wrinkles and rearranging a bit of cartilage or fat he could work miracles. People came to him from as far away as Sydney, Australia. I had become his very good friend in those early years during which he was looked down upon as the pariah of the medical profession. Of course being a Jew did not help his cause.

Although somewhat different from me in temperament, I valued his intellect, integrity and the fact that he persevered in the face of much adversity. During those dark days, on more than one occasion I helped him out financially, also acting as a reference before his peers. He and his wife had only one child, Anna, and it had been a most extraordinary honour to be asked to stand as "Godfather" to the girl at her brit bat.

Anna had grown into a lovely young lady. She was beautiful: a soft-spoken girl with peach-coloured complexion, large brown eyes and shiny black hair. Everyone spoiled her, yet it never affected her adversely. She was kind and giving: unselfish to a fault. Having excelled in her studies, Anna's father wanted to reward her with something she would remember. He knew his accomplished daughter loved travelling. They had sojourned with me regularly in South Africa. Dr. Fuchs had booked passage for Anna, a girl friend, and a chaperon on the Rhine Cruise; this excursion had become very popular amongst the well-to-do. It comprised a journey on a luxury yacht down the length of the Rhine River sampling some of the world's finest wines, followed by the opportunity to stay in a beautiful and historic castle. Then the trip continued down the Rhone to the French Riviera.

Anna never made it to the south of France. Her father had originally feared that she had fallen overboard, yet her body had not surfaced. For the Fuchs family, the situation could not be any worse; their world had come to an end.

-iii-
"Do you think leaving Sipho behind to take care of the house was wise?" Hans boomed over the chugging of the locomotive, breaking my reverie. "He looked rather unhappy."

"The Xhosa are very superstitious," I replied, still looking out the window at the scenery, "but Sipho shall be quite all right. It is just that he has become rather protective of me of late."

We made small talk as the train moved on. "I do not have any idea how the Fuchs shall deal with this tragedy," I commented sombrely. "This shall be the end of them, no doubt."

The Fuchs Family

After some little time, we finally arrived at the Fuchs mansion. As I expected, the family was grief-stricken. We entered the beautifully appointed drawing room, where Anna's mother, Miriam, sat moaning loudly while cradling her daughter's portrait. Missus Fuchs' dark beauty seemed to have faded; I could barely recognise the woman I once knew so well.

Howard was less verbal with his emotions: silent tears ran down his cheeks, tears that he did not bother to wipe away. He, too, had changed physically. He was slumped in a chair, his well-rounded figure and jocular demeanour having disappeared completely. His tailored suit was now several sizes too large. It grieved me to see him so. Looking up at us gratefully from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, he whispered, "It is indeed very kind of you to come, Nigel, Pastor Hoff. We have to meet with the authorities to-day and could not face such an ordeal on our own."

"No doubt they shall have some answers."

-ii-
I was wrong. It had been well over a month since Anna had gone missing, and the police had not the slightest idea of what had transpired. Sitting in the police station, Howard Fuchs was devastated. "What to do?" he moaned over and over again in a deep murmur. The burly detective in charge of the case looked uncomfortable, not knowing how to reply. Giving Howard a somewhat wrinkled handkerchief, he left the office on other business.

There we sat for some time, a thick cloud of misery hanging over the three of us. For the life of me, I had no idea what to say. Finally in a quiet but intense voice, Hans stated, "Dr. Fuchs, you are right. This situation cannot be left as it is. I believe I am in a position to help. I am willing to make myself available."

Howard slowly turned his head towards Hans, scarcely comprehending. His voice was thick with emotion. Dabbing his cheeks, he spoke softly: "Pastor Hoff, what about your ministry?"

"That can be dealt with. I am willing to make myself available," Hans repeated, this time tapping his knobkerrie on the floor for emphasis. "Rest assured that I am fully prepared to get to the bottom of this."

Offering to take care of any expense, Howard dropped the handkerchief into his lap, grasped Hans' hand and said, "I am most grateful." The words came directly from his heart.

Everyone in the room knew of Hans Hoff's gifts, but also of the risk this would pose to his emotional well-being. It crossed my mind that this decision could be his undoing. . .



Links:

Dean Inge

Knobkerrie (also spelled knobkerry, and knobkierie), is a hardwood stick with a large knob at one end. In Southern Africa it is generally used as a weapon but a longer version can be used as a walking stick.

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Comments

[Nick]

knobkerrie
A knobkerrie is a Xhosa traditional weapon. I enjoyed the travel journal!

[John Steer]

A knobkerrie
I see you still carry one.

[Senta S Ross]

Writing Style: Most interesting.
Writing Style: Most interesting...what is his mother tongue??

[Bryan]

Writing style
Nigel's mother tongue was Scottish but his father was an Englishman who saw to it the Nigel received a proper English education. However it was Union Theological Seminary in New York City that had the greatest influence on the young divine, inspiring him to keep a personal journal.

[Tembe Ziqu]

South Africa
I was born in South Africa and noticed Nigel often uses South African Expressions. .

[Bryan]

True!
Although he finished his education in the USA, he spent a large part of his life in South Africa. He even spoke Xhosa!