A Maggot

by John Fowles

  With Rebecca it was less, as it might be today, that she felt herself and her religion insulted and disbelieved; she would have been surprised had they not been, and acutely suspicious. Such scepticism and persecution were commonplace. It was far more that this interrogation did not let the religion be fully seen - its right, its reason, its crying need, its fierce being now. In truth these two were set apart from each other not only by countless barriers of age, sex, class, education, native province and the rest, but by something far deeper still: by belonging to two very different halves of the human spirit, perhaps at root those, left and right, of the two hemispheres of the brain. In themselves these are neither good nor evil. Those whom the left lobe (and the right hand) dominates are rational, mathematical, ordered, glib with words, usually careful and conventional; human society largely runs on an even keel, or at least runs, because of them. A sage and sober god of evolution must regard those dominated by the right lobe as far less desirable, except in one or two very peripheral things like art and religion, where mysticism and lack of logic are given value. Like Rebecca, they are poor at reason, often confused in argument; their sense of time (and politic timing) is often defective. They tend to live and wander in a hugely extended now, treating both past and future as present, instead of keeping them in control and order, firmly separated, like honest, decent right-handers. They confuse, they upset, they disturb. So truly are these two human beings of 1736. They speak for opposite poles, though long before such physical explanations of their contrariness could be mooted. Rebecca is driven now to the very brink of her left-handed self, that is her kind. At last she speaks, it seems almost to herself.

  Thee play blind. Thee play blind.'

  'Address me not so. I will not have it.'

  She falls.

  'Thee will not have it, thee will not have it. Thee's cloud, thee's night, thee's Lucifer with thy questions, thee'd blind me with thy lawyer's chains, that blind thee worst theeself. Can thee not see this world is lost? 'Tis not new sinning, 'tis oldly so, since time began. 'Tis cloth a thousand and a thousand times rent and soiled, 'tis sin every thread, I tell thee it shall never be washed clean nor newed again. No, never made new again by thee and thine, nor its evil ways thrown off, that corrupt the innocent from the day they are born. Can thee not see, thee and thine are blind?'

  Ayscough rises abruptly from his chair.

  'Silence, woman! I say silence.'

  But Rebecca now does the unheard-of. She stands also, and continues her denunciation; not slowly now, but rapidly, almost to the point of incoherence.

  'How dost honour Heaven? By turning this present world to Hell. Can thee not see we who live by Christ are thy only hope? Flee thy ways, yea, live Jesus Christ's ways now forgotten. Thy sinning world doth mock and persecute, yea, it would bury them; thee and thine are certain damned, and each day more. Yea, it shall come to pass, yea, His way shall be resurrected, yea, so shall the sinners see, yea, we of faith shall be justified; and thee and thy legion accursed in Antichrist damned for thy blindness, thy wicked ways. By this we shall conquer, I tell thee Christ returns, it is prophesied, yea, His light shall shine through every deed and word, the world shall be all window, and shining light, all evil seen thereby, and punished in Hell, and none of the damned like thee withstand it.'

  'I'll have thee thrown in gaol and whipped!'

  'No, no, thee evil dwarf, thee'd bind me in thy evil snares, thee shall not. I tell thee time past did never once return, thee cling to it in vain, 'tis now, 'tis now, I tell thee a new world comes, no sin shall be, no strife more between man and man, between man and woman, nor parent and child, nor master and servant. No, nor wicked will, nor washing of hands, nor shrugging of shoulders, nor blindness like thine to all that breaks thy comfort and thy selfish ways. No judge shall judge the poor, who would steal himself, were he them; no, nor greed shall rule, likewise not vanity, nor cruel sneers, nor feasting while others starve, nor happy shoes and shirts while any go naked. Dost thee not see, the lion shall lie with the lamb, all shall be light and justice; dear God, dost thee not see, thee cannot be so blind to thy own eternity, thee cannot, thee cannot . . . '

  Ayscough throws a look at John Tudor, who has remained head down, rapidly scribbling his shorthand.

  'For God's sake, man, stir thyself. Stop her tongue.'

  Tudor stands, hesitates a moment.

  'I tell thee I see, I see, dost not see I see, it comes, it-'

  Tudor moves to silence her; almost at once he stops. Something extraordinary has happened. At that last 'I see', her eyes have suddenly shifted. From staring at Ayscough, they look away, to the corner of the room to her left, some fifteen feet from where she stands. A small side-door there apparently leads to the adjacent room. It is exactly as if someone has entered by it and now stands there, making further speech impossible. The impression of this is so vivid that both Ayscough and his clerk look swiftly to the side-door. It stands silently there, unopened. No one has entered. Of one accord they look back to Rebecca, to see her still staring as before, it seems rooted, struck dumb; yet not dumbfounded or amazed, on the contrary, tamed, almost like one grateful to be silenced. All that previous, pinched and obstinate quality in her face has mysteriously passed away. Whatever she sees, her expression is more that of a dawning smile, curiously timid, childlike and expectant, brought unexpectedly face to face with someone she trusts and loves.

  Ayscough looks quickly round to the door again, then to Tudor, who answers his unspoken question.

  'No one entered?'

  'Not a soul, sir.'

  The two men stare a moment at each other. Ayscough looks back at Rebecca.

  'She is in a fit. See if she may be woken.'

  Tudor moves closer, then stopping a yard short of the tranced girl, gingerly reaches out a hand and shakes her arm, as if she were a snake or some dangerous animal. Still Rebecca stares towards the door.

  'Harder, man, harder. She won't bite thee.'

  Tudor goes behind her, and moving her chair back, takes both her arms. At first she seems oblivious, but as he continues to shake there comes a small cry from her, as of pain. It is low, more love, than true pain. Slowly her eyes find Ayscough who still stands facing her across the table. They close immediately and her head sinks.

  'Make her sit.'

  Tudor places the chair behind her.

  'Sit, mistress. It is past.'

  She sits as if will-less, her head sunk deep; then raises her hands to her face, and begins to sob, it seems at first in shame, as if she would hide this collapse into emotion. Ayscough leans forward, hands on table.

  'What is this, what saw you then?' Her only answer is a deeper sob. 'Water, give her water.'

  'Let her be, master. 'Tis like the vapours. 'Twill pass.'

  Ayscough scrutinizes the sobbing woman a little longer; then goes abruptly to the side-door to open it. But there he is defeated; though he tries twice, three times, with increasing irritation, it is locked. He walks more slowly back to the window and stares out; but sees nothing. The irreducible one part of his mind stands as shaken as Rebecca herself, though he does not admit it; nor looks back as her sobs rise, become unshameable, racking her body, rending in their intensity. Only when they become less frequent, does he turn again. He sees his clerk has managed to persuade her to drink, and stands with a hand on her shoulder, though she still sits with her head bowed. After a minute Ayscough goes back to his chair. He watches her bent head for a few moments, then gestures Tudor back to his seat.'

  'Are you returned within your senses, mistress?' She nods her bowed head. 'We may proceed?' Again she nods her head. 'What came upon you then?' She shakes her head. 'Why stared you so, toward the door?'

  At last she speaks, though without looking up. 'At what I saw.'

  There was none there. Why answer you not? I will forgive you your ranting and your insolence, your words most insulting of me. I would know what you saw, that is all.' He folds his arms across his breast, and waits, but
in vain. 'Are you ashamed of what you saw?'

  Then he has Rebecca's eyes, as she straightens up to face him, and once more puts her hands on her lap. Her face gives him a shock, for it holds a faint but perceptible smile. He will long remember it.

  'I am not ashamed.'

  'Why smile you?' She continues smiling, as if it is sufficient answer. 'It was a person?'

  'Yes.'

  'A person of this world?'

  'No.'

  'Did you believe it to be Our Lord, the Saviour?'

  'No.'

  'She you call Holy Mother Wisdom?'

  'No ,

  'Mistress, no more of this coyness. You did stare, it seemed at one who stood behind, that had entered. Is it not so? Come, who was it?'

  Her face has lost its mysterious smile; it is as if only now she remembers where she is, before an enemy. Yet in what follows of the interrogatory, Rebecca is not to seem the same. One knows she will not win, and cannot win; neither in this historical present, nor in the future. One knows, and she does not.

  * * *

  A. He you would find.

  Q. His Lordship? You maintain, you saw his Lordship stand here in this very room?

  A. Thee will not believe.

  Q. What expression bore he?

  A. As my friend.

  Q. What clothes wore he? As those he wore when you travelled into Devon? As those in your dream?

  A. As those he wore of June Eternal.

  Q. Did he open the door to enter, and close it behind?

  A. No.

  Q. He came then as a ghost, an apparition, that takes no account of what is obstacle to ordinary flesh?

  A. He came.

  Q. Did he not speak?

  A. He needs no words.

  Q. You were not surprised to see him so? Answer me, mistress. Is it not this - you have seen him so on other occasions since the first of May? Is it not so? Answer. It is so or it is not? Did you not tell false at the very beginning, when I asked if you had had any communication whatsoever with him? What is this else?

  A. Thee will not believe.

  Q. Such is no answer. Have you or have you not seen him, it may be not as here today, none the less so you may say, I have seen him?

  A. He is my friend.

  Q. So you may say, you have seen him?

  A. I have known him close.

  Q. As a less fanciful might say, I have felt his spirit close?

  A. Most close.

  Q. Have you as here, seen him as it seemed in the flesh?

  A. What is the flesh?

  Q. I grow angry. This you must know.

  A. He was not in this world's flesh; yet as he is.

  Q. Has his Lordship never, on such occasion you felt his spirit close, addressed you?

  A. Not by word. In the spirit.

  Q. How in the spirit - has he ever said, do this or that, believe this or that I tell you?

  A. In the soul.

  Q. Your soul is told what it must do and believe?

  A. That what it does and believes is right.

  Q. Has the spirit or what you will of his Lordship never spoken of himself, where his flesh might now be?

  A. No. It has no need.

  Q. You are certain it is in your June Eternal?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Have you told any other, your man, your parents, your friends and gossips, whosoever it might be, of these conversations?

  A. No.

  Q. None can bear witness to this, that you have had such visions, spiritual conversation', what you may call it?

  A. None but he, and our master Jesus Christ.

  Q. How often has this been since the first of May? Shake not your head, mistress. You may say in the general. Is it often or not? Many occasions, or few?

  A. When I have need.

  Q. Often, or less?

  A. Often at the first.

  Q. The more rarely the more latterly?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Is it not most common among your co-religionaries they make publick their visions among you, thereby to prove the efficacy of their conviction? Why said you nothing of this to anyone, mistress?

  A. It is not of such presence they may believe.

  Q. Did you not say, his Lordship is of the spirit of Jesus Christ? Is

  that not presence enough?

  A. It is not time that he was seen.

  Q. Your fellows should not acknowledge him, if you were to tell of what passed this last April? They should not understand this great worth you put upon him? They see not so far as you?

  A. I have seen him among us, where we meet; most plain, yet my brothers and sisters not. He would not yet be seen by all.

  Q. Shall you tell them, in time to come?

  A. They shall be told.

  Q. By whom, if not you?

  A. Truth will out, and all but the damned shall see.

  Q. Why dost thou ever speak the word as a cat laps cream? Is this Christian, that you should so often rejoice in the damnation of others?

  A. I rejoice not. 'Tis thee and thy kind most in this world that do rejoice; yea, that nothing may change, that thee and thine have brought about a hell worse than Hell itself for all below thee on this earth. I ask thee plain, is that Christian? Thee knows I am a simple woman, thee's a subtle man of law. Can thee and thy law answer the plain question? Thee knows 'tis so. Can thee tell why, can thee justify?

  Q. To each his deserts. It is appointed so.

  A. The most rich deserves the most. Yea, it is appointed; but not by will of God, by will of rich men alone.

  Q. Were it not God's will, He would not allow it.

  A. That He has not struck is no proof He shall not. Thee'd twist His patience into a justifying.

  Q. And you, mistress, His anger to satisfaction of your own resentment.

  A. Mercy is money loaned. One day it shall be paid back, or he who pays not shall suffer for it, and be made most terrible example of. All shall be dust and ashes, all shall be such fire I saw.

  Q. Still you prophesy. Of what may come you speak as if it were already come; which speaks far more to your present intemperate desire than to what time shall bring in truth. I ask again. How shall you change this present world?

  A. By living as we should and would, which is by Christ's light and word.

  Q. If you prove so contrary and obstinate in all, mistress, then I prophesy you shall be forbid, and with good cause. Answer not, I will be led no more into such idle disputation. I am almost done with you, for the now. First I admonish you, and most severely, of these following matters. You shall not speak of what has passed here, nor of what passed earlier this year. Neither to your man, nor your father, nor Wardley, nor any else beside. Nor shall you speak of those same things to prove your faith, to make of his Lordship in your meetings what he never was. In this you shall not now or ever more be prophetess. Is it understood?

  A. As Herod must be understood.

  Q. I will not have truth nor untruth from you. But silence, in the both cases. I demand your sworn oath thereon, and signed upon this paper before me. Have you letters to write your name?

  A. If thee and thine think they may prison God's truth, I'll be thy bar to prove thee wrong. I may write my flesh's name.

  Q. I warn thee. Think not you may speak despite this, I shall not know. I shall know, and shall make you curse the day you speak.

  A. So 1, that I did break my given word.

  Q. This is not all. I require likewise your oath sworn and signed upon what you did swear at the beginning: which is, you have not in any common sense, that is, without your visions and spiritual conversations, seen or spoken with his Lordship since the first of May last, nor had communication with him, nor news by third party whatsoever of him. You may state no more than this: what is become of him, you know not.

  A. I will sign.

  Q. Do you smile, mistress?

  A. Thee'd pin me fast upon the least, and toss aside the most.

  O. I'll have thee pinned in gaol
, if thou dost make light of this. I would make light of all.

  I warn you one last time. If you have lied and I shall at any future time discover such, it shall be with you as you said yourself of mercy not paid most duly back. All the just wrath of his Lordship's family, and my own, shall fall upon you. You shall be made most terrible example of. I shall deserve no less.

  (Here was the said solemn affidavit read to the deponent, that she did sign with her name, and it was witnessed duly.)

  Q. Very Well. You may go, I'll have no more of you at this present. Think not you are free. You shall attend, if called upon, to answer further.

  * * *

  Rebecca stands. John Tudor looks slowly up from the end of the table at his master, as a man watches, even though it is his master; things are not as expected, in something they surprise. Ayscough stops Rebecca as she would move.

  'There is a last matter, that is done against my advice. I would the rather see thee flogged for thy insolence, had I my way.' He pauses. 'I am instructed to give thee this, against thy lying in.'

  Ayscough feels inside a waistcoat pocket, then pushes a small golden coin across the table, a guinea.

  'I do not wish it.'

  'Take. It is commanded.'

  'No.'

  'Thy new pride wishes it not. Nothing else.'

  'No.'

  'Take. I shall not ask again.' Rebecca looks down at the coin, and shakes her head. 'Then I give thee what thou must take.' They stare at each other. 'A prophecy. Thou'lt be hanged yet.'

  Still Rebecca stares at him.

  'Thee's need also, master Ayscough. I give thee more love.'

  She goes, and Ayscough begins to collect his papers. After a few moments he reaches for his rejected guinea and shoots a fierce glance towards John Tudor, as if he would vent an anger on him. But that worthy is no fool; his head is down.

  * * *

  Manchester, the 10th October.

  Your Grace,

  Your Grace will here read much I doubt he will credit, yet I trust he will give me leave to say that I think we deal not here with a tissue of cunning-ordinary lies, or such a tale as a common female rogue might invent to save her skin; for were she truly cunning of the kind, she should surely have found better than such extravagance as this, nor thereby put her wretched skin at such risk. In brief, in so much as the woman Lee is concerned, we may say as the ancient father, Credo quia absurdum, it is most (if at all) to be believed because it is impossible to be believed. For much it is plain she was grossly practised upon by his Lordship and his man, and that their practice did but swell and ripen those unseemly resentments she had gained from her life in the bagnio. I am persuaded she lies little in any ordinary sense, that is, as to what she believes of these events and their nature and meaning; as non obstante I am persuaded that her evidence is false in the substantial truth of what passed.