rightly called the mirrors of the soul?)
‘Yet even as I spoke I began to doubt myself. For if Friday’s gaze indeed became troubled, might that not be because I came striding out of the house, demanding that he look at pictures, something I had never done before? Might the picture itself not confuse him? (For, examining it anew, I recognized with chagrin that it might also be taken to show Cruso as a beneficent father putting a lump of fish into the mouth of child Friday.) And how did he understand my gesture of putting out my tongue at him? What if, among the cannibals of Africa, putting out the tongue has the same meaning as offering the lips has amongst us? Might you not then flush with shame when a woman puts out her tongue and you have no tongue with which to respond?
‘I brought out my second sketch. Again there was depicted little Friday, his arms stretched behind him, his mouth wide open; but now the man with the knife was a slave-trader, a tall black man clad in a burnous, and the knife was sickle-shaped. Behind this Moor waved the palm-trees of Africa. “Slave-trader,” I said, pointing to the man. “Man who catches boys and sells them as slaves. Did a slave-trader cut out your tongue, Friday? Was it a slave-trader or Master Cruso?”
‘But Friday’s gaze remained vacant, and I began to grow disheartened. Who, after all, was to say he did not lose his tongue at the age when boy-children among the Jews are cut; and, if so, how could he remember the loss? Who was to say there do not exist entire tribes in Africa among whom the men are mute and speech is reserved to women? Why should it not be so? The world is more various than we ever give it credit for — that is one of the lessons I was taught by Bahia. Why should such tribes not exist, and procreate, and flourish, and be content?
‘Or if there was indeed a slave-trader, a Moorish slave-trader with a hooked knife, was my picture of him at all like the Moor Friday remembered? Are Moors all tall and clad in white burnouses? Perhaps the Moor gave orders to a trusty slave to cut out the tongues of the captives, a wizened black slave in a loin-cloth. “Is this a faithful representation of the man who cut out your tongue?” — was that what Friday, in his way, understood me to be asking? If so, what answer could he give but No? And even if it was a Moor who cut out his tongue, his Moor was likely an inch taller than mine, or an inch shorter; wore black or blue, not white; was bearded, not dean-shaven; had a straight knife, not a curved one; and so forth.
‘So, standing before Friday, I slowly tore up my pictures. A long silence fell. For the first time I noted how long Friday’s fingers were, folded on the shaft of the spade. “Ah, Friday!” I said. “Shipwreck is a great leveller, and so is destitution, but we are not level enough yet.” And then, though no reply came nor ever would, I went on, giving voice to all that lay in my heart. “I am wasting my life on you, Friday, on you and your foolish story. I mean no hurt, but it is true. When I am an old woman I will look back on this as a great waste of time, a time of being wasted by time. What are we doing here, you and I, among the sober burgesses of Newington, waiting for a man who will never come back?”
‘If Friday had been anyone else, I would have wished him to take me in his arms and comfort me, for seldom had I felt so miserable. But Friday stood like a statue. I have no doubt that amongst Africans the human sympathies move as readily as amongst us. But the unnatural years Friday had spent with Cruso had deadened his bean, making him cold, incurious, like an animal wrapt entirely in itself.
‘During the reign of the bailiffs, as you will understand, the neighbours shunned your house. But today a gentleman who introduced himself as Mr Summers called. I thought it prudent to tell him I was the new housekeeper and Friday the gardener. I was plausible enough, I believe, to convince him we are not gipsies who have chanced on an empty house and settled in. The house itself is clean and neat, even the library, and Friday was at work in the garden, so the lie did not seem too great.
‘I wonder sometimes whether you do not wait impatiently in your quarter of London for tidings that the castaways are at last flitten and you are free to come home. Do you have spies who peer in at the windows to see whether we are still in occupation? Do you pass by the house yourself daily in thick disguise? Is the truth that your hiding-place is not in the back alleys of Shoreditch or Whitechapel, as we all surmise, but in this sunny village itself? Is Mr Summers of your party? Have you taken up residence in his attic, where you pass the time perusing through a spyglass the life we lead? If so, you will believe me when I say the life we lead grows less and less distinct from the life we led on Cruso’s island. Sometimes I wake up not knowing where I am. The world is full of islands, said Cruso once. His words ring truer every day.
‘I write my letters, I seal them, I drop them in the box. One day when we are departed you will tip them out and glance through them. “Better had there been only Cruso and Friday,” you will murmur to yourself: “Better without the woman.” Yet where would you be without the woman? Would Cruso have come to you of his own accord? Could you have made up Cruso and Friday and the island with its fleas and apes and lizards? I think not. Many strengths you have, but invention is not one of them.’
‘A stranger has been watching the house, a girl. She stands across the street for hours on end, making no effort to conceal herself. Passers-by stop and talk to her, but she ignores them. I ask: Is she another, of the bailiffs’ spies, or is she sent by you to observe us? She wears a grey cloak and cape, despite the summer’s heat, and carries a basket.
‘I went out to her today, the fourth day of her vigil. “Here is a letter for your masters,” I said, without preamble, and dropped a letter in her basket. She stared in surprise. Later I found the letter pushed back under the door unopened. I had addressed it to Wilkes the bailiff. If the girl were in the bailiffs’ service, I reasoned, she could not refuse to take a letter to them. So I tied in a packet all the letters I had written you and went out a second time.
‘It was late in the afternoon. She stood before me stiff as a statue, wrapped in her cloak. “When you see Mr Foe, give him these,” I said, and presented the letters. She shook her head. “Will you not see Mr Foe then?” I asked. Again she shook her head. “Who are you? Why do you watch Mr Foe’s house?” I pursued, wondering whether I had to do with another mute.
‘She raised her head. “Do you not know who I am?” she said. Her voice was low, her lip trembled.
‘“I have never set eyes on you in my life,” said I.
‘All the colour drained from her face. “That is not true,” she whispered; and let fall the hood of her cape and shook free her hair, which was hazel-brown.
“‘Tell me your name and I will know better,” said I.
‘“My name is Susan Banon,” she whispered; by which I knew I was conversing with a madwoman.
‘“And why do you watch my house all day, Susan Banon?” I asked, holding my voice level.
‘“To speak with you,” she replied.
‘“And what is my name?”
‘“Your name is Susan Banon too.”
‘“And who sends you to watch my house? Is it Mr Foe? Does Mr Foe wish us to be gone?”
‘“I know no Mr Foe,” said she. “I come only to see you.”
‘“And what may your business be with me?”
‘“Do you not know,” said she, in a voice so low I could barely hear — “Do you not know whose child I am?”
‘“I have never set eyes on you in my life,” said I. “Whose child are you?” To which she made no reply, but bowed her head and began to weep, standing clumsily with her hands at her sides, her basket at her feet.
‘Thinking, This is some poor lost child who does not know who she is, I put an arm about her to comfort her. But as I touched her she of a sudden dropped to her knees and embraced me, sobbing as if her heart would break.
‘“What is it, child?” said I, trying to break her grip on me.
‘“You do not know me, you do not know me!” she cried.
‘“It is true I do not know you, but I know your name, you told me, it is Susan Barton, the same name as mine.”
‘At this she wept even harder. “You have forgotten me!” she sobbed.
‘“I have not forgotten you, for I never knew you. But you must get up and dry your tears.”
‘She allowed me to raise her, and took my. handkerchief and dried her eyes and blew her nose. I thought: What a great blubbering lump! “Now you must tell me,” said I: “How do you come to know my name?” (For to Mr Summers I presented myself simply as the new housekeeper; to no one in Newington have I given my name.)
‘“I have followed you everywhere,” said the girl.
