Murphy by Samuel Beckett

Author:Samuel Beckett [Samuel Beckett]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780571296989
Publisher: Faber and Faber
Published: 2012-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

8

IT must have been while the chandlers were mocking Murphy that the shocking thing happened.

That day, Friday, October the 11th, after many days, Miss Carridge found her bread, it came bobbing back to her in the form of free samples of various sorts, shaving soap, scent, toilet soap, foot salts, bath cubes, dentifrice, deodorants and even depilatories. It is so easy to lose personal freshness. Miss Carridge had one incalculable advantage over most of her kind – insmell into her infirmity. She would not stink without a struggle, provided the struggle were not too expensive.

Highly elated, thoroughly scoured and anointed in every nook and corner, rashly glowing with the sense of being what she called ‘pristine’, Miss Carridge appeared to Celia with the cup of tea. Celia was standing at the window, looking out, in an attitude quite foreign to her.

‘Come in,’ said Celia.

‘Drink it before it curdles,’ said Miss Carridge.

Celia whirled round, exclaiming:

‘Oh, Miss Carridge, is that you, I am so worried about the old boy, there has not been a move or a stir out of him all day.’ Her agitation carried her away, she came and took Miss Carridge by the arm.

‘What nonsense,’ said Miss Carridge, ‘he took in his tray and put it out as usual.’

‘That was hours ago,’ said Celia. ‘There hasn’t been a stir out of him since.’

‘Pardon me,’ said Miss Carridge, ‘I heard him moving about as usual quite distinctly.’

‘But how could you have and not me?’ said Celia.

‘For the excellent reason,’ said Miss Carridge, ‘that you are not I.’ She paused for this striking nominative to be admired. ‘Have you forgotten the day I had to draw your attention to the plaster he was stamping down on your head?’

‘But now I have got to expect it,’ said Celia, ‘and listen for it, and this is the first time I haven’t heard it.’

‘What nonsense,’ said Miss Carridge. ‘What you want—’

‘No, no,’ said Celia, ‘not till I know.’

Miss Carridge shrugged without pity and turned to go, Celia clung to her arm. Miss Carridge sweated blessings on the unguents that made such cordiality possible, beads of gratification burst out all over her. Truly it is a tragic quality, that which the Romans called caper, particularly when associated with insmell.

‘My poor child,’ said the virgin Miss Carridge, ‘how can I set your mind at rest?’

‘By going up and looking,’ said Celia.

‘I have strict orders never to disturb him,’ said Miss Carridge, ‘but I cannot bear to see you in such a state.’

Celia was in a state indeed, trembling and ashen. The footsteps overhead had become part and parcel of her afternoon, with the rocking-chair and the vermigrade wane of light. An Ægean nightfall suddenly in Brewery Road could not have upset her more than this failure of the steps.

She stood at the foot of the stairs while Miss Carridge climbed them softly, listened at the door, knocked, knocked louder, pounded, rattled the handle, opened with her duplicate key, took a few steps in the room, then stood still.

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