Ill Seen Ill Said Read online

  Now some do. Toward but never nearer.

  Thus they keep her in the centre. More or

  less. What then if not her do they ring

  around? In their ring whence she disappears unhindered. Whence they let her disappear. Instead of disappearing in her

  24 SAMUEL BECKETT

  •

  company. So the unreasoning goes. While

  the eye digests its pittance. In its private

  dark. In the general dark.

  As hope expires of her

  ever reappearing she reappears. At first

  sight little changed. It is evening. It will

  always be evening. When not night. She

  emerges at the fringe of the pastures and

  sets forward across them. Slowly with fluttering step as if wan ring mass. Suddenly still and as suddenly on her way again. At

  this rate it will be black night before she

  reaches home. Home! But time slows all

  this while. Suits its speed to hers. Whence

  from beginning to end of her course no

  loss or but little of twilight. A matter at

  most of a candle or two. Bearing south as

  best she can she casts coward the moon co

  come her long black shadow. They come at

  last co the door holding a great key. At the

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID 2 5

  same instant night. When not evenmg

  night. Head bowed she stands exposed

  facing east. All dead still. All save hanging

  from a finger the old key polished by use.

  Trembling it faintly shimmers in the light

  of the moon.

  Wooed from below the

  face consents at last. In the dim light reflected by the flag. Calm slab worn and polished by agelong comings and goings.

  Livid pallor. Not a wrinkle. How serene it

  seems this ancient mask. Worthy those

  worn by certain newly dead. True the light

  leaves to be desired. The lids occult the

  longed-for eyes. Time will tell them

  washen blue. Where tears perhaps not for

  nothing. Unimaginable tears of old. Lashes

  jet black remains of the brunette she was.

  Perhaps once was. When yet a lass. Yet

  brunette. Skipping the nose at the call of

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  SAMUEL BECKETT

  che lips these no sooner broached are withdrawn. The slab having darkened with che darkening sky. Black night henceforward.

  And ac dawn an empty place. Wich no

  means of knowing whether she has gone

  in or under cover of darkness her ways

  agam.

  White scones more plentiful every year. As well say every inscanc.

  In a fair way if chey persist co bury all. First

  zone rather more extensive chan ac first

  sight ill seen and every year rather more.

  Of striking effect in che light of the moon

  these millions of liccle sepulchres. But in

  her absence buc cold comfort. From it then

  in che end co the second miscalled pastures. Leprous with white scars where che grass has receded from che chalky soil.

  In contemplation of this erosion the eye

  finds solace. Everywhere stone is gaining.

  Whiteness. More and more every year. As

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID

  2 7

  well say every instant. Everywhere every

  instant whiteness is gaining.

  The eye will return to the

  scene of its betrayals. On centennial leave

  from where tears freeze. Free again an instant to shed them scalding. On the blest tears once shed. While exulting at the

  white heap of stone. Ever heaping for want

  of better on itself. Which if it persist will

  gain the skies. The moon. Venus.

  From the stones she steps

  down into the pastures. As from one tier of

  a circus to the next. A gap time will fill.

  For faster than the stones invade it the

  other ground upheaves its own. So far in

  silence. A silence time will break. This

  great silence evening and night. Then all

  28

  SAMUEL BECKETT

  •

  along the verge the muffled thud of stone

  on stone. Of those spilling their excess on

  those emergent. Only now and then at

  first. Then at ever briefer intervals. Till one

  continuous din. With none to hear. Decreasing as the levels draw together to silence once again. Evening and night. In the meantime she is suddenly sitting with

  her feet in the pastures. Were it not for the

  empty hands on the way who knows to the

  tomb. Back from it then more likely. On

  the way back from the tomb. Frozen true

  to her wont she seems turned co stone.

  Face co the further confines the eye closes

  in vain to see. At last they appear an inscant .. North where she passes them always.

  Shroud of radiant haze. Where to melt

  into paradise.

  The long white hair stares

  in a fan. Above and about the impassive

  face. Scares as if shocked still by some an-

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID 29

  cient horror. Or by its continuance. Or

  by another. That leaves the face stonecold. Silence at the eye of the scream.

  Which say? Ill say. Both. All three. Question answered.

  Seated on the stones she

  is seen from behind. From the waist up.

  Trunk black rectangle. Nape under frill of

  black lace. White half halo of hair. Face to

  the north. The tomb. Eyes on the horizon

  perhaps. Or closed to see the headstone.

  The withered crocuses. Endless evening.

  She lit aslant by the last rays. They make

  no difference. None to the black of the

  cloth. None to the white hair. It too dead

  still. In the still air. Voidlike calm as always. Evening and night. Suffice to watch the grass. How motionless it droops. Till

  under the relentless eye it shivers. With

  faintest shiver from its innermost. Equally

  the hair. Rigidly horrenc it shivers at last

  30 SAMUEL BECKETT

  for the eye about to abandon. And the old

  body itself. When it seems of stone. Is it

  not in fact ashiver from head to foot? Let

  her but go and stand still by the other

  stone. It white from afar in the pastures.

  And the eye go from one to the other.

  Back and forth. What calm then. And

  what storm. Beneath the weeds' mock

  calm.

  Not possible any longer

  except as figment. Not endurable. Nothing for it but to close the eye for good and see her. Her and the rest. Close it for good

  and all and see her to death. Unremittent.

  In the shack. Over the stones. In the pastures. The haze. At the tomb. And back.

  And the rest. For good and all. To death.

  Be shut of it all. On to the next. Next

  figment. Close it for good this filthy eye of

  flesh. What forbids? Careful.

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID

  3 1

  Such-such fiasco that

  folly takes a hand. Such bits and scraps.

  Seen no matter how and said as seen.

  Dread of black. Of white. Of void. Let her

  vanish. And the rest. For good. And the

  sun. Last rays. And the moon. And Venus.

  Nothing left but black sky. White earth.

  Or inversely. No more sky or earth.

  Finished high and low. Nothing but black
>
  and white. Everywhere no matter where.

  But black. Void. Nothing else. Contemplate that. Not another word. Home at last. Gently gently.

  Panic past pass on. The

  hands. Seen from above. They rest on the

  pubis intertwined. Strident white. Their

  faintly leaden tinge killed by the black

  ground. Suspicion of lace at the wrists. To

  go with the frill. They tighten then loosen

  their clasp. Slow systole diastole. And the

  32

  SAMUEL BECKETT

  •

  body that scandal. While its sole hands in

  view. On its sole pubis. Dead still to be

  sure. On the chair. After the spectacle.

  Slowly its spell unbinding. On and on they

  keep. Tightening and loosening their

  clasp. Rhythm of a labouring heart. Till

  when almost despaired of gently part. Suddenly gently. Spreading rise and in midair palms uppermost come to rest. Behold our

  hollows. Then after a moment as if to hide

  the lines fall back pronating as they go and

  light flat on head of thighs. Within an ace

  of the crotch. It is now the left hand lacks

  its third finger. A swelling no doubt-a

  swelling no doubt of the knuckle between

  first �nd second phalanges preventing one

  panic day withdrawal of the ring. The kind

  called keeper. Still as stones they defy as

  stones do the eye. Do they as much as feel

  the clad flesh? Does the clad flesh feel

  them? Will they then never quiver? This

  night assuredly not. For before they havebefore the eye has time they mist. Who is to blame? Or what? They? The eye? The

  missing finger? The keeper? The cry?

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID 3 3

  What cry? All five. All six. And the rest.

  All. All to blame. All.

  'Wimer evening in the

  pastures. The snow has ceased. Her steps so

  light they barely leave a trace. Have barely

  left having ceased. Just enough to be still

  visible. Adrift the snow. Whither in her

  head while her feet stray thus? Hither and

  thither too? Or unswerving to the mirage?

  And where when she halts? The eye discerns afar a kind of stain. Finally the steep roof whence part of the fresh fall has slid.

  Under the low lowering sky the north is

  lost. Obliterated by the snow the twelve

  are there. Invisible were she to raise her

  eyes. She on the contrary immaculately

  black. Not having received a single flake.

  Nothing needed now but for them to start

  falling again which therefore they do. First

  one by one here and there. Then thicker

  34

  SAMUEL BECKETT

  •

  and thicker plumb through the still air.

  Slowly she disappears. Together with the

  trace of her steps and that of the distant

  roof. How find her way home? Home!

  Even as the homing bird. Safe as the saying

  is and sound.

  Au dark in the cabin

  while she whitens afar. Silence but for the

  imaginary murmur of flakes beating on the

  roof. And every now and then a real creak.

  Her company. Here without having to

  close the eye sees her afar. Motionless in

  the snow under the snow. The buttonhook trembles from its nail as if a night like any other. Facing the black curtain the

  chair exudes its solitude. For want of a fellow-table. Far from it in a corner see suddenly an antique coffer. In its therefore no lesser solitude. It perhaps that creaks. And

  in its depths who knows the key. The key

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID 3 5

  to close. But this night the chair. Its immovable air. Less than the-more than the empty seat the barred back is piteous. Here

  if she eats here she sits to eat. The eye

  doses in the dark and sees her in the end.

  With her right hand as large as life she

  holds the edge of the bowl resting on her

  knees. With her left the spoon dipped in

  the slop. She waits. For it to cool perhaps.

  But no. Merely frozen again just as about

  to begin. At last in a twin movement full

  of grace she slowly raises the bowl toward

  her lips while at the same time with equal

  slowness bowing her head to join it. Having set out at the same instant they meet halfway and there come to rest. Fresh rigor

  before the first spoonful slobbered largely

  back into the slop. Others no happier till

  time to part lips and bowl and slowly back

  with never a slip to their starting points.

  As smooth and even fro as to. Now again

  the rigid Memnon pose. With her right

  hand she holds the edge of the bowl. With

  her left the spoon dipped in the slop. So far

  36

  SAMUEL BECKETT

  so good. But before she can proceed she

  fades and disappears. Nothing now for the

  staring eye but the chair in its solitude.

  One evening she was followed by a lamb. Reared for slaughter like

  the others it left them to follow her. In

  the present to conclude. All so bygone.

  Slaughter apart it is not like the ochers.

  Hanging to the ground in matted coils its

  fleece hides the little shanks. Rather chan

  walk it seems to glide like a toy in tow. It

  halts at the same instant as she. At the

  same instant as she strays on. Stockstill as

  she it waits with head like hers extravagantly bowed. Clash of black and white chat far from muting the lase rays amplify.

  It is now her puniness leaps co the eye.

  Thanks it would seem co the lowly creature next her. Brief paradox. For suddenly together they move on. Hither and thither

  coward the scones. There she turns and sics.

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID 3 7

  Does she see the white body at her feet?

  Head haught now she gazes into emptiness. That profusion. Or with closed eyes sees the tomb. The lamb goes no further.

  Alone night fallen she makes for home.

  Home! As straight as were it to be seen.

  Was it ever over and

  done with questions? Dead the whole

  brood no sooner hatched. Long before. In

  the egg. Long before. Over and done with

  answering. With not being able. With not

  being able not to want to know. With not

  being able. No. Never. A dream. Question

  answered.

  What remams for the

  eye exposed to such conditions? To such

  vicissitude of hardly there and wholly

  38

  SAMUEL BECKETI

  •

  gone. Why none but to open no more. Till

  all done. She done. Or left undone. Tenement and unreason. No more unless to rest. In the outward and so-called visible.

  That daub. Quick again to the brim the

  old nausea and shut again. On her. Till she

  be whole. Or abort. Question answered.

  The coffer. Empty after

  long nocturnal search. Nothing. Save in

  the end in a cranny of dust a scrap of paper.

  Jagged along one edge as if torn from a

  diary .. On its yellowed face in barely legible

  ink two letters followed by a number. Tu

  17. Or Th. Tu or Th 17. Otherwise blank.

  Otherwise em pry.

  She reemerges on her back.
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  Dead still. Evening and night. Dead still

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID 39

  on her back evening and night. The bed.

  Careful. A pallet? Hardly if head as ill seen

  when on her knees. Praying if she prays.

  Pah she has only to grovel deeper. Or

  grovel elsewhere. Before the chair. Or the

  coffer. Or at the edge of the pastures with

  her head on the stones. A pallet then flat

  on the floor. No pillow. Hidden from chin

  to foot under a black covering she offers

  her face alone. Alone! Face defenceless evening and night. Quick the eyes. The moment they open. Suddenly they are there.

  Nothing having stirred. One is enough.

  One staring eye. Gaping pupil thinly nimbed with washen blue. No trace of humour. None any more. Unseeing. As if dazed by what seen behind the lids. The

  other plumbs its dark. Then opens in its

  turn. Dazed in its turn.

  Incontinent the void. The

  zenith. Evening again. When not night it

  40

  SAMUEL BECKETT

  •

  will be evening. Death again of deathless

  day. On the one hand embers. On the

  other ashes. Day without end won and

  lost. Unseen.

  On resumption the head

  is covered. No matter. No matter now.

  Such the confusion now between real

  and-how say its contrary? No matter.

  That old tandem. Such now the confusion

  between them once so twain. And such the

  farrago from eye to mind. For it to make

  wha� sad sense of it may. No matter now.

  Such equal liars both. Real and-how ill

  say its contrary? The counter-poison.

  Still fresh the coffer fiasco

  what now of all things but a trapdoor. So

  cunningly contrived chat even co the lid-

  ILL SEEN ILL SAID 41

  ded eye it scarcely shows. Careful. Raise it

  at once and risk another rebuff? No question. Simply savour in advance with in mind the grisly cupboard its conceivable

  contents. For the first time then wooden

  floor. Its boards in line with the trap's

  designed to conceal it. Promising this

  flagrant concern with camouflage. But beware. Question by the way what wood of all woods? Ebony why not? Ebony boards.

  Black on black the brushing skirt. Stark

  the skeleton chair death-paler than life.

  While head included she