Watt

by Samuel Beckett

  Now the day is over,

  Night is drawing nigh—igh,

  Shadows of the evening

  Steal across the sky—

  haw! I began a little low perhaps, and the door open on the wind or the rain or the sleet or the hail or the snow or the slush or the storm or the warm still scents of summer or the still of the ice or the earth awakening or the hush of harvest or the leaves falling through the dark from various altitudes, never two coming to earth at the same time, then bowling red and brown and yellow and grey briskly for an instant, yes, through the dark, for an instant, then running together in heaps, here a heap, and there a heap, to be paddled in by happy boys and girls on their way home from school looking forward to Hallow-e’en and Guy Fawkes and Christmas and the New Year, haw! yes, happy girls and boys looking forward to the happy New Year, and then perhaps carted off in old barrows and used as dung the following spring by the poor, and a man come, shutting the door behind him, and Erskine go. And then another night fall and another man come and Watt go, Watt who is now come, for the coming is in the shadow of the going and the going is in the shadow of the coming, that is the annoying part about it. And yet there is one who neither comes nor goes, I refer I need hardly say to my late employer, but seems to abide in his place, for the time being at any rate, like an oak, an elm, a beech or an ash, to mention only the oak, the elm, the beech and the ash, and we nest a little while in his branches. Yet come he did once, otherwise how would he be here, and go sooner or later I suppose he must, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him. But appearances are often deceptive as my poor old mother, heaving a sigh, used to say to my poor old father (for I am not illegitimate) in my hearing (for they always spoke freely before me), a sentiment to which I can still hear my poor old father, with a sigh, assent, saying, Thanks be to God, an opinion in which in tones that haunt me still my poor old mother would acquiesce, sighing, saying, Amen. Or is there a coming that is not a coming to, a going that is not a going from, a shadow that is not the shadow of purpose, or not? For what is this shadow of the going in which we come, this shadow of the coming in which we go, this shadow of the coming and the going in which we wait, if not the shadow of purpose, of the purpose that budding withers, that withering buds, whose blooming is a budding withering? I speak well, do I not, for a man in my situation? And what is this coming that was not our coming and this being that is not our being and this going that will not be our going but the coming and being and going in purposelessness? And though in purposelessness I may seem now to go, yet I do not, any more than in purposelessness then I came, for I go now with my purpose as with it then I came, the only difference being this, that then it was living and now it is dead, which is what you might call what I think the English call six of one and half a dozen of the other, do they not, might you not? Or do I confuse them with the Irish? But to return to Vincent and Walter, they were very much your heighth, breadth and width, that is to say big bony shabby seedy haggard knockkneed men, with rotten teeth and big red noses, the result of too much solitude they used to say, just as I am very much Erskine’s and Erskine very much mine, that is to say little fat shabby seedy juicy or oily bandylegged men, with a little fat bottom sticking out in front and a little fat belly sticking out behind, for what would a little fat bottom sticking out in front be without a little fat belly sticking out behind? For though it is rumoured that Mr Knott would prefer to have no one at all about him, to look after him, yet since he is obliged to have someone at all about him, to look after him, being quite incapable of looking after himself, then the suggestion is that what he likes best is the minimum number of small fat shabby seedy juicy bandylegged potbellied potbottomed men about him, to look after him, or, failing this, the fewest possible big bony seedy shabby haggard knockkneed rottentoothed rednosed men about him, to take care of him, though at the same time it is freely hinted that in default of either of these he would be perfectly content to have men of quite a different stamp or mould about him, as unlike physically you and Vincent and Walter as Erskine and me, if that is conceivable, to fuss over him, as long as they were seedy and shabby and few in number, for to seediness and shabbiness and fewness in number he is greatly attached, if he can be said to be greatly attached to anything, though I have heard it confidently asserted that if he could not have seediness and shabbiness and fewness in number he would be only too delighted to do without them, about him, to make much of him. But that he has never had any but on the one hand big bony seedy shabby haggard knockkneed rottentoothed rednosed men like you and on the other small fat seedy shabby juicy or oily bandylegged potbellied potbottomed men like me, about him, to attend to him, seems certain, unless it be so long ago that all trace of them is lost. For Vincent and Walter were not the first, ho no, but before them were Vincent and another whose name I forget, and before them that other whose name I forget and another whose name I also forget, and before them that other whose name I also forget and another whose name I never knew, and before them that other whose name I never knew and another whose name Walter could not recall, and before them that other whose name Walter could not recall and another whose name Walter could not recall either, and before them that other whose name Walter could not recall either and another whose name Walter never knew, and before them that other whose name Walter never knew and another whose name even Vincent could not call to mind, and before them that other whose name even Vincent could not call to mind and another whose name even Vincent could not call to mind either, and before them that other whose name even Vincent could not call to mind either and another whose name even Vincent never knew, and so on, until all trace is lost, owing to the shortness of human memory, one always ousting the other, though perhaps ousting is not the word, just as you ousted me, and Erskine Walter, and I Vincent, and Walter that other whose name I forget, and Vincent that other whose name I also forget, and that other whose name I forget that other whose name I never knew, and that other whose name I also forget that other whose name Walter could not recall, and that other whose name I never knew that other whose name Walter could not recall either, and that other whose name Walter could not recall that other whose name Walter never knew, and that other whose name Walter could not recall either that other whose name even Vincent could not call to mind, and that other whose name Walter never knew that other whose name even Vincent could not call to mind either, and that other whose name even Vincent could not call to mind that other whose name even Vincent never knew, and so on, until all trace is lost, on account of the vanity of human wishes. But that all those of whom all trace is not lost, even though their names be forgotten, were, if not big, bony, seedy, shabby, haggard, knockkneed, rottentoothed and rednosed, at least small, fat, seedy, shabby, oily, bandylegged, potbellied and potbottomed, seems certain, if any reliance is to be placed on oral tradition as handed down by word of mouth from one fleeting generation to the next, or, as is more usual, to the next but one. This, if it does not prove beyond all manner of doubt that of all those of whom all trace is lost not one was a body quite different from us, does tend to support the hypothesis so often emitted that there is something about Mr Knott that draws towards him, to be about him and take care of him, two types of men, and two only, on the one hand the big bony seedy shabby haggard knockkneed type, with the decayed teeth and the big red nose, and on the other the small fat seedy shabby oily or juicy bandylegged type, with the little fat bottom and belly sticking out in opposite directions, or, alternatively, that there is something in these two types of men that draw them to Mr Knott, to be about him and watch over him, though at the same time it is quite possible that if we were in a position to examine the skeleton of one of those of whom not only the name but all trace is lost, of him for example whose name even that other whose name even Vincent (if that was his name) never knew never knew, we might find him to have been quite a different type of chap, neither big nor small, bony nor fat, seedy nor shabby, haggard nor juicy, rottentoothed nor potbellied, rednosed nor potbottomed
, quite quite possible, if not quite quite probable. Now though I knew at the outset that I should not have the time to go into these matters as fully as I should wish, or they deserve, yet I felt, perhaps wrongly, that it was my duty to mention them, if only in order for you clearly to understand that about Mr Knott, attentive to his wants, if speaking of Mr Knott one may speak of wants, two men and so far as we know never more and never fewer have always been to be found, and that of these two it is not always necessary, as far as we can judge, that one should be bony and so on, and the other fat and so forth, as is now the case with you and Arsene, forgive me, with you and Erskine, for both may be bony and so on, as was the case with Vincent and Walter, or both may be fat and so forth, as was the case with Erskine and me, but that it is necessary, as far as can be ascertained, that of these two men for ever about Mr Knott in tireless assiduity turning, the one or the other or both should be either bony and so on or fat and so forth, though if we could go back in pure time as easily as we can in pure space the possibility, if not the probability, is not excluded of our finding two or less than two or even more than two men or women or men and women as little bony and so on as fat and so forth eternally turning about Mr Knott in tireless love. But to go into this matter as longly and as deeply and as fully as I should like, and it deserves, is unfortunately out of the question. Not that space is wanting, for space is not wanting. Not that time is lacking, for time is not lacking. But I hear a little wind come and go, come and go, in the bushes without, and in the henhouse the cock in his sleep uneasily stirs. And I think I have said enough to light that fire in your mind that shall never be snuffed, or only with the utmost difficulty, just as Vincent did for me, and Walter for Erskine, and as you perhaps will do for another, though that is not certain, to judge by the look of you. Not that I have told you all I know, for I have not, being now a good-natured man, and of good will what is more, and indulgent towards the dreams of middle age, which were my dreams, just as Vincent did not tell me all, nor Walter Erskine, nor the others the others, for here we all seem to end by being good-natured men, and of good will, and indulgent towards the dreams of middle age, which were our dreams, whatever may escape us now and then in the way of bitter and I blush to say even blasphemous words and expressions, and perhaps also because what we know partakes in no small measure of the nature of what has so happily been called the unutterable or ineffable, so that any attempt to utter or eff it is doomed to fail, doomed, doomed to fail. Why even I myself, strolling all alone in some hard earned suspension of labour in this charming garden, have tried and tried to formulate this delicious haw! and I may add quite useless wisdom so dearly won, and with which I am so to speak from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet imbued, so that I neither eat nor drink nor breathe in and out nor do my doodles but more sagaciously than before, like Theseus kissing Ariadne, or Ariadne Theseus, towards the end, on the seashore, and tried in vain, notwithstanding the beauties of the scene, bower and sward, glade and arbour, sunshine and shadow, and the pleasant dawdling motion carrying me about in the midst of them, hither and thither, with unparalleled sagacity. But what I could say, or at least a part, and I trust not the least diverting, I think I have said, and as far as it lay in my power to take you, under the circumstances, I think I have taken you, all things considered. And now for a little along the way that lies between you and me Erskine will go by your side, to be your guide, and then for the rest you will travel alone, or with only shades to keep you company, and that I think you will find, if your experience at all resembles mine, the best part of the outing or at least the least dull, even though the light falls fast, and far below the stumbling feet. Now for what I have said ill and for what I have said well and for what I have not said, I ask you to forgive me. And for what I have done ill and for what I have done well and for what I have left undone, I ask you also to forgive me. And I ask you to think of me always — bugger these buttons — with forgiveness, as you desire to be thought of with forgiveness, though personally of course it is all the same to me whether I am thought of with forgiveness, or with rancour, or not at all. Goodnight.