J. Coetzee: Foe

‘Why do you tell me this story?’ I asked. ‘Am I the woman whose time has come to be taken to the gallows, and are you the chaplain?’

‘You are free to give to the story what application you will,’ Foe replied. ‘To me the moral of the story is that there comes a time when we must give reckoning of ourselves to the world, and then forever after be content to hold our peace.’

‘To me the moral is that he has the last word who disposes over the greatest force. I mean the executioner and his assistants, both great and small. If I were the Irishwoman, I should rest most uneasy in my grave knowing to what interpreter the story of my last hours has been consigned.’

‘Then I will tell you a second story. A woman (another woman) was condemned to die-I forget the crime. As the fatal day approached she grew more and more despairing, for she could find no one to take charge of her infant daughter, who was with her in the cell. At last one of her gaolers, taking pity on her distress, spoke with his wife, and together they agreed they would adopt the child as their own. When this condemned woman saw her child safe in the arms of her foster-mother, she turned to her captors and said: “Now you may do with me as you wish. For I have escaped your prison; all you have here is the husk of me” (intending, I believe, the husk that the butterfly leaves behind when it is born). This is a story from the old days; we no longer handle mothers so barbarously. Nevertheless, it retains its application, and the application is: There are more ways than one of living eternally.

‘Mr Foe, I do not have the skill of bringing out parables one after another like roses from a conjurer’s sleeve. There was a time, I grant, when I hoped to be famous, to see heads turn in the street and hear folk whisper, “There goes Susan Barton the castaway.” But that was an idle ambition, long since discarded. Look at me. For two days I have not eaten. My clothes are in tatters, my hair is lank. I look like a~ old woman, a filthy old gipsy-woman. I sleep in doorways, in churchyards, under bridges. Can you believe this beggar’s life is what I desire? With a bath and new clothes and a letter of introduction from you I could tomorrow find myself a situation as a cook-maid, and a comfortable situation too, in a good house. I could return in every respect to the life of a substantial body, the life you recommend. But such a life is abject. It is the life of a thing. A whore used by men is used as a substantial body. The waves picked me up and cast me ashore on an island, and a year later the same waves brought a ship to rescue me, and of the true story of that year, the story as it should be seen in God’s great scheme of things, I remain as ignorant as a newborn babe. That is why I cannot rest, that is why I follow you to your hiding-place like a bad penny. Would I be here if I did not believe you to be my intended, the one alone intended to tell my true story?

‘Do you know the story of the Muse, Mr Foe? The Muse is a woman, a goddess, who visits poets in the night and begets stories upon them. In the accounts they give afterwards, the poets say that she comes in the hour of their deepest despair and touches them with sacred fire, after which their pens, that have been dry, flow. When I wrote my memoir for you, and saw how like the island it was, under my pen, dull and vacant and without life, I wished that there were such a being as a man-Muse, a youthful god who visited authoresses in the night and made their pens flow. But now I know better. The Muse is both goddess and begetter. I was intended not to be the mother of my story, but to beget it. It is not I who am the intended, but you. But why need I argue my case? When is it ever asked of a man who comes courting that he plead in syllogisms? Why should it be demanded of me?’

Foe made no reply, but crossed the room to the curtained alcove and returned with a jar. ‘These are wafers made with almond-paste after the Italian fashion,’ he said. ‘Alas, they are all I have to offer.’

I took one and tasted it. So light was it that it melted on my tongue. ‘The food of gods,’ I remarked. Foe smiled and shook his head. I held out a wafer to Friday, who languidly took it from my hand. ‘The boy Jack will be coming shortly,’ said Foe; ‘then I will send him out for our supper.’

A silence fell. I gazed out at the steeples and rooftops. ‘You have found yourself a fine retreat,’ I said ‘a true eagle’s-nest. I wrote my memoir by candlelight in a windowless room, with the paper on my knee. Is that the reason, do you think, why my story was so dull — that my vision was blocked, that I could not see?’

‘It is not a dull story, though it is too much the same,’ said Foe.

‘It is not dull so long as we remind ourselves it is true. But as an adventure it is very dull indeed. That is why you pressed me to bring in the cannibals, is it not?’ Foe inclined his head judiciously this way and that. ‘In Friday here you have a living cannibal,’ I pursued. ‘Behold. If we are to go by Friday, cannibals are no less dull than Englishmen.’ ‘They lose their vivacity when deprived of human flesh, I am sure,’ replied Foe.

There was a tap at the door and the boy came in who had guided us to the house. ‘Welcome, Jack!’ called Foe.. ‘Mistress Barton, whom you· have met, is to dine with us, so will you ask for double portions?’ He took out his purse and gave Jack money. ‘Do not forget Friday,’ I put in. ‘And a portion for Friday the manservant too, by all means,’ said Foe. The boy departed. ‘I found Jack among the waifs and orphans who sleep in the ash-pits at the glassworks. He is ten years old, by his reckoning, but already a notable pick-pocket.’ ‘Do you not try to correct him?’ I inquired. ‘To make him honest would be to condemn him to the workhouse,’ said Foe-’Would you see a child in the workhouse for the sake of a few handkerchiefs?’ ‘No; but you are training him for the gallows,’ I replied — ‘Can you not take him in and teach him his letters and send him out as an apprentice?’ ‘If I were to follow that advice, how many apprentices would I not have sleeping on my floor, whom I have saved from the streets?’ said Foe — ‘I should be taken for a thief-master and sent to the gallows myself. Jack has his own life to live, better than any I could devise for him.’ ‘Friday too has a life of his own,’ I said; ‘but I do not therefore turn Friday out on the streets.’ ‘Why do you not?’ said Foe. ‘Because he is helpless,’ said I — ‘Because London is strange to him. Because he would be taken for a runaway, and sold, and transported to Jamaica.’ ‘Might he not rather be taken in by his own kind, and cared for and fed?’ said Foe — ‘There are more Negroes in London than you would believe. Walk along Mile End Road on a summer’s afternoon, or in Paddington, and you will see. Would Friday not be happier among other Negroes? He could play for pennies in a street band. There are many such strolling bands. I would make him a present of my flute.’

I glanced across at Friday. Did I mistake myself, or was there a gleam of understanding in his eye? ‘Do you understand what Mr Foe says, Friday?’ I called. He looked back at me dully.

‘Or if we had mops in London, as they have in the west country,’ said Foe, ‘Friday could stand in the line with his hoe on his shoulder and be hired for a gardener, and not a word be passed!

Jack now returned, bearing a covered tray from which came an appetizing smell. He set the tray down on the table and whispered to Foe. ‘Allow us a few minutes, then show them up,’ said Foe; and to me: ‘We have visitors, but let us eat first:

Jack had brought roast beef and gravy, together with a threepenny loaf and a pitcher of ale. There being only the two plates, Foe and I ate first, after which I filled my plate again and gave it to Friday.