Caryl Phillips - Foreigners

'Forgive me,' he whispered, 'but my mind is weak.' He paused and blinked vigorously, as though trying to regard me anew. I could see now that the man was toothless, and his decrepitude was far advanced. 'Sir, I am sorry that you should discover me in this state of disrepair.'

I assured him that there was no reason for him to apologise, and that it was I who should be begging his forgiveness for this unannounced intrusion. I explained that it was the woman he called 'wife' who had suggested that I might visit, and who had subsequently conveyed me to this place, and he simply nodded as though he had already guessed that this must be the case. Again his eyes closed, and I looked around at the other patients in the room, most of whom, like this negro, appeared to be idling close to death. And then I turned my attention back to Francis who, even as I sat with him, appeared to be already experiencing life racing quickly out of his body. In fact, his short, shallow breaths suggested that he was merely lingering at the door to the next world. A few moments passed, and then Dr Johnson's negro once more opened his eyes and a thin smile crept across his black face.

'I wonder,' he said 'if perhaps I have disappointed my master. Have you come to this place to accuse me of this crime?' The negro paused and gathered his thoughts. 'My master placed a great deal of faith in me that I might resist temptation, do you know this? Towards the end he often called me to his bedside and asked me to pray with him. He never failed to point out appropriate passages in the scriptures, for he feared that my nature was too weak and that I might misuse all that he was about to bestow upon me. He feared that some men might take advantage of my character and so we prayed together that I would find strength and not succumb to my fondness for drink and frivolity. My master and myself, we often prayed together, the two of us, long into the night.' The negro paused and gasped for breath. I instinctively reached down and clasped his black hand, and eventually his breathing subsided, but I chose not to release this poor man's fingers. 'I lack dignity. Even coming to Lichfield was a fulfilment of my master's wishes.' I looked at Johnson's dishevelled negro, but I could find no words. 'My master provided me with many advantages yet I still find myself in these circumstances. I sincerely wish that he had used me differently.' The negro looked nervously all about himself. 'Perhaps,' he continued, 'I would have been better served committing to a life at sea, or returning to my native Jamaica. Perhaps it would have been more profitable for me to have established for myself the limits of my abilities rather than having them blurred by kindness, dependence, and my own indolence. And when presented with real liberty—' He stopped abruptly, then sighed. 'Well, look upon me, sir. Look liberty in the face. What see you?' Suddenly, with this question, his eyes temporarily brightened, but then without waiting for my answer they fell shut again, like a falling curtain, and this time it was clear that they would not reopen again this day. At least not for me. Dr Johnson's negro had withdrawn from the world, and I was left alone with his pitiful words ringing loudly in my ears. Surely liberty had never before appeared to any man in such a state of mournful ruination. It was true, this negro had most likely been destroyed by the unnatural good fortune of many years of keeping company with those of a superior rank, thus depriving him of any real understanding of his own true status in the world. I felt that I could answer his final question with some confidence, even though he would remain insensible to my thoughts on the matter. Yes, the black should have left our country and journeyed back to Jamaica or to Africa with Mr Sharp's expedition. In fact, all ebony personages should do so for I was now convinced that English air is clearly not suitable for negro lungs and soon reduces these creatures to a state of childish helplessness. In this sad, wretched moment, I had received confirmation of the wisdom of my own intention to invest in the Province of Freedom, and thereby help prevent this spectacle of negro abasement from becoming endemic in our land.

In the evening I dined alone at the Three Crowns. The innkeeper had timidly requested permission to join my table once I had completed my meal, and I agreed to his entreaty for I now understood that my acquiescence would enable him to temporarily escape the tedious presence of his wife. In the morning I would be returning to London, so this would probably mark my final exchange with this weak man, whom I had already corrected with regard to the status of Francis Barber's mortality. The innkeeper poured freely from what he termed a 'special' bottle of French claret, and he once again apologised for his error, but I assured him that the man's wife, though puzzled, appeared to have taken no discernible offence. The innkeeper had hardly received my words before he sought intelligence as to just how far Mr Barber had fallen from the lower rungs of the social ladder. I smiled back at this odious man, but resolved to say nothing that might assuage his curiosity. The situation soon became uncomfortable, and my host quickly changed tack, and asked after the negro's wife. I answered that she appeared to be experiencing difficulties providing for her children, for clearly the schoolhouse had been neglected since the onset of Mr Barber's illness. I reminded this foolish citizen of Lichfield of Dr Johnson's conviction that a decent provision for the poor, particularly those in the final season of their lives, is the truest test of civilisation, and I left the rest to his conscience. The effect of the wine had begun to diminish this man's speech and I feared that it had also made inroads into what remained of his judgement. I could sense the deep desire on the part of the innkeeper to ask again after the Jamaican, but my mind was made up. The fall of a man is not a pretty picture to behold, but the spectacle of an individual attempting to hide his indifference behind a thin mask of concern is an altogether unacceptable sight.

I looked around as the inkeeper's 'guests' continued to drink like horses and grow increasingly shrill. Some among them began singing and pulling caps, while others stirred themselves as though preparing to dance a jig. Who in Lichfield had truly tried to help the faithful friend and servant of the city's foremost son? While I was sure that Francis Barber's own failings had led him to death's door in that inhospitable infirmary, I was also convinced that others had conspired in his demise by simply standing to the side and looking on. Dr Johnson's favourite, deprived of the protection of his master, and exposed to the hostile apathy of first London, and then Lichfield, had lost his way. A biographical sketch in the Gentlemen's Magazine would most likely be met with the same combination of fascination and disdain that had blighted the pathetic negro's life. Climbing to my unsteady feet, I bade my host a good night before abandoning him to the enmity of his wife. I carried a candle to my room where I anticipated a few fitful hours of half-sleep before clambering aboard a carriage back to London. I already understood that this night would be long and difficult, and that it was most likely that my dreams would be populated by multiple sightings of a small Jamaican boy named Quashey, who would no doubt be helplessly extending an arm in my direction. I resolved that in the morning I would tarry a while at Burntwood and, without comment, present his English wife with Dr Johnson's watch. Whatever she might obtain from the local pawnbroker would go some way towards feeding her irregular children. The good doctor would, I felt sure, approve of his handsome watch being disposed of for this purpose.