Foreigners
Authors: Caryl Phillips
FOREIGNERS
Caryl Phillips was born in St. Kitts, West Indies,
and brought up in England. He is the author of
three books of non-fiction and eight novels. His
most recent book,
Dancing in the Dark
, won the
2006 PEN/Beyond Margins Award, and his
previous novel,
A Distant Shore
, won the 2004
Commonwealth Prize. His other awards include
the Martin Luther King Memorial Prize, a
Guggenheim fellowship, and the James Tait Black
Memorial Prize.He is a fellowof the Royal Society
of Literature and currently lives in New York.
ALSO BY CARYL PHILLIPS
Dancing in the Dark
A Distant Shore
A New World Order
The Atlantic Sound
The Nature of Blood
Crossing the River
Cambridge
Higher Ground
The European Tribe
A State of Independence
The Final Passage
CARYL PHILLIPS
Three English Lives
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9781407016849
Version 1.0
Published by Vintage 2008
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Caryl Phillips 2007
Caryl Phillips has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Harvill Secker
Vintage
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited
can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9781407016849
Version 1.0
For Omar and Jamal
Doctor Johnson's Watch
It was a cold December morning, and the bitter wind penetrated
my black cloak with ease. However, the stubborn
sun continued to shine brightly in the sky, although it
failed to bestow any warmth on either myself or the two
dozen sombre souls gathered outside of Bolt Court. I
glanced about my person, realising that I was part of a
bizarre congregation that represented both high and low
society, but how could we be anything other than a queer
assembly of misfits when one considered the personage
who was to be buried on this melancholy English morning?
London society was still somewhat amused by the gossip
relating to the recently departed Dr Johnson's final exchange
with the sour-natured Sir John Hawkins, an apparently
abrupt conversation which had taken place only some few
short days before the doctor's death. Understanding that
his mortal time was limited, the doctor had demanded of
his chief executor in that stern, almost impolite, tone that
he had perfected, a tenor of voice which unfortunately
masked his more cordial nature, 'Where do you intend to
bury me?' When the news of the doctor's question reached
the ears of the leisured gentle men who recline in the
smoke-filled coffee houses which constitute London's
informal business world, the question served only to occasion
much laughter from both those who knew the
gentleman personally, and from those who knew of him
by reputation. Indeed, what kind of a question was this?
'Where do you intend to bury me?' Apparently Sir John
Hawkins maintained his countenance and answered plainly,
'In Westminster Abbey.' He might well have continued and
punctuated his uncharacteristically civil answer with the
rather less civil question, 'My good man, where else do
you expect to be lain to rest?' According to Hawkins, on
receiving this news the great man simply stared back and
then, almost as an afterthought, he adjusted his inadequate
wig. Although he was evidently drawing close to the
terminus of his existence, the slovenly doctor still appeared
to be insensible to the squalid spectacle that he presented.
However, despite his shabby appearance, Samuel Johnson
was undoubtedly the foremost literary scholar of his age,
a man whom nobody would dare to deny his rightful place
in the abbey next to Geoffrey Chaucer and John Dryden.
Eventually, the great gentleman, as though finally understanding
that his resting place was
indeed
to be Westminster
Abbey, continued in a less stentorian voice. 'Then,' he
whispered, 'if any friends think it worthwhile to give me
a stone, let it be placed over me so as to protect my body.'
No report was made of Sir John Hawkins' reply, if indeed
there was any, to this plaintive, and surprisingly coy, request
by the good doctor.
On the Monday after the doctor took his leave from
this earthly world, we subdued mourners gathered on the
narrow pavement outside of Bolt Court. Our gloomy
congregation could not be accommodated within the
modest confines of Dr Johnson's house and, I confess, at
this time I was not a member of that privileged inner circle
who strolled boldly from their carriages and knocked upon
the door before waiting confidently for admittance. Sixteen
years ago, I was little more than a minor literary wit in
London society, but more properly I was regarded as a
financial investor, a man of the City. My participation in
Dr Johnson's wider circle was unquestioned, but good
manners prevented me from attempting to assert a prominence
which I had not yet earned. Accordingly, I stood
with the less celebrated members of the Literary Club and
first stamped my feet, and then rubbed my hands together
against the cold, determining that I would remember every
last detail of this momentous day so that I might set it
down for those who came after me. I was sure that other,
more accomplished, pens would eventually make fine prose
from the events that were about to unfold, but I remained
hopeful that my own modest observations might have some
future resonance.
And then, at precisely twelve o'clock, with the sound
of City bells pealing gaily in the distance, the door to Bolt
Court was thrown open and out into the daylight emerged
the grief-stricken figures of the Revd Mr Strahan and the
Revd Mr Butt, both of whom were attired in their sootiest
frock coats and whose faces were decorated with a grave
aspect. While weak sunlight still conspired to brighten the
mood of the day, these two imposing men looked all about
themselves before standing to one side. Thereafter, the six
stern-faced pall-bearers – viz. Mr Burke, Mr Windham,
Sir Charles Bunbury, Sir Joseph Banks, Mr Colman, and
Mr Langton – walked gingerly from the house with the
burdensome body of the deceased carefully balanced at
shoulder height, its weight evenly distributed between them.
All eyes were upon these half-dozen men as they prudently
inched forward and then deposited the doctor into the
hearse, while others who had been gathered inside of the
house now spilled out on to the pavement and began distributing
themselves into the various coaches that were waiting
to transport those afflicted with tenderness and sorrow to
the abbey.
The procession departed promptly at a quarter after
noon with the hearse and six in front, and the executors
– viz. Sir John Hawkins, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and William
Scott, LLD – taking up the immediate rear in an attractive
coach and four. Behind them were arranged a further
eight coaches and four, which provided transportation for
the favoured members of the Literary Club and other close
friends of the deceased. Behind these eight coaches were
two more coaches and four, which contained the pallbearers,
and behind them another two coaches and four
which would convey a small group of gentlemen who had
kindly volunteered to help in any way they could. Closing
the procession were no less than thirteen gentlemen's
carriages, which spoke to both the affection in which the
doctor was held and to his high social status, all the more
remarkable when one considers that this most distinguished
of men had been born into undeniably modest circumstances.
I understood that I was to have the great honour of
riding in one of the eight coaches that had been designated
to transport the doctor's inner circle. Not wishing
to press my suit, I waited until the last possible moment
and was eventually ushered into the rearmost vehicle. Once
there I was surprised to find myself sharing the coach with
Dr Johnson's faithful negro servant, Francis Barber, and
another man who appeared, by his slipshod dress, to be
an English servant of some description who had fallen
below even this low station of life. The man appeared to
be uncomfortable, and he immediately stared out of the
window, as though concentrating hard upon some person
or object in the distance. I soon surmised that this was
probably his way of disguising his embarrassment at having
entered a place which made him feel inadequate. Either
this, or his seemingly purposeful gawping was enabling
him to stifle a grief that might otherwise grow uncontrollable.
I soon turned my attention from this nameless
fair-skinned lackey and fixed my gaze upon the polished
sable exterior of the renowned Francis Barber. I had, of
course, previously made the acquaintance of the doctor's
negro attendant, most commonly when the negro ushered
me into the doctor's house, and then, later in the evening,
when he conducted me out of the same establishment. On
other occasions the black man might accompany his master
on the short journey to a tavern in order that the doctor
might dine in the company of a small gathering of his
admirers, myself included, and once present the negro
would sometimes linger a while before disappearing into
the night. However, these few encounters with Francis
Barber stimulated precious little in the way of conversation
between us, save the normal pleasantries between
superior and inferior that one might expect in civilised
society. Nevertheless, I had formed a favourable opinion
of the sooty fellow as one who remained quietly devoted
to his master while exhibiting some occasional exuberance
of personality such as one might reasonably anticipate from
a member of his race.
There were others whose opinions of the negro were
not so generous. Some intimates of the doctor's circle freely
expressed their conviction that Francis Barber was, to their
minds, a wastrel, a man who considered his master's needs
only as an afterthought, and who was wont to freely spend
the doctor's money in order that he might improve his own
situation. My limited experience with Francis Barber
rendered me incapable of passing an informed judgement
on this matter, but to my eyes the negro Francis loved his
master with virtuous affection and was always protective
and loyal to the man under whose roof he had spent the
greater part of his life. After all, his master had been a
great champion of the negro people, and he had loudly
expressed his opinion that slavery could never be considered
the natural condition of man. Furthermore, the doctor
had consistently thundered that the number of black men
who still repined under English cruelty, at home and abroad,
remained too great. But dissenting voices could be heard,
and chief among the negro-detractors, and Francis Barber
in particular, was Sir John Hawkins, the chief executor of
the doctor's will. This peacock of a gentleman was known
to hold an ungenerous impression of his fellow man, be
they black or white, but it particularly galled him that
during the doctor's life he was never able to dislodge Francis
Barber from his high position in Dr Johnson's affection.
And now, no doubt due to Sir John Hawkins' scheming,
within three days of his master's decease here was Francis
Barber riding in the last of the eight carriages rather than
at the head of the procession where he rightfully belonged
and, no doubt, where his late master would have insisted
that he position himself.
Sad to say, I soon discerned that in the carriage there
was an odour, and a not altogether agreeable one at that.
Although I refrained from casting any accusative glances,
it was clear that the negro, Francis Barber, was the source
of the unpleasantness. Our third companion, who could
hardly boast that he was the most hygienic creature in the
kingdom, visibly recoiled at the smell and quickly fastened
a handkerchief to his face. I soon realised that it was not
the clothes of Francis Barber that were unwashed and
troubling to the senses, but in all likelihood it was the
badly matted wig that was causing the unfortunate aroma.
Clearly the negro's wig had lain unattended and unpowdered
for quite some time and the negro had most likely
hastily snatched it up for the occasion. Despite my discomfort,
I was prepared to forgive Francis Barber, for his late
master had not provided him with a reliable example. The
doctor's own great bushy wig possessed a hedge-like mass
which suggested that a comb had never penetrated its interior,
and this chaotic mess no doubt served as the negro's
model for what was acceptable in a headpiece. Sensing my
eyes upon him, the humble negro continued to stare intently
at the floor of the carriage, as though reading some secret
message that had been laid out there for him. Eventually,
he raised his black eyes so that they met my own, and then
he spoke in a clear English voice.
'I am sorry that we should meet again in such unfortunate
circumstances.'
I smiled, and nodded slightly, as I replied.
'Indeed, the timing is unfortunate, but I am content to
once again make your acquaintance.'
This being said, Francis Barber extended his hand and
we shook firmly like two merchants sealing a trading deal,
but beyond this opening exchange it was unclear where this
conversation might ramble. Accordingly, we retreated to
silence and joined our third companion in gazing idly out
of the window as London occupied herself with the trifles
of daily business, as though unaware of the fact that this
day held significance that England would evermore be
obliged to note. I thought about 'Dictionary Johnson' and
the busy society tongues that were wagging with news of
the recent autopsy that had been conducted at William
Hunter's School of Anatomy, off Shaftesbury Avenue,
where it had been discovered that although the doctor's
liver, pancreas, and kidney were chronically diseased, the
heart remained both large and strong. I would have liked
to engage Francis Barber on the subject of this news, and
discover his opinion of its significance, but the negro and
I spent the remainder of our journey studiously ignoring
one another until our procession reached the west door
of Westminster Abbey, which it did at a little before one
o'clock. Prior to disembarking I peered through the carriage
window and was alarmed to see few members of the general
public, and little evidence that more would soon be arriving
to swell the numbers. But even as I looked on I could hear
the fierce voice of England's great lexicographer reminding
me that such worries were pure vanity, and that I should
be putting my educated mind to better use.
The carriage door was opened by the tall footman, and
a sudden rush of fresh air served only to remind me of
the malodorous conditions that I had been forced to
endure. The third man quickly took his leave, but Francis
Barber deferred to myself and, keen to achieve terra firma
and the ability to breathe freely, I seized the proffered
opportunity and stepped nimbly from the carriage. The
six stern-faced prebendaries of the abbey were there to
greet us in their surplices and doctors' hoods, and they
marshalled the newly arrived congregants into some
semblance of order with the two vergers at the head,
followed by the Revds Mr Strahan and Mr Butt, and then
the body of the deceased on the sturdy shoulders of the
six resolute pall-bearers. The rest of us followed, two by
two, behind Sir Joshua Reynolds, the designated chief
mourner, and his fellow executors, Sir John Hawkins, and
Dr Scott. We proceeded slowly into the woefully empty
abbey, and made our way to the south cross where the
body was carefully placed with the feet opposite the elegant
monument to William Shakespeare. Then, to the surprise
of nearly all gathered, the Revd Dr Taylor began to
perform what was clearly a simple burial service, not the
full service that we were expecting. I later discovered that
the executors had felt themselves justified in keeping the
expense of the interment modest, and of course they
intended no disrespect, but the general feeling of those
assembled was one of distress that things were passing so
quickly and without lights, music, or a little gaiety. It was
noticeable that, once the initial shock had penetrated,
some mourners glared disapprovingly at the presiding Dr
Taylor, for most of those present held him responsible
for the hurried manner in which England's greatest literary
figure was being given body room in the abbey. Sad to
say, the ceremony was as dull as it was rapid, and it was
disturbing to realise how strikingly it differed from the
extravagant service that had been held for the doctor's lifelong
friend David Garrick, who five years earlier had made
his rest at the same venue.
