Watt
Page 15
Watt’s feeling in this matter was that he would serve Mr Knott for one year on the ground floor, and then for another year on the first floor.
In support of this monstrous assumption he assembled the following considerations.
If the period of service, first on the ground floor, and then on the first floor, was not one year, then it was less than one year, or more than one year. But if it was less than one year, then there was want, seasons passing, or a season, or a month, or a week, or a day, wholly or in part, on which the light of Mr Knott’s service had not shone, nor its dark brooded, a page of the discourse of the earth unturned. For in a year all is said, in any given latitude. But if it was more than one year, then there was surfeit, seasons passing, or a season, or a month, or a week, or a day, wholly or in part, twice through the beams the shadows of the service of Mr Knott, a fragment of rigmarole reread. For the new year says nothing new, to the man fixed in space. Therefore on the ground floor one year, and on the first another, for the light of the day of the ground floor was not as the light of the day of the first floor (notwithstanding their proximity), nor were the lights of their nights the same lights.
But even Watt could not hide from himself for long the absurdity of these constructions, which assumed the period of service to be the same for every servant, and invariably divided into two phases of equal duration. And he felt that the period and distribution of service must depend on the servant, on his abilities, and on his needs; that there were short-time men and long-time men, ground floor men and first floor men; that what one might exhaust, what might exhaust one, in two months, another might not, might not another, in ten years; and that to many on the ground floor the nearness of Mr Knott must long be a horror, and long a horror to others on the first his farness. But he had hardly felt the absurdity of those things, on the one hand, and the necessity of those others, on the other (for it is rare that the feeling of absurdity is not followed by the feeling of necessity), when he felt the absurdity of those things of which he had just felt the necessity (for it is rare that the feeling of necessity is not followed by the feeling of absurdity). For the service to be considered was not the service of one servant, but of two servants, and even of three servants, and even of an infinity of servants, of whom the first could not out till the second up, nor the second up till the third in, nor the third in till the first out, nor the first out till the third in, nor the third in till the second up, nor the second up till the first out, every going, every being, every coming consisting with a being and a coming, a coming and a going, a going and a being, nay with all the beings and all the comings, with all the comings and all the goings, with all the goings and all the beings, of all the servants that had ever served Mr Knott, of all the servants that ever would serve Mr Knott. And in this long chain of consistence, a chain stretching from the long dead to the far unborn, the notion of the arbitrary could only survive as the notion of a pre-established arbitrary. For take any three or four servants, Tom, Dick, Harry and another, if Tom serves two years on the first floor, then Dick serves two years on the ground floor, and then Harry comes, and if Dick serves ten years on the first floor, then Harry serves ten years on the ground floor, and then the other comes, and so on for any number of servants, the period of service of any given servant on the ground floor coinciding always with the period of service on the first floor of his predecessor, and terminating with the arrival of his successor on the premises. But Tom’s two years on the first floor are not because of Dick’s two years on the ground floor, or of Harry’s coming then, and Dick’s two years on the ground floor are not because of Tom’s two years on the first floor, or of Harry’s coming then, and Harry’s coming then is not because of Tom’s two years on the first floor, or of Dick’s two years on the ground floor, and Dick’s ten years on the first floor are not because of Harry’s ten years on the ground floor, or of the other’s coming then, and Harry’s ten years on the ground floor are not because of Dick’s ten years on the first floor, or of the other’s coming then, and the other’s coming then is not because of (tired of underlining this cursed preposition) Dick’s ten years on the first floor, or of Harry’s ten years on the ground floor, no, that would be too horrible to contemplate, but Tom’s two years on the first floor, and Dick’s two years on the ground floor, and Harry’s coming then, and Dick’s ten years on the first floor, and Harry’s ten years on the ground floor, and the other’s coming then, are because Tom is Tom, and Dick Dick, and Harry Harry, and that other that other, of that the wretched Watt was persuaded. For otherwise in Mr Knott’s house, and at Mr Knott’s door, and on the way to Mr Knott’s door, and on the way from Mr Knott’s door, there would be a languor, and a fever, the languor of the task done but not ended, the fever of the task ended but not done, the languor and the fever of the going of the coming too late, the languor and the fever of the coming of the going too soon. But to Mr Knott, and with Mr Knott, and from Mr Knott, were a coming and a being and a going exempt from languor, exempt from fever, for Mr Knott was harbour, Mr Knott was haven, calmly entered, freely ridden, gladly left. Driven, riven, bidden, by the storms without, the storms within? The storms without! The storms within! Men like Vincent and Walter and Arsene and Erskine and Watt! Haw! No. But in the stress, in the threat, in the call of storm, in the need, in the having, in the losing of refuge, calm and freedom and gladness. Not that Watt felt calm and free and glad, for he did not, and had never done so. But he thought that perhaps he felt calm and free and glad, or if not calm and free and glad, at least calm and free, or free and glad, or glad and calm, or if not calm and free, or free and glad, or glad and calm, at least calm, or free, or glad, without knowing it. But why Tom Tom? And Dick Dick? And Harry Harry? Because Dick Dick and Harry Harry? Because Harry Harry and Tom Tom? Because Tom Tom and Dick Dick? Watt saw no objection. But it was a conception of which for the moment he had no need, and conceptions of which for the moment Watt had no need Watt did not for the moment unfurl, but left standing, as one does not unfurl, but leaves standing, in readiness for a rainy day, one’s umbrella in one’s umbrella stand. And the reason why Watt for the moment had no need of this conception was perhaps this, that when one’s arms are full of waxen lilies, then one does not stop to pick, or smell, or chuck, or otherwise acknowledge, a daisy, or a primrose, or a cowslip, or a buttercup, or a violet, or a dandelion, or a daisy, or a primrose, or any other flower of the field, or any other weed, but treads them down, and when the weight is past, and past the bowed head buried blinded in the white sweetness, then little by little under the load of petals the bruised stems straighten, those that is that have been fortunate enough to escape rupture. For it was not the Tomness of Tom, the Dickness of Dick, the Harryness of Harry, however remarkable in themselves, that preoccupied Watt, for the moment, but their Tomness, their Dickness, their Harryness then, their then-Tomness, then-Dickness, then-Harryness; nor the ordaining of a being to come by a being past, of a being past by a being to come (no doubt in itself a fascinating study), as in a musical composition bar a hundred say by say bar ten and bar say ten by bar a hundred say, but the interval between them, the ninety bars, the time taken to have been true, the time taken to be proved true, whatever that is. Or of course false, whatever that means.
So at first, in mind as well as body, Watt laboured at the ancient labour.
And so Watt, having opened this tin with his blowlamp, found it empty.
As it turned out, Watt was never to know how long he spent in Mr Knott’s house, how long on the ground floor, how long on the first floor, how long altogether. All he could say was that it seemed a long time.
Thinking then, in search of rest, of the possible relations between such series as these, the series of dogs, the series of men, the series of pictures, to mention only these series, Watt remembered a distant summer night, in a no less distant land, and Watt young and well lying all alone stone sober in the ditch, wondering if it was the time and the place and the loved one already, and the three frogs croaking Krak!, K
rek! and Krik!, at one, nine, seventeen, twenty-five, etc., and at one, six, eleven, sixteen, etc., and at one, four, seven, ten, etc., respectively, and how he heard
Krak! — — — — — — —
Krek! — — — — Krek! — —
Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik! —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — Krek! — — — — Krek!
— Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik!
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — — — Krek! — — —
— — Krik! — — Krik! — —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— Krek! — — — — Krek! —
Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik! —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — — Krek! — — — —
— Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik!
Krak! — — — — — — —
Krek! — — — — Krek! — —
— — Krik! — — Krik! — —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — Krek! — — — — Krek!
Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik! —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — — — Krek! — — —
— Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik!
Krak! — — — — — — —
— Krek! — — — — Krek! —
— — Krik! — — Krik! — —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — — Krek! — — — —
Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik! —
Krak! — — — — — — —
Krek! — — — Krek! — — —
— Krik! — Krik! — — Krek! —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — Krek! — — — — Krek!
— — Krik! — — Krik! — —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — — — Krek! — — —
Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik! —
Krak! — — — — — — —
— Krek! — — — — Krek! —
— Krik! — — Krik! — — Krik!
Krak! — — — — — — —
— — — Krek! — — — —
— — Krik! — — Krik! — —
Krak!
Krek!
Krik!
The fishwoman pleased Watt greatly. Watt was not a woman’s man, but the fishwoman pleased him greatly. Other women would perhaps please him more, later. But of all the women who had ever pleased him up till then, not one could hold a candle to this fishwoman, in Watt’s opinion. And Watt pleased the fishwoman. This was a merciful coincidence, that they pleased each other. For if the fishwoman had pleased Watt, without Watt’s pleasing the fishwoman, or if Watt had pleased the fishwoman, without the fishwoman’s pleasing Watt, then what would have become of Watt, or of the fishwoman? Not that the fishwoman was a man’s woman, for she was not, being of an advanced age and by nature also denied those properties that attract men to women, unless it was perhaps the remains of a distinguished carriage, acquired from the habit of carrying her basket of fish on her head, over long distances. Not that a man, without possessing any of those properties that attract women to men, may not be a woman’s man, nor that a woman, without possessing any of those properties that attract men to women, may not be a man’s woman, for they may. And Mrs Gorman had had several admirers, both before and after Mr Gorman, and even during Mr Gorman, and Watt at least two well defined romances, in the course of his celibate. Watt was not a man’s man either, possessing as he did none of those properties that attract men to men, though of course he had had male friends (what wretch has not?) on more than one occasion. Not that Watt might not have been a man’s man, without possessing any of those properties that attract men to men, for he might. But it happened that he was not. As to whether Mrs Gorman was a woman’s woman, or not, that is one of those things that is not known. On the one hand she may have been, on the other she may not. But it seems probable that she was not. Not that it is by any means impossible for a man to be both a man’s man and a woman’s man, or for a woman to be both a woman’s woman and a man’s woman, almost in the same breath. For with men and women, with men’s men and women’s men, with men’s women and women’s women, with men’s and women’s men, with men’s and women’s women, all is possible, as far as can be ascertained, in this connexion.
Mrs Gorman called every Thursday, except when she was indisposed. Then she did not call, but stayed at home, in bed, or in a comfortable chair, before the fire, if the weather was cold, and by the open window, if the weather was warm, and, if the weather was neither cold nor warm, by the closed window or before the empty hearth. So Thursday was the day that Watt preferred, to all other days. Some prefer Sunday, others Monday, others Tuesday, others Wednesday, others Friday, others Saturday. But Watt preferred Thursday, because Mrs Gorman called on Thursday. Then he would have her in the kitchen, and open for her a bottle of stout, and set her on his knee, and wrap his right arm about her waist, and lean his head upon her right breast (the left having unhappily been removed in the heat of a surgical operation), and in this position remain, without stirring, or stirring the least possible, forgetful of his troubles, for as long as ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour. And Mrs Gorman too, as with her left hand she stirred the greypink tufts, and with her right at studied intervals raised the bottle to her lips, was in her own small way at peace too, for a time.
From time to time, hoisting his weary head, from waist to neck his weary hold transferring, Watt would kiss, in a despairing manner, Mrs Gorman on or about the mouth, before crumpling back into his post-crucified position. And these kisses, when their first feverish force began to fail, that is to say very shortly following their application, it was Mrs Gorman’s invariable habit to catch up, as it were, upon her own lips, and return, with tranquil civility, as one picks up a glove, or newspaper, let fall in some public place, and restores it with a smile, if not a bow, to its rightful proprietor. So that each kiss was in reality two kisses, first Watt’s kiss, velleitary, anxious, and then Mrs Gorman’s, unctious and urbane.
But Mrs Gorman did not always sit on Watt, for sometimes Watt sat on Mrs Gorman. Some days Mrs Gorman was on Watt all the time, other days Watt was on Mrs Gorman throughout. Nor were there lacking days when Mrs Gorman began by sitting on Watt, and ended by having Watt sitting on her, or when Watt began by sitting on Mrs Gorman, and ended by having Mrs Gorman sitting on him. For Watt was apt to tire, before the time came for Mrs Gorman to take her leave, of having Mrs Gorman sitting on him, or of sitting himself on Mrs Gorman. Then, if it was Mrs Gorman on Watt, and not Watt on Mrs Gorman, then he would urge her gently off his lap, to her feet, on the floor, and he himself rise, until they who but a moment before had both been seated, she on him, he on the chair, now stood, side by side, on their feet, on the floor. And then together they would sink to rest, Watt and Mrs Gorman, the latter on the chair, the former on the latter. But if it was not Mrs Gorman on Watt, but Watt on Mrs Gorman, then he would climb down from off her knees, and raise her gently by the hand to her feet, and take her place (bending his knees) on the chair, and draw her down (spreading his thighs) among his lap. And so little could Watt support, on certain days, on the one hand the pressure of Mrs Gorman from above, and on the other the thrust of Mrs Gorman from below, that no fewer than two, or three, or four, or five, or six, or seven, or eight, or nine, or ten, or eleven, or even twelve, or even thirteen, changes of position were found necessary, before the time came for Mrs Gorman to take her leave. Which, allowing one minute for the interversion, gives an average session of fifteen seconds, and, on the moderate basis of one kiss, lasting one minute, every minute and a half, a total for the day of one kiss only, one double kiss, begun in the first session and consummated in the last, for during the interversions they could not kiss, they were so busy interverting.
Further tha
n this, it will be learnt with regret, they never went, though more than half inclined to do so on more than one occasion. Why was this? Was it the echo murmuring in their hearts, in Watt’s heart, in Mrs Gorman’s, of past passion, ancient error, warning them not to sully not to trail, in the cloaca of clonic gratification, a flower so fair, so rare, so sweet, so frail? It is not necessary to suppose so. For Watt had not the strength, and Mrs Gorman had not the time, indispensable to even the most perfunctory coalescence. The irony of life! Of life in love! That he who has the time should lack the force, that she who has the force should lack the time! That a trifling and in all probability tractable obstruction of some endocrinal Bandusia, that a mere matter of forty-five or fifty minutes by the clock, should as effectively as death itself, or as the Hellespont, separate lovers. For if Watt had had a little more vigour Mrs Gorman would have just had the time, and if Mrs Gorman had had a little more time Watt could very likely have developed, with a careful nursing of his languid tides, a breaker not unworthy of the occasion. Whereas as things stood, with Watt’s strength, and Mrs Gorman’s time, limited as they were, it is difficult to see what more they could have done than what they did, than sit on each other, turn about, kissing, resting, kissing again and resting again, until it was time for Mrs Gorman to resume her circuit.
What was this in Mrs Gorman, what this in Watt, that so appealed to Watt, so melted Mrs Gorman? Between what deeps the call, the counter-call? Between Watt not a man’s man and Mrs Gorman not a woman’s woman? Between Watt not a woman’s man and Mrs Gorman not a man’s woman? Between Watt not a man’s man and Mrs Gorman not a man’s woman? Between Watt not a woman’s man and Mrs Gorman not a woman’s woman? Between Watt neither a man’s nor a woman’s man and Mrs Gorman neither a man’s nor a woman’s woman? In his own vitals, nucleant, he knew them clasped, the men that were not men’s, that were not women’s men. And Mrs Gorman was doubtless the theatre of a similar conglutination. But that meant nothing. And were they not perhaps rather drawn, Mrs Gorman to Watt, Watt to Mrs Gorman, she by the bottle of stout, he by the smell of fish? This was the view towards which, in later years, when Mrs Gorman was no more than a fading memory, than a dying perfume, Watt inclined.