Watt waited, with impatience, for this man, if it was a man, or for this woman, if it was a woman, or for this priest, if it was a priest, or for this nun, if it was a nun, to draw near, and set his mind at rest. He did not desire conversation, he did not desire company, he did not desire consolation, he felt no wish for an erection, no, all he desired was to have his uncertainty removed, in this connexion.
He did not know why he cared, what it was, coming along the road. He did not know whether this was a good thing, or a bad thing. It seemed to him that, quite apart from any question of personal feeling of grief or satisfaction, it was greatly to be deplored, that he cared what it was, coming along the road, profoundly to be deplored.
He realised that he could not be content with the figure’s drawing merely near, no, but that the figure must draw very near, very near indeed. For if the figure drew merely near, and not very near indeed, how should he know, if it was a man, that it was not a woman, or a priest, or a nun, dressed up as a man? Or, if it was a woman, that it was not a man, or a priest, or a nun, dressed up as a woman? Or, if it was a priest, that it was not a man, or a woman, or a nun, dressed up as a priest? Or, if it was a nun, that it was not a man, or a woman, or a priest, dressed up as a nun? So Watt waited, with impatience, for the figure to draw very near indeed.
Then, as Watt still waited for the figure to draw very near indeed, he realised that it was not necessary, not at all necessary, that the figure should draw very near indeed, but that a moderate proximation would be more than sufficient. For Watt’s concern, deep as it appeared, was not after all with what the figure was, in reality, but with what the figure appeared to be, in reality. For since when were Watt’s concerns with what things were, in reality? But he was for ever falling into this old error, this error of the old days when, lacerated with curiosity, in the midst of substance shadowy he stumbled. This was very mortifying, to Watt. So Watt waited, with impatience, for the figure to draw near.
He waited and waited, his hands curled round the bars, of the wicket, so that his nails pricked his palms, his bags at his feet, staring through the bars, staring at this incomprehensible staffage, suffering greatly from impatience. His agitation became finally so great, that he shook the wicket, with all his might.
What so agitated Watt was this, that in the ten minutes or half-an-hour that had elapsed, since he first became aware of this figure, striding along, on the crest of the road, towards the station, the figure had gained nothing in height, in breadth or in distinctness. Pressing forward all this time, with no abatement of its foundered precipitation, towards the station, it had made no more headway, than if it had been a millstone.
Watt was puzzling over this, when the figure, without any interruption of its motions, grew fainter and fainter, and finally disappeared.
Watt seemed to regard, for some obscure reason, this particular hallucination as possessing exceptional interest.
Watt picked up his bags and advanced, round the corner of a wall, on to the platform. A light was burning in the signal-box.
The signal-man, an elderly man of the name of Case, was waiting in his box, as he did every night, with the exception of the night from Sunday to Monday (strange), for the upgoing express to go up safely, through the station. Then he would set his signals and go home, to his lonely wife, leaving the station deserted.
To while away the time, and at the same time improve his mind, Mr Case was reading a book: Songs by the Way, by George Russell (A.E.). Mr Case, his head flung back, held this book out at arm’s length. Mr Case had a very superior taste in books, for a signal-man.
Mr Case read:
?
Mr Case’s heavy moustache followed the movements of his lip, as it espoused, now pouting, now revulsed, the various sonorities of which these words were composed. His nose too responded, with its bulb and nostrils. The pipe moved up and down, and from the corner of the mouth the spittle fell, unheeded, on the waistcoat, which was of corduroy.
Watt stood in the cabin as he had stood in the kitchen, his bags in his hands, his open eyes at rest, and the door open behind him. Mr Case had once caught, through the windows, of his box, a glimpse of Watt, on the evening of his arrival. So he was familiar with his appearance. This stood him now in good stead.
Could you tell me what time it was, said Watt.
It was as he feared, earlier than he hoped.
Could I be admitted to a waiting-room, said Watt.
Here was a teaser, to be sure. For Mr Case might not leave his box, until he left it to go home, to his anxious wife. Nor was it possible, detaching the key from the bunch, to hand it to Watt, saying, Here, Sir, is the key of our waiting-room, I shall call for it on my way home. No. For the waiting-room opened off the booking-office, in such a way, that to reach the waiting-room it was necessary to pass through the booking-office. And the key of the door of the waiting-room did not open the door of the booking-office. Nor was it possible, slipping the two keys off the ring, to hand them to Watt, saying, Here, Sir, is the key of our waiting-room door, and here that of our booking-office door, I shall call for them on my way out. No. For the booking-office communicated with the station-master’s sanctum, in such a way, that to reach the station-master’s sanctum it was only necessary to traverse the booking-office. And the key of the door of the booking-office opened the door of the station-master’s sanctum, in such sort, that these two doors were represented, on each bunch of station keys, on Mr Gorman’s the station-master’s bunch, on Mr Case’s the signal-man’s bunch, and on Mr Nolan’s the porter’s bunch, not by two keys, but by one key only.
In this way an economy of no fewer than three keys was realized, and it was Mr Gorman’s the station-master’s intention to reduce still further the number of station-keys by having fitted, at no distant date, and at the company’s expense, to the door of the waiting-room a lock identical with the now identical locks of the doors of the booking-office and of his private sanctum. This design he had communicated, in the course of a recent conference, both to Mr Case and to Mr Nolan, and neither Mr Case nor Mr Nolan had any objections to offer. But what he had not confided, either to Mr Case or to Mr Nolan, was his determination to have fitted, in the near future, little by little, at the company’s expense, to the wicket and to the doors of the signal-box, of the porters’ restroom, of the luggage-office and of the ladies’ and gentlemens’ lavatories, locks so contrived that the key which now opened, with such perfect ease, the door of the booking-office, and the door of the station-master’s sanctum, and which so soon would open, without the least difficulty, the door of the waiting-room, would open all those other doors also, one after the other, in the fulness of time. So he would leave, at his retirement, if he did not die before, or on his death, if he did not retire first, a station unique, in this respect, if not in any other, among the stations of the line.
The keys of the till, which Mr Gorman carried, the one on his watch-chain, lest his trouser’s pocket should develop a hole, as trousers’ pockets are so apt to do, or the key, which was minute, be drawn forth with the small change, and lost, and the other, lest his watch-chain should be lost, or stolen from him, in his trouser’s pocket, these little keys Mr Gorman did not number among the station-keys. And indeed the keys of the till were not properly speaking station-keys at all. For the station-till, unlike the station-doors, did not remain in the station, all day, and all night, but left the station with Mr Gorman, when he went home in the evening, and did not return until the following morning, when Mr Gorman returned to the station.
Mr Case considered all this, or such parts as he deemed germane, weighing the for, and weighing the against, without passion. He came finally to the conclusion that he could do nothing, for the moment. When the express-train had come, and gone, and he was free to go home, to his unquiet wife, then he could do something, then he could admit Watt to the waiting-room, and leave him there. But he had no sooner come to the conclusion that he could do this, in order to oblige Watt, when he saw that he
could do so only on condition that he locked the door of the booking-office, behind him. For he could not go away, leaving the door of the booking-office open, in the sleeping station. But on this condition, that Watt submitted to be locked into the booking-office, he could oblige Watt, once the express-train had come, and gone. But he had hardly decided that it would be possible for him to oblige Watt, on this condition, when he realised that, even on this condition, it would not be possible for him to oblige Watt, unless Watt consented to being locked, not only into the booking-office, but into the waiting-room also. For it was out of the question that Watt should have free access, all night long, in the sleeping station, to the station-master’s sanctum’s antechamber. But if he had no objection to being locked, till morning, not only into the booking-office, but into the waiting-room also, then Mr Case saw really no reason why the waiting-room should not be placed at his disposal, as soon as the express-train had passed safely by, with its passengers, and valuable freight.
Mr Case now informed Watt of what he had settled, in his mind, with reference to Watt’s request, that he should be admitted to the public waiting-room. The reasons that had led Mr Case to settle this, in his mind, rather than something else, Mr Case had the delicacy to keep to himself, as being more likely to cause Watt pain, than to cause him pleasure. In the morning, said Mr Case, as soon as Mr Gorman, or Mr Nolan arrives, you will be let out, and free to come and go, as you please. Watt replied that that would indeed be something to look forward to, and a comfort to him during the night, the prospect of being enlarged, in the morning, by Mr Gorman, or Mr Nolan, and made free to come and go, as he listed. If in the meantime, said Mr Case, you care to come in, to the box, and shut the door, and take a chair, I should be happy to have you. Watt replied that it would be better if he waited outside. He would be on the platform, walking up and down, or sitting on a seat.
Watt lay on the seat, on his back, with his bags under his head, and his hat over his face. Thus the moon was in a measure kept off, and the lesser beauties of this glorious night. The problem of vision, as far as Watt was concerned, admitted of only one solution: the eye open in the dark. The results given by the closed eye were, in Watt’s opinion, most unsatisfactory.
Watt first considered the matter of the express-train, so soon due to thunder, with irresistible impetus, through the sleeping station. He gave very full and close attention to this matter. Finally suddenly he ceased, as suddenly as he had begun, to think.
He lay on the seat, without thought or sensation, except for a slight feeling of chill in one foot. In his skull the voices whispering their canon were like a patter of mice, a flurry of little grey paws in the dust. This was very likely a sensation also, strictly speaking.
Mr Case was obliged to explain his insistence. But a few words were sufficient. A few words from Mr Case, and all came back to Watt. Mr Case carried a storm-lantern in his hand. From it issued a yellow beam, of extraordinary debility. Mr Case spoke of the train, with professional pride. It had left on time, it had passed on time, and it would arrive, at its destination, if nothing supervened to delay it, on time.
Here then was the explanation of the recent external commotion.
It was now fully two hours since Watt had passed water. And yet he felt no need, nay, no desire, to pass water. Not the least drop, or globule, of water could I pass, he reflected, good, bad or indifferent, if I were paid not to do so. He who hourly passed an urgent water, a delicious water, in the ordinary way. This last regular link with the screen, for he did not count as such his weekly stool, nor biannual equinoctial nocturnal emission in vacuo, he now envisaged its relaxation, and eventual rupture, with sadness, and gladness, distinctly perceptible in an alternation of great rapidity, for some little time, and dying blurred together away, in due course.
Watt stood on the floor, with his bags in his hands, and the floor was like stone under his feet, and his faithful body did not fall, his relentless body, suddenly on its knees, or on its coccyx, and then forward on its face, or backward on its back, no, but it preserved its balance, in a way not unlike the way that its mother had taught, and the conformism of youth confirmed.
Faintlier, faintlier came the footfalls to his ear, until of all the faint sounds that came, by the abandoned air, to his ear, not one was a footfall, as far as he could judge. This was a music of which he was particularly fond, the parted quiet closing like a groom, behind departing footfalls, or other disturbances. But Mr Case’s way brought him behind the station, and his footfalls came again, four or five, a little wale of stealth, to Watt’s ears, which stuck out wide on either side of his head, like a ? ’s. Before long they would come to Mrs Case, to her ears weary of the stepless murmurs, stronger and stronger till they reached the grass. Few sounds, if any, gave Mrs Case more satisfaction than these. She was a strange woman.
Part of the waiting-room was faintly lit, by light from without. The passage from this part to the other was more abrupt, now that Watt had ceased to listen, than he would have believed possible, if he had not seen it, with his own eyes.
The waiting-room was empty of furniture, or other objects, as far as Watt could see. Unless there was something behind him. This did not strike him as strange. Nor did it strike him as usual. For his impression was, such as it was, as he drooped sigmoidal in its midst, that this was a waiting-room of which even the nicest degrees of strange and usual could not be affirmed, with propriety.
Whispering it told, the mouth, a woman’s, the thin lips sticking and unsticking, how when empty they could accommodate a larger public than when encumbered with armchairs and divans, and how it was vain to sit, vain to lie, when without the rain beat down, or the sleet, or the snow, with or without wind, or the sun, with greater or lesser perpendicularity. This woman’s name had been Price, her person was of an extreme spareness, and some thirty-five years earlier she had shot, with colours flying, the narrows of the menopause. Watt was not displeased to hear her voice again, to watch again the play of the pale bows of mucus. He was not displeased either when it went away.
The waiting-room was now less empty than Watt had at first supposed, to judge by the presence, some two paces to Watt’s fore, and as many to his right, of what seemed to be an object of some importance. Watt could not tell what this was, though he went so far as to advance his head, not without torsion of the neck, in its direction. It was not part of the ceiling, nor of a wall, nor, though it seemed in contact with the floor, of the floor, that was all that Watt could affirm, of this object, and even that little he affirmed with reserve. But that little was enough, for Watt the possibility was enough, more than enough, that something other than he, in this box, was not intrinsic to its limits.
A smell exceptionally foul, and yet at the same time in some way familiar, made Watt wonder if there were not hidden, beneath the boards, at his feet, the decaying carcass of some small animal, such as a dog, a cat, a rat, or a mouse. For the floor, though it felt to Watt like stone, was in reality contabulated, all over. This smell was of such virulence that Watt was almost obliged to put down his bags and draw forth his pockethandkerchief, or, more exactly, his roll of toilet-paper, from his pocket. For Watt, in order to save himself the washing, and no doubt also for the pleasure of killing two birds with one stone, never blew his nose, except when the circumstances permitted of a direct digital emunction, in anything but toilet-paper, each separate slip, when thoroughly imbibed, being crumpled up into a ball, and thrown away, and the hands passed through the hair, to its great embellishment, or rubbed the one against the other, until they shone.
This smell however was not what Watt had at first supposed, but something quite different, for it grew weaker and weaker, as it would not have done, if it had been what Watt had at first supposed, and finally ceased, altogether.
But in a short time it returned, the same smell exactly, dilated and passed off, as before.
In this way it came and went, for some hours.
There was something about this smell that
Watt could not help but like. Yet he was not sorry, when it went.
In the waiting-room the darkness gradually deepened. There was no longer a dark part and a less dark part, no, but all now was uniformly dark, and remained so, for some time. This notable change took place by insensible degrees.
When the waiting-room had been quite dark, for some time, then in the waiting-room the darkness slowly lightened, throughout, by infinitesimal stages, and continued to do so, at the same rate, until every part of the waiting-room was faintly visible, to the dilated eye.