Watt, Page 22

  In the room, passably lit by the moon, and large numbers of stars, Mr Knott continued, apparently very much as usual, to lie, kneel, sit, stand and walk, to utter his cries, mutter and be silent. And by the open window Watt sat, as his custom was in suitable weather, heard dully the first night sounds, saw dully the first night lights, human and celestial.

  At ten the steps came, clearer, clearer, fainter, fainter, on the stairs, on the landing, on the stairs again, and through the open door the light, from darkness slowly brightening, to darkness slowly darkening, the steps of Arthur, the light of poor Arthur, little by little mounting to his rest, at his habitual hour.

  At eleven the room darkened, the moon having climbed behind a tree. But the tree being small, and the moon’s ascension rapid, this transit was brief, and this obscuration.

  As by the steps the light, growing, dying, Watt knew that it was ten, so he knew, when the room darkened, that it was eleven, or thereabouts.

  But when he thought it was midnight, or thereabouts, and he had put Mr Knott into his nightdress, and then into his bed, then he went down to the kitchen, as he did every night, to drink his last glass of milk, to smoke his last quarter of cigar.

  But in the kitchen a strange man was sitting, in the gloaming of the expiring range, on a chair.

  Watt asked this man who he was, and how he had got in. He felt it was his duty to do this.

  My name is Micks, said the stranger. One moment I was out, and the next I was in.

  So the moment was come. Watt lifted the cork lid from his glass, and drank. The milk was turning. He lit his cigar, and puffed. It was an inferior cigar.

  I come from —, said Mr Micks, and he described the place whence he came. I was born at —, he said, and the site and circumstances of his ejection were unfolded. My dear parents, he said, and Mr and Mrs Micks, heroic figures, unique in the annals of cloistered fornication, filled the kitchen. He said further, At the age of fifteen, My beloved wife, My beloved dog, Till at last. Happily Mr Micks was childless.

  Watt listened for a time, for the voice was far from unmelodious. The fricatives in particular were pleasing. But as from the proscript an encountered nightsong, so it faded, the voice of Micks, the pleasant voice of poor Micks, and was lost, in the soundless tumult of the inner lamentation.

  When Watt had finished his milk, and smoked his cigar, until it burned his lips, he left the kitchen. But in a short time he reappeared, to Micks, with in each hand a small bag, that is to say, two small bags in all.

  Watt preferred, when travelling, two small bags to one large bag. Indeed he preferred, when moving from place to place, two small bags, one in each hand, to one small bag, now in one hand and now in the other. No bag, big or small, in either hand, that of course is what he would have liked best of all, when on his travels. But what then would have become of his effects, his toilet necessities and change of body linen?

  One of these bags was the grousebag, already perhaps mentioned. In spite of the straps, and buckles, with which it was generously provided, Watt held it by the neck, as though it were a sandbag.

  The other of these bags was another and similar grousebag. It also Watt held by the neck, as though it were a club.

  These bags were three quarters empty.

  Watt wore a greatcoat, still green here and there. This coat, when last weighed by Watt, weighed between fifteen and sixteen pounds, avoirdupois, or a little more than a stone. Of this Watt was certain, having weighed himself on a machine, first with the coat on, and then with it off, lying on the ground, at his feet. But that was a long time ago, and the coat might have put on weight, since then. Or it might have lost weight. This coat was of such length, that Watt’s trousers, which he wore very baggy, in order to conceal the shapes of his legs, were hidden by it from view. This coat was of a very respectable age, as such coats go, having been bought at secondhand, for a small sum, from a meritorious widow, by Watt’s father, when Watt’s father was a young man, and motoring in its infancy, that is to say some seventy years before. This coat had not, since then, at any time been washed, except imperfectly by the rain, and the snow, and the sleet, and of course occasional fleeting immersion in canal water, nor dry-cleaned, nor turned, nor brushed, and it was no doubt to these precautions that its preservation, as a unit, was due. The material of this coat, though liberally scored and contunded, especially in the rear, was so thick, and so strong, that it remained exempt from perforation, in the strict meaning of the word, nor was its thread elsewhere exposed, than at the seat, and elbows. This coat continued to button, up the front, with nine buttons, various now in shape, and colour, but without exception of such exceptional size as to remain, once buttoned, buttoned. Aloft in the flowerhole brooded the remains of a factitious murrey chrysanthemum. Patches of velvet clung to the collar. The skirts were not divided.

  Watt wore, on his head, a block hat, of a pepper colour. This excellent hat had belonged to his grandfather, who had picked it up, on a racecourse, from off the ground, where it lay, and carried it home. Then mustard, now it was pepper, in colour.

  It was to be observed that the colours, on the one hand of this coat, on the other of this hat, drew closer and closer, the one to the other, with every passing lustre. Yet how different had been their beginnings! The one green! The other yellow! So it is with time, that lightens what is dark, that darkens what is light.

  It was to be expected that, once met, they would not stay, no, but continue, each as it must, to age, until the hat was green, the coat yellow, and then through the last circles paling, deepening, swooning cease, the hat to be a hat, the coat to be a coat. For so it is with time.

  Watt wore, on his feet, a boot, brown in colour, and a shoe, happily of a brownish colour also. This boot Watt had bought, for eight pence, from a one-legged man who, having lost his leg, and a fortiori his foot, in an accident, was happy to realize, on his discharge from hospital, for such a sum, his unique remaining marketable asset. He little suspected that he owed this good fortune to Watt’s having found, some days before, on the sea-shore, the shoe, stiff with brine, but otherwise shipshape.

  This shoe and this boot were so close in colour, the one to the other, and so veiled, as to their uppers, in the first place by the trousers, and in the second by the greatcoat, that they might almost have been taken, not for a shoe on the one hand, and on the other for a boot, but for a true pair, of boots, or of shoes, had not the boot been blunt, and the shoe sharp, at the toe.

  In this boot, a twelve, and in this shoe, a ten, Watt, whose size was eleven, suffered, if not agony, at least pain, with his feet, of which each would willingly have changed places with the other, if only for a moment.

  By wearing, on the foot that was too small, not one sock of his pair of socks, but both, and on the foot that was too large, not the other, but none, Watt strove in vain to correct this asymmetry. But logic was on his side, and he remained faithful, when involved in a journey of any length, to this distribution of his socks, in preference to the other three.

  Of Watt’s coat and waistcoat, of his shirt his vest and his drawers, much might be written, of great interest and significance. The drawers, in particular, were remarkable, from more than one point of view. But they were hidden, coat and waistcoat, shirt and underclothes, all hidden, from the eye.

  Watt wore no tie, nor any collar. Had he had a collar, he would no doubt have found a tie, to go with it. And had he had a tie, he might perhaps have procured a collar, to carry it. But having neither tie, nor collar, he had neither collar, nor tie.

  Thus dressed, and holding in either hand a bag, Watt stood in the kitchen, and the expression on his face became gradually of such vacancy that Micks, raising in amaze an astonished hand to a thunderstruck mouth, recoiled to the wall, and there stood, in a crouching posture, his back pressed against the wall, and the back of the one hand pressed against his parted lips, and the back of the other pressed against the palm of the one. Or it may have been something else that caused Micks to recoil in
this way, and to crouch against the wall, with his hands to his face, in this way, something other than the face of Watt. For it is hard to believe that the face of Watt, dreadful and all as it was at the time, was dreadful and all enough to cause a powerful lymphatic man like Micks to recoil to the wall with his hands to his face, as if to ward off a blow, or press back a cry, in the way he did, and to turn pale, for he turned pale, very properly. For Watt’s face, dreadful and all as it undoubtedly was, especially when it wore this particular expression, was scarcely as dreadful and all as all that. Nor was Micks a little girl, or an innocent little choirboy, no, but a big placid man, who had seen something of the world, both at home, and abroad. What may it then have been, if not Watt’s face, that so repelled Micks, and drained his cheeks, of their natural high colour? The greatcoat? The hat? The shoe and boot? Yes, the shoe and boot perhaps, taken together, so brown, so peeping, so sharp and blunt, heel to heel in obscene attention splayed, and so brown, such a brown. Or was it not perhaps something that was not Watt, nor of Watt, but behind Watt, or beside Watt, or before Watt, or beneath Watt, or above Watt, or about Watt, a shade uncast, a light unshed, or the grey air aswirl with vain entelechies?

  But if Watt’s mouth was open, and his jaw sunk, and his eyes glassy, and his head sunk, and his knees bent, and his back bent, his mind was busy, busy wondering which was best, to shut the door, from which he felt the draught, on the nape, of his neck, and set down his bags, and sit down, or to shut the door, and set down his bags, without sitting down, or to shut the door, and sit down, without setting down his bags, or to set down his bags, and sit down, without shutting the door, or to shut the door, from which he felt the blast, on the nape, of his neck, without setting down his bags, or sitting down, or to set down his bags, without bothering to shut the door, or sit down, or to sit down, without troubling to set down his bags, or shut the door, or to leave things as they were, the bags pulling at his hands, the floor pushing at his feet, and the air puffing, through the door, on the nape, of his neck. And the conclusion of Watt’s reflexions was this, that if one of these things was worth doing, all were worth doing, but that none was worth doing, no, not one, but that all were unadvisable, without exception. For he would not have time to rest, and grow warm. For the sitting down was a standing up again, and the load laid down another load to raise, and the door shut another door to open, so hard upon the last, so soon before the next, as to prove, very likely, in the long run, more fatiguing, than refreshing. And he said also, by way of a rider, that even if he had the whole night before him, in which to rest, and grow warm, on a chair, in the kitchen, even then it would be a poor resting, and a mean warming, beside the rest and warmth that he remembered, the rest and warmth that he awaited, a very poor resting indeed, and a paltry warming, and so in any case very likely a source, in the long run, less of gratification, than of annoyance. But his fatigue was so great, at the end of this long day, and his bedtime so long past, and the desire for rest so strong in consequence, and the desire for warmth, that he stooped, very likely with the intention of setting down his bags, on the floor, and of shutting the door, and of sitting down at the table, and of putting his arms on the table, and of burying yes of burying his head in his arms, and who knows perhaps even of falling, after a moment or two, into an uneasy sleep, lacerated by dreams, by dives from dreadful heights into rocky waters, before a numerous public. So he stooped, but he did not stoop far, for hardly had the stoop begun, when it ended, and hardly had he initiated his programme of repose, of uneasy repose, when he checked it, and remained fixed, in an aggravation of his semi-upright station, a station so lamentable that he remarked it, and would have smiled, if he had not been too weak to smile, or laughed outright, if he had been strong enough to laugh outright. Inwardly he was diverted, to be sure, and for an instant his mind turned off from care, but less than if he had had the force to smile, or outright to laugh.

  In the avenue, somewhere between the house and the road, Watt recalled, with regret, that he had not taken leave of Micks, as he should have done. The few simple words at parting, that mean so much, to him who stays, to him who goes, he had not had the common courtesy to speak them, before leaving the house. An inclination to retrace his steps, and repair this churlishness, caused him to halt. But he did not halt long, but continued on his way, towards the gate, and the road. And he did well, for Micks had left the kitchen before Watt. But Watt, not knowing this, that Micks had left the kitchen before him, for he only realized it much later, when it was too late, felt regret, as he passed on his way, towards the gate, and the road, that he had not taken leave of Micks, however briefly.

  The night was of unusual splendour. The moon, if not full, was not far from full, in a day or two it would be full, and then dwindle, until its appearance, in the heavens, would be that compared, by some writers, to a sickle, or a crescent. The remaining heavenly bodies also, though situated for the most part at a great distance, poured down on Watt, and on the hortulan beauties through which he moved, with regret, in his heart, for his neglect of Micks, to Watt’s disgust a light so strong, so pure, so steady and so white, that his progress, though painful, and uncertain, was less painful, less uncertain, than he had apprehended, when setting out.

  Watt was always lucky with his weather.

  He walked on the grass edging, because he did not like the feel of gravel under his feet, and the flowers, and the long grasses, and the boughs, both of shrubs and of trees, brushed against him in a way that he did not find unpleasant. The lapping, against the crown, of his hat, of some pendulous umbel, perhaps a horn’s, gave him peculiar satisfaction, and he had not gone far, from the place, when he turned, and returned, to the place, and stood, beneath the bough, attentive to the drag, to and fro, to and fro, of the tassels, on the crown, of his hat.

  He remarked that there was no wind, not a breath. And yet in the kitchen he had felt the cold air, on the nape, of his neck.

  He was overtaken, in the road, by the passing weakness already mentioned. But it passed, and he pursued his way, towards the railway-station.

  He walked in the middle of the road, because of the freestone, with which the path was strewn.

  He met no human being, on his way. A strayed ass, or goat, lying in the ditch, in the shadow, raised its head, as he passed. Watt did not see the ass, or goat, but the ass, or goat, saw Watt. And it followed him with its eyes while he passed, little by little, down the road, out of sight. Perhaps it thought that in the bags there was something good to eat. When it could see the bags no more, then it laid back its head, among the nettles.

  When Watt reached the railway-station, it was shut. It had indeed been shut for some time, before Watt reached it, and it was so still, when he did. For the time was now perhaps between one and two o’clock, in the morning, and the last train to call at this railway-station, at night, and the first to call, in the morning, called, the one between eleven and twelve o’clock, at night, and the other between five and six o’clock, in the morning. So this particular railway-station closed, at latest, at twelve o’clock, at night, and never opened before five o’clock, in the morning. And as the time was now probably between one and two o’clock, in the morning, the railway-station was shut.

  Watt climbed the stone steps and stood before the wicket, looking through its bars. He admired the permanent way, stretching away on either hand, in the moonlight, and the starlight, as far as the eye could reach, as far as Watt’s eye could have reached, if it had been inside the station. He contemplated with wonder also the ample recession of the plain, its flow so free and simple to the mountains, the crumpled umbers of its verge. His eyes then rising with the rising land fell ultimately on the mirrored sky, its coalsacks, its setting constellations, and on the eyes, ripple-blurred, staring from amidst the waters. Finally suddenly he focused the wicket.

  Watt climbed the wicket and found himself on the platform, with his bags. For he had the foresight, before climbing the wicket, to hoist his bags over the wicket and le
t them fall, to the ground, on the other side.

  Watt’s first care, now that he was safe and sound, with his bags, within the station, was to turn, and to gaze, through the wicket, the way back he had come, so recently.

  Of the many touching prospects thus offered to his inspection, none touched him more than the highway, now whiter somehow than by day, and of a fairer onrush, between its hedges, and its ditches. This highway, after an unbroken course of considerable length, dipped suddenly, and was lost to view, in a deplorable confusion of vertical vegetation.

  The chimneys of Mr Knott’s house were not visible, in spite of the excellent visibility. On fine days they could be discerned, from the station. But on fine nights apparently not. For Watt’s eyes, when he put himself out, were no worse than another’s, even at this time, and the night was exceptionally fine, even for this part of the country, reputed for the fineness of its nights.

  Watt had always great luck with his weather.

  Watt was beginning to tire of running his eyes up and down this highway, when a figure, human apparently, advancing along its crown, arrested, and revived, his attention. Watt’s first thought was that this creature had risen up out of the ground, or fallen from the sky. And his second, some fifteen or twenty minutes later, that it had perhaps gained its present position by way of first a hedge, and then a ditch. Watt was unable to say whether this figure was that of a man, or that of a woman, or that of a priest, or that of a nun. That it was not that of a boy, nor that of a girl, was shown, in Watt’s opinion, by its dimensions. But to decide whether it was that of a man, or that of a woman, or that of a priest, or that of a nun, was more than Watt could do, strain as he might his eyes. If it was that of a woman, or that of a nun, it was that of a woman, or that of a nun, of unusual size, even for this part of the country, remarkable for the unusual size of its women, and its nuns. But Watt knew too well, too too well, of what dimensions certain women, and certain nuns, were capable, to conclude, from those of this night-wanderer, that this night-wanderer was not a woman, nor a nun, but a man, or a priest. As for the clothes, their testimony was of no more assistance, at that distance, and in that light, than if they had consisted of a sheet, or a sack, or a quilt, or a rug. For from head to foot extended, as far as Watt could see, and his eyes were as good as the next man’s, even at this stage, when he gave himself the trouble to focus them, the uninterrupted surfaces of a single garment, while on the head there sat, asexual, the likeness of a depressed inverted chamber-pot, yellow with age, to put it politely. If the figure was indeed that of a woman, or that of a nun, of unusual size, it was that of a woman, or that of a nun, of unusual size, of uncommon inelegance. But the giant woman was often dowdy, in Watt’s experience, and the giant nun not less so. The arms did not end at the hands, but continued, in a manner that Watt could not determine, to near the ground. The feet, following each other in rapid and impetuous succession, were flung, the right foot to the right, the left foot to the left, as much outwards as forwards, with the result that, for every stride of say three feet in compass, the ground gained did not exceed one. This gave to the gait a kind of shackled smartness, most painful to witness. Watt felt them suddenly glow in the dark place, and go out, the words, The only cure is diet.