John Coetzee - Scenes from Provincial Life

That is what he said. English is just one language among many. ‘My daughter is not going to be like a parrot that mixes up languages, Mr Coetzee,’ I said. ‘I want her to speak English properly, and with a proper English accent.’

Fortunately for him, this was the moment when Joana arrived home. Joana was already twenty by then, but in the presence of a man she was still bashful. Compared with her sister she was not a beauty — look, here is a snapshot of her with her husband and their little boys, it was taken some time after we moved back to Brazil, you can see, not a beauty, all the beauty went to her sister — but she was a good girl and I always knew she would make a good wife.

Joana came into the room where we were sitting, still wearing her raincoat (I remember that long raincoat of hers). ‘My sister,’ said Maria Regina, as if she was explaining who this new person was rather than introducing her. Joana said nothing, just looked shy, and as for Mr Coetzee the teacher, he almost knocked over the coffee table trying to get to his feet.

Why is Maria Regina besotted with this foolish man? What does she see in him? That was the question I asked myself. It was easy enough to guess what a lonely célibataire might see in my daughter, who was turning into a real dark-eyed beauty though she was still only a child, but what made her learn poems by heart for this man, something she had never done for her other teachers? Had he perhaps been whispering words to her that had turned her head? Was that the explanation? Was there something going on between the two of them that she was keeping secret from me?

Now if this man were to become interested in Joana, I thought to myself, it would be a different story. Joana may not have a head for poetry, but at least she has her feet on the ground.

‘Joana is working this year at Clicks,’ I said. ‘To get experience. Next year she will take a management course. To be a manager.’

Mr Coetzee nodded abstractedly. Joana said nothing at all.

‘Take off your coat, my child,’ I said, ‘and drink some tea.’ We did not normally drink tea, we drank coffee. Joana brought home some tea the day before for this guest of ours, Earl Grey tea it was called, very English but not very nice, I wondered what we were going to do with the rest of the packet.

‘Mr Coetzee is from the school,’ I repeated to Joana, as if she did not know. ‘He is telling us how he is not English but is nevertheless the English teacher.’

‘I am not, properly speaking, the English teacher,’ Mr Coetzee interjected, addressing Joana. ‘I am the Extra English teacher. That means I have been hired by the school to help students who are having difficulty with English. I try to get them through the examinations. So I am a kind of examination coach. That would be a better description of what I do, a better name for me.’

‘Do we have to talk about school?’ said Maria Regina. ‘It is so boring.’

But what we were talking about was not boring at all. Painful, perhaps, for Mr Coetzee, but not boring. ‘Go on,’ I said to him, ignoring her.

‘I do not intend to be an examination coach for the rest of my life,’ he said. ‘It is something I am doing for the present, something I happen to be qualified to do, in order to make a living. But it is not my vocation. It is not what I was called into the world to do.’

Called into the world . More and more strange.

‘If you would like me to explain my philosophy of teaching I can do so,’ he said. ‘It is quite brief, brief and simple.’

‘Go on,’ I said, ‘let us hear your brief philosophy.’

‘What I call my philosophy of teaching is in fact a philosophy of learning. It comes out of Plato, modified. Before true learning can occur, I believe, there must be in the student’s heart a certain yearning for the truth, a certain fire. The true student burns to know. In the teacher she recognizes, or apprehends, the one who has come closer than herself to the truth. So much does she desire the truth embodied in the teacher that she is prepared to burn her old self up to attain it. For his part, the teacher recognizes and encourages the fire in the student, and responds to it by burning with an intenser light. Thus together the two of them ascend to a higher realm. So to speak.’

He paused, smiling. Now that he had had his say he seemed more relaxed. What a strange, vain man! I thought. Burn herself up! What nonsense he talks! Dangerous nonsense too! Out of Plato! Is he making fun of us? But Maria Regina, I noticed, was leaning forward, devouring his face with her eyes. Maria Regina did not think he was joking. This is not good! I said to myself.

‘That does not sound like philosophy to me, Mr Coetzee,’ I said, ‘it sounds like something else, I will not say what, since you are our guest. Maria, you can fetch the cake now. Joana, help her; and take off that raincoat. My daughters baked a cake last night in honour of your visit.’

The moment the girls were out of the room I went to the heart of the matter, speaking softly so that they would not hear. ‘Maria is still a child, Mr Coetzee. I am paying for her to learn English and get a good certificate. I am not paying for you to play with her feelings. Do you understand?’ The girls came back, bearing their cake. ‘Do you understand?’ I repeated.

‘We learn what we most deeply want to learn,’ he replied. ‘Maria wants to learn — do you not, Maria?’

Maria flushed and sat down.

‘Maria wants to learn,’ he repeated, ‘and she is making good progress. She has a feeling for language. Maybe she will become a writer one day. What a magnificent cake!’

‘It is good when a girl can bake,’ I said, ‘but it is even better when she can speak good English and get good marks in her English examination.’

‘Good elocution, good marks,’ he said. ‘I understand your wishes perfectly.’

When he had left, when the girls had gone to bed, I sat down and wrote him a letter in my bad English, I could not help that, it was not the kind of letter my friend at the studio should see.

Respected Mr Coetzee, I wrote, I repeat what I told you during your visit. You are employed to teach my daughter English, not to play with her feelings. She is a child, you are a grown man. If you wish to expose your feelings, expose them outside the classroom. Yours faithfully, ATN.

That is what I said. It may not be how you speak in English, but it is how we speak in Portuguese — your translator will understand. Expose your feelings outside the classroom — that was not an invitation to him to pursue me, it was a warning to him not to pursue my daughter.

I sealed up the letter in an envelope and wrote his name on it, Mr Coetzee / Saint Bonaventure , and on the Monday morning I put it in Maria Regina’s bag. ‘Give it to Mr Coetzee,’ I said, ‘put it in his hand.’

‘What is it?’ said Maria Regina.

‘It is a note from a parent to her daughter’s teacher, it is not for your eyes. Now go, or you will miss your bus.’

Of course I made a mistake, I should not have said, It is not for your eyes. Maria Regina was beyond the age where, if your mother gives you a command, you obey. She was beyond that age but I did not know it yet. I was living in the past.

‘Did you give the note to Mr Coetzee?’ I asked when she came home.

‘Yes,’ she said, and nothing more. I did not think I needed to ask, Did you open it in secret and read it before you gave it to him?

The next day, to my surprise, Maria Regina brought back a note from this teacher of hers, not an answer to mine but an invitation: would we all like to come on a picnic with him and his father? At first I was going to refuse. ‘Think,’ I said to Maria Regina: ‘Do you really want your friends at school to get the impression you are the teacher’s favourite? Do you really want them to gossip behind your back?’ But that weighed nothing with her, she wanted to be the teacher’s favourite. She pressed me and pressed me to accept, and Joana backed her up, so in the end I said yes.