The Complete Dramatic Works

by Samuel Beckett

  [Silence. They move off. Dragging feet, etc. They halt. Pause.]

  MR ROONEY: Poor Maddy! [Pause. Children’s cries.] What was that?

  [Pause for MRS ROONEY to ascertain.]

  MRS ROONEY: The Lynch twins jeering at us.

  [Cries.]

  MR ROONEY: Will they pelt us with mud today, do you suppose?

  [Cries.]

  MRS ROONEY: Let us turn and face them. [Cries. They turn. Silence.] Threaten them with your stick. [Silence.] They have run away.

  [Pause.]

  MR ROONEY: Did you ever wish to kill a child? [Pause.] Nip some young doom in the bud. [Pause.] Many a time at night, in winter, on the black road home, I nearly attacked the boy. [Pause.] Poor Jerry! [Pause.] What restrained me then? [Pause.] Not fear of man. [Pause.] Shall we go on backwards now a little?

  MRS ROONEY: Backwards?

  MR ROONEY: Yes. Or you forwards and I backwards. The perfect pair. Like Dante’s damned, with their faces arsy-versy. Our tears will water our bottoms.

  MRS ROONEY: What is the matter, Dan? Are you not well?

  MR ROONEY: Well! Did you ever know me to be well? The day you met me I should have been in bed. The day you proposed to me the doctors gave me up. You knew that, did you not? The night you married me they came for me with an ambulance. You have not forgotten that, I suppose? [Pause.] No, I cannot be said to be well. But I am no worse. Indeed I am better than I was. The loss of my sight was a great fillip. If I could go deaf and dumb I think I might pant on to be a hundred. Or have I done so? [Pause.] Was I a hundred today? [Pause.] Am I a hundred, Maddy?

  [Silence.]

  MRS ROONEY: All is still. No living soul in sight. There is no one to ask. The world is feeding. The wind–[Brief wind.]–scarcely stirs the leaves and the birds–[Brief chirp.]–are tired singing. The cows– [Brief moo.]–and sheep–[Brief baa.]–ruminate in silence. The dogs– [Brief bark.]–are hushed and the hens–[Brief cackle.]–sprawl torpid in the dust. We are alone. There is no one to ask.

  [Silence.]

  MR ROONEY: [Clearing his throat, narrative tone.] We drew out on the tick of time, I can vouch for that. I was–

  MRS ROONEY: How can you vouch for it?

  MR ROONEY: [Normal tone, angrily.] I can vouch for it, I tell you! Do you want my relation or don’t you? [Pause. Narrative tone.] On the tick of time. I had the compartment to myself, as usual. At least I hope so, for I made no attempt to restrain myself. My mind– [Normal tone.] But why do we not sit down somewhere? Are we afraid we should never rise again?

  MRS ROONEY: Sit down on what?

  MR ROONEY: On a bench, for example.

  MRS ROONEY: There is no bench.

  MR ROONEY: Then on a bank, let us sink down upon a bank.

  MRS ROONEY: There is no bank.

  MR ROONEY: Then we cannot. [Pause.] I dream of other roads, in other lands. Of another home, another–[He hesitates.]–another home. [Pause.] What was I trying to say?

  MRS ROONEY: Something about your mind.

  MR ROONEY: [Startled.] My mind? Are you sure? [Pause.Incredulous.] My mind?… [Pause.] Ah yes. [Narrative tone.] Alone in the compartment my mind began to work, as so often after office hours, on the way home, in the train, to the lilt of the bogeys. Your season-ticket, I said, costs you twelve pounds a year and you earn, on an average, seven and six a day, that is to say barely enough to keep you alive and twitching with the help of food, drink, tobacco and periodicals until you finally reach home and fall into bed. Add to this–or subtract from it–rent, stationery, various subscriptions, tramfares to and fro, light and heat, permits and licences, hairtrims and shaves, tips to escorts, upkeep of premises and appearances, and a thousand unspecifiable sundries, and it is clear that by lying at home in bed, day and night, winter and summer, with a change of pyjamas once a fortnight, you would add very considerably to your income. Business, I said–[A cry. Pause. Again. Normal tone.] Did I hear a cry?

  MRS ROONEY: Mrs Tully I fancy. Her poor husband is in constant pain and beats her unmercifully.

  [Silence.]

  MR ROONEY: That was a short knock. [Pause.] What was I trying to get at?

  MRS ROONEY: Business.

  MR ROONEY: Ah yes, business. [Narrative tone.] Business, old man, I said, retire from business, it has retired from you. [Normal tone.] One has these moments of lucidity.

  MRS ROONEY: I feel very cold and weak.

  MR ROONEY: [Narrative tone.] On the other hand, I said, there are the horrors of home life, the dusting, sweeping, airing, scrubbing, waxing, waning, washing, mangling, drying, mowing, clipping, raking, rolling, scuffling, shovelling, grinding, tearing, pounding, banging and slamming. And the brats, the happy little healthy little howling neighbours’ brats. Of all this and much more the week-end, the Saturday intermission and then the day of rest, have given you some idea. But what must it be like on a working-day? A Wednesday? A Friday? What must it be like on a Friday! And I fell to thinking of my silent, backstreet, basement office, with its obliterated plate, rest-couch and velvet hangings, and what it means to be buried there alive, if only from ten to five, with convenient to the one hand a bottle of light pale ale and to the other a long ice-cold fillet of hake. Nothing, I said, not even fully certified death, can ever take the place of that. It was then I noticed that we were at a standstill. [Pause. Normal tone. Irritably.] Why are you hanging out of me like that? Have you swooned away?

  MRS ROONEY: I feel very cold and faint. The wind–[Whistling wind.]–is whistling through my summer frock as if I had nothing on over my bloomers. I have had no solid food since my elevenses.

  MR ROONEY: You have ceased to care. I speak–and you listen to the wind.

  MRS ROONEY: No, no, I am agog, tell me all, then we shall press on and never pause, never pause, till we come safe to haven.

  [Pause.]

  MR ROONEY: Never pause… safe to haven…. Do you know, Maddy, sometimes one would think you were struggling with a dead language.

  MRS ROONEY: Yes indeed, Dan, I know full well what you mean, I often have that feeling, it is unspeakably excruciating.

  MR ROONEY: I confess I have it sometimes myself, when I happen to overhear what I am saying.

  MRS ROONEY: Well, you know, it will be dead in time, just like our own poor dear Gaelic, there is that to be said.

  [Urgent baa.]

  MR ROONEY: [Startled.] Good God!

  MRS ROONEY: Oh the pretty little woolly lamb, crying to suck its mother! Theirs has not changed, since Arcady.

  [Pause.]

  MR ROONEY: Where was I in my composition?

  MRS ROONEY: At a standstill.

  MR ROONEY: Ah yes. [Clears his throat. Narrative tone.] I concluded naturally that we had entered a station and would soon be on our way again, and I sat on, without misgiving. Not a sound. Things are very dull today, I said, nobody getting down, nobody getting on. Then as time flew by and nothing happened I realized my error. We had not entered a station.

  MRS ROONEY: Did you not spring up and poke your head out of the window?

  MR ROONEY: What good would that have done me?

  MRS ROONEY: Why to call out to be told what was amiss.

  MR ROONEY: I did not care what was amiss. No, I just sat on, saying, if this train were never to move again I should not greatly mind. Then gradually a–how shall I say–a growing desire to–er–you know–welled up within me. Nervous probably. In fact now I am sure. You know, the feeling of being confined.

  MRS ROONEY: Yes yes, I have been through that.

  MR ROONEY: If we sit here much longer, I said, I really do not know what I shall do. I got up and paced to and fro between the seats, like a caged beast.

  MRS ROONEY: That is a help sometimes.

  MR ROONEY: After what seemed an eternity we simply moved off. And the next thing was Barrell bawling the abhorred name. I got down and Jerry led me to the men’s, or Fir as they call it now, from Vir Viris I suppose, the V becoming F, in accordance with Grimm’s Law. [Pause.] The rest you
know. [Pause.] You say nothing? [Pause.] Say something. Maddy. Say you believe me.

  MRS ROONEY: I remember once attending a lecture by one of these new mind doctors. I forget what you call them. He spoke–

  MR ROONEY: A lunatic specialist?

  MRS ROONEY: No no, just the troubled mind. I was hoping he might shed a little light on my lifelong preoccupation with horses’ buttocks.

  MR ROONEY: A neurologist.

  MRS ROONEY: No no, just mental distress, the name will come back to me in the night. I remember his telling us the story of a little girl, very strange and unhappy in her ways, and how he treated her unsuccessfully over a period of years and was finally obliged to give up the case. He could find nothing wrong with her, he said. The only thing wrong with her as far as he could see was that she was dying. And she did in fact die, shortly after he had washed his hands of her.

  MR ROONEY: Well? What is there so wonderful about that?

  MRS ROONEY: No, it was just something he said, and the way he said it, that have haunted me ever since.

  MR ROONEY: You lie awake at night, tossing to and fro and brooding on it.

  MRS ROONEY: On it and other … wretchedness. [Pause.] When he had done with the little girl he stood there motionless for some time, quite two minutes I should say, looking down at his table. Then he suddenly raised his head and exclaimed, as if he had had a revelation, The trouble with her was she had never really been born! [Pause.] He spoke throughout without notes. [Pause.] I left before the end.

  MR ROONEY: Nothing about your buttocks? [MRS ROONEY weeps. In affectionate remonstrance.] Maddy!

  MRS ROONEY: There is nothing to be done for those people!

  MR ROONEY: For which is there? [Pause.] That does not sound right somehow. [Pause.] What way am I facing?

  MRS ROONEY: What?

  MR ROONEY: I have forgotten what way I am facing.

  MRS ROONEY: You have turned aside and are bowed down over the ditch.

  MR ROONEY: There is a dead dog down there.

  MRS ROONEY: No no, just the rotting leaves.

  MR ROONEY: In June? Rotting leaves in June?

  MRS ROONEY: Yes, dear, from last year, and from the year before last, and from the year before that again. [Silence. Rainy wind. They move on. Dragging steps, etc.] There is that lovely laburnum again. Poor thing, it is losing all its tassels. [Dragging steps, etc.] There are the first drops. [Rain. Dragging steps, etc.] Golden drizzle. [Dragging steps, etc.] Do not mind me, dear, I am just talking to myself. [Rain heavier. Dragging steps, etc.] Can hinnies procreate, I wonder? [They halt.]

  MR ROONEY: Say that again.

  MRS ROONEY: Come on, dear, don’t mind me, we are getting drenched.

  MR ROONEY: [Forcibly.] Can what what?

  MRS ROONEY: Hinnies procreate. [Silence.] You know, hinnies, or jinnies, aren’t they barren, or sterile, or whatever it is? [Pause.] It wasn’t an ass’s colt at all, you know, I asked the Regius Professor.

  [Pause.]

  MR ROONEY: He should know.

  MRS ROONEY: Yes, it was a hinny, he rode into Jerusalem or wherever it was on a hinny. [Pause.] That must mean something. [Pause.] It’s like the sparrows, than many of which we are of more value, they weren’t sparrows at all.

  MR ROONEY: Than many of which!… You exaggerate, Maddy.

  MRS ROONEY: [With emotion.] They weren’t sparrows at all!

  MR ROONEY: Does that put our price up?

  [Silence. They move on. Wind and rain. Dragging feet, etc. They halt.]

  MRS ROONEY: Do you want some dung? [Silence. They move on. Wind and rain, etc. They halt.] Why do you stop? Do you want to say something?

  MR ROONEY: No.

  MRS ROONEY: Then why do you stop?

  MR ROONEY: It is easier.

  MRS ROONEY: Are you very wet?

  MR ROONEY: To the buff.

  MRS ROONEY: The buff?

  MR ROONEY: The buff. From buffalo.

  MRS ROONEY: We shall hang up all our things in the hot-cupboard and get into our dressing-gowns. [Pause.] Put your arm round me. [Pause.] Be nice to me! [Pause. Gratefully.] Ah, Dan! [They move on. Wind and rain. Dragging feet, etc. Faintly same music as before. They halt. Music clearer. Silence but for music playing. Music dies.] All day the same old record. All alone in that great empty house. She must be a very old woman now.

  MR ROONEY: [Indistinctly.] Death and the Maiden.

  [Silence.]

  MRS ROONEY: You are crying. [Pause.] Are you crying?

  MR ROONEY: [Violently.] Yes! [They move on. Wind and rain. Dragging feet, etc. They halt. They move on. Wind and rain. Dragging feet, etc. They halt.] Who is the preacher tomorrow? The incumbent?

  MRS ROONEY: No.

  MR ROONEY: Thank God for that. Who?

  MRS ROONEY: Hardy.

  MR ROONEY: “How to be Happy though Married”?

  MRS ROONEY: No no, he died, you remember. No connexion.

  MR ROONEY: Has he announced his text?

  MRS ROONEY: “The Lord upholdeth all that fall and raiseth up all those that be bowed down.” [Silence. They join in wild laughter. They move on. Wind and rain. Dragging feet, etc.] Hold me tighter, Dan! [Pause.] Oh yes!

  [They halt]

  MR ROONEY: I hear something behind us.

  [Pause.]

  MRS ROONEY: It looks like Jerry. [Pause.] It is Jerry.

  [Sound of JERRY’s running steps approaching. He halts beside them, panting.]

  JERRY: [Panting] You dropped–

  MRS ROONEY: Take your time, my little man, you will burst a blood-vessel.

  JERRY: [Panting] You dropped something, sir. Mr Barrell told me to run after you.

  MRS ROONEY: Show. [She takes the object] What is it? [She examines it.] What is this thing, Dan?

  MR ROONEY: Perhaps it is not mine at all.

  JERRY: Mr Barrell said it was, sir.

  MRS ROONEY: It looks like a kind of ball. And yet it is not a ball.

  MR ROONEY: Give it to me.

  MRS ROONEY: [Giving it.] What is it, Dan?

  MR ROONEY: It is a thing I carry about with me.

  MRS ROONEY: Yes, but what–

  MR ROONEY: [Violently.] It is a thing I carry about with me!

  [Silence. MRS ROONEY looks for a penny.]

  MRS ROONEY: I have no small money. Have you?

  MR ROONEY: I have none of any kind.

  MRS ROONEY: We are out of change, Jerry. Remind Mr Rooney on Monday and he will give you a penny for your pains.

  JERRY: Yes, Ma’am.

  MR ROONEY: If I am alive.

  JERRY: Yessir.

  [JERRY starts running back towards the station.]

  MRS ROONEY: Jerry! [JERRY halts.] Did you hear what the hitch was? [Pause.] Did you hear what kept the train so late?

  MR ROONEY: How would he have heard? Come on.

  MRS ROONEY: What was it, Jerry?

  JERRY: It was a–

  MR ROONEY: Leave the boy alone, he knows nothing! Come on!

  MRS ROONEY: What was it, Jerry?

  JERRY: It was a little child, Ma’am.

  [MR ROONEY groans.]

  MRS ROONEY: What do you mean, it was a little child?

  JERRY: It was a little child fell out of the carriage, Ma’am. [Pause.] On to the line, Ma’am. [Pause.] Under the wheels, Ma’am.

  [Silence. JERRY runs off. His steps die away. Tempest of wind and rain. It abates. They move on. Dragging steps, etc. They halt. Tempest of wind and rain.]

  END

  Act Without Words I

  A mime for one player

  Written in French in 1956, with music by John Beckett, the author’s cousin. First published in Paris in 1957. Translated by the author and first published in English by Grove Press, New York, in 1958. First performed at the Royal Court Theatre, London, on 3 April 1957.

  Desert. Dazzling light.

  The man is flung backwards on stage from right wing. He falls, gets up immediately, dusts himself, turns aside, reflects.

 
Whistle from right wing.

  He reflects, goes out right.

  Immediately flung back on stage he falls, gets up immediately, dusts himself, turns aside, reflects.

  Whistle from left wing.

  He reflects, goes out left.

  Immediately flung back on stage he falls, gets up immediately, dusts himself, turns aside, reflects.

  Whistle from left wing.

  He reflects, goes towards left wing, hesitates, thinks better of it, halts, turns aside, reflects.

  A little tree descends from flies, lands. It has a single bough some three yards from ground and at its summit a meagre tuft of palms casting at its foot a circle of shadow.

  He continues to reflect.

  Whistle from above.

  He turns, sees tree, reflects, goes to it, sits down in its shadow, looks at his hands.

  A pair of tailor’s scissors descends from flies, comes to rest before tree, a yard from ground.

  He continues to look at his hands.

  Whistle from above.

  He looks up, sees scissors, takes them and starts to trim his nails.

  The palms close like a parasol, the shadow disappears.

  He drops scissors, reflects.

  A tiny carafe, to which is attached a huge label inscribed WATER, descends from flies, comes to rest some three yards from ground.

  He continues to reflect.

  Whistle from above.

  He looks up, sees carafe, reflects, gets up, goes and stands under it, tries in vain to reach it, renounces, turns aside, reflects.

  A big cube descends from flies, lands.

  He continues to reflect.

  Whistle from above.

  He turns, sees cube, looks at it, at carafe, reflects, goes to cube, takes it up, carries it over and sets it down under carafe, tests its stability, gets up on it, tries in vain to reach carafe, renounces, gets down, carries cube back to its place, turns aside, reflects.

  A second smaller cube descends from flies, lands.

  He continues to reflect.

  Whistle from above.

  He turns, sees second cube, looks at it, at carafe, goes to second cube, takes it up, carries it over and sets it down under carafe, tests its stability, gets up on it, tries in vain to reach carafe, renounces, gets down, takes up second cube to carry it back to its place, hesitates, thinks better of it, sets it down, goes to big cube, takes it up, carries it over and puts it on small one, tests their stability, gets up on them, the cubes collapse, he falls, gets up immediately, brushes himself, reflects.