Watt

  The following is an example of Watt’s manner, at this period:

  Day of most, night of part, Knott with now. Now till up, little seen so oh, little heard so oh. Night till morning from. Heard I this, saw I this then what. Thing quiet, dim. Ears, eyes, failing now also. Hush in, mist in, moved I so.

  From this it will perhaps be suspected:

  that the inversion affected, not the order of the sentences, but that of the words only;

  that the inversion was imperfect;

  that ellipse was frequent;

  that euphony was a preoccupation;

  that spontaneity was perhaps not absent;

  that there was perhaps more than a reversal of discourse;

  that the thought was perhaps inverted.

  So to every man, soon or late, comes envy of the fly, with all the long joys of summer before it.

  The utterance was as rapid, and as muffled, as before.

  These were sounds that at first, though we walked face to face, were devoid of significance for me.

  Nor did Watt follow me. Pardon beg, he said, pardon, pardon beg.

  Thus I missed I suppose much I suspect of great interest touching I presume the first or initial stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  For Watt’s sense of chronology was strong, in a way, and his dislike of battology was very strong.

  Often my hands left his shoulders, to make a note in their little notebook. But his never left mine, unless I detached them personally.

  But soon I grew used to these sounds, and then I understood as well as before, that is to say a great part of what I heard.

  So all went well until Watt began to invert, no longer the order of the words in the sentence, but that of the letters in the word.

  This further modification Watt carried through with all his usual discretion and sense of what was acceptable to the ear, and aesthetic judgement. Nevertheless to one, such as me, desirous above all of information, the change was not a little disconcerting.

  The following is an example of Watt’s manner, at this period:

  Ot bro, lap rulb, krad klub. Ot murd, wol fup, wol fup. Ot niks, sorg sam, sorg sam. Ot lems, lats lems, lats lems. Ot gnut, trat stews, trat stews.

  These were sounds that at first, though we walked breast to breast, made little or no sense to me.

  Nor did Watt follow me. Geb nodrap, he said, geb nodrap, nodrap.

  Thus I missed I suppose much I presume of great interest touching I suspect the second stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  But soon I grew used to these sounds, and then I understood as well as before.

  So all went well until Watt began to invert, no longer the order of the letters in the word, but that of the sentences in the period.

  The following is an example of Watt’s manner, at this period:

  Of nought. To the source. To the teacher. To the temple. To him I brought. This emptied heart. These emptied hands. This mind ignoring. This body homeless. To love him my little reviled. My little rejected to have him. My little to learn him forgot. Abandoned my little to find him.

  These were sounds that at first, notwithstanding our proximity, were not perfectly clear to me.

  Nor did Watt follow me. Beg pardon, pardon, he said, beg pardon.

  Thus I missed I suspect much I suppose of great interest touching I presume the third stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  But soon I grew used to these sounds, and then I understood as well as before.

  So all went well until Watt began to invert, no longer the order of the sentences in the period, but that of the words in the sentence together with that of the letters in the word.

  The following is an example of Watt’s manner, at this period:

  Deen did taw? Tonk. Tog da taw? Tonk. Luf puk saw? Hap! Deen did tub? Ton sparp. Tog da tub? Ton wonk.

  These were sounds that at first, though we walked belly to belly, were so much wind to me.

  Nor did Watt follow me. Nodrap geb, he said, nodrap, nodrap geb.

  Thus I missed I suspect much I presume of great interest touching I suppose the fourth stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  But soon I grew used to these sounds.

  Then all went well until Watt began to invert, no longer the order of the words in the sentence together with that of the letters in the word, but that of the words in the sentence together with that of the sentences in the period.

  The following is an example of Watt’s manner, at this period:

  Say he’d, No, waistcoat the, vest the, trousers the, socks the, shoes the, shirt the, drawers the, coat the, dress to ready things got had when. Say he’d, Dress. Say he’d, No, water the, towel the, sponge the, soap the, salts the, glove the, brush the, basin the, wash to ready things got had when. Say he’d, Wash. Say he’d, No, water the, towel the, sponge the, soap the, razor the, powder the, brush the, bowl the, shave to ready things got had when. Say he’d, Shave.

  These were sounds that at first, though we walked pubis to pubis, seemed so much balls to me.

  Nor did Watt follow me. Pardon, pardon beg, he said, pardon beg.

  Thus I missed I presume much I suspect of great interest touching I suppose the fifth stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  But soon I grew used to these sounds.

  Until Watt began to invert, no longer the order of the words in the sentence together with that of the sentences in the period, but that of the letters in the word together with that of the sentences in the period.

  The following is an example of this manner:

  Lit yad mac, ot og. Ton taw, ton tonk. Ton dob, ton trips. Ton vila, ton deda. Ton kawa, ton pelsa. Ton das, ton yag. Os devil, rof mit.

  This meant nothing to me.

  Geb nodrap, nodrap, said Watt, geb nodrap.

  Thus I missed I presume much I suppose of great interest touching I suspect the fifth, no, the sixth stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  But in the end I understood.

  Then Watt began to invert, no longer the order of the letters in the word together with that of the sentences in the period, but that of the letters in the word together with that of the words in the sentence together with that of the sentences in the period.

  For example:

  Dis yb dis, nem owt. Yad la, tin fo trap. Skin, skin, skin. Od su did ned taw? On. Taw ot klat tonk? On. Tonk ot klat taw? On. Tonk ta kool taw? On. Taw ta kool tonk? Nilb, mun, mud. Tin fo trap, yad la. Nem owt, dis yb dis.

  It took me some time to get used to this.

  Nodrap, nodrap geb, said Watt, nodrap geb.

  Thus I missed I suppose much I suspect of great interest touching I presume the seventh stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  Then he took it into his head to invert, no longer the order of the words in the sentence, nor that of the letters in the word, nor that of the sentences in the period, nor simultaneously that of the words in the sentence and that of the letters in the word, nor simultaneously that of the words in the sentence and that of the sentences in the period, nor simultaneously that of the letters in the word and that of the sentences in the period, nor simultaneously that of the letters in the word and that of the words in the sentence and that of the sentences in the period, ho no, but, in the brief course of the same period, now that of the words in the sentence, now that of the letters in the word, now that of the sentences in the period, now simultaneously that of the words in the sentence and that of the letters in the word, now simultaneously that of the words in the sentence and that of the sentences in the period, now simultaneously that of the letters in the word and that of the sentences in the period, and now simultaneously that of the letters in the word and that of the words in the sentence and that of the sentences in the period.
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br />   I recall no example of this manner.

  These were sounds that at first, though we walked glued together, were so much Irish to me.

  Nor did Watt follow me. Beg nodrap, he said, nodrap, pardon geb.

  Thus I missed I suppose much I presume of great interest touching I suspect the eighth or final stage of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  But soon I grew used to these sounds, and then I understood as well as ever, that is to say fully one half of what won its way past my tympan.

  For my own hearing now began to fail, though my myopia remained stationary. My purely mental faculties on the other hand, the faculties properly so called of ?

  ? ?

  ? ?

  were if possible more vigorous than ever.

  To these conversations we are indebted for the following information.

  One day they were all four in the garden, Mr Knott, Watt, Arthur and Mr Graves. It was a beautiful summer’s day. Mr Knott was moving slowly about, disappearing now behind a bush, emerging now from behind another. Watt was sitting on a mound. Arthur was standing on the lawn, talking to Mr Graves. Mr Graves was leaning on a fork. But the great mass of the empty house was hard by. A bound, and they were all in safety.

  Arthur said:

  Do not despair, Mr Graves. Some day the clouds will roll away, and the sun, so long obnubilated, burst forth, for you, Mr Graves, at last.

  Not a kick in me, Mr Arter, said Mr Graves.

  Oh Mr Graves, said Arthur, do not say that.

  When I says a kick, said Mr Graves, I means a —. He made a gesture with his fork.

  Have you tried Bando, Mr Graves, said Arthur. A capsule, before and after meals, in a little warm milk, and again at night, before turning in. I had tried everything, and was thoroughly disgusted, when a friend spoke to me of Bando. Her husband was never without it, you understand. Try it, she said, and come back in five or six years. I tried it, Mr Graves, and it changed my whole outlook on life. From being a moody, listless, constipated man, covered with squames, shunned by my fellows, my breath fetid and my appetite depraved (for years I had eaten nothing but high fat rashers), I became, after four years of Bando, vivacious, restless, a popular nudist, regular in my daily health, almost a father and a lover of boiled potatoes. Bando. Spelt as pronounced.

  Mr Graves said he would give it a trial.

  The unfortunate thing about Bando, said Arthur, is that it is no longer to be obtained in this unfortunate country. I understand that inferior products, such as Ostreine and Spanish Flies, may still be wheedled out of some of the humaner chemists, up and down the city, in the ten minutes or a quarter of an hour immediately following their midday meal. But for Bando, even on a Saturday afternoon, you will grovel in vain. For the State, taking as usual the law into its own hands, and duly indifferent to the sufferings of thousands of men, and tens of thousands of women, all over the country, has seen fit to place an embargo on this admirable article, from which joy could stream, at a moderate cost, into homes, and other places of rendez-vous, now desolate. It cannot enter our ports, nor cross our northern frontier, if not in the form of a casual, hasardous and surreptitious dribble, I mean piecemeal in ladies’ underclothing, for example, or gentlemen’s golfbags, or the hollow missal of a broad-minded priest, where on discovery it is immediately seized, and confiscated, by some gross customs official half crazed with seminal intoxication and sold, at ten and even fifteen times its advertised value, to exhausted commercial travellers on their way home after an unprofitable circuit. But I shall better illustrate what I mean if I tell you what happened to my old friend, Mr Ernest Louit, who in the darkest hours of school and university (from which he emerged with the highest distinctions in a large number of subjects usually regarded as incompatible and a research prize worth three pounds seven and six) never abandoned me, though often urged to do so, by his well-wishers and by mine. The title of his dissertation I well remember was The Mathematical Intuitions of the Visicelts, a subject on which he professed the strongest views, for he was a close companion of the College Bursar, their association (for it was nothing less) being founded on a community of tastes, and even I fear practices, all too common in academic circles, and of which perhaps the most endearing was brandy on awakening, which they did habitually in each other’s society. Louit now solicited, through the College Bursar, and finally obtained, a further sum of fifty pounds, fondly calculated to defray the expenses of a six months research expedition, in the County Clare. His analysis of this risible estimate was as follows:

  £. s. d.

  Travelling 1 15 0

  Boots 0 15 0

  Coloured Beads 5 0 0

  Gratifications 0 10 0

  Sustenance 42 0

  0

  Total 50 0 0

  The food necessary for the maintenance of his dog, a bull-terrier, in the condition of ferocious plethora to which it was accustomed, he generously declared himself willing to pay for out of his own pocket, and he added, with his usual candour, and to the great merriment of the Grants Committee, that he thought he could rely on O’Connor to live on the country. To none of these items was any exception found, though the absence of others, usual in such cases, as for example that corresponding to accommodation for the night, caused no little surprise. Invited, through the College Bursar, to account for this omission, Louit replied, through the College Bursar, that being a person of great bodily fastidiousness it was his intention to pass his nights, as long as he remained in that part of the country, in the sweet-smelling hay, or the sweet-smelling straw, as the case might be, of the local barns. This explanation provoked further great hilarity among the members of the committee. And the frankness was admired by many with which Louit, on his return, confessed to having found, in the course of his excursion, three barns in all, of which two contained empty bottles and the third the skeleton of a goat. But in other quarters this and cognate statements were viewed in another and less friendly light. For Ernest, looking very pale and ill, returned to his rooms three weeks before he was due. Invited, through the College Bursar, to produce the boots for the purchase of which fifteen shillings had been allotted to him from the slender College funds, Louit replied, through the same channel, that in the late afternoon of November the twenty-first, in the vicinity of Handcross, they had unfortunately been sucked off his feet by a bog, which in the fading light, and the confusion of his senses consequent on prolonged inanition, he had mistaken for a field of late onions. To the hope then politely expressed that O’Connor had enjoyed his brief outing, Louit with grateful acknowledgement replied that he had been reluctantly obliged, on the same occasion, to hold O’Connor head downward in the morass, until his faithful heart had ceased to beat, and then roast him, in his skin, which he could not bring himself to remove, over a fire of flags and cotton-blossoms. He took no credit for this, O’Connor in his place would have done the same for him. The bones of his old pet, complete save for the medullas, were now in his rooms, in a sack, and might be inspected any afternoon, Sundays excepted, between the hours of two forty-five and three fifteen. The College Bursar now wondered, on behalf of the committee, if it would be convenient to Mr Louit to give some account of the impetus imparted to his studies by his short stay in the country. Louit replied that he would have done so with great pleasure if he had not had the misfortune to mislay, on the very morning of his departure from the west, between the hours of eleven and midday, in the gentlemen’s cloakroom of Ennis railway-station, the one hundred and five loose sheets closely covered on both sides with shorthand notes embracing the entire period in question. This represented, he added, an average of no less than five pages, or ten sides, per day. He was now exerting himself to the utmost, and indeed he feared greatly beyond his strength, with a view to recuperating his MS, which, qua MS, could not be of the smallest value to any person other than himself and, eventually, humanity. But it was his experience of railway-station cloakrooms, and in particular those exploited by the
western lines, that anything left there at all resembling paper, with the exception perhaps of visiting-cards, postage-stamps, betting-slips and perforated railway-tickets, was invariably swallowed up and lost, for ever. So in his efforts, greatly hampered by lack of strength, and absence of funds, to recover his property, his anticipations were of failure, rather than of success. And such a loss would be irreparable, for of the countless observations made during his tour, and of the meditations arising thence, hastily under the most adverse conditions committed to paper, he had to his great regret little or no remembrance. To the relation of these painful events, that is to say the loss of his boots, his dog, his labour, his money, his health and perhaps even the esteem of his academical superiors, Louit had nothing to add, if not that he looked forward to waiting on the committee, at their mutual convenience, with proof that his mission had not been altogether in vain. The day and hour having been appointed, Louit was seen advancing, leading by the hand an old man dressed in kilt, plaid, brogues and, in spite of the cold, a pair of silk socks made fast to the purple calves by an unpretentious pair of narrow mauve suspenders, and holding a large black felt hat under his arm. Louit said, This, gentlemen, is Mr Thomas Nackybal, native of Burren. There he has spent all his life, thence he was loath to remove, thither he longs to return, to kill his pig, his solitary perennial companion. Mr Nackybal is now in his seventy-sixth year, and has never, in all that time, received any instruction other than that treating of such agricultural themes, indispensable to the exercise of his profession, as the rock-potato, the clover-thatch, every man his own fertiliser, turf versus combustion and the fly-catching pig, with the result that he cannot, nor ever could, read or write, or, without the assistance of his fingers, and his toes, add, subtract, multiply or divide the smallest whole number to, from, by or into another. So much for the mental Nackybal. The physical— Stay, Mr Louit, said the President, holding up his hand. One moment, Mr Louit, if you please. A thousand, sir, if you wish, said Louit. On the dais they were five, Mr O’Meldon, Mr Magershon, Mr Fitzwein, Mr de Baker and Mr MacStern, from left to right. They consulted together. Mr Fitzwein said, Mr Louit, you would not have us believe that this man’s mental existence is exhausted by the bare knowledge, emerging from a complete innocence of the rudiments, of what is necessary for his survival. That, replied Louit, is the bold claim I make for my friend, in whose mind, save for the pale music of the innocence you mention, and, in some corner of the cerebellum, where all agricultural ideation has its seat, dumbly flickering, the knowledge of how to extract, from the ancestral half-acre of moraine, the maximum of nourishment, for himself and his pig, with the minimum of labour, all, I am convinced, is an ecstasy of darkness, and of silence. The committee, whose eyes had not left Louit while he spoke these words, transferred them now to Mr Nackybal, as though the conversation were of his complexion. They then began to look at one another, and much time passed, before they succeeded in doing so. Not that they looked at one another long, no, they had more sense than that. But when five men look at one another, though in theory only twenty looks are necessary, every man looking four times, yet in practice this number is seldom sufficient, on account of the multitude of looks that go astray. For example, Mr Fitzwein looks at Mr Magershon, on his right. But Mr Magershon is not looking at Mr Fitzwein, on his left, but at Mr O’Meldon, on his right. But Mr O’Meldon is not looking at Mr Magershon, on his left, but, craning forward, at Mr MacStern, on his left but three at the far end of the table. But Mr MacStern is not craning forward looking at Mr O’Meldon, on his right but three at the far end of the table, but is sitting bolt upright looking at Mr de Baker, on his right. But Mr de Baker is not looking at Mr MacStern, on his left, but at Mr Fitzwein, on his right. Then Mr Fitzwein, tired of looking at the back of Mr Magershon’s head, cranes forward and looks at Mr O’Meldon, on his right but one at the end of the table. But Mr O’Meldon, tired of craning forward looking at Mr MacStern, is now craning backward looking at Mr de Baker, on his left but two. But Mr de Baker, tired of looking at the back of Mr Fitzwein’s head, is now craning forward looking at Mr Magershon, on his right but one. But Mr Magershon, tired of the sight of Mr O’Meldon’s left ear, is now craning forward looking at Mr MacStern, on his left but two at the end of the table. But Mr MacStern, tired of looking at the back of Mr de Baker’s head, is now craning forward looking at Mr Fitzwein, on his right but one. Then Mr Fitzwein, tired of craning forward looking at Mr O’Meldon, cranes forward in the other direction and looks at Mr MacStern, on his left but one at the end of the table. But Mr MacStern, tired of craning forward looking at Mr Fitzwein, is now craning backward looking at Mr Magershon, on his right but two. But Mr Magershon, tired of craning backward looking at Mr MacStern, is now craning forward looking at Mr de Baker, on his left but one. But Mr de Baker, tired of craning forward looking at Mr Magershon, is now craning backward looking at Mr O’Meldon, on his right but two at the end of the table. But Mr O’Meldon, tired of craning backward looking at Mr de Baker, is now craning forward looking at Mr Fitzwein, on his left but one. Then Mr Fitzwein, tired of craning forward looking at Mr MacStern’s left ear, sits back and turning towards the only member of the committee whose eye he has not yet tried to catch, that is to say Mr de Baker, is rewarded by a view of that gentleman’s hairless sinciput, for Mr de Baker, tired of craning backward looking at Mr Magershon’s left ear, and having turned in vain to all the members of the committee with the exception of his lefthand neighbour, has sat forward and is now looking down the dingy corollae of Mr MacStern’s right ear. For Mr MacStern, sick and tired of Mr Magershon’s left ear, and having no other alternative, is now craning forward contemplating the disgusted, and indeed disgusting, right side of Mr O’Meldon’s face. For sure enough Mr O’Meldon, having eliminated all his colleagues with the exception of his immediate neighbour, has sat back and is now considering the boils, the pimples and the blackheads of Mr Magershon’s nape. For Mr Magershon, whom Mr de Baker’s left ear has ceased to interest, has sat back and is now benefiting, not indeed for the first time that afternoon, but with a new distinctness, by Mr Fitzwein’s lunch of kidney-beans. Thus of the five times four or twenty looks taken, no two have met, and all this craning forward and backward and looking to the right and to the left has led to nothing, and for all the progress made by the committee in this matter of looking at itself, its eyes might just as well have been closed, or turned towards heaven. Nor is this all. For now Mr Fitzwein will very likely say, It is a long time since I looked at Mr Magershon, let me look at him again now, perhaps who knows he is looking at me. But Mr Magershon, who it will be remembered has just been looking at Mr Fitzwein, will certainly have turned his head round the other way, to look at Mr O’Meldon, in the hope of finding Mr O’Meldon looking at him, for it is a long time since Mr Magershon looked at Mr O’Meldon. But if it is a long time since Mr Magershon looked at Mr O’Meldon, it is not a long time since Mr O’Meldon looked at Mr Magershon, for he has just been doing so, has he not. And indeed he might be doing so still, for Treasurers’ eyes do not readily fall, nor turn aside, were it not for a strange-smelling, at first not unpleasant, but with the passage of time frankly revolting vapour arising from among the recesses of Mr Magershon’s body-linen and issuing, with great volatility, between his nape and his collar-band, a bold and it must be allowed successful effort on the part of that dignitary’s pneumogastric to compensate the momentary confusion of its superior connexions. So Mr Magershon turns to Mr O’Meldon, to find Mr O’Meldon looking, not at him, as he had hoped (for if he had not hoped to find Mr O’Meldon looking at him when he turned to look at Mr O’Meldon, then he would not have turned to look at Mr O’Meldon, but would have craned forward, or perhaps backward, to look at Mr MacStern, or perhaps at Mr de Baker, but more likely the former, as one less lately looked at than the latter), but at Mr MacStern, in the hope of finding Mr MacStern looking at him. And this is very natural, for more time has elapsed since Mr O’Meldon’s looking at Mr MacStern than since Mr O’Meldon�
��s looking at any of the others, and Mr O’Meldon cannot be expected to know that since Mr MacStern’s looking at him less time has elapsed than since Mr MacStern’s looking at any of the others, for Mr MacStern has only just finished looking at Mr O’Meldon, has he not. So Mr O’Meldon finds Mr MacStern looking, not at him, as he had hoped, but, in the hope of finding Mr de Baker looking at him, at Mr de Baker. But Mr de Baker, for the same reason that Mr Magershon is looking, not at Mr Fitzwein, but at Mr O’Meldon, and that Mr O’Meldon is looking, not at Mr Magershon, but at Mr MacStern, and that Mr MacStern is looking, not at Mr O’Meldon, but at Mr de Baker, is looking, not at Mr MacStern, as Mr MacStern had hoped (for if Mr MacStern had not hoped to find Mr de Baker looking at him, when he turned to look at Mr de Baker, then he would not have turned to look at Mr de Baker, no, but would have craned forward, or perhaps backward, to have a look at Mr Fitzwein, or perhaps at Mr Magershon, but more probably the former, as one less lately looked at than the latter), but at Mr Fitzwein, who is now benefiting by the posterior aspect of Mr Magershon in very much the same way as but a moment before Mr Magershon by his, and, Mr O’Meldon by Mr Magershon’s. And so on. Until of the five times eight or forty looks taken, not one has been reciprocated, and the committee, for all its twisting and turning, is no further advanced, in this matter of looking at itself, than at the now irrevocable moment of its setting out to do so. And this is not all. For many, many looks may still be taken, and much, much time still lost, ere every eye find the eye it seeks, and into every mind the energy flow, the comfort and the reassurance, necessary for a resumption of the business in hand. And all this comes of lack of method, which is all the less excusable in a committee as committees, whether large or small, are more often under the necessity of looking at themselves than any other body of men, with the possible exception of commissions. Now perhaps one of the best methods, whereby a committee may rapidly look at itself, and all the fret and weariness, experienced by committees looking at themselves without method, be averted, is perhaps this, that numbers be given to the members of the committee, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and so on, as many numbers as there are members of the committee, so that every member of the committee has his number, and no member of the committee is unnumbered, and that these numbers be carefully committed to memory by the members of the committee, until every member of the committee knows, with certain knowledge, not only his own number, but the numbers of all the other members of the committee, and that these numbers be allotted to the members of the committee at the moment of its formation, and maintained unchanged until the hour of its dissolution, for if at every successive meeting of the committee a new numeration were to be adopted, untold confusion would ensue (from the changed numeration) and unspeakable disorder. Then it will be found that every single member of the committee not only has his number, but is content with the number that he has, and willing to learn it off by heart, and not only it, but all the other numbers too, until every number calls at once into his mind a name, a face, a temperament, a function, and every face a number. Then, when the time comes for the committee to look at itself, let all the members but number one look together at number one, and let number one look at them all in turn, and then close, if he cares to, his eyes, for he has done his duty. Then of all those members but number one who have looked together at number one, and by number one been looked at one by one, let all but number two look at number two, and let number two in his turn look at them all in turn, and then remove, if his eyes are sore, his glasses, if he is in the habit of wearing glasses, and rest his eyes, for they are no longer required, for the moment. Then of all those members but number two, and of course number one, who have looked together at number two, and by number two been looked at one by one, let all with the exception of number three look together at number three, and let number three in his turn look at them all in turn, and then get up and go to the window and look out, if he feels like a little exercise and change of scene, for he is no longer needed, for the time being. Then of all those members of the committee with the exception of number three, and of course of numbers two and one, who have looked together at number three and by number three been looked at one by one, let all save number four look at number four, and let number four in his turn look at them one after another, and then gently massage his eyeballs, if he feels the need to do so, for their immediate role is terminated. And so on, until only two members of the committee remain, whom then let at each other look, and then bathe their eyes, if they have their eyebaths with them, with a little laudanum, or weak boracic solution, or warm weak tea, for they have well deserved it. Then it will be found that the committee has looked at itself in the shortest possible time, and with the minimum number of looks, that is to say x squared minus x looks if there are x members of the committee, and y squared minus y if there are y. But slowly two by two the eyes put forth their curious beams again, first in the direction of Mr Nackybal, and then in that of Louit, who thus emboldened continued, The physical you have before you, the feet are large and flat, and so continued, working slowly up, until he came to the head, of which, as of the rest, he said many things, some good, some fair, some very good, some poor and some excellent. Then Mr Fitzwein said, But the man is in t— t— tolerable health? Can direct his steps unaided? Can sit down, sit, stand up, stand, eat, drink, go to bed, sleep, rise and attend to his duties, without assistance? Oh yes, sir, said Louit, and he can deject singlehanded too. Well, well, said Mr Fitzwein. He added, And his sexual life, talking of dejection? That of an impoverished bachelor of repulsive appearance, said Louit, no offence meant. I beg your pardon, said Mr MacStern. Hence the squint, said Louit. Well, said Mr Fitzwein, it is always a pleasure for us, for me for one for my part, and for my colleagues for two for theirs, to meet a moron from a different crawl of life from our crawl, from my crawl and from their crawl. And to that extent I suppose we are obliged to you, Mr Louit. But I do not think we grasp, I do not think that I grasp and I should be greatly surprised to learn that my collaborators grasp, what this gentleman has to do with the object of your recent visit, Mr Louit, your recent brief and, if you will allow me to say so, prodigal visit to the western seaboard. To this for all reply Louit reached with his right hand out and back for the left hand of Mr Nackybal, whom he remembered having last seen seated, docilely and decently seated, a little to his right, and to his rear. If I tell you all this in such detail, Mr Graves, the reason is, believe me, that I cannot, much as I should like, and for reasons that I shall not go into, for they are unknown to me, do otherwise. Details, Mr Graves, details I detest, details I despise, as much as you, a gardener, do. When you sow your peas, when you sow your beans, when you sow your potatoes, when you sow your carrots, your turnips, your parsnips and other root vegetables, do you do so with punctilio? No, but rapidly you open a trench, a rough and ready line, not quite straight, nor yet quite crooked, or a series of holes, at intervals that do not offend, or offend only for a moment, while the holes are still open, your tired old eye, and let fall the seed, absent in mind, as the priest dust, or ashes, into the grave, and cover it with earth, with the edge of your boot in all probability, knowing that if the seed is to prosper and multiply, ten-fold, fifteen-fold, twenty-fold, twenty-five-fold, thirty-fold, thirty-five-fold, forty-fold, forty-five-fold and even fifty-fold, it will do so, and that if it is not, it will not. As a younger man, Mr Graves, I have no doubt, you used a line, a measure, a plumb, a level, and placed your peas, your beans, your maize, your lentils, in groups of four, or five, or six, or seven, not four in one hole, and five in another, and six in a third, and seven in a fourth, no, but in every hole four, or five, or six, or seven, and your potatoes with the germs uppermost, and mixed your carrot and your turnip seed, your radish and your parsnip seed, with sand, or dust, or ashes, before committing it to the seedplot. Whereas now! And when did you cease, Mr Graves, to use a line, a measure, a plumb, a level, and so to place and so to thin your seed, before sowing it? At what age, Mr Graves, and under
what circumstances? And did all go at once, Mr Graves, by the board, the line, the measure, the plumb, the level, and who knows what other mechanical aids, and the way of placing, and the manner of mixing, or did the line go first, and then some time later the measure, and then some time later the plumb (though I confess I do not see the use of the plumb), and then some time later the level, and then some time later the punctilious placing, and then some time later the meticulous mixing? Or was it by twos and threes at a time, Mr Graves, until you arrived, little by little, at your present freedom, when all you need is seed, earth, excrement, water and a stick? But neither Mr Nackybal’s left hand, nor his right, was free, for with the former he was supporting the weight of his bulk now acutely inclined, whilst with the latter, invisible beneath the kilt, he was scratching, gently but firmly, learnedly, through the worn but still heating material of his winter drawers, a diffuse ano-scrotal prurit (worms? nerves? piles? or worse?) of sixty-four years standing. The faint rasp could be heard of the heel of the hand coming and going, coming and going, and this, joined to the attitude of the rapt the suffering body, and to the expression, attentive, gloating, shocked, expectant, of the face, entirely misled the committee, so that it exclaimed, What vitality! At his age! The open-air life! The single life! Ego autem!2 (Mr MacStern). But now Mr Nackybal, having obtained a temporary relief, brought out, as he raised himself up, his right hand from under his skirt, and drew it, palm outwards, several times back and forth beneath his nose, a characteristic gesture. Then he resumed the pose, the decent pose, from which the sudden access of his old trouble had startled him, his hands on his knees, his old hairy mottled knotted hands on his bare old bony blue knees, the right old hairy mottled hand on the bony right bare old knee, and the left old knotted mottled hand on the left old blue old bony knee, and looking, as at some scene long familiar, or for some other reason devoid of interest, with listening lacklustre eyes out of the window, at the sky supported here and there by a cupola, a dome, a roof, a spire, a tower, a treetop. But now, the moment being come, Louit led Mr Nackybal to the foot of the dais, and there, looking him affectionately full in the face, or more exactly full in the quarter-face, that is to say roughly affectionately full in the ear, for the more Louit turned his face, his full affectionate face, towards Mr Nackybal, the more Mr Nackybal turned his, his tired red old hairy face away, said, in slow loud solemn tones, Four hundred and eight thousand one hundred and eighty-four. Mr Nackybal now, to the general surprise, transferred, from the sky, his eyes, docile, stupid, liquid, staring eyes, towards Mr Fitzwein, who after a moment exclaimed, to the further general surprise, A gazelle! A sheep! An old sheep! Mr de Baker, sir, said Louit, will you be so friendly now as to make a faithful note of what I say, and of what my friend here says, from now on? Why of course to be sure, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. I am greatly obliged to you, Mr de Baker, said Louit. Tut tut, don’t mention it, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. I may count on you then, Mr de Baker, said Louit. To be sure you may, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. You are too kind, Mr de Baker, said Louit. Foh, not at all, not at all, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. A goat! An old quinch! cried Mr Fitzwein. You set my mind at rest, Mr de Baker, said Louit. Not another word, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker, not a word more. And relieve it at the same time of a great load of anxiety, Mr de Baker, said Louit. His eyes coil into my very soul, said Mr Fitzwein. His very what? said Mr O’Meldon. His very soul, said Mr Magershon. Bless me, what was that! exclaimed Mr MacStern. What do you think it was? The angelus? said Mr de Baker. Does one remark such things, among men of the world? said Mr Magershon. At least it was frank, said Mr O’Meldon. Then I may proceed without misgiving, Mr de Baker, said Louit. You certainly may indeed as far as I personally am concerned, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. And wrap it round, as with wet bands, said Mr Fitzwein. God bless you, Mr de Baker, said Louit. And you, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. No no, you, Mr de Baker, you, said Louit. Why by all means, Mr Louit, me, if you insist, but you too, said Mr de Baker. You mean God bless us both, Mr de Baker? said Louit. Diable, said Mr de Baker (the French extraction). His face is familiar, said Mr Fitzwein. Tom! cried Louit. Mr Nackybal turned his face towards the call, and Louit saw that it was stamped with anxiety. Bah! said Louit, the decisive moment is at hand. Then, in a loud voice, he said, Three hundred and eighty-nine th—To me, at all events, said Mr Fitzwein. Three hundred and eighty-nine thousand, vociferated Louit, and seventeen. Eh? said Mr Nackybal. Have you got that down, Mr de Baker, said Louit. I have, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. Would you be good enough to repeat, Mr de Baker, said Louit. Certainly, Mr Louit. I repeat: Mr Louit: Three hundred and eighty-nine thousand and seventy. Mr Nack— Three hundred and eighty-nine thousand and seventeen, said Louit, not and seventy, and seventeen. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Louit, I heard and seventy, said Mr de Baker. I said and seventeen, Mr de Baker, said Louit, as I thought distinctly. How extraordinary, I distinctly heard and seventy, said Mr de Baker. What did you hear, Mr MacStern? I heard and seventeen, with great distinctness, said Mr MacStern. Oh you did, did you, said Mr de Baker. The n is still ringing in my ears, said Mr MacStern. And you, Mr O’Meldon, said Mr de Baker. And I what? said Mr O’Meldon. Heard what, seventeen or seventy? said Mr de Baker. What did you hear, Mr de Baker? said Mr O’Meldon. And seventy, said Mr de Baker. And seven what? said Mr O’Meldon. And seventeeeee, said Mr de Baker. Naturally, said Mr O’Meldon. Ha, said Mr de Baker. I said and seventeen, said Louit. And seven what? said Mr Magershon. And seventeen, said Louit. I thought so, said Mr Magershon. But were not sure, said Mr de Baker. Obviously, said Mr Magershon. And you, Mr President, said Mr de Baker. Eh? said Mr Fitzwein. I say, And you, Mr President, said Mr de Baker. I don’t follow you, Mr de Baker, said Mr Fitzwein. Was it seventeen you heard, or seventy? said Mr de Baker. I heard forty-six, said Mr Fitzwein. I said and seventeen, said Louit. We believe you, Mr Louit, we believe you, said Mr Magershon. Will you emend, Mr de Baker, said Louit. Why of course with pleasure, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. Thank you very much, Mr de Baker, said Louit. Not at all, not at all, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. How does it read now? said Louit. It reads now, said Mr de Baker: Mr Louit: Three hundred and eighty-nine thousand and seventeen. Mr Nackybal: Eh? Has he your leave to sit down? said Louit. Has who our leave to sit down? said Mr Magershon. He is tired standing, said Louit. Where have I seen that face before, said Mr Fitzwein. How long will this go on? said Mr MacStern. Is that all? said Mr Magershon. He hears better seated, said Louit. Let him lie down, if he wishes, said Mr Fitzwein. Louit helped Mr Nackybal to lie down and knelt down beside him. Tom, can you hear me? he cried. Yes, sir, said Mr Nackybal. Three hundred and eighty-nine thousand and seventeen, cried Louit. One moment while I get that down, said Mr de Baker. A moment passed. Proceed, said Mr de Baker. Reply, cried Louit. Sivinty-thray, said Mr Nackybal. Sivinty-thray? said Mr de Baker. Perhaps he means seventy-three, said Mr O’Meldon. Does he mean seventy-three? said Mr Fitzwein. He said seventy-three, said Louit. Did he indeed, said Mr de Baker. My God, said Mr MacStern. His what? said Mr O’Meldon. His God, said Mr Magershon. Would you be good enough to read out what you have got, Mr de Baker, said Louit. What I have got? said Mr de Baker. What you have got down in your book, to make sure it is correct, said Louit. Yours is not a trusting nature, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. So much depends on the accuracy of the record, said Louit. He is right, said Mr MacStern. Where shall I begin? said Mr de Baker. Just my words and my friend’s, said Louit. The rest doesn’t interest you, said Mr de Baker. No, said Louit. Mr de Baker said, Looking back over my notes, I find what follows: Mr Louit: Tom, can you hear me? Mr Nackybal: Yes, sir. Mr Louit: Three hundred and eighty-nine thousand and seventy. Mr Nack— And seventeen, said Louit. Really, Mr de Baker, said Mr Fitzwein. How often have you to be told? said Mr O’Meldon. Think of sweet seventeen, said Mr Magershon. Ha ha, very good, said Mr de Baker. Mr Magershon said, Would it not perhaps be preferable, with such exceptionally large and involved figures — er — at stake, if our Treasurer would consent to take over the record, just for
to-day? I do not intend any disparagement of our Record Secretary, who as we all know is a superb Record Secretary, but perhaps with such unprecedentedly high and complicated figures involved, just for one afternoon— No no, that would never do, said Mr Fitzwein. Mr MacStern said, Perhaps if our Record Secretary would be so good as to transcribe the figures, not in figures, but in words—Yes yes, how would that be? said Mr Fitzwein. What difference would that make? said Mr O’Meldon. Mr MacStern replied, Why then he would simply write down the words that he hears, instead of their ciphered equivalents, which requires long practice, especially in the case of numbers of five and six letters, I beg your pardon, I mean figures. Perhaps after all that is an excellent idea, said Mr Magershon. Would you be good enough to do that, Mr de Baker, do you think? said Mr Fitzwein. But it is my invariable habit, said Mr de Baker. No no, I believe you, said Mr Fitzwein. Then one does not see what is to be done, said Mr Magershon. The best of us may make a slip, said Louit. Thank you, Mr Louit, said Mr de Baker. Pray do not mention it, Mr de Baker, said Louit. Wonderful most wonderful, exclaimed Mr O’Meldon. What is wonderful most wonderful? said Mr MacStern. The two figures are related, said Mr O’Meldon, as the cute to its roob. The cute to its what? said Mr Fitzwein. He means the cube to its root, said Mr MacStern. What did I say? said Mr O’Meldon. The cute to its roob, ha ha, said Mr de Baker. What does that mean, the cube to its root? said Mr Fitzwein. It means nothing, said Mr MacStern. What do you mean, it means nothing? said Mr O’Meldon. Mr MacStern replied, To its which root? A cube may have any number of roots. Like the long Turkey cucumber, said Mr Fitzwein. Not all cubes, said Mr O’Meldon. Who spoke of all cubes? said Mr MacStern. Not this cube, said Mr O’Meldon. I know nothing of that, said Mr MacStern. I am completely in the dark, said Mr Fitzwein. I too, said Mr Magershon. What is wonderful most wonderful? said Mr Fitzwein. Mr O’Meldon replied, That Mr Ballynack— Mr Nackybal, said Louit. Mr O’Meldon said, That Mr Nackybal, in his head, in the short space of thirty-five or forty seconds, should have elicited the cube root of a number of six figures. Mr MacStern said, Forty seconds! At least five minutes have elapsed since the figure was first mentioned. What is wonderful about that? said Mr Fitzwein. Perhaps our President has forgotten, said Mr MacStern. Two is the cube root of eight, said Mr O’Meldon. Indeed, said Mr Fitzwein. Yes, twice two is four and twice four is eight, said Mr O’Meldon. So two is the cube root of eight, said Mr Fitzwein. Yes, and eight is the cube of two, said Mr O’Meldon. Eight is the cube of two, said Mr Fitzwein. Yes, said Mr O’Meldon. What is there so wonderful about that? said Mr Fitzwein. Mr O’Meldon replied, That two should be the cube root of eight, and eight the cube of two, has long ceased to be a matter for surprise. What is surprising is this, that Mr Nallyback, in his head, in so short a time, should have elicited the cube root of a number of six figures. Oh, said Mr Fitzwein. Is it then so difficult? said Mr Magershon. Impossible, said Mr MacStern. Well well, said Mr Fitzwein. A feat never yet achieved by man, and only once by a horse, said Mr O’Meldon. A horse! exclaimed Mr Fitzwein. An episode in the Kulturkampf, said Mr O’Meldon. Oh, I see, said Mr Fitzwein. Louit did not conceal his satisfaction. Mr Nackybal lay on his side, apparently asleep. But Mr Nackynack is not a horse, said Mr Fitzwein. Far from it, said Mr O’Meldon. You are sure of what you advance? said Mr Magershon. No, said Mr O’Meldon. There is something fishy here, said Mr MacStern. Not horsey, fishy, ha ha, very good, said Mr de Baker. I protest, said Louit. Against what? said Mr Fitzwein. Against the word fishy, said Louit. Make a note of that, Mr de Baker, said Mr Fitzwein. Louit took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Mr O’Meldon. Why, what in the world is this, Mr Louit? said Mr O’Meldon. A list of perfect cubes, said Louit, of six figures and under, ninety-nine in all, with their corresponding cubic roots. What do you want me to do with this, Mr Louit? said Mr O’Meldon. Examine my friend, said Louit. Oh, said Mr Fitzwein. In my absence, since you question our good faith, said Louit. Tut tut, Mr Louit, said Mr Magershon. Strip him naked, bandage his eyes, send me away, said Louit. You forget telepathy, or the transference of thought, said Mr MacStern. Louit said, Cover the cubes when you ask for the cubes of the roots, cover the roots when you ask for the roots of the cubes. What difference will that make? said Mr O’Meldon. You won’t know the answers before him, said Louit. Mr Fitzwein left the room, followed by his assistants. Louit roused Mr Nackybal and helped him to rise. Mr O’Meldon came back, Louit’s paper in his hand. I may keep this, Mr Louit, he said. Certainly, said Louit. Thank you, Mr Louit, said Mr O’Meldon. Not at all, Mr O’Meldon, said Louit. Good-evening to you both, said Mr O’Meldon. Louit said, Good-evening, Mr O’Meldon. Say good-evening nicely to Mr O’Meldon, Tom, say, Good-evening, Mr O’Meldon. Ning, said Mr Nackybal. Charming, charming, said Mr O’Meldon. Mr O’Meldon left the room. Louit and Mr Nackybal, arm in arm, followed soon after. Soon the room, empty now, was grey with shadows, of the evening. A porter came, turned on the lights, straightened the chairs, saw that all was well and went away. Then the vast room was dark, for night had fallen, again. Well, Mr Graves, the next day, believe it or not, at the same hour, in the same place, in the immense and lofty hall flooded now with light, the same persons assembled and Mr Nackybal was thoroughly examined, both in cubing and extracting, from the table that Louit had provided. The precautions recommended by Louit were adopted, except that Louit was not sent out of the room, but posted with his back to it before the open window, and that Mr Nackybal was permitted to retain many of his underclothes. From this severe trial Mr Nackybal emerged with distinction, having in his cubing made only twenty-five slight mistakes out of the forty-six cubes demanded, and in his rooting, out of the fifty-three extractions propounded, committed a mere matter of four trifling errors! The interval between question and response, sometimes brief, sometimes as long as one minute, averaged, according to Mr O’Meldon, who had come with his stop-watch, anything from thirty-four to thirty-five seconds. Once Mr Nackybal did not answer at all. This was an occasion of some unpleasantness. Mr O’Meldon, his eyes on the sheet, announced, Five hundred and nineteen thousand three hundred and thirteen. A minute passed, a minute and a quarter, a minute and a half, a minute and three quarters, two minutes, two minutes and a quarter, two minutes and a half, two minutes and three quarters, three minutes, three minutes and a quarter, three minutes and a half, three minutes and three quarters, and still Mr Nackybal did not reply! Come come, sir, said Mr O’Meldon, with acerbity, five hundred and nineteen thousand three hundred and thirteen. Still Mr Nackybal did not reply! Either he knows or he doesn’t, said Mr Magershon. Here Mr de Baker laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. Mr Fitzwein said, If you don’t hear, say you don’t hear. If you don’t know, say you don’t know. Don’t keep us waiting here all night. Louit turned round and said, Is the number on the list? Silence, Mr Louit, said Mr Fitzwein. Is the number on the list? thundered Louit, taking a stride forward, and white, under his green, with indignation. I accuse the Treasurer, he said, pointing his finger at that gentleman, as though there were two, or three, or four, or five, or even six treasurers in the room, instead of only one, of calling out a number that is not on the list and has no more a cube root than my arse. Mr Louit! cried Mr Fitzwein. His what? said Mr O’Meldon. His arse, said Mr Magershon. I accuse him, said Louit, of attempting, with deliberate and premeditated malevolence, to bait and bewilder an old man who is doing his best, out of friendship to me, to— to— who is doing his best. Annoyed by this feeble conclusion, Louit added, I call that the act of a —, —, —, —, —, —, —, —, — —, and here followed a flow of language so gross that a less sweet-tempered man than Mr O’Meldon would certainly have been offended, it was so gross and fluent. But Mr O’Meldon’s temper was of such sweetness, that when Mr Fitzwein rose, and with indignant words began to close the session, Mr O’Meldon rose and calmed Mr Fitzwein, explaining how it was that he and no other was to blame, who had taken a nought for a one, and not, as he ought, for a nought. But you did not do this on p— p— purpose, with m
alice prepense, said Mr Fitzwein. Then there was a silence until Mr O’Meldon, hanging his head, and swinging it slowly to and fro, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, replied, Oh no no no no no, as heaven is my witness, I did not. In that case I must ask Mr Lingard to make you an apology, said Mr Fitzwein. Oh no no no no no, no apologies, cried Mr O’Meldon. Mr Lingard? said Mr Magershon. I said Mr Lingard? said Mr Fitzwein. Certainly you did, said Mr Magershon. What can I have been thinking of, said Mr Fitzwein. My mother was a Miss Lingard, said Mr MacStern. Ah to be sure, I remember, a charming woman, said Mr Fitzwein. She died in giving me birth, said Mr MacStern. I can well believe that, said Mr de Baker. Charming, charming woman, said Mr Fitzwein. When the demonstration was over, then it was question-time. Through the western windows of the vast hall shone the low red winter sun, stirring the air, the chambered air, with its angry farewell shining, whilst via the opposite or oriental apertures or lights the murmur rose, appeasing, of the myriad faint clarions of night. It was question-time. Mr Fitzwein said, And can he square and square-root too? Mr O’Meldon said, If he can cube he can square, if he can cube-root he can square-root. My question was aimed at Mr Louit, said Mr Fitzwein. Cubing and squaring is not the point, said Louit. How is that? said Mr Fitzwein. Louit replied, A visualiser can cube and square in his head, seeing the figures come and go. You stand by the extirpation of the root? said Mr Fitzwein. Of the cube root, said Louit. Not of the square root? said Mr Fitzwein. No, said Louit. How is that? said Mr Fitzwein. A visualiser can extract the square root in his head, said Louit, as with a paper and a sheet of pencil. But not the cube root? said Mr Fitzwein. Louit said nothing, for what could he have said? And the fourth root? said Mr O’Meldon. The square root of the square root, said Louit. And the fifth root? said Mr Fitzwein. Did he rise on the second day? said Louit. And the sixth root? said Mr de Baker. The square root of the cube root, or the cube root of the square root, said Louit. And the seventh root? said Mr MacStern. Dance on the waters? said Louit. And the eighth root? said Mr O’Meldon. The square root of the square root of the square root, said Louit. It was question-time. Rose and gloom, farewell and hail, mingled, clashed, vanquished, victor, victor, vanquished, in the vast indifferent chamber. And the ninth root? said Mr Fitzwein. The cube root of the cube root, said Louit. And the tenth root? said Mr de Baker. Involves the fifth, said Louit. And the eleventh root? said Mr MacStern. Into whiskey? said Louit. And the twelfth root? said Mr O’Meldon. The square root of the square root of the cube root, or the cube root of the square root of the square root, or the square root of the cube root of the square root, said Louit. And the thirteenth root? said Mr Fitzwein. Enough! cried Mr Magershon. I beg your pardon? said Mr Fitzwein. Enough, said Mr Magershon. Who are you to say enough? said Mr Fitzwein. Gentlemen, gentlemen, said Mr MacStern. Mr Louit, said Mr O’Meldon. Sir, said Louit. In the two columns of figures before me, this afternoon, said Mr O’Meldon, the one, or column of roots, has no number of more than two digits, and the other, or column of cubes, none of more than six. Column of cubes! cried Mr MacStern. What is the matter now? said Mr Fitzwein. How beautiful, said Mr MacStern. That is so, Mr Louit, is it not? said Mr O’Meldon. I have no ear for music, said Louit. I do not refer to that, said Mr O’Meldon. To what might you refer? said Mr Fitzwein. I refer, said Mr O’Meldon, on the one hand to the absence, in the one column, or column of roots, of any number of more than two digits, and on the other, in the other column, or column of cubes, to the absence of any number of more than six digits. That is so, Mr Louit, is it not? You have the list before you, said Louit. Column of roots is very pretty too, I think, said Mr de Baker. Yes, but not so pretty as column of cubes, said Mr MacStern. Well, perhaps not quite, but very nearly, said Mr de Baker. Mr de Baker sang