The question of who pressed the bell that sounded in Erskine’s room, in the night, was a great source of worry to Watt, for a time, and kept him awake at night, on the qui vive. If Erskine had been a snorer, and the sound of the bell coincided with the sound of a snore, then the mystery, it seemed to Watt, would have been dissipated, as the mist, by the sun. But there, Erskine was not a snorer. And yet to look at him, or hear him sing his song, you would have taken him for a snorer, a great snorer. And yet he was not a snorer. So the sound of the bell came always on the stillness. But on further reflexion it seemed to Watt that the bell’s coinciding with the snore would not have dissipated the mystery, but left it entire. For might not Erskine simulate a snore, at the very moment that he reached out with his arm and pressed the bell, or might he not simulate a long series of snores culminating in the snore that he simulated as he pressed the bell, in order to deceive Watt and make him think that it was not he Erskine who pressed the bell, but Mr Knott, in some other part of the house? So the fact finally that Erskine did not snore, and that the sound of the bell came always on the silence, made Watt think, not that the bell might be pressed by Erskine, as at first it had made him think, no, but that the bell must be pressed by Mr Knott. For if Erskine pressed the bell, and did not wish it known, then he would utter a snore, or in some other way dissemble, as he pressed the bell, in order to make Watt think that it was not he Erskine who pressed the bell, but Mr Knott. But then it occurred to Watt that Erskine might press the bell not caring whether it were known or not, that it was he who did so, and that in that case he would not trouble to utter a snore, or otherwise dissemble, as he pressed the bell, but let the sound of the bell come on the stillness, for Watt to make of what he would.
Watt decided in the end that an examination of Erskine’s room was essential, if his mind was to be pacified, in this connexion. Then he would be able to put the matter from him, and forget it, as one puts from one and forgets the peel of an orange, or of a banana.
Watt might have asked Erskine, he might have said, Tell me, Erskine, is there a bell in your room, or is there not? But this would have put Erskine on his guard, and Watt did not desire that. Or Erskine might have answered, Yes!, when the true answer was, No!, or, No!, when the true answer was, Yes!, or he might have answered truly, Yes!, or, No!, and Watt been unable to believe him. And then Watt would have been no better off than before, but rather worse, for he would have set Erskine on his guard.
Now Erskine’s room was always locked, and the key in Erskine’s pocket. Or rather, Erskine’s room was never unlocked, nor the key out of Erskine’s pocket, longer than two or three seconds at a stretch, which was the time that Erskine took to take the key from his pocket, unlock his door on the outside, glide into his room, lock his door again on the inside and slip the key back into his pocket, or take the key from his pocket, unlock his door on the inside, glide out of his room, lock the door again on the outside and slip the key back into his pocket. For if Erskine’s room had been always locked, and the key always in Erskine’s pocket, then Erskine himself, for all his agility, would have been hard set to glide in and out of his room, in the way he did, unless he had glided in and out by the window, or the chimney. But in and out by the window he could not have glided, without breaking his neck, nor in and out by the chimney, without being crushed to death. And this was true also of Watt.
The lock was of a kind that Watt could not pick. Watt could pick simple locks, but he could not pick obscure locks.
The key was of a kind that Watt could not counterfeit. Watt could counterfeit simple keys, in a workshop, in a vice, with a file and solder, filing down and building up another and quite different simple key, until the two simplicities were quite alike. But Watt could not counterfeit obscure keys.
Another reason why Watt could not counterfeit Erskine’s key was this, that he could not obtain possession of it, even for a moment.
Then how did Watt know that Erskine’s key was not a simple key? Why, for having turned and twisted his little wire in the hole.
Then Watt said, Obscure keys may open simple locks, but simple keys obscure locks never. But Watt had hardly said this when he regretted having done so. But then it was too late, the words were said and could never be forgotten, never undone. But a little later he regretted them less. And a little later he did not regret them at all. And a little later they pleased him again, no less than when they had first sounded, so gentle, so cajoling, in his skull. And then again a little later he regretted them again, most bitterly. And so on. Until there were few degrees of remorse, few of complacency, but more particularly of remorse, with which Watt was not familiar, with reference to these words. And this is perhaps worthy of mention, because it was with Watt a common experience, where words were concerned. And though it sometimes happened that a moment’s pensiveness was sufficient to fix his attitude, once and for all, towards words when they sounded, so that he liked them, or disliked them, more or less, with an inalterable like or dislike, yet this did not happen often, no, but thinking now this, now that, he did not in the end know what to think, of the words that had sounded, even when they were plain and modest like the above, of a meaning so evident, and a form so inoffensive, that made no matter, he did not know what to think of them, from one year’s end to the next, whether to think poorly of them, or highly of them, or with indifference.
And if Watt had not known this, that Erskine’s key was not a simple key, then I should never have known it either, nor the world. For all that I know on the subject of Mr Knott, and of all that touched Mr Knott, and on the subject of Watt, and of all that touched Watt, came from Watt, and from Watt alone. And if I do not appear to know very much on the subject of Mr Knott and of Watt, and on the subject of all that touched them, it is because Watt did not know a great deal on these subjects, or did not care to tell. But he assured me at the time, when he began to spin his yarn, that he would tell all, and then again, some years later, when he had spun his yarn, that he had told all. And as I believed him then and then again, so I continued to believe him, long after the yarn was spun, and Watt gone. Not that there is any proof that Watt did indeed tell all he knew, on these subjects, or that he set out to do so, for how could there be, I knowing nothing on these subjects, except what Watt told me. For Erskine, Arsene, Walter, Vincent and the others had all vanished, long before my time. Not that Erskine, Arsene, Walter, Vincent and the others could have told anything of Watt, except perhaps Arsene a little, and Erskine a little more, for they could not, but they might have told something of Mr Knott. Then we would have had Erskine’s Mr Knott, and Arsene’s Mr Knott, and Walter’s Mr Knott, and Vincent’s Mr Knott, to compare with Watt’s Mr Knott. That would have been a very interesting exercise. But they all vanished, long before my time.
This does not mean that Watt may not have left out some of the things that happened, or that were, or that he may not have foisted in other things that never happened, or never were. Mention has already been made of the difficulties that Watt encountered in his efforts to distinguish between what happened and what did not happen, between what was and what was not, in Mr Knott’s house. And Watt made no secret of this, in his conversations with me, that many things described as happening, in Mr Knott’s house, and of course grounds, perhaps never happened at all, or quite differently, and that many things described as being, or rather as not being, for these were the more important, perhaps were not, or rather were all the time. But apart from this, it is difficult for a man like Watt to tell a long story like Watt’s without leaving out some things, and foisting in others. And this does not mean either that I may not have left out some of the things that Watt told me, or foisted in others that Watt never told me, though I was most careful to note down all at the time, in my little notebook. It is so difficult, with a long story like the story that Watt told, even when one is most careful to note down all at the time, in one’s little notebook, not to leave out some of the things that were told, and not to foist in other thing
s that were never told, never never told at all.
Nor was the key the kind of key of which an impression could be taken, in wax, or plaster, or putty, or butter, and the reason for that was this, that possession of the key could not be obtained, even for a moment.
For the pocket in which Erskine kept this key was not the kind of pocket that Watt could pick. For it was no ordinary pocket, no, but a secret one, sewn on to the front of Erskine’s underhose. If the pocket in which Erskine kept this key had been an ordinary pocket, such as a coat pocket, or a trousers pocket, or even a waistcoat pocket, then Watt, by picking the pocket when Erskine was not looking, might have obtained possession of the key for long enough to record its impression in wax, or plaster, or putty, or butter. Then when he had recorded the impression he could have put the key back in the same pocket as the pocket from which he had taken it, having first taken care to wipe it clean, with a damp cloth. But to pick a pocket sewn on to the front of a man’s underhose, even when the man was looking the other way, without arousing suspicion, was not, Watt knew, in his power.
Now if Erskine had been a lady— But there, Erskine was not a lady.
And if it were asked how it is known that the pocket in which Erskine kept this key was sewn on to the front of his underhose, the answer to that would be this, that one day when Erskine was doing his number one against a bush, Watt, who as Lachesis would have it was doing his number one too against the same bush, but on the other side, caught a glimpse, through the bush, for it was a deciduous bush, of the key, gleaming among the flap buttons.
And so always, when the impossibility of my knowing, of Watt’s having known, what I know, what Watt knew, seems absolute, and insurmountable, and undeniable, and uncoercible, it could be shown that I know, because Watt told me, and that Watt knew, because someone told him, or because he found out for himself. For I know nothing, in this connexion, but what Watt told me. And Watt knew nothing, on this subject, but what he was told, or found out for himself, in one way or in another.
Watt might have broken the door down, with an axe, or a crow, or a small charge of explosive, but this might have aroused Erskine’s suspicions, and Watt did not want that.
So that what with one thing and another, and with Watt’s not wishing this, and with Watt’s not wanting that, it seemed that Watt, as he was then, could never get into Erskine’s room, never never get into Erskine’s room, as it was then, and that for Watt to get into Erskine’s room, as they were then, Watt would have to be another man, or Erskine’s room another room.
And yet, without Watt’s ceasing to be what he was, and without the room’s ceasing to be what it was, Watt did get into the room, and there learned what he wished to know.
Ruse a by, he said, and as he said, Ruse a by, he blushed, until his nose seemed a normal colour, and hung his head, and twisted and untwisted his big red bony hands.
There was a bell in Erskine’s room, but it was broken.
The only other object of note in Erskine’s room was a picture, hanging on the wall, from a nail. A circle, obviously described by a compass, and broken at its lowest point, occupied the middle foreground, of this picture. Was it receding? Watt had that impression. In the eastern background appeared a point, or dot. The circumference was black. The point was blue, but blue! The rest was white. How the effect of perspective was obtained Watt did not know. But it was obtained. By what means the illusion of movement in space, and it almost seemed in time, was given, Watt could not say. But it was given. Watt wondered how long it would be before the point and circle entered together upon the same plane. Or had they not done so already, or almost? And was it not rather the circle that was in the background, and the point that was in the foreground? Watt wondered if they had sighted each other, or were blindly flying thus, harried by some force of merely mechanical mutual attraction, or the playthings of chance. He wondered if they would eventually pause and converse, and perhaps even mingle, or keep steadfast on their ways, like ships in the night, prior to the invention of wireless telegraphy. Who knows, they might even collide. And he wondered what the artist had intended to represent (Watt knew nothing about painting), a circle and its centre in search of each other, or a circle and its centre in search of a centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and its centre in search of its centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and its centre in search of a centre and its circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of its centre and its circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of its centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a centre and its circle respectively, in boundless space, in endless time (Watt knew nothing about physics), and at the thought that it was perhaps this, a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a centre and its circle respectively, in boundless space, in endless time, then Watt’s eyes filled with tears that he could not stem, and they flowed down his fluted cheeks unchecked, in a steady flow, refreshing him greatly.
Watt wondered how this picture would look upside down, with the point west and the breach north, or on its right side, with the point north and the breach east, or on its left side, with the point south and the breach west.
So he took it from its hook and held it before his eyes, at arm’s length, upside down, and on its right side, and on its left side.
But in these positions the picture pleased Watt less than it had when on the wall. And the reason for that was perhaps this, that the breach ceased to be below. And the thought of the point slipping in from below at last, when it came home at last, or to its new home, and the thought of the breach open below perhaps for ever in vain, these thoughts, to please Watt as they did, required the breach to be below, and nowhere else. It is by the nadir that we come, said Watt, and it is by the nadir that we go, whatever that means. And the artist must have felt something of this kind too, for the circle did not turn, as circles will, but sailed steadfast in its white skies, with its patient breach for ever below. So Watt put it back on its hook, in the position in which he had found it.
Watt did not of course wonder all these things at the time, but some he wondered at the time, and the others subsequently. But those that he wondered at the time, he again wondered subsequently, together with those that he did not wonder at the time, over and over again. And many other things in this connexion also, of which some at the time, and the others subsequently, Watt wondered subsequently also, time without number.
One of these had to do with the property. Did the picture belong to Erskine, or had it been brought and left behind by some other servant, or was it part and parcel of Mr Knott’s establishment?
Prolonged and irksome meditations forced Watt to the conclusion that the picture was part and parcel of Mr Knott’s establishment.
The question to this answer was the following, of great importance in Watt’s opinion: Was the picture a fixed and stable member of the edifice, like Mr Knott’s bed, for example, or was it simply a manner of paradigm, here to-day and gone to-morrow, a term in a series, like the series of Mr Knott’s dogs, or the series of Mr Knott’s men, or like the centuries that fall, from the pod of eternity?
A moment’s reflexion satisfied Watt that the picture had not been long in the house, and that it would not remain long in the house, and that it was one of a series.
There were times when Watt could reason rapidly, almost as rapidly as Mr Nackybal. And there were other times when his thought moved with such extreme slowness that it seemed not to move at all, but to be at a standstill. And yet it moved, like Galileo’s cradle. Watt was greatly worried by this disparity. And indeed it contained cause for worry.
Watt had more and more the impression, as time passed, that nothing could be added to Mr Knott’s establishment, and from it nothing taken away, but that as it was now, so it had been in the beginning, and so it would remain to the end, in all essential respects, any signi
ficant presence, at any time, and here all presence was significant, even though it was impossible to say of what, proving that presence at all times, or an equivalent presence, and only the face changing, but perhaps the face ever changing, even as perhaps even Mr Knott’s face ever slowly changed.
This supposition, as far as the picture was concerned, was to be strikingly confirmed, before long. And of the numberless suppositions elaborated by Watt, during his stay in Mr Knott’s house, this was the only one to be confirmed, or for that matter infirmed, by events (if one may speak here of events), or rather the only passage to be confirmed, the only passage of the long supposition, the long dwindling supposition, that constituted Watt’s experience in Mr Knott’s house, and of course grounds, to be confirmed.
Yes, nothing changed, in Mr Knott’s establishment, because nothing remained, and nothing came or went, because all was a coming and a going.
Watt seemed highly pleased with this tenth rate xenium. Spoken as he spoke it, back to front, it had a certain air, it is true.
But what preoccupied Watt most of all, towards the end of his stay on the ground floor, was the question as to how long he would remain, on the ground floor, and in his then bedroom, before being transferred to the first floor, and to Erskine’s bedroom, and then how long he would remain, on the first floor, and in Erskine’s bedroom, before leaving the place for ever.
Watt did not for a moment doubt that the ground floor went with his bedroom, and the first floor with Erskine’s. Yet what could be more uncertain, than such a correspondence? As there seemed no measure between what Watt could understand, and what he could not, so there seemed none between what he deemed certain, and what he deemed doubtful.