Murphy

by Samuel Beckett

  1973

  January Not I (London: Faber).

  Autumn First Love (London: Calder).

  1974

  Mercier and Camier (London: Calder).

  1975

  Spring Directs Godot in Berlin and Pas moi (translation of Not I) in Paris.

  1976

  February Pour finir encore et autres foirades (Paris: Minuit).

  20 May Directs Billie Whitelaw in Footfalls, which is performed with That Time at London’s Royal Court Theatre in honour of Beckett’s seventieth birthday.

  Autumn All Strange Away, illustrated with etchings by Edward Gorey (New York: Gotham Book Mart).

  Foirades/Fizzles, in French and English, illustrated with etchings by Jasper Johns (New York: Petersburg Press).

  December Footfalls (London: Faber).

  1977

  March Collected Poems in English and French (London: Calder; New York: Grove).

  1978

  May Pas, translation of Footfalls (Paris: Minuit).

  August Poèmes, suivi de mirlitonnades (Paris: Minuit).

  1980

  January Compagnie (Paris: Minuit).

  Company (London: Calder).

  May Directs Endgame in London with Rick Cluchey and the San Quentin Drama Workshop.

  1981

  March Mal vu mal dit (Paris: Minuit).

  April Rockaby and Other Short Pieces (New York: Grove).

  October Ill Seen Ill Said, translation of Mal vu mal dit (New York: The New Yorker, Grove).

  1983

  April Worstward Ho (London: Calder).

  September Disjecta: Miscellaneous Writings and a Dramatic Fragment, containing critical essays on art and literature as well as the unfinished 1937 play Human Wishes (London: Calder).

  1984

  February Oversees San Quentin Drama Workshop production of Godot, directed by Walter Asmus, in London.

  Collected Shorter Plays (London: Faber; New York: Grove).

  May Collected Poems 1930–1978 (London: Calder).

  July Collected Shorter Prose 1945–1980 (London: Calder).

  1989

  April Stirrings Still (New York: Blue Moon Books).

  June Nohow On: Company, Ill Seen Ill Said, Worstward Ho, illustrated with etchings by Robert Ryman (New York: Limited Editions Club).

  July 17 Death of Suzanne Beckett.

  December 22 Death of Samuel Beckett. Burial in Cimetière de Montparnasse.

  1990

  As the Story Was Told: Uncollected and Late Prose (London: Calder; New York: Riverrun Press).

  1992

  Dream of Fair to Middling Women (Dublin: Black Cat Press).

  1995

  Eleutheria (Paris: Minuit).

  1996

  Eleutheria, translated into English by Barbara Wright (London: Faber).

  1998

  No Author Better Served: The Correspondence of Samuel Beckett and Alan Schneider, edited by Maurice Harmon (Cambridge: Harvard University Press).

  2000

  Beckett on Film: nineteen films, by different directors, of Beckett’s works for the stage (RTÉ, Channel 4, and Irish Film Board; DVD, London: Clarence Pictures).

  2006

  Samuel Beckett: Works for Radio: The Original Broadcasts: five works spanning the period 1957–1976 (CD, London: British Library Board).

  Compiled by Cassandra Nelson

  Manuscript notes towards Murphy, ‘Whoroscope’ notebook

  Courtesy of the Beckett International Foundation, University of Reading.

  © The Estate of Samuel Beckett.

  Murphy

  1

  THE sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. Murphy sat out of it, as though he were free, in a mew in West Brompton. Here for what might have been six months he had eaten, drunk, slept, and put his clothes on and off, in a medium-sized cage of north-western aspect commanding an unbroken view of medium-sized cages of south-eastern aspect. Soon he would have to make other arrangements, for the mew had been condemned. Soon he would have to buckle to and start eating, drinking, sleeping, and putting his clothes on and off, in quite alien surroundings.

  He sat naked in his rocking-chair of undressed teak, guaranteed not to crack, warp, shrink, corrode, or creak at night. It was his own, it never left him. The corner in which he sat was curtained off from the sun, the poor old sun in the Virgin again for the billionth time. Seven scarves held him in position. Two fastened his shins to the rockers, one his thighs to the seat, two his breast and belly to the back, one his wrists to the strut behind. Only the most local movements were possible. Sweat poured off him, tightened the thongs. The breath was not perceptible. The eyes, cold and unwavering as a gull’s, stared up at an iridescence splashed over the cornice moulding, shrinking and fading. Somewhere a cuckoo-clock, having struck between twenty and thirty, became the echo of a street-cry, which now entering the mew gave Quid pro quo! Quid pro quo! directly.

  These were sights and sounds that he did not like. They detained him in the world to which they belonged, but not he, as he fondly hoped. He wondered dimly what was breaking up his sunlight, what wares were being cried. Dimly, very dimly.

  He sat in his chair in this way because it gave him pleasure! First it gave his body pleasure, it appeased his body. Then it set him free in his mind. For it was not until his body was appeased that he could come alive in his mind, as described in section six. And life in his mind gave him pleasure, such pleasure that pleasure was not the word.

  Murphy had lately studied under a man in Cork called Neary. This man, at that time, could stop his heart more or less whenever he liked and keep it stopped, within reasonable limits, for as long as he liked. This rare faculty, acquired after years of application somewhere north of the Nerbudda, he exercised frugally, reserving it for situations irksome beyond endurance, as when he wanted a drink and could not get one, or fell among Gaels and could not escape, or felt the pangs of hopeless sexual inclination.

  Murphy’s purpose in going to sit at Neary’s feet was not to develop the Neary heart, which he thought would quickly prove fatal to a man of his temper, but simply to invest his own with a little of what Neary, at that time a Pythagorean, called the Apmonia. For Murphy had such an irrational heart that no physician could get to the root of it. Inspected, palpated, auscultated, percussed, radiographed and cardiographed, it was all that a heart should be. Buttoned up and left to perform, it was like Petrouchka in his box. One moment in such labour that it seemed on the point of seizing, the next in such ebullition that it seemed on the point of bursting. It was the mediation between these extremes that Neary called the Apmonia. When he got tired of calling it the Apmonia he called it the Isonomy. When he got sick of the sound of Isonomy he called it the Attunement. But he might call it what he liked, into Murphy’s heart it would not enter. Neary could not blend the opposites in Murphy’s heart.

  Their farewell was memorable. Neary came out of one of his dead sleeps and said:

  ‘Murphy, all life is figure and ground.’

  ‘But a wandering to find home,’ said Murphy.

  ‘The face,’ said Neary, ‘or system of faces, against the big blooming buzzing confusion. I think of Miss Dwyer.’

  Murphy could have thought of a Miss Counihan. Neary clenched his fists and raised them before his face.

  ‘To gain the affections of Miss Dwyer,’ he said, ‘even for one short hour, would benefit me no end.’

  The knuckles stood out white under the skin in the usual way – that was the position. The hands then opened quite correctly to the utmost limit of their compass – that was the negation. It now seemed to Murphy that there were two equally legitimate ways in which the gesture might be concluded, and the sublation effected. The hands might be clapped to the head in a smart gesture of despair, or let fall limply to the seams of the trousers, supposing that to have been their point of departure. Judge then of his annoyance when Neary clenched them again more violently than before and dashed them against his breast-b
one.

  ‘Half an hour,’ he said, ‘fifteen minutes.’

  ‘And then?’ said Murphy. ‘Back to Teneriffe and the apes?’

  ‘You may sneer,’ said Neary, ‘and you may scoff, but the fact remains that all is dross, for the moment at any rate, that is not Miss Dwyer. The one closed figure in the waste without form, and void! My tetrakyt!’

  Of such was Neary’s love for Miss Dwyer, who loved a Flight-Lieutenant Elliman, who loved a Miss Farren of Ringsakiddy, who loved a Father Fitt of Ballinclashet, who in all sincerity was bound to acknowledge a certain vocation for a Mrs. West of Passage, who loved Neary.

  ‘Love requited,’ said Neary, ‘is a short circuit,’ a ball that gave rise to a sparkling rally.

  ‘The love that lifts up its eyes,’ said Neary, ‘being in torments; that craves for the tip of her little finger, dipped in lacquer, to cool its tongue – is foreign to you, Murphy, I take it.’

  ‘Greek,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Or put it another way,’ said Neary; ‘the single, brilliant, organised, compact blotch in the tumult of heterogeneous stimulation.’

  ‘Blotch is the word,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Just so,’ said Neary. ‘Now pay attention to this. For whatever reason you cannot love—But there is a Miss Counihan, Murphy, is there not?’

  There was indeed a Miss Counihan.

  ‘Now say you were invited to define let us say your commerce with this Miss Counihan, Murphy,’ said Neary. ‘Come now, Murphy.’

  ‘Precordial,’ said Murphy, ‘rather than cordial. Tired. Cork County. Depraved.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Neary. ‘Now then. For whatever reason you cannot love in my way, and believe me there is no other, for that same reason, whatever it may be, your heart is as it is. And again for that same reason—’

  ‘Whatever it may be,’ said Murphy.

  ‘I can do nothing for you,’ said Neary.

  ‘God bless my soul,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Just so,’ said Neary. ‘I should say your conarium has shrunk to nothing.’

  *

  He worked up the chair to its maximum rock, then relaxed. Slowly the world died down, the big world where Quid pro quo was cried as wares and the light never waned the same way twice; in favour of the little, as described in section six, where he could love himself.

  A foot from his ear the telephone burst into its rail. He had neglected to take down the receiver. If he did not answer it at once his landlady would come running to do so, or some other lodger. Then he would be discovered, for his door was not locked. There was no means of locking his door. It was a strange room, the door hanging off its hinges, and yet a telephone. But its last occupant had been a harlot, long past her best, which had been scarlet. The telephone that she had found useful in her prime, in her decline she found indispensable. For the only money she made was when a client from the old days rang her up. Then she was indemnified for having been put to unnecessary inconvenience.

  Murphy could not free his hand. Every moment he expected to hear the urgent step of his landlady on the stairs, or of some other lodger. The loud calm crake of the telephone mocked him. At last he freed a hand and seized the receiver, which in his agitation he clapped to his head instead of dashing to the ground.

  ‘God blast you,’ he said.

  ‘He is doing so,’ she replied. Celia.

  He laid the receiver hastily in his lap. The part of him that he hated craved for Celia, the part that he loved shrivelled up at the thought of her. The voice lamented faintly against his flesh. He bore it for a little, then took up the receiver and said:

  ‘Are you never coming back?’

  ‘I have it,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t I know,’ said Murphy.

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ she said, ‘I mean what you told me—’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Meet me at the usual at the usual,’ she said. ‘I’ll have it with me.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ said Murphy. ‘I expect a friend.’

  ‘You have no friends,’ said Celia.

  ‘Well,’ said Murphy, ‘not exactly a friend, a funny old chap I ran into.’

  ‘You can get rid of him before then,’ said Celia.

  ‘That is not possible,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Then I’ll bring it round,’ said Celia.

  ‘You mustn’t do that,’ said Murphy.

  ‘Why don’t you want to see me?’ said Celia.

  ‘How often have I to tell you,’ said Murphy, ‘I—’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Celia. ‘I don’t believe in your funny old chap. There isn’t any such animal.’

  Murphy said nothing. The self that he tried to love was tired.

  ‘I’ll be with you at nine,’ said Celia, ‘and I’ll have it with me. If you’re not there—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Murphy. ‘Suppose I have to go out?’

  ‘Good-bye.’

  He listened for a little to the dead line, he dropped the receiver on the floor, he fastened his hand back to the strut, he worked up the chair. Slowly he felt better, astir in his mind, in the freedom of that light and dark that did not clash, nor alternate, nor fade nor lighten except to their communion, as described in section six. The rock got faster and faster, shorter and shorter, the iridescence was gone, the cry in the mew was gone, soon his body would be quiet. Most things under the moon got slower and slower and then stopped, a rock got faster and faster and then stopped. Soon his body would be quiet, soon he would be free.

  2

  Age. Unimportant.

  Head. Small and round.

  Eyes. Green.

  Complexion White.

  Hair. Yellow.

  Features. Mobile.

  Neck. 13¾ ′′.

  Upper arm. 11′′.

  Forearm. 9½ ′′

  Wrist. 6′′.

  Bust. 34′′

  Waist. 27′′.

  Hips, etc. 35′′

  Thigh. 21¾′′.

  Knee. 13¾′′.

  Calf. 13′′.

  Ankle. 8¼′′.

  Instep. Unimportant.

  Height. 5′ 4′′

  Weight. 123 lbs.

  She stormed away from the callbox, accompanied delightedly by her hips, etc. The fiery darts encompassing her about of the amorously disposed were quenched as tow. She entered the saloon bar of a Chef and Brewer and had a sandwich of prawn and tomato and a dock glass of white port off the zinc. She then made her way rapidly on foot, followed by four football pool collectors at four shillings in the pound commission, to the apartment in Tyburnia of her paternal grandfather, Mr. Willoughby Kelly. She kept nothing from Mr. Kelly except what she thought might give him pain, i.e. next to nothing.

  She had left Ireland at the age of four.

  Mr. Kelly’s face was narrow and profoundly seamed with a lifetime of dingy, stingy repose. Just as all hope seemed lost it burst into a fine bulb of skull, unobscured by hair. Yet a little while and his brain-body ratio would have sunk to that of a small bird. He lay back in bed, doing nothing, unless an occasional pluck at the counterpane be entered to this credit.

  ‘You are all I have in the world,’ said Celia.

  Mr. Kelly nestled.

  ‘You,’ said Celia, ‘and possibly Murphy.’

  Mr. Kelly started up in the bed. His eyes could not very well protrude, so deeply were they imbedded, but they could open, and this they did.

  ‘I have not spoken to you of Murphy,’ said Celia, ‘because I thought it might give you pain.’

  ‘Pain my rump,’ said Mr. Kelly.

  Mr. Kelly fell back in the bed, which closed his eyes, as though he were a doll. He desired Celia to sit down, but she preferred to pace to and fro, clasping and unclasping her hands, in the usual manner. The friendship of a pair of hands.

  Celia’s account, expurgated, accelerated, improved and reduced, of how she came to have to speak of Murphy, gives the following.

  When her parent
s, Mr. and Mrs. Quentin Kelly died, which they did clinging warmly to their respective partners in the ill-fated Morro Castle, Celia, being an only child, went on the street. While this was a step to which Mr. Willoughby Kelly could not whole-heartedly subscribe, yet he did not attempt to dissuade her. She was a good girl, she would do well.

  It was on the street, the previous midsummer’s night, the sun being then in the Crab, that she met Murphy. She had turned out of Edith Grove into Cremorne Road, intending to refresh herself with a smell of the Reach and then return by Lot’s Road, when chancing to glance to her right she saw, motionless in the mouth of Stadium Street, considering alternately the sky and a sheet of paper, a man. Murphy.

  ‘But I beseech you,’ said Mr. Kelly, ‘be less beastly circumstantial. The junction for example of Edith Grove, Cremorne Road and Stadium Street, is indifferent to me. Get up to your man.’

  She halted – ‘Get away!’ said Mr. Kelly – set herself off in the line that his eyes must take on their next declension and waited. When his head moved at last, it was to fall with such abandon on his breast that he caught and lost sight of her simultaneously. He did not immediately hoist it back to the level at which she could be assessed in comfort, but occupied himself with his sheet. If on his eyes’ way back to the eternities she were still in position, he would bid them stay and assess her.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ said Mr. Kelly.

  ‘What?’ said Celia.

  ‘All these demented particulars,’ said Mr. Kelly.

  ‘He tells me everything,’ said Celia.

  ‘Lay off them,’ said Mr. Kelly. ‘Get up to your man.’

  When Murphy had found what he sought on the sheet he despatched his head on its upward journey. Clearly the effort was considerable. A little short of half way, grateful for the breather, he arrested the movement and gazed at Celia. For perhaps two minutes she suffered this gladly, then with outstretched arms began slowly to rotate – ‘Brava!’ said Mr. Kelly – like the Roussel dummy in Regent Street. When she came full circle she found, as she had fully expected, the eyes of Murphy still open and upon her. But almost at once they closed, as for a supreme exertion, the jaws clenched, the chin jutted, the knees sagged, the hypogastrium came forward, the mouth opened, the head tilted slowly back. Murphy was returning to the brightness of the firmament.