Watt, Page 20

  But here Arthur seemed to tire, of his story, for he left Mr Graves, and went back, into the house. Watt was thankful for this, for he too was tired, of Arthur’s story, to which he had listened with the closest attention. And he could truly say, as he did, in after times, that of all the things he ever saw or heard, during his stay in Mr Knott’s establishment, he heard none so well, saw none so clear, as Arthur and Mr Graves that sunny afternoon, on the lawn, and Louit, and Mr Nackybal, and Mr O’Meldon, and Mr Magershon, and Mr Fitzwein, and Mr de Baker, and Mr MacStern, and all the things they did, and the words they said. He understood it all too, very well, though he could not vouch for the accuracy of the figures, which he had not taken the trouble to check, having no head for figures. And if the words were not the exact words employed by Arthur, by Louit, by Mr Nackybal and the others, they were not far out. He enjoyed this incident too, at the time, more than he had enjoyed anything for a long time, or would enjoy anything again, for a considerable time. But it tired him, in the end, and he was glad when Arthur left off, and went away. Then Watt climbed down, from off his mound, thinking how nice it would be to go back into the cool house gloom, and drink a glass of milk. But he did not care to leave Mr Knott all alone in the garden, though there was really no reason why he should not. Then he saw the branches of a tree in agitation, and Mr Knott climbing down among them, from branch it almost seemed to branch, lower and lower, until he reached the ground. Then Mr Knott turned towards the house, and Watt followed after, very pleased with the afternoon he had spent, on his mound, and looking forward to the nice glass of cold milk that he would drink, in the cool, in the gloom, in a moment. And Mr Graves remained alone, leaning on his fork, all alone, while the shadows lengthened.

  Watt learned later, from Arthur, that the telling of this story, while it lasted, before Arthur grew tired, had transported Arthur far from Mr Knott’s premises, of which, of the mysteries of which, of the fixity of which, Arthur had sometimes more, than he could bear.

  Arthur was a very nice open fellow, not at all like Erskine.

  In another place, he said, from another place, he might have told this story to its end, told the true identity of Mr Nackybal (his real name was Tisler and he lived in a room on the canal), told his method of cube-rooting in his head (he merely knew by heart the cubes of one to nine, and even this was not indispensable, and that one gives one, and two eight, and three seven, and four four, and five five, and six six, and seven three, and eight two, and nine nine, and of course nought nought), and told the delinquencies of Louit, his fall and subsequent ascension, running Bando.

  But on Mr Knott’s premises, from Mr Knott’s premises, this was not possible, for Arthur.

  For what stopped Arthur, and made him go silent, in the middle of his story, was not really fatigue with his story, for he was not really fatigued, but the desire to return, to leave Louit and return, to Mr Knott’s house, to its mysteries, to its fixity. For he had been absent longer from them, than he could bear.

  But perhaps in another place, from another place, Arthur would never have begun this story.

  For there was no other place, but only there where Mr Knott was, whose mysteries, whose fixity, whose fixity of mystery, so thrust forth, with such a thrust.

  But if he had begun, in some other place, from some other place, to tell this story, then he would very likely have told it to the end.

  For there was no place, but only there where Mr Knott was, whose peculiar properties, having first thrust forth, with such a thrust, called back so soon, with such a call.

  Watt sympathised with this predicament. Had not he himself, in the beginning, resorted to similar shifts?

  Was he finished with them now? Well, almost.

  Fixity was not the word he would have chosen.

  Watt had little to say on the subject of the second or closing period of his stay in Mr Knott’s house.

  In the course of the second or closing period of Watt’s stay in Mr Knott’s house, the information acquired by Watt, on that subject, was scant.

  Of the nature of Mr Knott himself Watt remained in particular ignorance.

  Of the many excellent reasons for this, two seemed to Watt to merit mention: on the one hand the exiguity of the material propounded to his senses, and on the other the decay of these. What little there was to see, to hear, to smell, to taste, to touch, like a man in a stupor he saw it, heard it, smelt it, tasted it, touched it.

  In empty hush, in airless gloom, Mr Knott abode, in the large room set aside for his exclusive enjoyment, and that of his attendant. And from it this ambience followed him forth, and when he moved, in the house, in the garden, with him moved, dimming all, dulling all, stilling all, numbing all, where he passed.

  The clothes that Mr Knott wore, in his room, about the house, amid his garden, were very various, very very various. Now heavy, now light; now smart, now dowdy; now sober, now gaudy; now decent, now daring (his skirtless bathing-costume, for example). Often too he wore, by his fireside, or as he mooched about the rooms, the stairs, the passageways of his home, a hat, or cap, or, imprisoning his rare his wanton hair, a net. And as often his head was bare.

  As for his feet, sometimes he wore on each a sock, or on the one a sock and on the other a stocking, or a boot, or a shoe, or a slipper, or a sock and boot, or a sock and shoe, or a sock and slipper, or a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a stocking, or on the one a stocking and on the other a boot, or a shoe, or a slipper, or a sock and boot, or a sock and shoe, or a sock and slipper, or a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a boot, or on the one a boot and on the other a shoe, or a slipper, or a sock and boot, or a sock and shoe, or a sock and slipper, or a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a shoe, or on the one a shoe and on the other a slipper, or a sock and boot, or a sock and shoe, or a sock and slipper, or a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a slipper, or on the one a slipper and on the other a sock and boot, or a sock and shoe, or a sock and slipper, or a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a sock and boot, or on the one a sock and boot and on the other a sock and shoe, or a sock and slipper, or a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a sock and shoe, or on the one a sock and shoe and on the other a sock and slipper, or a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a sock and slipper, or on the one a sock and slipper and on the other a stocking and boot, or a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a stocking and boot, or on the one a stocking and boot and on the other a stocking and shoe, or a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a stocking and shoe, or on the one a stocking and shoe and on the other a stocking and slipper, or nothing at all. And sometimes he wore on each a stocking and slipper, or on the one a stocking and slipper and on the other nothing at all. And sometimes he went barefoot.

  To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something. To pause, towards the close of one’s three hour day, and consider: the darkening ease, the brightening trouble; the pleasure pleasure because it was, the pain pain because it shall be; the glad acts grown proud, the proud acts growing stubborn; the panting the trembling towards a being gone, a being to come; and the true true no longer, and the false true not yet. And to decide not to smile after all, sitting in the shade, hearing the cicadas, wishing it were night, wishing it were morning, saying, No, it is not the heart, no, it is not the liver, no, it is not the prostate, no, it is not the ovaries, no, it
is muscular, it is nervous. Then the gnashing ends, or it goes on, and one is in the pit, in the hollow, the longing for longing gone, the horror of horror, and one is in the hollow, at the foot of all the hills at last, the ways down, the ways up, and free, free at last, for an instant free at last, nothing at last.

  But whatever he put on, in the beginning, for by midnight he was always in his nightshirt, whatever he put on then, on his head, on his body, on his feet, he did not touch again, but kept on all that day, in his room, in his house, in his grounds, until the time came to put on his nightshirt, once again. Yes, not one button would he touch, to button or unbutton it, except those that nature obliged him to, and these he habitually left unbuttoned, from the moment of his putting on his clothes, and adjusting them to his satisfaction, to the moment of his taking them off, once more. So that he was not seldom to be seen, in his room, in his house, in his grounds, in strange and unseasonable costume, as though he were unaware of the weather, or of the time of year. And to see him sometimes thus, barefoot and for boating dressed, in the snow, in the slush, in the icy winter wind, or, when summer came again, by his fire, charged with furs, was to wonder, Does he seek to know again, what is cold, what is heat? But this was an anthropomorphic insolence of short duration.

  For except, one, not to need, and, two, a witness to his not needing, Mr Knott needed nothing, as far as Watt could see.

  If he ate, and he ate well; if he drank, and he drank heartily; if he slept, and he slept sound; if he did other things, and he did other things regularly, it was not from need of food, or drink, or sleep, or other things, no, but from the need never to need, never never to need, food, and drink, and sleep, and other things.

  This was Watt’s first surmise of any interest on the subject of Mr Knott.

  And Mr Knott, needing nothing if not, one, not to need, and, two, a witness to his not needing, of himself knew nothing. And so he needed to be witnessed. Not that he might know, no, but that he might not cease.

  This, on the subject of Mr Knott, was Watt’s second, and closing, conjecture not entirely gratuitous.

  Halting, faint with dubiety, from Watt’s lips they fell.

  His habitual tone was one of assurance.

  But what kind of witness was Watt, weak now of eye, hard of hearing, and with even the more intimate senses greatly below par?

  A needy witness, an imperfect witness.

  The better to witness, the worse to witness.

  That with his need he might witness its absence.

  That imperfect he might witness it ill.

  That Mr Knott might never cease, but ever almost cease.

  Such appeared to be the arrangement.

  When Mr Knott moved about the house he did so as one unfamiliar with the premises, fumbling at doors immemorially locked, kneeling rapt on window-seats, stumbling in the dark, seeking high and low the water-closet, pausing irresolute at the foot of the stairs, pausing irresolute at the head of the stairs.

  When Mr Knott moved in the midst of his garden, he did so as one unacquainted with its beauties, looking at the trees, looking at the flowers, looking at the bushes, looking at the vegetables, as though they, or he, had been created in the course of the night.

  But it was in his room, though he sometimes offered to leave it by the hanging-cupboard, that Mr Knott seemed least a stranger, and appeared to best advantage.

  Here he stood. Here he sat. Here he knelt. Here he lay. Here he moved, to and fro, from the door to the window, from the window to the door; from the window to the door, from the door to the window; from the fire to the bed, from the bed to the fire; from the bed to the fire, from the fire to the bed; from the door to the fire, from the fire to the door; from the fire to the door, from the door to the fire; from the window to the bed, from the bed to the window; from the bed to the window, from the window to the bed; from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire; from the window to the fire, from the fire to the window; from the bed to the door, from the door to the bed; from the door to the bed, from the bed to the door; from the door to the window, from the window to the fire; from the fire to the window, from the window to the door; from the window to the door, from the door to the bed; from the bed to the door, from the door to the window; from the fire to the bed, from the bed to the window; from the window to the bed, from the bed to the fire; from the bed to the fire, from the fire to the door; from the door to the fire, from the fire to the bed; from the door to the window, from the window to the bed; from the bed to the window, from the window to the door; from the window to the door, from the door to the fire; from the fire to the door, from the door to the window; from the fire to the bed, from the bed to the door; from the door to the bed, from the bed to the fire; from the bed to the fire, from the fire to the window; from the window to the fire, from the fire to the bed; from the door to the fire, from the fire to the window; from the window to the fire, from the fire to the door; from the window to the bed, from the bed to the door; from the door to the bed, from the bed to the window; from the fire to the window, from the window to the bed; from the bed to the window, from the window to the fire; from the bed to the door, from the door to the fire; from the fire to the door, from the door to the bed.