Malone Dies

olor][/size][/b] [b][size=12][color=grey]itself
in vain. Perhaps he had come to that. And when (for example)
you die, it is too late, you have been waiting too long, you are
no longer sufficiently alive to be able to stop. Perhaps he had
come to that. But apparently not, though acts don't matter, I
know, I know, nor thoughts. For having reproached himself with
what he had done, and with his monstrous error of appreciation,
instead of springing up and hurrying on he turned over on his
back, thus offering all his front to the deluge. And it was then
his hair appeared clearly for the first time since his walks bareheaded
in the smiling haunts of his youth, his hat having remained
in the place which his head had just left. For when,
lying on your stomach in a wild and practically illimitable part
of the country, you turn over on your back, then there is a side-
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ways movement of the whole body, including the head, unless
you make a point of avoiding it, and the head comes to rest at
x inches approximately from where it was before, x being the
width of the shoulders in inches, for the head is right in the
middle of the shoulders. But when you are in a narrow bed, I
mean one just wide enough to contain you, a pallet shall we
say, then it is in vain you turn over on your back, then back
over on your stomach, the head remains always in the same
place, unless you make a point of inclining it to the right or to
the left, and some there doubtless are who go to this trouble, in
the hope of finding a little freshness. He tried to look at the dark
streaming mass which was all that remained of sky and air, but
the rain hurt his eyes and shut them. He opened his mouth and
lay for a long time thus, his mouth open and his hands also and
as far apart as possible from each other. For it is a curious
thing, one tends less to clutch the ground when on one's back
than when on one's stomach, there is a curious remark which
might be worth following up. And just as an hour before he had
pulled up his sleeves the better to clutch the grass, so now he
pulled them up again the better to feel the rain pelting down
on his palms, also called the hollows of the hands, or the flats,
it all depends. And in the midst but I was nearly forgetting
the hair, which from the point of view of colour was to white
very much as the hour's gloom to black and from the point of
view of length very long what is more, very long behind and
very long on either side. And on a dry and windy day it would
have gone romping in the grass almost like grass itself. But the
rain glued it to the ground and churned it up with the earth
and grass into a kind of muddy pulp, not a muddy pulp, a kind
of muddy pulp. And in the midst of his suffering, for one does
not remain so long in such a position without being incommoded,
he began to wish that the rain would never cease nor consequently
his sufferings or pain, for the cause of his pain was almost
certainly the rain, recumbency in itself not being particularly
unpleasant, as if there existed a relation between that which
suffers and that which causes to suffer. For the rain could cease
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without his ceasing to suffer, just as he could cease to suffer
without the rain's ceasing on that account. And on him already
this important quarter-truth was perhaps beginning to dawn.
For while deploring he could not spend the rest of his life (which
would thereby have been agreeably abridged) under this heavy,
cold (without being icy) and perpendicular rain, now supine,
now prone, he was quarter-inclined to wonder if he was not
mistaken in holding it responsible for Thus sufferings and if in
reality his discomfort was not the effect of quite a different cause
or set of causes. For people are never content to suffer, but they
must have heat and cold, rain and its contrary which is fine
weather, and with that love, friendship, black skin and sexual
and peptic deficiency for example, in short the furies and frenzies
happily too numerous to be numbered of the body including
the skull and its annexes, whatever that means, such as the clubfoot,
in order that they may know very precisely what exactly
it is that dares prevent their happiness from being unalloyed.
And sticklers have been met with who had no peace until they
knew for certain whether their carcinoma was of the pylorus
or whether on the contrary it was not rather of the duodenum.
But these are flights for which Macmann was not yet fledged,
and indeed he was rather of the earth earthy and ill-fitted for
pure reason, especially in the circumstances in which we have
been fortunate enough to circumscribe him. And to tell the truth
he was by temperament more reptile than bird and could suffer
extensive mutilation and survive, happier sitting than standing
and lying down than sitting, so that he sat and lay down at the
least pretext and only rose again when the elan vital or struggle
for life began to prod him in the arse again. And a good half
of his existence must have been spent in a motionlessness akin
to that of stone, not to say the three quarters, or even the four
fifths, a motionlessness at first skin-deep, but which little by
little invaded, I will not say the vital parts, but at least the sensibility
and understanding. And it must be presumed that he
received from his numerous forbears, through the agency of his
papa and his mama, a cast-iron vegetative system, to have
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reached the age he has just reached and which is nothing or
very little compared to the age he will reach, as I know to my
cost, without any serious mishap, I mean one of a nature to
carry him off on the spot. For no one ever came to his help, to
help him avoid the thorns and snares that attend the steps of
innocence, and he could never count on any other craft than his
own, any other strength, to go from morning to evening and
then from evening to morning without mortal hurt. And notably
he never received any gifts of cash, or very seldom, and very
paltry, which would not have mattered if he had been able to
earn, in the sweat of his brow or by making use of his intelligence.
But when given the job of weeding a plot of young carrots
for example, at the rate of threepence or even sixpence an hour,
it often happened that he tore them all up, through absentmindedness,
or carried away by I know not what irresistible
urge that came over him at the sight of vegetables, and even of
flowers, and literally blinded him to his true interests, the urge
to make a clean sweep and have nothing before his eyes but a
patch of brown earth rid of its parasites, it was often more than
he could resist. Or without going so far as that, suddenly all
swam before his eyes, he could no longer distinguish the plants
destined for the embellishment of the home or the nutrition of
man and beast from the weeds which are said to serve no useful
purpose, but which must have their usefulness too, for the earth
to favour them so, such as squitch beloved of dogs and from
which man too in his turn has succeeded in extracting a brew,
and the hoe fell from his hands. And even with such humble
occupations as street-cleaning to which with hopefulness he had
sometimes turned, on the off chance of his being a born scavenger,
he did not succeed any better. And even he himself was
compelled to admit that the place swept by him looked dirtier
at his departure than on his arrival, as if a demon had driven
him to collect, with the broom, shovel and barrow placed gratis
at his disposal by the corporation, all the dirt and filth which
chance had witholrawn from the sight of the tax-payer and add
them thus recovered to those already visible and which he was
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employed to remove. With the result that at the end of the day,
throughout the sector consigned to him, one could see the peels
of oranges and bananas, cigarette-butts, unspeakable scraps of
paper, dogs' and horses' excrement and other muck, carefully
concentrated all along the sidewalk or distributed on the crown
of the street, as though in order to inspire the greatest possible
disgust in the passers-by or provoke the greatest possible number
of accidents, some fatal, by means of the slip. And yet he
had done his honest best to give satisfaction, taking as his model
his more experienced colleagues, and doing as they did. But it
was truly as if he were not master of his movements and did not
know what he was doing, while he was doing it, nor what he had
done, once he had done it. For someone had to say to him, Look
at what you have done, sticking his nose in it so to speak, otherwise
he did not realize, but thought he had done as any man of
good will would have done in his place and with very much
the same results, in spite of his lack of experience. And yet when
it came to doing some little thing for himself, as for example
when he had to repair or replace one of his buttons or pegs,
which were not long-lived being mostly of green wood and exposed
to all the rigours of the temperate zone, then he really
exhibited a certain dexterity, without the help of any other apparatus
than his bare hands. And indeed he had devoted to these
little tasks a great part of his existence, that it is to say of the
half or quarter of his existence associated with more or less
coordinated movements of the body. For he had to, he had to,
if he wished to go on coming and going on the earth, which to
tell the truth he did not, particularly, but he had to, for obscure
reasons known who knows to God alone, though to tell the truth
God does not seem to need reasons for doing what he does, and
for omitting to do what he omits to do, to the same degree as his
creatures, does he? Such then seemed to be Macmann, seen from
a certain angle, incapable of weeding a bed of pansies or marigolds
and leaving one standing and at the same time well able to
consolidate his boots with willow bark and thongs of wicker, so
that he might come and go on the earth from time to time and
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not wound himself too sorely on the stones, thorns and broken
glass provided by the carelessness or wickedness of man, with
hardly a complaint, for he had to. For he was incapable of picking
his steps and choosing where to put down his feet (which
would have permitted him to go barefoot). And even had he been
so he would have been so to no great purpose, so little was he
master of his movements. And what is the good of aiming at the
smooth and mossy places when the foot, missing its mark, comes
down on the flints and shards or sinks up to the knee in the cowpads?
But to pass on now to considerations of another order, it
is perhaps not inappropriate to wish Macmann, since wishing
costs nothing, sooner or later a general paralysis sparing at a
pinch the arms if that is conceivable, in a place impermeable as
far as possible to wind, rain, sound, cold, great heat (as in the
seventh century) and daylight, with one or two eiderdowns just
in case and a charitable soul say once a week bearing eatingapples
and sardines in oil for the purpose of postponing as long
as possible the fatal hour, it would be wonderful. But in the meantime
in the end, the rain still falling with unabated violence in
spite of his having turned over on his back, Macmann grew restless,
flinging himself from side to side as though in a fit of the
fever, buttoning himself and unbuttoning and finally rolling
over and over in the same direction, it little matters which, with
a brief pause after each roll to begin with, and then without
break. And in theory his hat should have followed him, seeing
it was tied to his coat, and the string twisted itself about his
neck, but not at all, for theory is one thing and reality another,
and the hat remained where it was, I mean in its place, like
a thing forsaken. But perhaps one day a high wind would come
and send it, dry and light again, bowling and bounding over
the plain until it came to the town, or the ocean, but not necessarily.
Now it was not the first time that Macmann rolled upon
the ground, but he had always done so without ulterior locomotive
motive. Whereas then, as he moved further and further
from the place where the rain had caught him far from shelter
and which thanks to the hat continued to contrast with the sur-
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rounding space, he realized he was advancing with regularity,
and even a certain rapidity, along the arc of a gigantic circle
probably, for he assumed that one of his extremities was heavier
than the other, without knowing quite which, but not by much.
And as he rolled he conceived and polished the plan of continuing
to roll on all night if necessary, or at least until his
strength should fail him, and thus approach the confines of
this plain which to tell the truth he was in no hurry to leave, but
nevertheless was leaving, he knew it. And without reducing his
speed he began to dream of a flat land where he would never
have to rise again and hold himself erect in equilibrium, first on
the right foot for example, then on the left, and where he might
come and go and so survive after the fashion of a great cylinder
endowed with the faculties of cognition and volition. And without
exactly building castles in Spain, for that
Quick quick my possessions. Quiet, quiet, twice, I have time,
lots of time, as usual. My pencil, my two pencils, the one of
which nothing remains between my huge fingers but the lead
fallen from the wood and the other, long and round, in the bed
somewhere, I was holding it in reserve, I won't look for it, I
know it's there somewhere, if I have time when I've finished
I'll look for it, if I don't find it I won't have it, I'll make the
correction, with the other, if anything remains of it. Quiet,
quiet. My exercise-book, I don't see it, but I feel it in my left
hand, I don't know where it comes from, I didn't have it when I
came here, but I feel it is mine. That's the style, as if I were
sweet and seventy. In that case the bed would be mine too, and
the little table, the dish, the pots, the cupboard, the blankets.
No, nothing of all that is mine. But the exercise-book is mine,
I can't explain. The two pencils then, the exercise-book and then
the stick, which I did not have either when I came here, but
which I consider mine, I must have described it long ago. I am
quiet, I have time, but I shall describe as little as possible. It
is with me in the bed, under the blankets, there was a time I
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used to rub myself against it, saying, It's a little woman. But
it is so long that it sticks out under the pillow and finishes far
behind me. I continue from memory. It is black dark. I can
hardly see the window. It must be letting in the night again.
Even if \ had time to rummage in my possessions, to bring
them over to the bed one by one or tangled together as is often
the way with forsaken things, I would not see anything. And
perhaps indeed I have the time, let us assume I have the time,
and proceed as if I had not. But it cannot be so long since I
checked and went through all my things, in the light, in anticipation
of this hour. But since then I must have forgotten it all.
A needle stuck into two corks to prevent it from sticking into
me, for if the point pricks less than the eye, no, that's wrong,
for if the point pricks more than the eye, the eye pricks too,
that's wrong too. Round the shank, between the two corks, a
wisp of black thread clings. It is a pretty little object, like a
no, it is like nothing. The bowl of my pipe, though I never used
a tobacco-pipe. I must have found it somewhere, on the ground,
when out walking. There it was, in the grass, thrown away because
it could no longer serve, the stem having broken off (I
suddenly remember that) just short of the bowl. This pipe could
have been repaired, but he must have said, Bah, I'll buy myself
another. But all I found was the bowl. But all that is mere
supposition. Perhaps I thought it pretty, or felt for it that foul
feeling of pity I have so often felt in the presence of things,
especially little portable things in wood and stone, and which
made me wish to have them about me and keep them always,
so that I stooped and picked them up and put them in my
pocket, often with tears, for I wept up to a great age, never
having really evolved in the fields of affection and passion, in
spite of my experiences. And but for the company of these little
objects which I picked up here and there, when out walking,
and which sometimes gave me the impression that they too
needed me, I might have been reduced to the society of nice
people or to the consolations of some religion or other, but I
think not. And I loved, I remember, as I walked along, with
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my hands deep in my pockets, for I am trying to speak of the
time when I could still walk without a stick and a fortiori without
crutches, I loved to finger and caress the hard shapely
objects that were there in my deep pockets, it was my way of
talking to them and reassuring them. And I loved to fall asleep
holding in my hand a stone, a horse chestnut or a cone, and
I would be still holding it when I woke, my fingers closed over
it, in spite of sleep which makes a rag of the body, so that it
may rest. And those of which I wearied, or which were ousted
by new loves, I threw away, that is to say I cast round for a
place to lay them where they would be at peace forever, and
no one ever find them short of an extraordinary hazard, and
such places are few and far between, and I laid them there.
Or I buried them, or threw them into the sea, with all my
strength as far as possible from the land, those I knew for certain
would not float, even briefly. But many a wooden friend too
I have sent to the bottom, weighted with a stone. Until I realized
it was wrong of me. For when the string is rotted they
will rise to the surface, if they have not already done so, and
return to the land, sooner or later. In this way I disposed of
things I loved but could no longer keep, because of new loves.
And often I missed them. But I had hidden them so well that
even I could never find them again. That's the style, as if I still
had time to kill. And so I have, deep down I know it well. Then
why play at being in a hurry? I don't know. Perhaps I am in
a hurry after all, it was the impression I had a short time ago.
But my impressions. And what after all if I were not so anxious
as I make out to recall to mind all that is left to me of all I
ever had, a good dozen objects at least to put it mildly? No
no, I must. Then it's something else. Where were we? My bowl.
So I never got rid of it. I used it as a receptacle, I kept things
in it, I wonder what I could have kept in it, so small a space,
and I made a little cap for it, out of tin. Next. Poor Macmann.
Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything,
except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy. But is this
how one chokes? Presumably. And the rattle, what about the
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rattle? Perhaps it is not de rigueur after all To have vagitated
and not be bloody well able to rattle. How life dulls the power
to protest to be sure. I wonder what my last words will be,
written, the others do not endure, but vanish, into thin air. I
shall never know. I shall not finish this inventory either, a little
bird tells me so, the paraclete perhaps, psittaceously named.
Be it so. A club in any case, I can't help it, I must state the
facts, without trying to understand, to the end. There are moments
when I feel I have been here always, perhaps even was
born here. Then it passes. That would explain many things.
Or that I have come back after a long absence. But I have done
with feelings and hypotheses. This club is mine and that is all
about it. It is stained with blood, but insufficiently, insufficiently.
I have defended myself, ill, but I have defended myself. That
is what I tell myself sometimes. One boot, originally yellow, I
forget for which foot. The other, its fellow, has gone. They
took it away, at the beginning, before they realized I should
never walk again. And they left the other, in the hope I would
be saddened, seeing it there, without its fellow. Men are like
that. Or perhaps it is on top of the cupboard. I have looked for
it everywhere, with my stick, but I never thought of the top of
the cupboard. Till now. And as I shall never look for it any
more, or for anything else, either on top of the cupboard or
anywhere else, it is no longer mine. For only those things are
mine the whereabouts of which I know well enough to be able
to lay hold of them, if necessary, that is the definition I have
adopted, to define my possessions. For otherwise there would
be no end to it. But in any case there will be no end to it. It
did not greatly resemble but it is wrong of me to dwell upon
it the one I have preserved, the yellow one, remarkable for the
number of its eyeholes, I never saw a boot with so many eyeholes,
useless for the most part, having ceased to be holes, and
become slits. All these things are together in the corner in a
heap. I could lay hold of them, even now, in the dark, I need
only wish to do so. I would identify them by touch, the message
would flow all along the stick, I would hook the desired
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object and bring it over to the bed, I would hear it coming towards
me over the floor, gliding, jogging, less and less dear,
I would hoist it up on the bed in such a way as not to break the
window or damage the ceiling, and at last I would have it in
my hands. If it was my hat I might put it on, that would remind
me of the good old days, though I remember them sufficiently
well. It has lost its brim, it looks like a bell-glass to put over a
melon. In order to put it on and take it off you have to grasp
it like a great ball, between your palms. It is perhaps the only
object in my possession the history of which I have not forgotten,
I mean counting from the day it became mine. I know
in what circumstances it lost its brim, I was there at the time,
it was so that I might keep it on while I slept. I should rather
like it to be buried with me, a harmless whim, but what steps
should I take? Mem, put it on on the off chance, well wedged
down, before it is too late. But all in due time. Should I go on
I wonder. I feel I am perhaps attributing to myself things I
no longer possess and reporting as missing others that are not
missing. And I feel there are others, over there in the corner,
belonging to a third category, that of those of which I know
nothing and with regard to which therefore there is little danger
of my being wrong, or of my being right. And I remind myself
also that since I last went through my possessions much water
has passed beneath Butt Bridge, in both directions. For I have
sufficiently perished in this room to know that some things go
out, and other things come in, through I know not what agency.
And among those that go out there are some that come back,
after a more or less prolonged absence, and others that never
come back. With the result that, among those that come in,
some are familiar to me, others not. I don't understand. And,
stranger still, there exists a whole family of objects, having apparently
very little in common, which have never left me, since
I have been here, but remained quietly in their place, in the
corner, as in any ordinary uninhabited room. Or else they were
very quick. How false all that rings. But there is no guarantee
things will be ever thus. I cannot account in any other way for
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the changing aspect of my possessions. So that, strictly speaking,
it is impossible for me to know, from one moment to the
next, what is mine and what is not, according to my definition.
So I wonder if I should go on, I mean go on drawing up an inventory
corresponding perhaps but faintly to the facts, and
if I should not rather cut it short and devote myself to some
other form of distraction, of less consequence, or simply wait,
doing nothing, or counting perhaps, one, two, three and so on,
until all danger to myself from myself is past at last. That is
what comes of being scrupulous. If I had a penny I would let it
make up my mind. Decidedly the night is long and poor in counsel.
Perhaps I should persist until dawn. All things considered.
Good idea, excellent. If at dawn I am still there I shall take a
decision. I am half asleep. But I dare not sleep. Rectifications in
extremis, in extremissimis, are always possible after all. But
have I not perhaps just passed away? Malone, Malone, no more
of that. Perhaps I should call in all my possessions such as they
are and take them into bed with me. Would that be of any use?
I suppose not. But I may. I have always that resource. When it
is light enough to see. Then I shall have them all round me,
on top of me, under me, in the corner there will be nothing left,
all will be in the bed, with me. I shall hold my photograph in
my hand, my stone, so that they can't get away. I shall put on
my hat. Perhaps I shall have something in my mouth, my scrap
of newspaper perhaps, or my buttons, and I shall be lying on
other treasures still. My photograph. It is not a photograph of
me, but I am perhaps at hand. It is an ass, taken from in front
and close up, at the edge of the ocean, it is not the ocean, but for
me it is the ocean. They naturally tried to make it raise its head,
so that its beautiful eyes might be impressed on the celluloid,
but it holds it lowered. You can tell by its ears that it is not
pleased. They put a boater on its head. The thin hard parallel
legs, the little hooves light and dainty on the sand. The outline
is blurred, that's the operator's giggle shaking the camera. The
ocean looks so unnatural that you'd think you were in a studio,
but is it not rather the reverse I should say? No trace left of
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any clothes for example, apart from the boot, the hat and three
socks, I counted them. Where have my clothes disappeared,
my greatcoat, my trousers and the flannel that Mr. Quin gave
me, with the remark that he did not need it any more? Perhaps
they were burnt. But our business is not with what I have no
longer, such things do not count at such a moment, whatever
people may say. In any case I think I'll stop. I was keeping the
best for the end, but I don't feel very well, perhaps I'm going,
that would surprise me. It is a passing weakness, everyone has
experienced that. One weakens, then it passes, one's strength
comes back and one resumes. That is probably what is happening
to me. I yawn, would I yawn if it was serious? Why not?
I would gladly eat a little soup, if there was any left. No, even
if there was some left I would not eat it. So there. It is some
days now since my soup was renewed, did I mention that? I
suppose so. It is in vain I dispatch my table to the door, bring
it back beside me, move it to and fro in the hope that the noise
will be heard and correctly interpreted in the right quarters,
the dish remains empty. One of the pots on the other hand remains
full, and the other is filling slowly. If I ever succeed in
filling it I shall empty them both out on the floor, but it is unlikely.
Now that I have stopped eating I produce less waste and
so eliminate less. The pots do not seem to be mine, I simply have
the use of them. They answer to the definition of what is mine,
but they are not mine. Perhaps it is the definition that is at
fault. They have each two handles or ears, projecting above the
rim and facing each other, into which I insert my stick. In this
way I move my pots about, lift them up and set them down.
Nothing has been left to chance. Or is it a happy chance? I can
therefore easily turn them upside down, if I am driven to it,
and wait for them to empty, as long as necessary. After this
passing reference to my pots I feel a little more lively. They are
not mine, but I say my pots, as I say my bed, my window, as
I say me. Nevertheless I shall stop. It is my possessions have
weakened me, if I start talking about them again I shall weaken
again, for the same causes give rise to the same effects. I should
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have liked to speak of the cap of my bicycle-bell, of my halfcrutch,
the top half, you'd think it was a baby's crutch. But
I can still do so, what is there to prevent me? I don't know. I
can't. To think I shall perhaps die of hunger, after all, of starvation
rather, after having struggled successfully all my life against
that menace. I can't believe it. There is a providence for impotent
old men, to the end. And when they cannot swallow any
more someone rams a tube down their gullet, or up their rectum,
and fills them full of vitaminized pap, so as not to be accused of
murder. I shall therefore die of old age pure and simple, glutted
with days as in the days before the flood, on a full stomach.
Perhaps they think I am dead. Or perhaps they are dead themselves.
I say they, though perhaps I should not. In the beginning,
but was it the beginning, I used to see an old woman, then for
a time an old yellow arm, then for a time an old yellow hand.
But these were probably no more than the agents of a consortium.
And indeed the silence at times is such that the earth
seems uninhabited. That is what comes of the taste for generalisation.
You have only to hear nothing for a few days, in your
hole, nothing but the sounds of things, and you begin to fancy
yourself the last of human kind. What if I started to scream?
Not that I wish to draw attention to myself, simply to try and
find out if there is someone about. But I don't like screaming.
I have spoken softly, gone my ways softly, all my days, as behoves
one who has nothing to say, nowhere to go, and so nothing
to gain by being seen or heard. Not to mention the possibility
of there being not a living soul within a radius of one hundred
yards and then such multitudes of people that they are walking
on top of one another. They do not dare come near me. In
that case I could scream my head off to no purpose. I shall
try all the same. I have tried. I heard nothing out of the ordinary.
No, I exaggerate, I heard a kind of burning croak deep
down in the windpipe, as when one has heartburn. With practice
I might produce a groan, before I die. I am not sleepy any more.
In any case I must not sleep any more. What tedium. I have
missed the ebb. Did I say I only say a small proportion of the
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tilings that come into my head? I must have. I choose those that
seem somehow akin. It is not always easy. I hope they are the
most important. I wonder if I shall ever be able to stop. Perhaps
I should throw away my lead. I could never retrieve it
now. I might be sorry. My little lead. It is a risk I do not feel
inclined to take, just now. What then? I wonder if I could not
contrive, wielding my stick like a punt-pole, to move my bed.
It may well be on castors, many beds are. Incredible I should
never have thought of this, all the time I have been here. I
might even succeed in steering it, it is so narrow, through the
door, and even down the stairs, if there is a stairs that goes
down. To be off and away. The dark is against rne, in a sense.
But I can always try and see if the bed will move. I have only
to set the stick against the wall and push. And I can see myself
already, if successful, taking a little turn in the room, until it
is light enough for me to set forth. At least while thus employed
I shall stop telling myself lies. And then, who knows, the physical
effort may polish me off, by means of heart failure.
I have lost my stick, That is the outstanding event of the
day, for it is day again. The bed has not stirred. I must have
missed my point of purchase, in the dark. Sine qua non, Archimedes
was right. The stick, having slipped, would have plucked
me from the bed if I had not let it go. It would of course have
been better for me to relinquish my bed than to lose my stick.
But I had not time to think. The fear of falling is the source of
many a folly. It is a disaster. I suppose the wisest thing now
is to live it over again, meditate upon it and be edified. It is
thus that man distinguishes himself from the ape and rises,
from discovery to discovery, ever higher, towards the light. Now
that I have lost my stick I realize what it is I have lost and all
it meant to me. And thence ascend, painfully, to an understanding
of the Stick, shorn of all its accidents, such as I had never
dreamt of. What a broadening of the mind. So that I half discern,
in the veritable catastrophe that has befallen me, a blessing
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in disguise. How comforting that is. Catastrophe too in the
ancient sense no doubt. To be buried in lava and not turn a hair,
it is then a man shows what stuff he is made of. To know you
can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there
is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a
thought to be going on with. I thought I was turning my stick
to the best possible account, like a monkey scratching its fleas
with the key that opens its cage. For it is obvious to me now that
by making a more intelligent use of my stick I might have
extracted myself from my bed and perhaps even got myself
back into it, when tired of rolling and dragging myself about
the floor or on the stairs. That would have introduced a little
variety into my decomposition. How is it that never occurred to
me? It is true I had no wish to leave my bed. But can the sage
have no wish for something the very possibility of which he does
not conceive? I don't understand. The sage perhaps. But I? It
is day again, at least what passes for such here. I must have
fallen asleep after a brief bout of discouragement, such as I
have not experienced for a long time. For why be discouraged,
one of the thieves was saved, that is a generous percentage. I
see the stick on the floor, not far from the bed. That is to say
I see part of it, as of all one sees. It might just as well be at the
equator, or one of the poles. No, not quite, for perhaps I shall
devise a way of retrieving it, I am so ingenious. All is not then
yet quite irrevocably lost. In the meantime nothing is mine any
more, according to my definition, if I remember rightly, except
my exercise-book, my lead and the French pencil, assuming
it really exists. I did well to stop my inventory, it was a happy
thought. I feel less weak, perhaps they fed me while I slept.
I see the pot, the one that is not full, it is lost to me too. I shall
doubtless be obliged to forget myself in the bed, as when I was
a baby. At least I shall not be skelped. But enough about me.
You would think I was relieved to be without my stick. I think
I know how I might retrieve it. But something occurs to me.
Are they depriving me of soup on purpose to help me die? One
judges people too hastily. But in that case why feed me during
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my sleep? But there is no proof they have. But if they wished
to help me would it not be more intelligent to give me poisoned
soup, large quantities of poisoned soup? Perhaps they fear
an autopsy. It is obvious they see a long way ahead. That reminds
me that among my possessions I once had a little phial,
unlabelled, containing pills. Laxatives? Sedatives? I forget. To
turn to them for calm and merely obtain a diarrhoea, my, that
would be annoying. In any case the question does not arise I
am calm, insufficiently, I still lack a little calm. But enough about
me. Pll see if there is anything in my little idea, I mean how to
retrieve my stick. The fact is I must be very weak. If there is,
anything in it I mean, I shall try and get myself out of the bed,
for a start. If not I do not know what I shall do. Go and see how
Macmann is getting on perhaps. I have always that resource.
Why this need of activity? I am growing nervous.
One day, much later, to judge by his appearance, Macmann
came to again, once again, in a kind of asylum. At first he did
not know it was one, being plunged within it, but he was told
so as soon as he was in a condition to receive news. They said in
substance, You are now in the House of Saint John of God,
with the number one hundred and sixty-six. Fear nothing, you
are among friends. Friends! Well well. Take no thought for
anything, it is we shall think and act for you, from now forward.
We like it. Do not thank us therefore. In addition to the nourishment
carefully calculated to keep you alive, and even well, you
will receive, every Saturday, in honour of our patron, an imperial
half-pint of porter and a plug of tobacco. Then followed
instructions regarding his duties and prerogatives, for he was
credited with a certain number of prerogatives, notwithstanding
the bounties showered upon him. Stunned by this torrent of
civility, for he had eluded charity all his days, Macmann did
not immediately grasp that he was being spoken to. The room,
or cell, in which he lay, was thronged with men and women
dressed in white. They swarmed about his bed, those in the rear
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rising on tiptoe and craning their necks to get a better view of
him. The speaker was a man, naturally, in the flower and the
prime of life, his features stamped with mildness and severity in
equal proportions, and he wore a scraggy beard no doubt intended
to heighten his resemblance to the Messiah. To tell the
truth, yet again, he did not so much read as improvise, or recite,
to judge by the paper he held in his hand and on which from
time to time he cast an anxious eye. He finally handed this paper
to Macmann, together with the stump of an indelible pencil,
the point of which he first wetted with his lips, and requested
him to sign, adding that it was a mere formality. And when
Macmann had obeyed, either because he was afraid of being
punished if he refused or because he did not realize the seriousness
of what he was doing, the other took back the paper, examined
it and said, Mac what? It was then a woman's voice,
extraordinarily shrill and unpleasant, was heard to say, Mann,
his name is Macmann. This woman was standing behind him, so
that he could not see her, and in each hand she clutched a bar
of the bed. Who are you? said the speaker. Someone replied,
But it is Moll, can't you see, her name is Moll. The speaker turned
towards this informant, glared at him for a moment, then
dropped his eyes. To be sure, he said, to be sure, I am out of
sorts. He added, after a pause, Nice name, without its being
quite clear whether this little tribute was aimed at the nice
name of Moll or at the nice name of 'Macmann. Don't push,
for Jesus sake! he said, irritably. Then, suddenly turning, he
cried, What in God's name are you all pushing for for Christ
sake? And indeed the room was filling more and more, under
the influx of fresh spectators. Personally I'm going, said the
speaker. Then all retreated, in great jostle and disorder, each
one striving to be first out through the door, with the sole exception
of Moll, who did not stir. But when all were gone she
went to the door and shut it, then came back and sat down on
a chair by the bed. She was a little old woman, immoderately
ill-favored of both face and body. She seems called on to play
a certain part in the remarkable events which, I hope, will
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enable me to make an end. The thin yellow arms contorted by
some kind of bone deformation, the lips so broad and thick
that they seemed to devour half the face, were at first sight her
most revolting features. She wore by way of ear-rings two long
ivory crucifixes which swayed wildly at the least movement of
her head.
I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium
perhaps.
It seemed probable to Macmann that he was committed to
the care and charge of this person. Correct. For it had been
decreed, by those in authority, that one hundred and sixty-six
was Moll's, she having applied for him, formally. She brought
him food (one large dish daily, to eat first hot, then cold),
emptied his chamber-pot every morning first thing and showed
him how to wash himself, his face and hands every day, and
the other parts of the body successively in the course of the
week, Monday the feet, Tuesday the legs up to the knees,
Wednesday the thighs, and so on, culminating on Sunday with
the neck and ears, no, Sunday he rested from washing. She swept
the floor, shook up the bed from time to time and seemed to
take an extreme pleasure in polishing until they shone the
frosted lights of the unique window, which was never opened.
She informed Macmann, when he did something, if that thing
was permitted or not, and similarly, when he remained inert,
whether or not he was entitled to. Does this mean that she
stayed with him all the time? Why no, and no doubt she had
other attentions to bestow elsewhere, and other instructions to
give. But in the early stages, before he had grown used to this
new tide in his fortune, she assuredly left him alone as little as
possible and even watched over him part of the night. How
understanding she was, and how good-natured, appears from
the following anecdote. One day, not long after his admission,
Macmann realized he was wearing, instead of his usual accoutrement,
a long loose smock of coarse linen, or possibly
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drugget. He at once began to clamour loudly for his clothes,
including probably the contents of his pockets, for he cried,
My things! My things!, over and over again, tossing about in
the bed and beating the blanket with his palms. Then Moll sat
down on the edge of the bed and distributed her hands as follows,
one on top of one of Macmann's, the other on his brow.
She was so small that her feet did not reach to the floor. When
he was a little calmer she told him that his clothes had certainly
ceased to exist and could not therefore be returned to
him. With regard to the objects found in the pockets, they had
been assessed as quite worthless and fit only to be thrown away
with the exception of a little silver knife-rest which he could
have back at any time. But these declarations so distressed him
that she hastened to add, with a laugh, that she was only joking
and that in reality his clothes, cleaned, pressed, mended, strewn
with mothballs and folded away in a cardboard box bearing
his name and number, were as safe as if they had been received
in deposit by the Bank of England. But as Macmann continued
vehemently to demand his things, as if he did not understand
a word of what she had just told him, she was obliged to invoke
the regulations which tolerated on no account that an inmate
should resume contact with the trappings of his derelict days
until such time as he might be discharged. But as Macmann
continued passionately to clamour for his things, and notably for
his hat, she left him, saying he was not reasonable. And she
came back a little later, holding with the tips of her fingers the
hat in question, retrieved perhaps from the rubbish-heap at the
end of the vegetable-garden, for to know everything takes too
long, for it was fringed with manure and seemed to be rotting
away. And what is more she suffered him to put it on, and even
helped him to do so, helping him to sit up in the bed and arranging
his pillows in such a way that he might remain propped
up without fatigue. And she contemplated with tenderness the
old bewildered face relaxing, and in its tod of hair the mouth
trying to smile, and the little red eyes turning timidly towards
her as if in gratitude or rolling towards the recovered hat, and
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the hands raised to set it on more firmly and returning to rest
trembling on the blanket. And at last a long look passed between
them and Moll's lips puffed and parted in a dreadful smile,
which made Macmann's eyes waver like those of an animal
glared on by its master and compelled then finally to look away.
End of anecdote. This must be the selfsame hat that was abandoned
in the middle of the plain, its resemblance to it is so
great, allowance being made for the additional wear and tear.
Can it be then that it is not the same Macmann at all, after all,
in spite of the great resemblance (for those who know the power
of the passing years), both physical and otherwise. It is true
the Macmanns are legion in the island and pride themselves,
what is more, with few exceptions, on having one and all, in
the last analysis, sprung from the same illustrious ball. It is
therefore inevitable they should resemble one another, now
and then, to the point of being confused even in the minds of
those who wish them well and would like nothing better than to
tell between them. No matter, any old remains of flesh and spirit
do, there is no sense in stalking people. So long as it is what is
called a living being you can't go wrong, you have the guilty
one. For a long time he did not stir from his bed, not knowing
if he could walk, or even stand, and fearing to run foul of the
authorities, if he could. Let us then first consider this first phase
of Macmann's stay in the House of Saint John of God. We shall
then pass on to the second, and even to the third, if necessary.
A thousand little things to report, very strange, in view of
my situation, if I interpret them correctly. But my notes have
a curious tendency, as I realize at last, to annihilate all they
purport to record. So I hasten to turn aside from this extraordinary
heat, to mention only it, which has seized on certain parts
of my economy, I will not specify which. And to think I was
expecting rather to grow cold, if anything!
This first phase, that of the bed, was characterized by the
evolution of the relationship between Macmann and his keeper.
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There sprang up gradually between them a kind of intimacy
which, at a given moment, led them to lie together and copulate
as best they could. For given their age and scant experience of
carnal love, it was only natural they should not succeed, at the
first shot, in giving each other the impression they were made
for each other. The spectacle was then offered of Macmann trying
to bundle his sex into his partner's like a pillow into a
pillow-slip, folding it in two and stuffing it in with his fingers.
But far from losing heart they warmed to their work. And though
both were completely impotent they finally succeeded, summoning
to their aid all the resources of the skin, the mucus and
the imagination, in striking from their dry and feeble clips a
kind of sombre gratification. So that Moll exclaimed, being
(at that stage) the more expansive of the two, Oh would we had
but met sixty years ago! But on the long road to this what flutterings,
alarms and bashful fumblings, of which only this, that
they gave Macmann some insight into the meaning of the expression,
Two is company. He then made unquestionable progress
in the use of the spoken word and learnt in a short time to let
fall, at the right time, the yesses, noes, mores and enoughs that
keep love alive. It was also the occasion of his penetrating into
the enchanted world of reading, thanks to the inflammatory
letters which Moll brought and put into his hands. And the
memories of school are so tenacious, for those who have been
there, that he was soon able to dispense with the explanations of
his correspondent and understand all unaided, holding the sheet
of paper as far from his eyes as his arms permitted. While he
read Moll held a little aloof, with downcast eyes, saying to
herself, Now he's at the part where, and a little later, Now he's
at the part where, and so remained until the rustle of the sheet
going back into the envelope announced that he had finished.
Then she turned eagerly towards him, in time to see him raise
the letter to his lips or press it against his heart, another reminiscence
of the fourth form. Then he gave it back to her and she
put it under his pillow with the others there already, arranged in
chronological order and tied together by a favor. These letters
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did not much vary in form and tenor, which greatly facilitated
matters for Macmann. Example. Sweetheart, Not one day goes
by that I do not give thanks to God, on my bended knees, for
having found you, before I die. For we shall soon die, you and
I, that is obvious. That it may be at the same moment exactly
is all I ask. In any case I have the key of the medicine cupboard.
But let us profit first by this superb sundown, after the long day
of storm. Are you not of this opinion? Sweetheart! Ah would we
had met but seventy years ago ! No, all is for the best, we shall
not have time to grow to loathe each other, to see our youth
slip by, to recall with nausea the ancient rapture, to seek in the
company of third parties, you on the one hand, I on the other,
that which together we can no longer compass, in a word to get
to know each other. One must look things in the face, must one
not, sweet pet? When you hold me in your arms, and I you in
mine, it naturally does not amount to much, compared to the
transports of youth, and even middle age. But all is relative, let
us bear that in mind, stags and hinds have their needs and we
have ours. It is even astonishing that you manage so well, I
can hardly get over it, what a chaste and sober life you must
have led. I too, you must have noticed it. Consider moreover that
the flesh is not the end-all and the be-all, especially at our age,
and name me the lovers who can do with their eyes what we
can do with ours, which will soon have seen all there is for them
to see and have often great difficulty in remaining open, and
with their tenderness, without the help of passion, what by this
means alone we realize daily, when separated by our respective
obligations. Consider furthermore, since there is nothing more
for us to hide, that I was never beautiful or well-proportioned,
but ugly and even misshapen, to judge by the testimonies I have
received. Papa notably used to say that people would run a mile
from me, I have not forgotten the expression. And you, sweet,
even when you were of an age to quicken the pulse of beauty,
did you exhibit the other requisites? I doubt it. But with the
passing of the years we have become scarcely less hideous than
even our best favored contemporaries and you, in particular,
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have kept your hair. And thanks to our having never served,
never understood, we are not without freshness and innocence,
it seems to me. Moral, for us at last it is the season of love, let
us make the most of it, there are pears that only ripen in December.
Do not fret about our methods, leave all that to me,
and I warrant you we'll surprise each other yet. With regard
to tetty-beshy I must beg to differ, it is well worth persevering
with, in my opinion. Follow my instructions, you'll come back
for more. For shame, you dirty old man! It's all these bones
that makes it awkward, that I grant you. Well, we must just
accept ourselves as we are. And above all not fret, these are
trifles. Let us think of the hours when, spent, we lie twined together
in the dark, our hearts laboring as one, and listen to the
wind saying what it is to be abroad, at night, in winter, and
what it is to have been what we have been, and sink together,
in an unhappiness that has no name. That is how we must look
at things. So courage, my sweet old hairy Mac, and oyster kisses
just where you think from your own Sucky Moll. P.S. I enquired
about the oysters, I have hopes. Such was the rather rambling
style of the declarations which Moll, despairing no doubt of
giving vent to her feelings by the normal channels, addressed
three or four times a week to Macmann, who never answered,
I mean in writing, but manifested by every other means in his
power how pleased he was to receive them. But towards the
close of this idyll, that is to say when it was too late, he began
to compose brief rimes of curious structure, to offer to his mistress,
for he felt she was drifting away from him. Example.
Hairy Mac and Sucky Molly
In the ending days and nights
Of unending melancholy
Love it is at last unites.
Other example.
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To the lifelong promised land
Of the nearest cemetery
With his Sucky hand in hand
Love it is at last leads Hairy.
He had time to compose ten or twelve more or less in this
vein, all remarkable for their exaltation of love regarded as a
kind of lethal glue, a conception frequently to be met with in
mystic texts. And it is extraordinary that Macmann should have
succeeded, in so short a time and after such inauspicious beginnings,
in elevating himself to a view of this altitude. And one
can only speculate on what he might have achieved if he had
become acquainted with true sexuality at a less advanced age.
I am lost. Not a word.
Inauspicious beginnings indeed, during which his feeling
for Moll was frankly one of repugnance. Her lips in particular
repelled him, those selfsame lips, or so little changed as to make
no matter, that some months later he was to suck with grunts of
pleasure, so that at the very sight of them he not only closed
his eyes, but covered them with his hands for greater safety.
She it was therefore who at this period exerted herself in tireless
ardours, which may serve to explain why she seemed to
weaken in the end and stand in her turn in need of stimulation.
Unless it was simply a question of health. Which does not exclude
a third hypothesis, namely that Moll, having finally
decided that she had been mistaken in Macmann and that he
was not the man she had taken him for, sought a means of putting
an end to their intercourse, but gently, in order not to give
him a shock. Unfortunately our concern here is not with Moll,
who after all is only a female, but with Macmann, and not
with the close of their relations, but rather with the beginning.
Of the brief period of plenitude between these two extremes,
when between the warming up of the one party and the cooling
down of the other there was established a fleeting equality of
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temperature, no further mention will be made. For if it is indispensable
to have in order not to have had and in order to have
no longer, there is no obligation to expatiate upon it. But let
us rather let events speak for themselves, that is more or less
the right tone. Example. One day, just as Macmann was getting
used to being loved, though without as yet responding as he
was subsequently to do, he thrust Moll's face away from his
on the pretext of examining her ear-rings. But as she made to
return to the charge he checked her again with the first words
that came into his head, namely, Why two Christs?, implying
that in his opinion one was more than sufficient. To which she
made the absurd reply, Why two ears? But she obtained his
forgiveness a moment later, saying, with a smile (she smiled at
the least thing), Besides they are the thieves, Christ is in my
mouth. Then parting her jaws and pulling down her blobber-lip
she discovered, breaking with its solitary fang the monotomy
of the gums, a long yellow canine bared to the roots and carved,
with the drill probably, to represent the celebrated sacrifice.
With the forefinger of her free hand she fingered it. It's loose,
she said, one of these fine mornings Pll wake up and find I've
swallowed it, perhaps I should have it out. She let go her lip,
which sprang back into place with a smack. This incident made
a strong impression on Macmann and Moll rose with a bound
in his affections. And in the pleasure he was later to enjoy, when
he put his tongue in her mouth and let it wander over her gums,
this rotten crucifix had assuredly its part. But from these harmless
aids what love is free? Sometimes it is an object, a garter
I believe or a sweat-absorber for the armpit. And sometimes
it is the simple image of a third party. A few words in conclusion
on the decline of this liaison. No, I can't.
Weary with my weariness, white last moon, sole regret, not
even. To be dead, before her, on her, with her, and turn, dead
on dead, about poor mankind, and never have to die any more,
from among the living. Not even, not even that. My moon was
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here below, far below, the little I was able to desire. And one
day, soon, soon, one earthlit night, beneath the earth, a dying
being will say, like me, in the earthlight, Not even, not even that,
and die, without having been able to find a regret.
Moll. Pm going to kill her. She continued to look after Macmann,
but she was no longer the same. When she had finished
cleaning up she sat down on a chair, in the middle of the room,
and remained without stirring. If he called her she went and
perched on the edge of the bed and even submitted to be titillated.
But it was obvious her thoughts were elsewhere and her
only wish to return to her chair and resume the now familiar
gesture of massaging her stomach, slowly, weighing on it with
her two hands. She was also beginning to smell. She had never
srnelt sweet, but between not smelling sweet and giving off the
smell she was giving off now there is a gulf. She was also subject
to fits of vomiting. Turning away, so that her lover should
only see her convulsive back, she vomited at length on the floor.
And these dejections remained sometimes for hours where they
fell, until such time as she had the strength to go and fetch
what was needed to clean up the mess. Half a century younger
she might have been taken for pregnant. At the same time her
hair began to fall out in abundance and she confessed to Macmann
that she did not dare comb it any more, for fear of making
it fall out even faster. He said to himself with satisfaction, She
tells me everything. But these were small things compared to
the change in her complexion, now rapidly turning from yellow
to saffron. The sight of her so diminished did not damp Macmann's
desire to take her, all stinking, yellow, bald and vomiting,
in his arms. And he would certainly have done so had she not
been opposed to it. One can understand him (her too). For
when one has within reach the one and only love requited of
a life so monstrously prolonged, it is natural one should wish to
profit by it, before it is too late, and refuse to be deterred by
feelings of squeamishness excusable in the faint-hearted, but
which true love disdains. And though all pointed to Moll's being
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out of sorts, Macmann could not help interpreting her attitude
as a falling off of her affection for him. And perhaps indeed
there was something of that too. At all events the more she
declined the more Macmann longed to crush her to his breast,
which is at least sufficiently curious and unusual to deserve of
mention. And when she turned and looked at him (and from
time to time she did so still), with eyes in which he fancied he
could read boundless regret and love, then a kind of frenzy
seized upon him and he began to belabor with his fists his
chest, his head and even the mattress, writhing and crying out,
in the hope perhaps she would take pity on him and come and
comfort him and dry his tears, as on the day when he had
demanded his hat. No, it was not that, it was without malice he
cried, writhed and beat his breast, for she made no attempt to
stop him and even left the room if it went on too long for her
liking. Then, all alone and unobserved, he continued to behave
as if beside himself, which is proof positive, is it not, that he
was disinterested, unless of course he suspected her of having
stopped outside the door to listen. And when he grew calm
again at last he mourned the long immunity he had lost, from
shelter, charity and human tenderness. And he even carried his
inconsequence to the length of wondering what right anyone had
to take care of him. In a word most evil days, for Macmann.
For Moll too probably, naturally, admittedly. It was at this
time she lost her tooth. It fell unaided from the socket, happily
in the daytime, so that she was able to recover it and put it
away in a safe place. Macmann said to himself, when she told
him, There was a time she would have made me a present of it,
or at least shown it to me. But a little later he said, firstly, To
have told me, when she need not have, is a mark of confidence
and affection, and secondly, But I would have known in any
case, when she opened her mouth to speak or smile, and finally,
But she does not speak or smile any more. One morning early
a man whom he had never seen came and told him that Moll
was dead. There's one out of the way at least. My name is
Lemuel, he said, though my parents were probably Aryan, and
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it is in my charge you are from now on. Here is your porridge.
Eat while it is boiling.
A last effort, Lemuel gave the impression of being slightly
more stupid than malevolent, and yet his malevolence was considerable.
When Macmann, more and more disturbed by his
situation apparently and what is more now capable of isolating
and expressing well enough to be understood a little of the little
that passed through his mind, when Macmann I say asked a
question it was seldom he got an immediate answer. When asked
for example to state whether Saint John of Gods was a private
institution or run by the State, a hospice for the aged and infirm
or a madhouse, if once in one might entertain the hope of one
day getting out and, in the affirmative, by means of what steps,
Lemuel remained for a long time plunged in thought, sometimes
for as long as ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, motionless
or if you prefer scratching his head or his armpit, as if
such questions had never crossed his mind, or possibly thinking
about something quite different. And if Macmann, growing
impatient or perhaps feeling he had not made himself clear,
ventured to try again, an imperious gesture bid him be silent.
Such was this Lemuel, viewed from a certain angle. Or he cried,
stamping the ground with indescribable nervousness, Let me
think, you shite! It usually ended by his saying he did not
know. But he was subject to almost hypomaniacal fits of goodhumor.
Then he would add, But I'll enquire. And taking out a
note-book as fat as a ship's log he made note, murmuring, Private
or state, mad or like me, how out, etc. Macmann could then be
sure he would never hear any more about it. May I get up?
he said one day. Already in Moll's lifetime he had expressed
the wish to get up and go out into the fresh air, but timidly,
as when one asks for the moon. And he had then been told that
if he was good he might indeed be let up one day, and out into
the pure plateau air, and that on that day, in the great hall
where the staff assembled at dawn before entering on their
duties, there would be seen pinned on the board a note thus
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conceived, Let one hundred and sixty-six get up and go out.
For when it came to the regulations Moll was inflexible and
their voice was stronger than the voice of love, in her heart,
whenever they made themselves heard there simultaneously.
The oysters for example, which the Board had refused in a
note calling her attention to the article whereby they were prohibited,
but which she could easily have smuggled in, Macmann
never saw sight or sign of the oysters. But Lemuel was made of
sterner stuff, in this connexion, and far from being a stickler
for the statutes seemed to have little or no acquaintance with
them. Indeed the question might have arisen, in the mind of
one looking down upon the scene, as to whether he had all his
wits about him. For when not rooted to the spot in a daze he
was to be seen, with heavy, furious, reeling tread, stamping up
and down for hours on end, gesticulating and ejaculating unintelligible
words. Flayed alive by memory, his mind crawling
with cobras, not daring to dream or think and powerless not to,
his cries were of two kinds, those having no other cause than
moral anguish and those, similar in every respect, by means of
which he hoped to forestall same. Physical pain, on the contrary,
seemed to help him greatly. And one day rolling up the leg of
his trousers, he showed Macmann his shin covered with bruises,
scars and abrasions. Then producing smartly a hammer from an
inner pocket he dealt himself, right in the middle of his ancient
wounds, so violent a blow that he fell down backwards, or perhaps
I should say forwards. But the part he struck most readily,
with his hammer, was the head, and that is understandable, for
it too is a bony part, and sensitive, and difficult to miss, and
the seat of all the shit and misery, so you rain blows upon it,
with more pleasure than on the leg for example, which never
did you any harm, it's only human. Up! cried Macmann. Let
me up! Lemuel came to a standstill. What? he roared. Up!
cried Macmann. Let me up! Let me up!
I have had a visit. Things were going too well. I had forgotten
myself, lost myself. I exaggerate. Things were not going
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too badly, I was elsewhere. Another was suffering. Then I had
the visit. To bring me back to dying. If that amuses them. The
fact is they don't know, neither do I, but they think they know.
An aeroplane passes, flying low, with a noise like thunder. It
is a noise quite unlike thunder, one says thunder but one does
not think it, it is just a loud, fleeting noise, nothing more, unlike
any other. It is certainly the first time I have heard it here,
to my knowledge. But I have heard aeroplanes elsewhere and
have even seen them in flight, I saw the very first in flight and
then in the end the latest models, oh not the very latest, the
very second-latest, the very antepenultimate. I was present at
one of the first loopings of the loop, so help me God, I was not
afraid. It was above a racecourse, my mother held me by the
hand. She kept saying, It's a miracle, a miracle. Then I changed
my mind. We were not often of the same mind. One day we were
walking along the road, up a hill of extraordinary steepness,
near home I imagine, my memory is full of steep hills, I get
them confused. I said, The sky is further away than you think, is
it not, mama? It was without malice, I was simply thinking of all
the leagues that separated me from it. She replied, to me her son,
It is precisely as far away as it appears to be. She was right.
But at the time I was aghast. I can still see the spot, opposite
Tyler's gate. A market-gardener, he had only one eye and wore
side-whiskers. That's the idea, rattle on. You could see the sea,
the islands, the headlands, the isthmuses, the coast stretching
away to north and south and the crooked moles of the harbor.
We were on our way home from the butcher's. My mother? Perhaps
it is just another story, told me by some one who found it
funny. The stories I was told, at one time! And all funny, not
one not funny. In any case here I am back in the shit. The
aeroplane, on the other hand, has just passed over at two hundred
miles an hour perhaps. It's a good speed, for the present
day. I am with it in spirit, naturally. All the things I was always
with in spirit. In body no. Not such a fool. Here is the programme
anyhow, the end of the programme. They think they can
confuse me and make me lose sight of my programmes. Proper
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cunts whoever they are. Here it is. Visit, various remarks, Macmaim
continued, agony recalled, Macmann continued, then
mixture of Macmann and agony as long as possible. It does not
depend on me, my lead is not inexhaustible, nor my exercisebook,
nor Macmann, nor myself in spite of appearances. That
all may be wiped out at the same instant is all I ask, for the
moment. The visit. I felt a violent blow on the head. He had
perhaps been there for some time. One does not care to be
kept waiting for ever, one draws attention to oneself as best
one can, it's human. I don't doubt he gave me due warning,
before he hit me. I don't know what he wanted. He's gone now.
What an idea, all the same, to hit me on the head. The light has
been queer ever since, oh I insinuate nothing, dim and at the
same time radiant, perhaps I have concussion. His mouth opened,
his lips worked, but I heard nothing. He might just as well have
said nothing. And yet I am not deaf, witness the aeroplane, if
I hear nothing it is because there is nothing to hear. But perhaps
life has dulled my irritability to specifically human sounds.
I myself for example make no sound, well well, can't go back
on it now, no, not the tiniest. And yet I pant, cough, moan and
gulp right up against my ear, I could swear to it. In other words
I do not know to what I owe the honor. He seemed vexed. Must
I describe him? Why not? He may be important. I had a clear
view of him. Black suit of antiquated cut, or perhaps come back
into the fashion, black tie, snow-white shirt, heavily starched
clown's cuffs almost entirely covering the hands, oily black hair,
a long, dismal, glabrous, floury face, sombre lacklustre eyes,
medium height and build, block-hat pressed delicately to stomach
with finger-tips, then without warning in a gesture of extraordinary
suddenness and precision slapped on skull. A folding-rule,
together with a fin of white handkerchief, emerged from the
breast pocket. I took him at first for the undertaker's man, annoyed
at having called prematurely. He remained some time,
seven hours at least. Perhaps he hoped to have the satisfaction
of seeing me expire before he left, that would probably have
saved him time and trouble. For a moment I thought he was
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going to finish me off. What a hope, it would have been a crime.
He must have left at six o'clock, his working day ended. The
light is queer ever since. That it to say he went a first time, came
back some hours later, then left for good. He must have been
here from nine to twelve, then from two to six, now I have it.
He kept looking at his watch, a turnip. Perhaps he will come
back to-morrow. It was in the morning he hit me, about ten
o'clock probably. In the afternoon he did not touch me, though
I did not see him immediately, he was already in position when
I saw him, standing beside the bed. I speak of morning and
afternoon and of such and such an hour, if you simply must
speak of people you simply must put yourself in their place, it is
not difficult. The only thing you must never speak of is your happiness,
I can think of nothing else for the moment. Better even
not to think of it. Standing by the bed he watched me. Seeing
my lips move, for I tried to speak, he stooped down to me. I
had things to ask him, to give me my stick for example. He would
have refused. Then with clasped hands and tears in my eyes I
would have begged it of him as a favor. This humiliation has
been denied to me thanks to my aphony. My voice has gone
dead, the rest will follow. I could have written, on a page of
my exercise-book, and shown to him, Please give me back my
stick, or, Be so kind as to hand me up my stick. But I
had hidden the exercise-book under the blanket, so that
he might not take it from me. I did so without thinking that
he had been there for some time (otherwise he would not have
struck me) watching me writing, for I must have been writing
when he came, and that consequently he could easily have taken
my exercise-book if he had wished, and without thinking either
that he was watching me when I slipped it out of sight, and
that consequently the only effect of my precaution was to draw
his attention to the very object I wished to hide from him.
There's reasoning for you. For of all I ever had in this world all
has been taken from me, except the exercise-book, so I cherish
it, it's human. The lead too, I was forgetting the lead, but what
is a lead, without paper? He must have said to himself, over his
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lunch, This afternoon I'll take his exercise-book from him, he
seems to cherish it. But when he came back from his lunch the
exercise-book was no longer in the place where he had seen me
put it, he had not thought of that. His umbrella, have I mentioned
his umbrella, the tightest rolled I ever saw? Shifting it
every few minutes from one hand to the other he leaned his
weight upon it, standing beside the bed. Then it bent. He made
use of it to raise my blankets. It was with this umbrella that I
thought he was going to kill me, with its long sharp point, he
had only to plunge it in my heart. Wilful murder, people would
have said. Perhaps he will come back to-morrow, better equipped,
or with an assistant, now that he is familiar with the premises.
But if he watched me I too watched him, I think we gazed at
each other literally for hours, without winking. He probably
imagined he could stare me down, because I am old and helpless.
The poor bastard. It was so long since I had seen a biped
of this description that I had my eyes out on stalks, as the
saying is, for fear of not being able to credit them. I said to
myself, One of these days they'll start grazing the trees. And
the face they have! I had forgotten. At a certain moment, incommoded
by the smell probably, he squeezed himself in between
the bed and the wall, to try and open the window. He couldn't.
In the morning I didn't take my eyes off him. But in the afternoon
I slept a little. I don't know what he did while I was asleep,
rummaged in my possessions probably, with his umbrella, they
are scattered all over the floor now. I thought for a moment
he had been sent by the funeral people. Those who have enabled
me to live till now will no doubt see to it that I am buried with
a minimum of ceremony. Here lies Malone at last, with the
dates to give a faint idea of the time he took to be excused and
then to distinguish him from his namesakes, numerous in the
island and beyond the grave. Funny I never ran into one, to my
knowledge, not one. There is still time. Here lies a ne'er-dowell,
six feet under hell. But for a moment only, I mean half-anhour
at most. Then I tried him with other functions, all equally
disappointing. Strange need to know who people are and what
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they do for a living and what they want with you. In spite of
the ease with which he wore his black and manipulated his
umbrella and his consummate mastery of the block-hat, I had
for a time the impression he was disguised, but from what if I
may say so, and as what? At a given moment, yet another, he
took fright, for his breath came faster and he moved away from
the bed. It was then I saw he was wearing brown boots, which
gave me such a shock as no words can convey. They were copiously
caked with fresh mud and I said to myself, Through what
sloughs has he had to toil to reach me? I wonder if he was looking
for something in particular, it would be so nice to know.
I shall tear a page out of my exercise-book and reproduce upon
it, from memory, what follows, and show it to him to-morrow,
or to-day, or some other day, if he ever comes back. 1. Who
are you? 2. What do you do, for a living? 3. Are you looking for
something in particular? What else? 4. Why are you so cross?
5. Have I offended you? 6. Do you know anything about me?
7. It was wrong of you to strike me. 8. Give me my stick. 9. Are
you your own employer? 10. If not who sends you? 11. Put
back my things where you found them. 12. Why has my soup
been stopped? 13. For what reason are my pots no longer emtied?
14. Do you think I shall last much longer? 15. May I ask
you a favor? 16. Your conditions are mine. 17. Why brown boots
and whence the mud? 18. You couldn't by any chance let me
have the butt of a pencil? 19. Number your answers. 20. Don't
go, I haven't finished. Will one page suffice? There cannot be
many left. I might as well ask for a rubber while I am about
it. 21. Could you lend me an India rubber? When he had gone
I said to myself, But surely I have seen him somewhere before.
And the people I have seen have seen me too, I can guarantee
that. But of whom may it not be said, I know that man? Drivel,
drivel. And then at evening morning is so far away. I had stopped
looking at him. I had got used to him. I was thinking of him,
trying to understand, you can't do that and look at the same
time. I did not even see him go. Oh he did not vanish, after the
fashion of a ghost, no, I heard him, the clank when he took out
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his watch, the satisfied thump of the umbrella on the floor, the
rightabout, the rapid steps towards the door, its soft closing and
finally, I am sorry to say, a gay and lively whistle dying away.
What have I omitted? Little things, nothings. They will come
back to me later, make me see more clearly what has happened
and say, Ah if I had only known then, now it is too late. Yes,
little by little I shall see him as he just has been, or as he should
have been for me to be able to say, yet again, Too late, too
late. There's feeling for you. Or he is perhaps just the first of
a series of visitors, all different. They are going to relay one
another, and they are numerous. To-morrow perhaps he will be
wearing leggings, riding-breeches and a check cap, with a whip
in his hand to make up for the umbrella and a horse-shoe
in his button-hole. All the people I have ever caught a glimpse
of, at close quarters or at a distance, may file past from now on,
that is obvious. There may even be women and children, I have
caught a glimpse of a few, they will all be armed with something
to lean on and rummage in my things with, they will all
give me a clout on the head to begin with and then spend the
rest of the day glaring at me in anger and disgust. I shall have
to revise my questionnaire so as to adapt it to all and sundry.
Perhaps one, one day, unmindful of his instructions, will give
me my stick. Or I might be able to catch one, a little girl for
example, and half strangle her, three quarters, until she promises
to give me my stick, give me soup, empty my pots, kiss me,
fondle me, smile to me, give me my hat, stay with me, follow
the hearse weeping into her handkerchief, that would be nice.
I am such a good man, at bottom, such a good man, how is it
nobody ever noticed it? A little girl would be into my barrow,
she would undress before me, sleep beside me, have nobody but
me, I would jam the bed against the door to prevent her running
away, but then she would throw herself out of the window, when
they got to know she was with me they would bring soup for
two, I would teach her love and loathing, she would never forget
me, I would die delighted, she would close my eyes and put a
plug in my arse-hole, as per instructions. Easy, Malone, take
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it easy, you old whore. That reminds me, how long can one fast
with impunity? The Lord Mayor of Cork lasted for ages, but
he was young, and then he had political convictions, human
ones too probably, just plain human convictions. And he
allowed himself a sip of water from time to time, sweetened
probably. Water, for pity's sake! How is it I am not thirsty.
There must be drinking going on inside me, my secretions. Yes,
let us talk a little about me, that will be a rest from all these
blackguards. What light! Foretaste of paradise? My head. On
fire, full of boiling oil. What shall I die of, in the end? A transport
of blood to the brain? That would be the last straw. The
pain is almost unbearable, upon my soul it is. Incandescent
migraine. Death must take me for someone else. It's the heart's
fault, as in the bosom of the match king, Schneider, Schroeder,
I forget. It too is burning, with shame, of itself, of me, of them,
shame of everything, except of beating apparently. It's nothing,
mere nervousness. And who knows, perhaps the first to
fail will be my breath, after all. After each avowal, before and
during, what swirling murmurs. The window says break of
day, rack of tattered rainclouds stampeding. Have a nice time.
Far from this molten gloom. Yes, my last gasps are not what
they might be, the bellows won't go down, the air is choking
me, perhaps it is a little lacking in oxygen. Macmann pygmy
beneath the great black gesticulating pines gazes at the distant
raging sea. The others are there too, or at their windows, like
me, but on their feet, they must be able to move, or to be moved,
no, not like me, they can't do anything for anybody, clinging to
the shivering poplars, or at their windows, listening. But perhaps
I should finish with myself first, in so far naturally as such a
thing is possible. The speed I am turning at now makes things
difficult admittedly, but it probably can only increase, that is the
thing to be considered. Mem, add to the questionnaire, If you
happen to have a match try and light it. How is it I heard
nothing when he spoke to me and yet heard him leave, whistling?
Perhaps he only feigned to speak to me, to try and make me
think I had gone deaf. Do I hear anything at the present in-
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stant? Let me see. No, the answer is no. Neither the wind, nor
the sea, nor the paper, nor the air I exhale with such labor. But
this innumerable babble, like a multitude whispering? I don't
understand. With my distant hand I count the pages that remain.
They will do. This exercise-book is my life, this big child's
exercise-book, it has taken me a long time to resign myself to
that. And yet I shall not throw it away. For I want to put down
in it, for the last time, those I have called to my help, but ill,
so that they did not understand, so that they may cease with me.
Now rest.
Wearing over his long shirt a great striped cloak reaching
down to his ankles Macmann took the air in all weathers, from
morning to night. And more than once they had been obliged
to go out looking for him with lanterns, to bring him back to
his cell, for he had remained deaf to the call of the bell and to
the shouts and threats first of Lemuel, then of the other keepers.
Then the keepers, in their white clothes, armed with sticks and
lanterns, spread out from the buildings and beat the thickets,
the copses and the fern-brakes, calling the fugitive by name and
threatening him with the direst reprisals if he did not surrender
immediately. But they finally remarked that he hid, when he
did, always in the same place and that such a deployment of force
was unnecessary. From then on it was Lemuel who went out
alone, in silence, as always when he knew what he had to do,
straight to the bush in which Macmann had made his lair,
whenever this was necessary. My God, And often the two of
them remained there for some time, in the bush, before going
in, huddled together, for the lair was small, saying nothing,
perhaps listening to the noises of the night, the owls, the wind
in the leaves, the sea when it was high enough to make its voice
heard, and then the other night sounds that you cannot tell the
meaning of. And it sometimes happened that Macmann, weary of
not being alone went away alone and back into his cell and
remained there until Lemuel rejoined him, much later. It was a
genuine English park, though far from England, extravagantly
105
unformal, luxuriant to the point of wildness* the trees at war
with one another, and the bushes, and the wild flowers and
weeds, all ravening for earth and light. One evening Macmann
went back to his cell with a branch torn from a dead bramble,
for use as a stick to support him as he walked. Then Lemuel
took it from him and struck him with it over and over again, no,
that won't work, then Lemuel called a keeper by the name of
Pat, a thorough brute though puny in appearance, and said to
him, Pat, will you look at that. Then Pat snatched the stick from
Macmann who, seeing the turn things were taking, was holding
it clutched tight in his two hands, and struck him with it until
Lemuel told him to stop, and even for some little time afterwards.
All this without a word of explanation. So that a little later
Macmann, having brought back from his walk a hyacinth he
had torn up bulb and roots in the hope of being able to keep it
a little longer thus than if he had simply plucked it, was fiercely
reprimanded by Lemuel who wrenched the pretty flower from
his hands and threatened to hand him over to Jack again, no,
to Pat again, Jack is a different one. And yet the fact of having
half demolished the bush, a kind of laurel, in order to hide in
it, had never brought upon his head the least reproof. This is
not necessarily surprising, there was no proof against him. Had
he been questioned about it he would naturally have told the
truth, for he did not suspect he had done anything wrong. But
they must have assumed he would do nothing but lie and stoutly
deny and that it was therefore useless to press him with questions.
Besides no questions were ever asked in the House of
Saint John of God, but stern measures were simply taken, or
not taken, according to the dictates of a peculiar logic. For,
when you come to think of it, in virtue of what possible principle
of justice can a flower in the hand fasten on the bearer the crime
of having gathered it? Or was the mere fact of holding it for
all to see in itself a felony, analogous to that of the receiver or
fence? And if so would it not have been preferable to make this
known, quite plainly and frankly, to all concerned, so that the
sense of guilt, instead of merely following on the guilty act,
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might precede and accompany it as well? Problem. But nicely
posed, I think, very nicely indeed. Thanks to the white cloak
with its blue butcher stripes no confusion was possible between
the Macmanns on the one hand and the Lemuels, Pats and Jacks
on the other. The birds. Numerous and varied in the dense
foliage they lived without fear all the year round, or in fear only
of their congeners, and those which in summer or in winter flew
off to other climes came back the following winter or the following
summer, roughly speaking. The air was filled with their
voices, especially at dawn and dusk, and those which set off in
flocks in the morning, such as the crows and starlings, for distant
pastures, came back the same evening all joyous to the
sanctuary, where their sentinels awaited them. The gulls were
many in stormy weather which paused here on their flight inland.
They wheeled long in the cruel air, screeching with anger, then
settled in the grass or on the house-tops, mistrustful of the trees.
But that is all beside the point, like so many things. All is pretext,
Sapo and the birds, Moll, the peasants, those who in the
towns seek one another out and fly from one another, my doubts
which do not interest me, my situation, my possessions, pretext
for not coming to the point, the abandoning, the raising of the
arms and going down, without further splash, even though it may
annoy the bathers. Yes, there is no good pretending, it is hard to
leave everything. The horror-worn eyes linger abject on all
they have beseeched so long, in a last prayer, the true prayer at
last, the one that asks for nothing. And it is then a little breath
of fulfilment revives the dead longings and a murmur is born
in the silent world, reproaching you affectionately with having
despaired too late. The last word in the way of viaticum. Let us
try it another way. The pure plateau
Try and go on. The pure plateau air. Yes, it was a plateau,
Moll had not lied, or rather a great mound with gentle slopes.
The entire top was occupied by the domain of Saint John and
there the wind blew almost without ceasing, causing the stoutest
107
trees to bend and groan, breaking the boughs, tossing the bushes,
lashing the ferns to fury, flattening the grass and whirling leaves
and flowers far away, I hope I have not forgotten anything.
Good. A high wall encompassed it about, without however shutting
off the view, unless you happened to be in its lee. How
was this possible? Why thanks to the rising ground to be sure,
culminating in a summit called the Rock, because of the rock
that was on it. From here a fine view was to be obtained of the
plain, the sea, the mountains, the smoke of the town and the
buildings of the institution, bulking large in spite of their remoteness
and all astir with little dots or flecks forever appearing
and disappearing, in reality the keepers coming and going,
perhaps mingled with I was going to say with the prisoners!
For seen from this distance the striped cloak had no stripes,
nor indeed any great resemblance to a cloak at all. So that one
could only say, when the first shock of surprise was past, Those
are men and women, you know, people, without being able to
specify further. A stream at long intervals bestrid but to hell
with all this fucking scenery. Where could it have risen anyway,
tell me that. Underground perhaps. In a word a little Paradise
for those who like their nature sloven. Macmann sometimes
wondered what was lacking to his happiness. The right to be
abroad in all weathers morning, noon and night, trees and bushes
with outstretched branches to wrap him round and hide him,
food and lodging such as they were free of all charge, superb
views on every hand out over the lifelong enemy, a minimum of
persecution and corporal punishment, the song of the birds, no
human contact except with Lemuel, who went out of his way
to avoid him, the faculties of memory and reflection stunned
by the incessant walking and high wind, Moll dead, what more
could he wish? I must be happy, he said, it is less pleasant
than I should have thought. And he clung closer and closer to
the wall, but not too close, for it was guarded, seeking a way out
into the desolation of having nobody and nothing, the wilds of
the hunted, the scant bread and the scant shelter and the black
joy of the solitary way, in helplessness and will-lessness, through
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all the beauty, the knowing and the loving. Which he stated by
saying, for he was artless, I have had enough, without pausing a
moment to reflect on what it was he had enough of or to
compare it with what it had been he had had enough of, until
he lost it, and would have enough of again, when he got It back
again, and without suspecting that the thing so often felt to be
excessive, and honored by such a variety of names, was perhaps
in reality always one and the same. But there was one reflecting
in his place and setting down coldly the sign of equality
where it was needed, as if that could make any difference. So
he had only to go on gasping, in his artless way, Enough!
Enough!, as he crept along by the wall under the cover of the
bushes, searching for a breach through which he might slip
out, under cover of night, or a place with footholds where he
might climb over. But the wall was unbroken and smooth and
topped uninterruptedly with broken glass, of a bottle green.
But let us cast a glance at the main entrance, wide enough to
admit two large vehicles abreast and flanked by two charming
lodges covered with Virginia creeper and occupied by large
deserving families, to judge by the swarms of little brats playing
nearby, pursuing one another with cries of joy, rage and grief.
But space hemmed him in on every side and held him in its
toils, with the multitude of other faintly stirring, faintly struggling
things, such as the children, the lodges and the gates, and
like a sweat of things the moments streamed away in a great
chaotic conflux of oozings and torrents, and the trapped huddled
things changed and died each one according to its solitude.
Beyond the gate, on the road, shapes passed that Macmann
could not understand, because of the bars, because of all the
trembling and raging behind him and beside him, because of
the cries, the sky, the earth enjoining him to fall and his long
blind life. A keeper came out of one of the lodges, in obedience
to a telephone-call probably, all in white, a long black object in
his hand, a key, and the children lined up along the drive.
Suddenly there were women. All fell silent. The heavy gates
swung open, driving the keeper before them. He backed away,
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then suddenly turned and fled to his doorstep. The road appeared,
white with dust, bordered with dark masses, stretched
a little way and ran up dead, against a narrow grey sky. Macmann
let go the tree that hid him and turned back up the hill,
not running, for he could hardly walk, but as fast as he could,
bowed and stumbling, helping himself forward with the boles
and boughs that offered. Little by little the haze formed again,
and the sense of absence, and the captive things began to murmur
again, each one to itself, and it was as if nothing had ever
happened or would ever happen again.
Others besides Marmann strayed from morning to night,
stooped under the heavy cloak, in the rare glades, among the
trees that hid the sky and in the high ferns where they looked
like swimmers. They seldom came near to one another, because
they were few and the park was vast. But when chance brought
one or more together, near enough for them to realize it had
done so, then they hastened to turn back or, without going to
such extremes, simply aside, as if ashamed to be seen by their
fellows. But sometimes they brushed against one another without
seeming to notice it, their heads buried in the ample hood.
Macmann carried with him and contemplated from time to
time the photograph that Moll had given him, it was perhaps
rather a daguerreotype. She was standing beside a chair and
squeezing in her hands her long plaits. Traces were visible,
behind her, of a kind of trellis with clambering flowers, roses
probably, they sometimes like to clamber. When giving this
keep-sake to Macmann she had said, I was fourteen, I well remember
the day, a summer day, it was my birthday, afterwards
they took me to see Punch and Judy. Macmann remembered
those words. What he liked best in this picture was the chair,
the seat of which seemed to be made of straw. Diligently Moll
pressed her lips together, in order to hide her great buck-teeth.
The roses must have been pretty, they must have scented the
air. In the end Macmann tore up this photograph and threw the
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bits in the air, one windy day. Then they scattered, though all
subjected to the same conditions, as though with alacrity.
When it rained, when it snowed
On. One morning Lemuel, putting in the prescribed appearance
in the great hall before setting out on his rounds, found
pinned on the board a notice concerning him. Group Lemuel,
excursion to the islands, weather permitting, with Lady Pedal,
leaving one p.m. His colleagues observed him, sniggering and
poking one another in the ribs. But they did not dare say anything.
One woman however did pass a witty remark, to good
effect. Lemuel was not liked, that was clear. But would he
have wished to be, that is less clear. He initialed the notice
and went away. The sun was dragging itself up, dispatching
on its way what perhaps would be, thanks to it, a glorious
May or April day, April more likely, it is doubtless the Easter
week-end, spent by Jesus in hell. And it may well have
been in honor of this latter that Lady Pedal had organized,
for the benefit of Lemuel's group, this outing to the islands
which was going to cost her dear, but she was well off and lived
for doing good and bringing a little happiness into the lives
of those less fortunate than herself, who was all right in her
head and to whom life had always smiled or, as she had it herself,
returned her smile, enlarged as in a convex mirror, or a
concave, I forget. Taking advantage of the terrestrial atmosphere
that dimmed its brightness Lemuel glared with loathing
at the sun. He had reached his room, on the fourth or fifth
floor, whence on countless occasions he could have thrown himself
in perfect safety out of the window if he had been less
weak-minded. The long silver carpet was in position, ending in
a point, trembling across the calm repousse sea. The room was
small and absolutely empty, for Lemuel slept on the bare boards
and even off them ate his lesser meals, now at one place, now at
another. But what matter about Lemuel and his room? On. Lady
Pedal was not the only one to take an interest in the inmates of
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Saint John of God's, known pleasantly locally as the Johnny
Goddams, or the Goddam Johnnies, not the only one to treat
them on an average once every two years to excursions hy land
and sea through scenery renowned for its beauty or grandeur
and even to entertainments on the premises such as whole
evenings of prestidigitation and ventriloquism in the moonlight
on the terrace, no, but she was seconded by other ladies
sharing her way of thinking and similarly blessed in means and
leisure. But what matter about Lady Pedal? On. Carrying in
one hand two buckets wedged the one within the other Lemuel
proceeded to the vast kitchen, full of stir and bustle at that
hour. Six excursion soups, he growled. What? said the cook.
Six excursion soups! roared Lemuel, dashing his buckets against
the oven, without however relinquishing the handles, for he
retained enough presence of mind to dread the thought of having
to stoop and pick them up again. The difference between
an excursion soup and a common or house soup was simply this,
that the latter was uniformly liquid whereas the former contained
a piece of fat bacon intended to keep up the strength of the
excursionist until his return. When his bucket had been filled
Lemuel withdrew to a secluded place, rolled up his sleeve to the
elbow, fished up from the bottom of the bucket one after another
the six pieces of bacon, his own and the five others, ate
all the fat off them, sucked the rinds and threw them back in
the soup. Strange when you come to think of it, but after all
not so strange really, that they should have issued six extra or
excursion soups at his mere demand, without requiring a written
order. The cells of the five were far apart and so astutely disposed
that Lemuel had never been able to determine how best,
that is to say with the minimum of fatigue and annoyance, to
visit them in turn. In the first a young man, dead young, seated
in an old rocking-chair, his shirt rolled up and his hands on
his thighs, would have seemed asleep had not his eyes been
wide open. He never went out, unless commanded to do so, and
then someone had to accompany him, in order to make him
move forward. His chamber-pot was empty, whereas in his
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bowl the soup of the previous day had congealed. The reverse
would have been less surprising. But Lemuel was used to this, so
used that he had long since ceased to wonder on what this creature
fed. He emptied the bowl into his empty bucket and from
his full bucket filled it with fresh soup. Then he went, a bucket
in each hand, whereas up to now a single hand had been enough
to carry the two buckets. Because of the excursion he locked the
door behind him, an unnecessary precaution. The second cell,
four or five hundred paces distant from the first, contained one
whose only really striking features were his stature, his stiffness
and his air of perpetually looking for something while at the
same time wondering what that something could possibly be.
Nothing in his person gave any indication of his age, whether
he was marvellously well-preserved or on the contrary prematurely
decayed. He was called the Saxon, though he was far from
being any such thing. Without troubling to take off his shirt
he had swathed himself in his two blankets as in swaddlings
and over and above this rough and ready cocoon he wore his
cloak. He gathered it shiveringly about him, with one hand,
for he needed the other to help him in his investigation of all
that aroused his suspicions. Good-morning, good-morning, goodmorning,
he said, with a strong foreign accent and darting
fearful glances all about him, fucking awful business this, no,
yes? Sudden starts instantly repressed dislodged him imperceptibly
from his coign of maximum vantage in the centre of
the room. What! he exclaimed. His soup, examined drop by
drop, had been transferred in its entirety to his pot. Anxiously
he watched Lemuel performing his office, filling and emptying.
Dreamt all night of that bloody man Quin again, he said. It was
his habit to go out from time to time, into the air. But after
a few steps he would halt, totter, turn and hasten back into his
cell, aghast at such depths of opacity.
In the third a small thin man was pacing up and down, his
cloak folded over his arm, an umbrella in his hand. Fine head of
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white flossy hair. He was asking himself questions in a low
voice, reflecting, replying. The door had hardly opened when
he made a dart to get out, for he spent his days ranging about
the park in all directions. Without putting down his buckets
Lemuel sent him flying with a toss of his shoulder. He lay where
he had fallen, clutching his cloak and umbrella. Then, having
recovered from his surprise, he began to cry. In the fourth a
misshapen giant, bearded, occupied to the exclusion of all else in
scratching himself, intermittently. Sprawling on his pillow on
the floor under the window, his head sunk, his mouth open, his
legs wide apart, his knees raised, leaning with one hand on the
ground while the other came and went under his shirt, he awaited
his soup. When his bowl had been filled he stopped scratching
and stretched out his hand towards Lemuel, in the daily disappointed
hope of being spared the trouble of getting up. He
still loved the gloom and secrecy of the ferns, but never sought
them out. The youth then, the Saxon, the thin one and the
giant. I don't know if they have changed, I don't remember.
May the others forgive me. In the fifth Macmann, half asleep.
A few lines to remind me that I too subsist. He has not come
back. How long ago is it now? I don't know. Long. And I?
Indubitably going, that's all that matters. Whence this assurance?
Try and think. I can't. Grandiose suffering. I am swelling.
What if I should burst? The ceiling rises and falls, rises and
falls, rhythmically, as when I was a foetus. Also to be mentioned
a noise of rushing water, phenomenon mutatis mutandis perhaps
analogous to that of the mirage, in the desert. The window.
I shall not see it again. Why? Because, to my grief, I cannot
turn my head. Leaden light again, thick, eddying, riddled with
little tunnels through to brightness, perhaps I should say air,
sucking air. All is ready. Except me. I am being given, if I may
venture the expression, birth to into death, such is my impression.
The feet are clear already, of the great cunt of existence.
Favorable presentation I trust. My head will be the last to die.
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Haul in your hands. I can't. The render rent. My story ended
I'll be living yet. Promising lag. That is the end of me. I shall
say I no more.
Surrounded by his little flock which after nearly two hours
of efforts he had succeeded in assembling, single-handed, Pat
having refused to help him, Lemuel stood on the terrace waiting
for Lady Pedal to arrive. Cords tethered by the ankles the
thin one to the youth, the Saxon to the giant, and Lemuel held
Macmann by the arm. Of the five it was Macmann, furious at
having been shut up in his cell all morning and at a loss to
understand what was wanted of him, whose resistance had been
the most lively. He had notably refused to stir a step without
his hat, with such fierce determination that Lemuel had finally
consented to his keeping it on, provided it was hidden by the
hood. In spite of this Macmann continued peevish and agitated,
trying to free his arm and saying over and over again, Let me
go! Let me go! The youth, tormented by the sun, was grabbing
feebly at the thin one's umbrella, saying, Pasol! Pasol! The
thin one retaliated with petulant taps on his hands and arms.
Naughty! he cried. Help! The giant had thrown his arms round
the Saxon's neck and hung there, his legs limp. The Saxon,
tottering, too proud to collapse, demanded to be enlightened in
tones without anger. Who is this shite anyhow, he said, any
of you poor buggers happen to know? The director, or his
delegate, also present, said dreamily from time to time, Now,
now, please. They were alone on the great terrace. Can it be
she fears a change of weather? said the director. He added,
turning towards Lemuel, I am asking you a question. The sky
was cloudless, the air still. Where is the beautiful young man
with the Messiah beard? But in that case would she not have
telephoned? said the director.
The waggonette. Up on the box, beside the coachman, Lady
Pedal. On one of the seats, set parallel to the wheels, Lemuel,
Macmann, the Saxon and the giant. On the other, facing them,
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the youth, the thin one and two colossi dressed in sailor-suits.
As they passed through the gates the children cheered* A sudden
descent, long and steep, sent them plunging towards the sea.
Under the drag of the brakes the wheels slid more than they
rolled and the stumbling horses reared against the thrust. Lady
Pedal clung to the box, her bust flung back. She was a huge,
big, tall, fat woman. Artificial daisies with brilliant yellow disks
gushed from her broad-brimmed straw hat. At the same time
behind the heavily spotted fall-veil her plump red face appeared
to pullulate. The passengers, yielding with unanimous inertia to
the tilt of the seats, sprawled pell-mell beneath the box. Sit back!
cried Lady Pedal. Nobody stirred. What good would that do?
said one of the sailors. None, said the other. Should they not
all get down, said Lady Pedal to the coachman, and walk?
When they were safely at the bottom of the hill at last Lady
Pedal turned affably to her guests. Courage my hearties! she
said, to show she was not superior. The waggonette jolted on
with gathering speed. The giant lay on the boards, between
the seats. Are you the one in charge? said Lady Pedal. One of
the sailors leaned towards Lemuel and said, She wants to know
if you're the one in charge. Fuck off, said Lemuel. The Saxon
uttered a roar which Lady Pedal, on the qui vive for the least
sign of animation, was pleased to interpret as a manifestation of
joy. That's the spirit! she cried. Sing! Make the most of this
glorious day! Banish your cares, for an hour or so! And she
burst forth:
Oh the jolly jolly spring
Blue and sun and nests and flowers
Alleluiah Christ is King
Oh the happy happy hours
Oh the jolly jolly
She broke off, discouraged. What is the matter with them? she
said. The youth, less youthful now, doubled in two, his head
swathed in the skirts of his cloak, seemed to be vomiting. His
legs, monstrously bony and knock-kneed, were knocking to-
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gether at the knees. The thin one, shivering, though in theory
the Saxon is the shiverer, had resumed his dialogue. Motionless
and concentrated between the voices he reinforced these with
passionate gestures amplified by the umbrella. And you? . . .
Thanks ... And you? . . . THANKS! . . . True . . . Left . . .
Try ... Back . . . Where? ... On ... No! ... Right . . .
Try ... Do you smell the sea, said Lady Pedal, I do. Macmann
made a bid for freedom. In vain. Lemuel produced a
hatchet from under his cloak and dealt himself a few smart
blows on the skull, with the heel, for safety. Nice jaunt we're
having, said one of the sailors. Swell, said the other. Sun azure.
Ernest, hand out the buns, said Lady Pedal.
The boat. Room, as in the waggonette, for twice as many, three
times, four times, at a pinch. A land receding, another approaching,
big and little islands. No sound save the oars, the
rowlocks, the blue sea against the keel. In the stern-sheets Lady
Pedal, sad. What beauty! she murmured. Alone, not understood,
good, too good. Taking off her glove she trailed in the transparent
water her sapphire-laden hand. Four oars, no rudder,
the oars steer. My creatures, what of them? Nothing. They are
there, each as best he can, as best he can be somewhere. Lemuel
watches the mountains rising behind the steeples beyond the
harbor, no they are no more
No, they are no more than hills, they raise themselves gently,
faintly blue, out of the confused plain. It was there somewhere
he was bom, in a fine house, of loving parents. Their slopes
are covered with ling and furze, its hot yellow bells, better
known as gorse. The hammers of the stone-cutters ring all day
like bells.
The island. A last effort. The islet. The shore facing the open
sea is jagged with creeks. One could live there, perhaps happy,
if life was a possible thing, but nobody lives there. The deep
water comes washing into its heart, between high walls of rock.
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One day nothing will remain of it but two islands, separated by
a gulf, narrow at first, then wider and wider as the centuries
slip by, two islands, two reefs. It is difficult to speak of man,
under such conditions. Come, Ernest, said Lady Pedal, let us
find a place to picnic. And you, Maurice, she added, stay by the
dinghy. She called that a dinghy. The thin one chafed to run
about, but the youth had thrown himself down in the shade of
a rock, like Sordello, but less noble, for Sordello resembled a
lion at rest, and clung to it with both hands. The poor creatures,
said Lady Pedal, let them loose. Maurice made to obey. Keep off,
said Lemuel. The giant had refused to leave the boat, so that
the Saxon could not leave it either. Macmann was not free either,
Lemuel held him by the waist, perhaps lovingly. Well, said
Lady Pedal, you are the one in charge. She moved away with
Ernest. Suddenly she. turned and said, You know, on the island,
there are Druid
remains. She looked at them in turn. When we have had our
tea, she said, we shall hunt for them, what do you say? Finally
she moved away again, followed by Ernest carrying the hamper
in his arms. When she had disappeared Lemuel released Macmann,
went up behind Maurice who was sitting on a stone
filling his pipe and killed him with the hatchet. We're getting on,
getting on. The youth and the giant took no notice. The thin
one broke his umbrella against the rock, a curious gesture. The
Saxon cried, bending forward and slapping his thighs, Nice
work, sir, nice work! A little later Ernest came back to fetch
them. Going to meet him Lemuel killed him in his turn, in the
same way as the other. It merely took a little longer. Two decent,
quiet, harmless men, brothers-in-law into the bargain, there are
billions of such brutes. Macmann's huge head. He has put his hat
on again. The voice of Lady Pedal, calling. She appeared, joyous.
Come along, she cried, all of you, before the tea gets cold. But
at the sight of the late sailors she fainted, which caused her to
fall. Smash her! screamed the Saxon. She had raised her veil
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and was holding in her hand a tiny sandwich. She must have
broken something in her fall, her hip perhaps, old ladies often
break their hips, for no sooner had she recovered her senses
than she began to moan and groan, as if she were the only being
on the face of the earth deserving of pity. When the sun had
vanished, behind the hills, and the lights of the land began to
glitter, Lemuel made Macmann and the two others get into the
boat and got into it himself. Then they set out, all six, from the
shore.
Gurgles of outflow.
This tangle of grey bodies is they. Silent, dim, perhaps clinging
to one another, their heads buried in their cloaks, they lie
together in a heap, in the night. They are far out in the bay.
Lemuel has shipped his oars, the oars trail in the water. The
night is strewn with absurd
absurd lights, the stars, the beacons, the buoys, the lights of
earth and in the hills the faint fires of the blazing gorse. Macmann,
my last, my possessions, I remember, he is there too,
perhaps he sleeps. Lemuel
Lemuel is in charge, he raises his hatchet on which the blood
will never dry, but not to hit anyone, he will not hit anyone,
he will not hit anyone any more, he will not touch anyone any
more, either with it or with it or with it or with or
or with it or with his hammer or with his stick or with his
fist or in thought in dream I mean never he will never
or with his pencil or with his stick or
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or light light I mean
never there he will never
never anything
there
any more[/color][/size][/b]