are we simply waiting for the time to snuff it?

do we plod along in life acting out a series of meaningless tasks with no not as a means or as an end but simply futile plundering of our earthly understanding?

samuel beckett, it would seem, thinks so. the second time i have seen endgame and by far the best. mark rylance play ham the theatrical central character – literally. it is supposed that ham is the chess player ordering him pieces about in the long circular motions of the final play – much like we circle each other in our decent to death. nevertheless an enthralling it it a minimalist execution of our necessary passing of the days. each grain of sand after the other .

dont see it if you have existentialist envy.

-

Durante la noche he tenido que reflexionar sobre mi empleo del tiempo. Creo que podré

contarme cuatro historias, cada una sobre un tema distinto. Una sobre un hombre, otra sobre

una mujer, la tercera sobre cualquier cosa, y la última sobre un animal, un pájaro tal vez.

Creo no olvidar nada. Estaría bien. Quizá ponga al hombre y a la mujer en la misma historia,

hay tan poca diferencia entre un hombre y una mujer, quiero decir entre los míos. Es posible

que no tenga tiempo para terminar. Por otro lado, tal vez termine demasiado pronto. Heme

aquí de nuevo en mis viejas aporías. Pero ¿son verdaderas aporías? No lo sé. Que yo no

termine, no importa. ¿Y si debiera terminar demasiado pronto? Tampoco importa. Porque

entonces hablaré de las cosas que aún quedan en mi poder; es un proyecto muy viejo. Será una

especie de inventario. De todos modos, debo dejarlo para el último momento, para tener la

seguridad de no haberme equivocado. Por otra parte, lo haré indudablemente, pase lo que

pase. Sólo necesitaré como máximo un cuarto de hora. Es decir, si quisiera podría tomarme

mucho más tiempo. Pero, si en el último momento me faltara tiempo, me bastaría un breve

cuarto de hora para redactar mi inventario. Desde ahora quiero ser claro sin ser maniático;

forma parte de mis proyectos. Es evidente que puedo expirar de repente, de un momento a

otro. ¿No sería mejor, pues, hablar ya de mis pertenencias, sin esperar más? ¿No sería más

prudente? ¿Aunque, en caso necesario, debiera hacer las correcciones en el último momento?

La razón me aconseja eso. Pero la razón, ahora, tiene poco poder sobre mí. Todo coincide

para alentarme. Pero morir sin dejar un inventario, ¿puedo resignarme realmente a esa

posibilidad? Ya me estoy poniendo pedante de nuevo. Hay que suponer que me resigno, puesto

que voy a correr el riesgo. Durante toda mi vida he evitado hacer este balance diciéndome:

“Demasiado pronto, demasiado pronto.” Pues bien, aún es demasiado pronto. Durante toda mi

vida he soñado en el instante en que, seguro al fin, en la medida en que uno puede estarlo

antes de haberlo perdido todo, podría trazar raya y sumar. Este instante parece inminente.

Por tanto, no perderé mí sangre fría. Así, pues, primero mis historias, y en último lugar, si

todo va bien, mi inventario. Empezaré, para salir de ello, por el hombre y la mujer. Será la

primera historia, no hay materia para dos historias. Sólo habrá, pues, tres historias: la que

acabo de citar; después, la del animal; después, la de la cosa, una piedra seguramente. Todo

está perfectamente claro. Acto seguido me ocuparé de mis pertenencias. Si al terminar vivo

aún, haré cuanto sea necesario para tener la seguridad de no haberme equivocado. Está

decidido. Antes no sabía a dónde iba; sin embargo, sabía que llegaría, sabía que alcanzaría

este largo camino oscuro. ¡Dios mío, cuántas aproximaciones! Bien. Ahora hay que jugar. Me

cuesta acostumbrarme a la idea. La vieja niebla me llama. Ahora hay que decir lo contrario.

Porque presiento que no llegaré al final de este camino perfectamente señalado. Pero

conservo la esperanza. Me pregunto si en este momento estoy en trance de perder tiempo o de

ganarlo. Antes de empezar mis historias, he decidido recordar brevemente mi situación

actual. Creo que hago mal. Es una debilidad. Pero me la permitiré. A continuación jugaré con

mucho más ardor. Por otra parte, estará en consonancia con el inventario. La estética es,

pues, algo para mí, determinada estética. Ya que deberé adoptar una actitud seria para

hablar de mis pertenencias. Así, pues, he aquí el tiempo que me queda dividido en cinco.

¿Cinco qué? No lo sé. Supongo que todo se divide en sí mismo. Si me abandono a la reflexión,

estropearé mi muerte. Debo decir que hay algo atractivo en esa perspectiva. Pero estoy sobre

aviso. Desde hace algunos días todo me parece atractivo. Volvamos a los cinco. Situación

actual, tres historias, inventario; eso es todo. No hay que excluir algunos intermedios. Es un

programa. Sólo me apartaré de él en la medida en que no pueda actuar de otro modo. Está

decidido. Sé que cometo una falta grave. No importa.

-

-

Samuel Beckett

De Malone muere

Alianza Editorial, 2006

Traducción de Ana María Moix

-

‘Words are all we have.’

–Samuel Beckett

/Kenneth Tangnes

Unrelenting yet still insufficient

“We like to execute writers . . . It sends a message . . . I don’t know what message it sends. I don’t know where it sends a message—that’s not my department—but it sends a message.”       –Detective Tupolski

Redtwist Theatre presents:

The Pillowman

by Martin McDonagh
directed by Kimberly Senior
thru December 27th (ticket info)

Review by Paige Listerud

A local playwright once told me that productions of Samuel Beckett’s plays in Ireland are different from American ones–they are actually very funny. “What you have to remember about Waiting for Godot,” she told me, “is that it’s all pub talk.” Mad Irish humor shuffles side by side with bleak existentialism.

Somewhere in the middle of Martin McDonagh’s bleak, sadistic writing is the fun and play of talk–storytelling for the pure hell of it. Even if the story is supposed to shock, laughter comes somewhere before or after the gasp. Actors in Chekhov’s plays have to balance between making the audience laugh or cry. Here actors have to balance on the razor’s edge between laughter and horror. Suspended in the tension of the moment, audiences must be caught between the discomfort they feel over the violence before them and their own sadistic, humorous reaction to it.

As guest director for Redtwist Theatre’s production of The Pillowman, Kimberly Senior has successfully crafted an exhibition of unrelenting tension and suspense. Nothing disrupts the dense, claustrophobic atmosphere of the interrogation room that police officers Tupolski (Tom Hickey) and Ariel (Johnny Garcia) have dragged Katurian (Andrew Jessop) into to account for his life’s work as a writer. A few children have been murdered according to methods described in his macabre and unpublished stories. Protesting his innocence, the author gradually discovers just how he is implicated in those crimes.

A writer’s murder fiction becomes reality. How many times have we seen that device? But The Pillowman springboards from worn-out premise into reason-defying psychological depths. The audience is plunged into the black pool of connections between horror and childhood. According to psychologists, the very state of being shocked or horrified recreates in the victim a childlike state of frozen powerlessness, passivity, and surrealism. McDonagh’s work draws no distinction between that paralyzed, surreal consciousness and the world of childlike creativity and play. In The Pillowman, both are inextricably enmeshed. Horror gives birth to, or deeply informs, creativity and even when creativity seems to transform or redeem the impact of horror, it is, in fact, planting the seeds for more.

Redtwist’s production achieves the suspension of time required to create deep horror. In deep horror, there is no future–only an oppressive present that never improves. Nothing describes The Pillowman’s totalitarian state better than a nameless land, much like the land in many fairy tales, of uninterrupted horror, whose residents are kept in childlike submission. Even the agents of the state, like the good cop-bad cop team of Tupolski and Ariel, reveal their childlike natures through the stories they tell about themselves. Here the production shows its greatest strength. Hickey captures all the nuances of a cop who playfully revels in the arbitrary, meaningless nature of state sanctioned sadism, and then revises in front of Katurian a story about himself, in which he goes from heartless mastermind to ingenious savior. As unwavering bad cop, Garcia gives earnest pathos to a man who yearningly hopes his perpetual brutality will reap the love and adoration of children in old age.

The relationship between Katurian and his mentally challenged brother, Michal (Peter Oyloe), does not continue that wicked thread. We learn the authorities have dragged in Michal in order to force a confession. Even if Katurian suffers shock from police brutality and the revelation of real child murders, Jessop’s performance is still a little too somnambulant to realize any core of brotherly connection. For my money—and this is a matter of personal taste—I prefer a realist performance of a mentally handicapped person to a performance that simply alludes to it. At least readers can be aware of my bias. In any case, the scene between Katurian and Michal lacks the emotional range to raise the stakes.

Above all, the cast must go further to pull out all the dark humor that inhabits this play, dancing on that razor’s edge between laughs that undermine and laughs that reinforce its sadism. To this end, the side theaters that depict Katurian’s stories are quite impressive. Special attention should be given Marissa Meo’s depiction of the little girl who believes she is Jesus and willingly goes to violent limits to fulfill that belief. Her performance reflects the essence of play, something this production could use a little more of.

Rating: ★★★

Production Team

von Samuel Beckett

Die Aufnahme dokumentiert in einer Kunstkopf-Produktion Samuel Becketts eigene Inszenierung, die am 8. März 1975 am Berliner Schillertheater Premiere hatte. Das Stück, das im Januar 1953 in Paris uraufgeführt worden war, begründete Becketts Weltruhm. Die Funktion des Dialogs scheint einzig die zu sein, das Warten zu registrieren und die Langeweile erträglich zu machen. In den mal banal realistischen, mal burlesken oder von Tiefsinn und Ironie jäh durchblitzten Wechselreden der vier Hauptpersonen wird kein Ausweg aus der problematischen Situation des Wartenden gefunden. Das Denken geschieht um seiner selbst willen. Es ist Spiel und Kunst und als solches Ort möglicher Freiheit. In der ungeheuren Verwirrung ist eines klar: Wir warten auf Godot.

Samuel Beckett (1906-1989) wuchs in einem Dubliner Vorort auf und kam nach seinem Studium (Französisch, Italienisch und Neuere Literatur) als Englisch-Lektor an die Pariser Ecole Normale Supérieure. Während des Krieges arbeitete er in der Résistance, nach dem Krieg lebte er bis zu seinem Tode abseits der Öffentlichkeit in Paris. 1969 erhielt er den Nobelpreis.

Estragon: Horst Bollmann
Wladimir: Stefan Wigger
Lucky: Klaus Herm
Pozzo: Carl Raddatz
Ein Junge: Torsten Sense

Aus dem Französischen von Elmar Tophoven
Regie: der Autor
Radioregie: Ulrich Gerhardt
Produktion: RIAS 1976/119’
Kunstkopfstereofonie

Redaktion: Georg Bühren

©WDR

Beckett held the idea of the ‘professional’ poet in abhorrence. To him it was virtually a contradiction in terms. Craft, structure, rhythm, linguistic energy were assumed prerequisites, but poetry was a calling, not a profession, not something you could decide to do at a certain moment. He meant what Keats meant, whose work he knew so well, when he wrote that ‘if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all’. He certainly did not mean that poets should not earn money – he himself had taught for a while (was miserable during that time), had translated prolifically, written essays and reviews — but that the poem itself should not be academic or intentional, that the library shelves must not crush the furze. Beckett was a poet down to his teguments, ligaments, cells; standing or sitting, poetry’s presence in his presence was as pervasive as oxygen.

—from Anne Atik, How It Was: A Memoir of Samuel Beckett. Faber & Faber, 2001.

Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay
Directed & Written by Jon Hurwitz & Hayden Schlossberg
Starring: John Cho, Kal Penn,
Rob Corddry, Neil Patrick Harris
2008, Warner Bros./New Line/Mandate, 102/107 minutes.

***

Harold and Kumar isn’t brilliant artistic comedy, but it is pretty up-to-date on how it engages in conventional social stereotypes and subverts them to good comic effect. Occasionally basic character elements lag, such as the retarded government official or the villainous white alpha-male with connections. They rely on the typical absurd comic exaggeration, which Rob Corddry is certainly apt for in his role, and normally would work, but the character and presentation is too tired and stale to engage anyone but really young or naive stoners viewers. The weed-smoking jokes do work (especially in the beginning) but the whole Amsterdam spiel is played and strangely outdated compared to the rest of the script’s social references.

Where the film shines is in how it flips slapstick/screwball movie cliches to surprise the audience and plays Harold and Kumar’s respectively pathetic romantic fantasies against each other. Some of the scenes are very impressive. But being Hollywood and the world of romantic-comedy (as opposed to tragi-comedy) the story stays in the fantasy realm and never ventures forth into the Beckett-like territory it could have accessed. There’s not too much to spoil, but the real failure of the film is that it did nothing original with the way the plot played itself out in the second act. The original film did this too, but under an appreciable absurd premise of trying to make it to a fast-food joint in the midst of a weekend late-night weed blaze. This time around, since the conditions of the story are already so spectacularly lofty, exaggerated and dumb, the smooth resolution of loose ends is a let-down. I was expecting a clever Wayne’s World or Blazing Saddles sort of twist, with a wink at the audience. Instead we get the exact last 10 minutes of Deuce Bigalowe 2.

Good stuff, even if it is only an aesthetic/social update of Cheech & Chong, Bill & Ted, and other clever stoner duos, for a new commercially viable generation. And they’re making another one, too. Yay!

@ Amazon

@ IMDb

Pour la dernière sortie culturelle de l’année 2009, nous vous proposons d’aller voir la pièce de théâtre “En attendant Godot” de Samuel Beckett au Théâtre de la Place des Martyrs.

Dans un lieu imprécis, désertique, Vladimir et Estragon attendent Godot.

En l’attendant  ils parlent … Deux pantins fraternels condamnés à espérer pour vivre et à radoter pour espérer. L’important, c’est de faire diversion par tous les moyens et d’attendre à jamais, sous peine de tomber en poussière.

Qui est ce Godot qui ne viendra pas : dieu, la petite lueur d’espoir qui survit en chacun de nous, le bien,  un monde meilleur,  le gîte et le couvert,  la mort,  le silence ?… Les explications ne manquent pas. Mais cette pièce unique refuse de se rendre.

Par les moyens les plus simples, elle exprime une angoisse et une absurdité de vivre qui nous sont aujourd’hui particulièrement familières ; à chacun de nous elle tend un miroir nu, cruel… mais pas désenchanté. Chaque mot porte, émeut, touche ou fait rire. C’est un poème burlesque et désolé, pourtant extrêmement réjouissant, qui porte en lui, sous son amertume et sa dérision, un humour tonique et un profond amour des hommes.

avec Emmanuel Dekoninck, John Dobrynine, Michel Jurowicz, Idwig Stéphane….

Mise en scène : Elvire Brison – Lumière : Benoît Theron – Costumes : Myriam Deldime

Pratiquement, la pièce débute à 20h15 au Théâtre de la Place des Martyrs, Place des Martyrs 22, 1000 Bruxelles.  Elle dure 1H50 sans entracte. Rendez vous le soir même à 19h45 pour prendre ses places. Nous vous demandons de reserver vos places en envoyant un mail à l’adresse mail du CPhi c.philosophie@gmail.com avec le nom de la personne et le nombre de places qu’elle réserve avant le vendredi 4 décembre. Le prix de la place est de 9€ normalment mais nous devrions être plus de 10 et il ne sera alors plus que de 7,50€. Il sera à payer sur place.

À bientôt!

1953, by Graham Downey
Exploration @ La Mama
Sat. 14 Nov. to Mon. 16 Nov.

It was nouveau avant garde and all that and I don’t really understand this play but it’s got something very fascinating about it and the story had such charm and put it so nicely—that—that—that—

— Sir John Gielgud discussing David Storey’s Home

My faux-Beckettian dialogue that basically sums up my feeling about this play:

VLAD.:      Ah, Downy, today you learned me a fine thing. A fine thing indeed.
DOWN.:    Me?
VLAD.:      You.
DOWN.:    And what fine thing would that be then?
VLAD.:      O, a very grand piece of learning. Very grand.
DOWN.:    When? Just now?
VLAD.:      This only night.
DOWN.:    Nothing occurs.
VLAD.:      While you were doing that thing up there.
DOWN.:    O, the thing with the light and the book? Is that what mean?
VLAD.:      Yes. That was it. A fine thing indeed. Gielgud, Sir John … his life and times. Troubles … triumphs … bitter medicine taken … sweet draught of success. Wasn’t it all wonderful?
DOWN.:    Yes. Yes it was wonderful.
VLAD:.      Yes.
DOWN.:    Yes.
VLAD.:      I was learned another fine thing this day … but … what was it? What was it? What. I’ve forgotten. Yes. Forgotten. It’s gone. O, but this. This, I shall not forget, Graham Downy. This thing I shall remember.

Graham Downey is one of Melbourne’s great contemporary playwriting talents. That is, of course, a different thing from saying that he’s one of Melbourne’s great playwrights, or that he’s ever written one of Melbourne’s great plays, but I’ve never seen anything of his and not thought, wow, this guy can write.

For this little exploratory piece, Downey has wittily built two characters from a bit of suitcase learning and, pitching them together in a sort of leanto arrangement, established with them a neat dramatic argument, of sorts. But not one, I think, likely to hold together given any long duration.

The characters are, however, great. The first is Sir John Gielgud, 1953, the year he was arrested and fined for ‘importuning’. He is in New York, making a public performance of his private sentiments, esp. homosexuality and England, a thing he in fact did only posthumously, with the publication of his private letters, 2004, which are, according to Vladimir, a key source material for this production.

The other character is Vladimir, Beckett’s transient tramp from Waiting for Godot, première, 1953. Vladimir stands outside Gielgud’s spotlight, interrupting with a post-Beckettian critique of Gielgud’s performance as Gielgud, Downey’s performance as Gielgud, and Downey’s performance as Vladimir, as well as regurgitating such biographical material as couldn’t be worked into the Gielgud routine.

It’s a charming scenario and holds together well. But there’s an air of apologia about much of what goes on. Vladimir in particular seems aggrieved by the play he finds himself in and keen to apologise for it. This manner does not seem entirely appropriate, as though it were an especial indulgence to write in a semi-absurdist style.

Naturally, it is an indulgence, but hardly one far above the ordinary indulgences of theatre, one that needs be expounded in the almost derisive manner of Vladimir.

DU KNUT, DU KNUT: Om hundrede aar er alting glemt, men etter kun seksti er det på tide å måle krefter i cyberspace.

WordPress gir meg muligheten til å se hvilke søkeord som har sendt lesere til bloggen min. Noen søkeord går igjen, og men det fleste søker etter for å dukke opp her hos meg er Knut Hamsun.

Ja, slik er det, damer og herrer. Hovedinngangen til mitt bloggrike er en steindau forfatter med Hitler-sympatier.

Oversikten over søkestrengene fikk meg imidlertid til å se på en gammel konflikt med nye øyne. Ja, jeg fikk lyst til å trekke opp et moderne måleapparat for å ta temperaturen på en av de store forfatterkamper vi har sett her til lands.

Først litt bakgrunn. Om vi reserverer oss for nyanser (og overser en ung forfatters behov for posisjonering) kan vi si følgende: Hamsun hatet Ibsen. Knut Hamsun latterliggjorde både den lille skjeggete figuren og dramatikken som fulgte med.

I 1892 skrev han til den danske forfatteren Ove Rode: “Vær ogsaa saa venlig at sige os Deres Mening om Ibsens Indflydelse paa Rishøsten i Indien eller paa Himmelklodernes Baner”. Hamsun kalte også Ibsen for “Hs. pharmaceutiske Herlighed”, og mente den gamle dramatikeren og hans enkle karakterpsykologi burde kastes overbord fortere enn svint.

DEN SPRUKNE FJOMP: Knut Hamsun mente Henrik Ibsen var en gammel gjøk og en litterær hauk. Og skal vi dømme etter dette bildet, hvor den eldre Ibsen kan beskue seg selv på sokkel foran Nationaltheatret fra en ikke helt moderne hestedrosje, må vi jo gi ham litt rett.

Hamsuns agg fikk også utslag i skjønnlitteraturen, og i Mysterier (1892) omtaler hovedpersonen Nagel Ibsens skuespill som “det rene mekaniske kontorarbeide”.

Ok. Det var konflikten. Hva er så min moderne kikkert?

Jo, Google Trends. Dette nydelige verktøyet som lar deg se det totale søkevolumet for en søkestreng. Google Trends er en enkel framstilling av hele den søkende verdens interesse for et fenomen eller en person.

Her er mine funn. Kanskje dere bør sette dere.

IBSEN VS HAMSUN: En oversikt over søkemengden på Henrik Ibsen (rød) og Knut Hamsun (blå) over hele verden. Ibsen knuser sin yngre forfatterkollega, selv om det tar seg opp for Hamsun i inneværende jubileumsår.

Det dere ser over er en kraftmåling for de to forfatterne på verdensbasis. Henrik Ibsen er en stor dramatiker på verdensscenen, så det er kanskje ingen overraskelse at han tukter sin oppkjeftige kritiker ute i den store verden. Men vender vi blikket mot Norge, ser vi .. nei, vent litt.

Jeg må bare vise én ting til først .. bare for å vise hvor stor Ibsen faktisk er. Uvitenskaplig er det jo, men hold det nå ikke mot meg:

VERDENSDIKTER: Ja, visst pokker er Ibsen det! Denne oversikten viser det samlede søkevolum i hele verden, og Ibsen gjør seg ikke til skamme. (PS: Shakespeare er utelatt da han er så suverent mest søkt etter.)

Så der har dere Ibsen. Han kan måle seg! Han gruser både kommunisten Bertold Brecht, den nevrotiske Strindberg og banker latteren ut av Ionesco. Han sliter litt mot Samuel “Do you get it?” Beckett, men taper kun med en hårsbredd. Imponerende!

Så. Hvordan var det om vi kun ser på Norge.

Jo, damer og herrer, bildet ligner kanskje det vi så først. Jevnt over er nok Ibsen mer populær og mer ettersøkt. MEN Hamsun holder seg tett, svært tett, på sin museale rival.I 2006 regjerer riktignok Ibsen alene, men det var også hans store jubileumsår – med oppsetninger i Kairo og Gud vet hvor.

Men se her:

NÆRMER SEG: På oversikten over søkemengden kun i Norge, er bildet mellom de to likere, selv om Ibsen jevnt over har flere søk og flere nyhetstreff. Hamsun et hestehode foran i jubileumsåret. Husk at Ibsen selv hadde jubelår i 2006.

Ser vi på den mer nøytrale perioden mellom siste halvdel 2007 og 2008, jevner det seg egentlig ganske greit ut. Da Hamsuns jubileumsåret tar til i 2009, går modernisten forbi og blir mer ettersøkt enn Ibsen. Og som Robert Ferguson er inne på i mitt intervju med ham: Hamsun er for alvor på vei inn i verdenslitteraturen igjen. Jeg spår en ny vår for Hamsun i 2010. Google will show.

Litt kaldt vann i blodet og benpipene likevel: Knut selv vrir seg nok uansett i graven. For han ville nok ikke vært fornøyd med å være “en god nummer to”. Eller som han selv sa det: «Jeg er en stor mand i Paris, jeg slår Ibsen i hjel. Begrav ham!».

Hadde han imidlertid skrevet det samme fra en annen by enn Paris, foreksempel Bodø, hadde han vært nærmere sannheten. For som neste plansje (neida, bilde) viser, søker folket i Nordland mer på Hamsun enn på Ibsen.

En annen detalj: Både Ibsen og Hamsun bodde lenge i Aust-Agder, mitt hjemfylke, og det er også her det søkes mest etter de to forfatterne.

Og en tredje: Oslo-folk søker ikke stort på de to forfatterne.

Ja, ja, mer var det ikke.

God kveld videre!

 Elvis and Jesus on stage at last

Next Theatre presents:

End Days

by Deborah Zoe Laufer
directed by Shade Murray
thru November 29th (ticket info)

reviewed by Ian Epstein

End Days, playing through December at the Next Theater in Evanston, is a light-hearted family comedy with dark, dramatic roots.  Penned by playwright Deborah Zoe Laufer, End Days borrows a few oblique bits and pieces from Samuel Beckett’s Endgame and pushes them into orbit around a lighter, domestic version with similar, less philosophical and philosophically bleak, core themes. 

Laufer’s End Days focuses on a dysfunctional family trio: the Steins.  At the play’s outset, the family has descended into a kind of isolated, feuding madness.  Spear-heading this romp is Sylvia Stein (Laura T. Fisher), who hunts through the house for impurity and sin with Jesus literally at her side.  Whether hallucination, incarnation or just some by-product of Sylvia’s recent mental deviation, Jesus helps Mrs. Stein out around the house.  This gives her frequent exhortations of “Thank you, Jesus” an added jolt of credibility that might otherwise be lacking.  But Sylvia has only recently discovered how much she identifies with evangelical Christianity.  And she’s taken to all this — to stacking bibles, preaching the good book, and admiring her evangelical handiwork– perhaps in part because her husband has withdrawn into pajamas and her daughter has gone over to the dark lord.  

Once upon a time at Sylvia’s side there was Arthur Stein, whose hollow husk is played impeccably by William Dick.  Arthur is a defunct businessman who has traded his Senior VP suit-and-tie for the depressed terrycloth comforts of a bathrobe and constant attempts at eternal slumber.  He can’t even make it to the grocery store, though.  From the few snippets of his past that carry through to the audience in dialogue, it becomes clear that Arthur used to work at the Word Trade Center…until 9/11.  

The last member of the family — wedged between this raving, recently religious mother and droopy father — is high-school student Rachel Stein.  With a few colored streaks in her dark hair and eyes painted with all the spite of Satanic teenage rage, Rachel is the kind of daughter one might expect find in this fractured home.  She’s goth and she’s too damn smart for her own good.  Carolyn Faye Kramer plays the part with a delightful, earnest, heartfelt angst. 

And in case the combination of those three with Jesus helping out in the kitchen doesn’t sound like enough, enter the king: their new 16-year-old, Elvis-impersonating neighbor with a crush on Rachel as ample as his bell-bottoms are wide.  The new teenage neighbor,  Nelson Steinberg, might just have the otherworldly determination to see it through. His determination is so otherworldly, in fact, that by passing along a book to Rachel, Nelson manages to introduce Stephen Hawking into the fray.  Hawking plays a very adept hallucinated foil to Jesus (both are played by Joseph Wycoff).

Nelson’s arrival sets off all the action and by the end we arrive with characters that have undoubtedly changed. That is, something happens.  The predictability of that something might disappoint a few, but Laufer’s characters are paced  quick enough to shove any concerns about her character’s psychological accuracy to the wayside.  The audience barely has time to realize that the play has its hands wrapped deeply around the effects of 9/11 trauma before Stephen Hawking scoots in on a motorized wheelchair to give good advice to a stoned teenage smarty-pants.

Andre LaSalle’s set complements the  fractured situation in the Stein home with awkwardly tilted living spaces and Melissa Torchia’s costumes, with Rachel dressed all in black and Nelson in a bedazzled white Elvis gettup, while heavy-handed, are not unearned.  The show is fun.  That’s for sure.  But can you really crack open 9/11 trauma and play it just for laughs and not something fuller?

Rating: ★★½

Production Personnel

AUTHOR: Deborah Zoe Laufer
BOOK: William Dick
DIRECTOR:  Shade Murray
CAST:  Laura T. Fisher, Carolyn Faye Kramer, Adam Shalzi, Joseph Wycoff
LIGHTING:  Lee Fiskness
SOUND DESIGN: Nick Keenan
SCENIC DESIGN:Andre LaSalle
COSTUME DESIGN: Melissa Torchia
STAGE MANAGER: Nancy Staiger

November 29th, Christ University, Hosur Road, Near Forum Mall

Naseeruddin Shah performing in Bangalore again!! This is a very good chance for the admirers of Naseeruddin Shah to meet him. The play is enacted by Naseeruddin Shah, Akash Khurana, Benjamin Gilani, Randeep Hooda.

Samuel Beckett’s masterpiece is considered the most significant play written in the 20th century. An example of Absurd drama, where Nothing happens, twice and time stands still in the act of waiting for someone who never appears, there is dark humour here and compassion and suspense. As Harold Hobson wrote in The Sunday Times, London, 1955, Go and see Waiting for Godot. At the worst you will discover a curiosity, a four-leaved clover, a black tulip; at the best, something that will securely lodge in a corner of your mind for as long as you live

Naseeruddin Shah,   Akash Khurana,     Benjamin Gilani,    Randeep Hooda

________________________________________________________________

This version features one of my favorite actors, Alan Rickman. Samuel Beckett is a pretty awesome playwrite.

A live stage reading of Act 1 by the Stratford Festival players,
recorded by CBC Radio







Estragon

Vladimir

Lucky

Pozzo

a boy

ACT I


<!— —> Listen to Part 1
Some of the text differs from the performance.

Go to Part 2


Back to Samuel Beckett Resources

A country road. A tree.

Evening.

Estragon, sitting on a low mound, is trying to take off his boot. He pulls at it with both hands, panting. #



He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again.

As before.

Enter Vladimir.

ESTRAGON:

(giving up again). Nothing to be done.

VLADIMIR:

(advancing with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart). I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven’t yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Turning to Estragon.) So there you are again.

ESTRAGON:

Am I?

VLADIMIR:

I’m glad to see you back. I thought you were gone forever.

ESTRAGON:

Me too.

VLADIMIR:

Together again at last! We’ll have to celebrate this. But how? (He reflects.) Get up till I embrace you.

ESTRAGON:

(irritably). Not now, not now.

VLADIMIR:

(hurt, coldly). May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?

ESTRAGON:

In a ditch.

VLADIMIR:

(admiringly). A ditch! Where?

ESTRAGON:

(without gesture). Over there.

VLADIMIR:

And they didn’t beat you?

ESTRAGON:

Beat me? Certainly they beat me.

VLADIMIR:

The same lot as usual?

ESTRAGON:

The same? I don’t know.

VLADIMIR:

When I think of it . . . all these years . . . but for me . . . where would you be . . . (Decisively.) You’d be nothing more than a little heap of bones at the present minute, no doubt about it.

ESTRAGON:

And what of it?

VLADIMIR:

(gloomily). It’s too much for one man. (Pause. Cheerfully.) On the other hand what’s the good of losing heart now, that’s what I say. We should have thought of it a million years ago, in the nineties.

ESTRAGON:

Ah stop blathering and help me off with this bloody thing.

VLADIMIR:

Hand in hand from the top of the Eiffel Tower, among the first. We were respectable in those days. Now it’s too late. They wouldn’t even let us up. (Estragon tears at his boot.) What are you doing?

ESTRAGON:

Taking off my boot. Did that never happen to you?

VLADIMIR:

Boots must be taken off every day, I’m tired telling you that. Why don’t you listen to me?

ESTRAGON:

(feebly). Help me!

VLADIMIR:

It hurts?

ESTRAGON:

(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

VLADIMIR:

(angrily). No one ever suffers but you. I don’t count. I’d like to hear what you’d say if you had what I have.

ESTRAGON:

It hurts?

VLADIMIR:

(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

ESTRAGON:

(pointing). You might button it all the same.

VLADIMIR:

(stooping). True. (He buttons his fly.) Never neglect the little things of life.

ESTRAGON:

What do you expect, you always wait till the last moment.

VLADIMIR:

(musingly). The last moment . . . (He meditates.) Hope deferred maketh the something sick, who said that?

ESTRAGON:

Why don’t you help me?

VLADIMIR:

Sometimes I feel it coming all the same. Then I go all queer. (He takes off his hat, peers inside it, feels about inside it, shakes it, puts it on again.) How shall I say? Relieved and at the same time . . . (he searches for the word) . . . appalled. (With emphasis.) AP-PALLED. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it.) Funny. (He knocks on the crown as though to dislodge a foreign body, peers into it again, puts it on again.) Nothing to be done. (Estragon with a supreme effort succeeds in pulling off his boot. He peers inside it, feels about inside it, turns it upside down, shakes it, looks on the ground to see if anything has fallen out, finds nothing, feels inside it again, staring sightlessly before him.) Well?

ESTRAGON:

Nothing.

VLADIMIR:

Show me.

ESTRAGON:

There’s nothing to show.

VLADIMIR:

Try and put it on again.

ESTRAGON:

(examining his foot). I’ll air it for a bit.

VLADIMIR:

There’s man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it, feels about inside it, knocks on the crown, blows into it, puts it on again.) This is getting alarming. (Silence. Vladimir deep in thought, Estragon pulling at his toes.) One of the thieves was saved. (Pause.) It’s a reasonable percentage. (Pause.) Gogo.

ESTRAGON:

What?

VLADIMIR:

Suppose we repented.

ESTRAGON:

Repented what?

VLADIMIR:

Oh . . . (He reflects.) We wouldn’t have to go into the details.

ESTRAGON:

Our being born?

Vladimir breaks into a hearty laugh which he immediately stifles, his hand pressed to his pubis, his face contorted.

VLADIMIR:

One daren’t even laugh any more.

ESTRAGON:

Dreadful privation.

VLADIMIR:

Merely smile. (He smiles suddenly from ear to ear, keeps smiling, ceases as suddenly.) It’s not the same thing. Nothing to be done. (Pause.) Gogo.

ESTRAGON:

(irritably). What is it?

VLADIMIR:

Did you ever read the Bible?

ESTRAGON:

The Bible . . . (He reflects.) I must have taken a look at it.

VLADIMIR:

Do you remember the Gospels?

ESTRAGON:

I remember the maps of the Holy Land. Coloured they were. Very pretty. The Dead Sea was pale blue. The very look of it made me thirsty. That’s where we’ll go, I used to say, that’s where we’ll go for our honeymoon. We’ll swim. We’ll be happy.

VLADIMIR:

You should have been a poet.

ESTRAGON:

I was. (Gesture towards his rags.) Isn’t that obvious?

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

Where was I . . . How’s your foot?

ESTRAGON:

Swelling visibly.

VLADIMIR:

Ah yes, the two thieves. Do you remember the story?

ESTRAGON:

No.

VLADIMIR:

Shall I tell it to you?

ESTRAGON:

No.

VLADIMIR:

It’ll pass the time. (Pause.) Two thieves, crucified at the same time as our Saviour. One—

ESTRAGON:

Our what?

VLADIMIR:

Our Saviour. Two thieves. One is supposed to have been saved and the other . . . (he searches for the contrary of saved) . . . damned.

ESTRAGON:

Saved from what?

VLADIMIR:

Hell.

ESTRAGON:

I’m going.

He does not move.

VLADIMIR:

And yet . . . (pause) . . . how is it –this is not boring you I hope– how is it that of the four Evangelists only one speaks of a thief being saved. The four of them were there –or thereabouts– and only one speaks of a thief being saved. (Pause.) Come on, Gogo, return the ball, can’t you, once in a way?

ESTRAGON:

(with exaggerated enthusiasm). I find this really most extraordinarily interesting.

VLADIMIR:

One out of four. Of the other three two don’t mention any thieves at all and the third says that both of them abused him.

ESTRAGON:

Who?

VLADIMIR:

What?

ESTRAGON:

What’s all this about? Abused who?

VLADIMIR:

The Saviour.

ESTRAGON:

Why?

VLADIMIR:

Because he wouldn’t save them.

ESTRAGON:

From hell?

VLADIMIR:

Imbecile! From death.

ESTRAGON:

I thought you said hell.

VLADIMIR:

From death, from death.

ESTRAGON:

Well what of it?

VLADIMIR:

Then the two of them must have been damned.

ESTRAGON:

And why not?

VLADIMIR:

But one of the four says that one of the two was saved.

ESTRAGON:

Well? They don’t agree and that’s all there is to it.

VLADIMIR:

But all four were there. And only one speaks of a thief being saved. Why believe him rather than the others?

ESTRAGON:

Who believes him?

VLADIMIR:

Everybody. It’s the only version they know.

ESTRAGON:

People are bloody ignorant apes.

He rises painfully, goes limping to extreme left, halts, gazes into distance off with his hand screening his eyes, turns, goes to extreme right, gazes into distance. Vladimir watches him, then goes and picks up the boot, peers into it, drops it hastily.

VLADIMIR:

Pah!

He spits. Estragon moves to center, halts with his back to auditorium.

ESTRAGON:

Charming spot. (He turns, advances to front, halts facing auditorium.) Inspiring prospects. (He turns to Vladimir.) Let’s go.

VLADIMIR:

We can’t.

ESTRAGON:

Why not?

VLADIMIR:

We’re waiting for Godot.

ESTRAGON:

(despairingly). Ah! (Pause.) You’re sure it was here?

VLADIMIR:

What?

ESTRAGON:

That we were to wait.

VLADIMIR:

He said by the tree. (They look at the tree.) Do you see any others?

ESTRAGON:

What is it?

VLADIMIR:

I don’t know. A willow.

ESTRAGON:

Where are the leaves?

VLADIMIR:

It must be dead.

ESTRAGON:

No more weeping.

VLADIMIR:

Or perhaps it’s not the season.

ESTRAGON:

Looks to me more like a bush.

VLADIMIR:

A shrub.

ESTRAGON:

A bush.

VLADIMIR:

A—. What are you insinuating? That we’ve come to the wrong place?

ESTRAGON:

He should be here.

VLADIMIR:

He didn’t say for sure he’d come.

ESTRAGON:

And if he doesn’t come?

VLADIMIR:

We’ll come back tomorrow.

ESTRAGON:

And then the day after tomorrow.

VLADIMIR:

Possibly.

ESTRAGON:

And so on.

VLADIMIR:

The point is—

ESTRAGON:

Until he comes.

VLADIMIR:

You’re merciless.

ESTRAGON:

We came here yesterday.

VLADIMIR:

Ah no, there you’re mistaken.

ESTRAGON:

What did we do yesterday?

VLADIMIR:

What did we do yesterday?

ESTRAGON:

Yes.

VLADIMIR:

Why . . . (Angrily.) Nothing is certain when you’re about.

ESTRAGON:

In my opinion we were here.

VLADIMIR:

(looking round). You recognize the place?

ESTRAGON:

I didn’t say that.

VLADIMIR:

Well?

ESTRAGON:

That makes no difference.

VLADIMIR:

All the same . . . that tree . . . (turning towards auditorium) that bog . . .

ESTRAGON:

You’re sure it was this evening?

VLADIMIR:

What?

ESTRAGON:

That we were to wait.

VLADIMIR:

He said Saturday. (Pause.) I think.

ESTRAGON:

You think.

VLADIMIR:

I must have made a note of it. (He fumbles in his pockets, bursting with miscellaneous rubbish.)

ESTRAGON:

(very insidious). But what Saturday? And is it Saturday? Is it not rather Sunday? (Pause.) Or Monday? (Pause.) Or Friday?

VLADIMIR:

(looking wildly about him, as though the date was inscribed in the landscape). It’s not possible!

ESTRAGON:

Or Thursday?

VLADIMIR:

What’ll we do?

ESTRAGON:

If he came yesterday and we weren’t here you may be sure he won’t come again today.

VLADIMIR:

But you say we were here yesterday.

ESTRAGON:

I may be mistaken. (Pause.) Let’s stop talking for a minute, do you mind?

VLADIMIR:

(feebly). All right. (Estragon sits down on the mound. Vladimir paces agitatedly to and fro, halting from time to time to gaze into distance off. Estragon falls asleep. Vladimir halts finally before Estragon.) Gogo! . . . Gogo! . . . GOGO!

Estragon wakes with a start.

ESTRAGON:

(restored to the horror of his situation). I was asleep! (Despairingly.) Why will you never let me sleep?

VLADIMIR:

I felt lonely.

ESTRAGON:

I had a dream.

VLADIMIR:

Don’t tell me!

ESTRAGON:

I dreamt that—

VLADIMIR:

DON’T TELL ME!

ESTRAGON:

(gesture toward the universe). This one is enough for you? (Silence.) It’s not nice of you, Didi. Who am I to tell my private nightmares to if I can’t tell them to you?

VLADIMIR:

Let them remain private. You know I can’t bear that.

ESTRAGON:

(coldly.) There are times when I wonder if it wouldn’t be better for us to part.

VLADIMIR:

You wouldn’t go far.

ESTRAGON:

That would be too bad, really too bad. (Pause.) Wouldn’t it, Didi, be really too bad? (Pause.) When you think of the beauty of the way. (Pause.) And the goodness of the wayfarers. (Pause. Wheedling.) Wouldn’t it, Didi?

VLADIMIR:

Calm yourself.

ESTRAGON:

(voluptuously.) Calm . . . calm . . . The English say cawm. (Pause.) You know the story of the Englishman in the brothel?

VLADIMIR:

Yes.

ESTRAGON:

Tell it to me.

VLADIMIR:

Ah stop it!

ESTRAGON:

An Englishman having drunk a little more than usual proceeds to a brothel. The bawd asks him if he wants a fair one, a dark one or a red-haired one. Go on.

VLADIMIR:

STOP IT!

Exit Vladimir hurriedly. Estragon gets up and follows him as far as the limit of the stage. Gestures of Estragon like those of a spectator encouraging a pugilist. Enter Vladimir. He brushes past Estragon, crosses the stage with bowed head. Estragon takes a step towards him, halts.

ESTRAGON:

(gently.) You wanted to speak to me? (Silence. Estragon takes a step forward.) You had something to say to me? (Silence. Another step forward.) Didi . . .

VLADIMIR:

(without turning). I’ve nothing to say to you.

ESTRAGON:

(step forward). You’re angry? (Silence. Step forward). Forgive me. (Silence. Step forward. Estragon lays his hand on Vladimir’s shoulder.) Come, Didi. (Silence.) Give me your hand. (Vladimir half turns.) Embrace me! (Vladimir stiffens.) Don’t be stubborn! (Vladimir softens. They embrace. #



Estragon recoils.) You stink of garlic!

VLADIMIR:

It’s for the kidneys. (Silence. Estragon looks attentively at the tree.) What do we do now?

ESTRAGON:

Wait.

VLADIMIR:

Yes, but while waiting.

ESTRAGON:

What about hanging ourselves?

VLADIMIR:

Hmm. It’d give us an erection.

ESTRAGON:

(highly excited). An erection!

VLADIMIR:

With all that follows. Where it falls mandrakes grow. That’s why they shriek when you pull them up. Did you not know that?

ESTRAGON:

Let’s hang ourselves immediately!

VLADIMIR:

From a bough? (They go towards the tree.) I wouldn’t trust it.

ESTRAGON:

We can always try.

VLADIMIR:

Go ahead.

ESTRAGON:

After you.

VLADIMIR:

No no, you first.

ESTRAGON:

Why me?

VLADIMIR:

You’re lighter than I am.

ESTRAGON:

Just so!

VLADIMIR:

I don’t understand.

ESTRAGON:

Use your intelligence, can’t you?

Vladimir uses his intelligence.

VLADIMIR:

(finally). I remain in the dark.

ESTRAGON:

This is how it is. (He reflects.) The bough . . . the bough . . . (Angrily.) Use your head, can’t you?

VLADIMIR:

You’re my only hope.

ESTRAGON:

(with effort). Gogo light—bough not break—Gogo dead. Didi heavy—bough break—Didi alone. Whereas—

VLADIMIR:

I hadn’t thought of that.

ESTRAGON:

If it hangs you it’ll hang anything.

VLADIMIR:

But am I heavier than you?

ESTRAGON:

So you tell me. I don’t know. There’s an even chance. Or nearly.

VLADIMIR:

Well? What do we do?

ESTRAGON:

Don’t let’s do anything. It’s safer.

VLADIMIR:

Let’s wait and see what he says.

ESTRAGON:

Who?

VLADIMIR:

Godot.

ESTRAGON:

Good idea.

VLADIMIR:

Let’s wait till we know exactly how we stand.

ESTRAGON:

On the other hand it might be better to strike the iron before it freezes.

VLADIMIR:

I’m curious to hear what he has to offer. Then we’ll take it or leave it.

ESTRAGON:

What exactly did we ask him for?

VLADIMIR:

Were you not there?

ESTRAGON:

I can’t have been listening.

VLADIMIR:

Oh . . . Nothing very definite.

ESTRAGON:

A kind of prayer.

VLADIMIR:

Precisely.

ESTRAGON:

A vague supplication.

VLADIMIR:

Exactly.

ESTRAGON:

And what did he reply?

VLADIMIR:

That he’d see.

ESTRAGON:

That he couldn’t promise anything.

VLADIMIR:

That he’d have to think it over.

ESTRAGON:

In the quiet of his home.

VLADIMIR:

Consult his family.

ESTRAGON:

His friends.

VLADIMIR:

His agents.

ESTRAGON:

His correspondents.

VLADIMIR:

His books.

ESTRAGON:

His bank account.

VLADIMIR:

Before taking a decision.

ESTRAGON:

It’s the normal thing.

VLADIMIR:

Is it not?

ESTRAGON:

I think it is.

VLADIMIR:

I think so too.

Silence.

ESTRAGON:

(anxious). And we?

VLADIMIR:

I beg your pardon?

ESTRAGON:

I said, And we?

VLADIMIR:

I don’t understand.

ESTRAGON:

Where do we come in?

VLADIMIR:

Come in?

ESTRAGON:

Take your time.

VLADIMIR:

Come in? On our hands and knees.

ESTRAGON:

As bad as that?

VLADIMIR:

Your Worship wishes to assert his prerogatives?

ESTRAGON:

We’ve no rights any more?

Laugh of Vladimir, stifled as before, less the smile.

VLADIMIR:

You’d make me laugh if it wasn’t prohibited.

ESTRAGON:

We’ve lost our rights?

VLADIMIR:

(distinctly). We got rid of them.

Silence. They remain motionless, arms dangling, heads sunk, sagging at the knees.

ESTRAGON:

(feebly). We’re not tied? (Pause.) We’re not—

VLADIMIR:

Listen!

They listen, grotesquely rigid. #



ESTRAGON:

I hear nothing.

VLADIMIR:

Hsst! (They listen. Estragon loses his balance, almost falls. He clutches the arm of Vladimir, who totters. They listen, huddled together.) Nor I.

Sighs of relief. They relax and separate.

ESTRAGON:

You gave me a fright.

VLADIMIR:

I thought it was he.

ESTRAGON:

Who?

VLADIMIR:

Godot.

ESTRAGON:

Pah! The wind in the reeds.

VLADIMIR:

I could have sworn I heard shouts.

ESTRAGON:

And why would he shout?

VLADIMIR:

At his horse.

Silence.

ESTRAGON:

(violently). I’m hungry!

VLADIMIR:

Do you want a carrot?

ESTRAGON:

Is that all there is?

VLADIMIR:

I might have some turnips.

ESTRAGON:

Give me a carrot. (Vladimir rummages in his pockets, takes out a turnip and gives it to Estragon who takes a bite out of it. Angrily.) It’s a turnip!

VLADIMIR:

Oh pardon! I could have sworn it was a carrot. (He rummages again in his pockets, finds nothing but turnips.) All that’s turnips. (He rummages.) You must have eaten the last. (He rummages.) Wait, I have it. (He brings out a carrot and gives it to Estragon.) There, dear fellow. #



(Estragon wipes the carrot on his sleeve and begins to eat it.) Make it last, that’s the end of them.

ESTRAGON:

(chewing). I asked you a question.

VLADIMIR:

Ah.

ESTRAGON:

Did you reply?

VLADIMIR:

How’s the carrot?

ESTRAGON:

It’s a carrot.

VLADIMIR:

So much the better, so much the better. (Pause.) What was it you wanted to know?

ESTRAGON:

I’ve forgotten. (Chews.) That’s what annoys me. (He looks at the carrot appreciatively, dangles it between finger and thumb.) I’ll never forget this carrot. (He sucks the end of it meditatively.) Ah yes, now I remember.

VLADIMIR:

Well?

ESTRAGON:

(his mouth full, vacuously). We’re not tied?

VLADIMIR:

I don’t hear a word you’re saying.

ESTRAGON:

(chews, swallows). I’m asking you if we’re tied.

VLADIMIR:

Tied?

ESTRAGON:

Ti-ed.

VLADIMIR:

How do you mean tied?

ESTRAGON:

Down.

VLADIMIR:

But to whom? By whom?

ESTRAGON:

To your man.

VLADIMIR:

To Godot? Tied to Godot! What an idea! No question of it. (Pause.) For the moment.

ESTRAGON:

His name is Godot?

VLADIMIR:

I think so.

ESTRAGON:

Fancy that. (He raises what remains of the carrot by the stub of leaf, twirls it before his eyes.) Funny, the more you eat the worse it gets.

VLADIMIR:

With me it’s just the opposite.

ESTRAGON:

In other words?

VLADIMIR:

I get used to the muck as I go along.

ESTRAGON:

(after prolonged reflection). Is that the opposite?

VLADIMIR:

Question of temperament.

ESTRAGON:

Of character.

VLADIMIR:

Nothing you can do about it.

ESTRAGON:

No use struggling.

VLADIMIR:

One is what one is.

ESTRAGON:

No use wriggling.

VLADIMIR:

The essential doesn’t change.

ESTRAGON:

Nothing to be done. (He proffers the remains of the carrot to Vladimir.) Like to finish it?

A terrible cry, close at hand. Estragon drops the carrot. They remain motionless, then together make a sudden rush towards the wings. Estragon stops halfway, runs back, picks up the carrot, stuffs it in his pocket, runs to rejoin Vladimir who is waiting for him, stops again, runs back, picks up his boot, runs to rejoin Vladimir. Huddled together, shoulders hunched, cringing away from the menace, they wait. #



Enter Pozzo and Lucky. Pozzo drives Lucky by means of a rope passed round his neck, so that Lucky is the first to enter, followed by the rope which is long enough to let him reach the middle of the stage before Pozzo appears. Lucky carries a heavy bag, a folding stool, a picnic basket and a greatcoat, Pozzo a whip.

POZZO:

(off). On! (Crack of whip. Pozzo appears. They cross the stage. Lucky passes before Vladimir and Estragon and exit. Pozzo at the sight of Vladimir and Estragon stops short. The rope tautens. Pozzo jerks at it violently.) Back!

Noise of Lucky falling with all his baggage. Vladimir and Estragon turn towards him, half wishing half fearing to go to his assistance. Vladimir takes a step towards Lucky, Estragon holds him back by the sleeve.

VLADIMIR:

Let me go!

ESTRAGON:

Stay where you are!

POZZO:

Be careful! He’s wicked. (Vladimir and Estragon turn towards Pozzo.) With strangers.

ESTRAGON:

(undertone). Is that him?

VLADIMIR:

Who?

ESTRAGON:

(trying to remember the name). Er . . .

VLADIMIR:

Godot?

ESTRAGON:

Yes.

POZZO:

I present myself: Pozzo.

VLADIMIR:

(to Estragon). Not at all!

ESTRAGON:

He said Godot.

VLADIMIR:

Not at all!

ESTRAGON:

(timidly, to Pozzo). You’re not Mr. Godot, Sir?

POZZO:

(terrifying voice). I am Pozzo! (Silence.) Pozzo! (Silence.) Does that name mean nothing to you? (Silence.) I say does that name mean nothing to you?

Vladimir and Estragon look at each other questioningly.

ESTRAGON:

(pretending to search). Bozzo . . . Bozzo . . .

VLADIMIR:

(ditto). Pozzo . . . Pozzo . . .

POZZO:

PPPOZZZO!

ESTRAGON:

Ah! Pozzo . . . let me see . . . Pozzo . . .

VLADIMIR:

Is it Pozzo or Bozzo?

ESTRAGON:

Pozzo . . . no . . . I’m afraid I . . . no . . . I don’t seem to . . .

Pozzo advances threateningly.

VLADIMIR:

(conciliating). I once knew a family called Gozzo. The mother had the clap.

ESTRAGON:

(hastily). We’re not from these parts, Sir.

POZZO:

(halting). You are human beings none the less. (He puts on his glasses.) As far as one can see. (He takes off his glasses.) Of the same species as myself. (He bursts into an enormous laugh.) Of the same species as Pozzo! Made in God’s image!

VLADIMIR:

Well you see—

POZZO:

(peremptory). Who is Godot?

ESTRAGON:

Godot?

POZZO:

You took me for Godot.

VLADIMIR:

Oh no, Sir, not for an instant, Sir.

POZZO:

Who is he?

VLADIMIR:

Oh he’s a . . . he’s a kind of acquaintance.

ESTRAGON:

Nothing of the kind, we hardly know him.

VLADIMIR:

True . . . we don’t know him very well . . . but all the same . . .

ESTRAGON:

Personally, I wouldn’t even know him if I saw him.

POZZO:

You took me for him.

ESTRAGON:

(recoiling before Pozzo). That’s to say . . . you understand . . . the dusk . . . the strain . . . waiting . . . I confess . . . I imagined . . . for a second . . .

POZZO:

Waiting? So you were waiting for him?

VLADIMIR:

Well you see—

POZZO:

Here? On my land?

VLADIMIR:

We didn’t intend any harm.

ESTRAGON:

We meant well.

POZZO:

The road is free to all.

VLADIMIR:

That’s how we looked at it.

POZZO:

It’s a disgrace. But there you are.

ESTRAGON:

Nothing we can do about it.

POZZO:

(with magnanimous gesture). Let’s say no more about it. (He jerks the rope.) Up pig! (Pause.) Every time he drops he falls asleep. (Jerks the rope.) Up hog! (Noise of Lucky getting up and picking up his baggage. Pozzo jerks the rope.) Back! (Enter Lucky backwards.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Turn! (Lucky turns. To Vladimir and Estragon, affably.) Gentlemen, I am happy to have met you. (Before their incredulous expression.) Yes yes, sincerely happy. (He jerks the rope.) Closer! (Lucky advances.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Yes, the road seems long when one journeys all alone for . . . (he consults his watch) . . . yes . . . (he calculates) . . . yes, six hours, that’s right, six hours on end, and never a soul in sight. (To Lucky.) Coat! (Lucky puts down the bag, advances, gives the coat, goes back to his place, takes up the bag.) Hold that! (Pozzo holds out the whip. Lucky advances and, both his hands being occupied, takes the whip in his mouth, then goes back to his place. Pozzo begins to put on his coat, stops.) Coat! (Lucky puts down the bag, basket and stool, helps Pozzo on with his coat, goes back to his place and takes up bag, basket and stool.) Touch of autumn in the air this evening. (Pozzo finishes buttoning up his coat, stoops, inspects himself, straightens up.) Whip! (Lucky advances, stoops, Pozzo snatches the whip from his mouth, Lucky goes back to his place.) Yes, gentlemen, I cannot go for long without the society of my likes (he puts on his glasses and looks at the two likes) even when the likeness is an imperfect one. (He takes off his glasses.) Stool! (Lucky puts down bag and basket, advances, opens stool, puts it down, goes back to his place, takes up bag and basket.) Closer! (Lucky puts down bag and basket, advances, moves stool, goes back to his place, takes up bag and basket. Pozzo sits down, places the butt of his whip against Lucky’s chest and pushes.) Back! (Lucky takes a step back.) Further! (Lucky takes another step back.) Stop! (Lucky stops. To Vladimir and Estragon.) That is why, with your permission, I propose to dally with you a moment, before I venture any further. Basket! (Lucky advances, gives the basket, goes back to his place.) The fresh air stimulates the jaded appetite. (He opens the basket, takes out a piece of chicken and a bottle of wine.) Basket! (Lucky advances, picks up the basket and goes back to his place.) Further! (Lucky takes a step back.) He stinks. Happy days!

He drinks from the bottle, puts it down and begins to eat. Silence. #



Vladimir and Estragon, cautiously at first, then more boldly, begin to circle about Lucky, inspecting him up and down. Pozzo eats his chicken voraciously, throwing away the bones after having sucked them. Lucky sags slowly, until bag and basket touch the ground, then straightens up with a start and begins to sag again. Rhythm of one sleeping on his feet.

ESTRAGON:

What ails him?

VLADIMIR:

He looks tired.

ESTRAGON:

Why doesn’t he put down his bags?

VLADIMIR:

How do I know? (They close in on him.) Careful!

ESTRAGON:

Say something to him.

VLADIMIR:

Look!

ESTRAGON:

What?

VLADIMIR:

(pointing). His neck!

ESTRAGON:

(looking at the neck). I see nothing.

VLADIMIR:

Here.

Estragon goes over beside Vladimir.

ESTRAGON:

Oh I say!

VLADIMIR:

A running sore!

ESTRAGON:

It’s the rope.

VLADIMIR:

It’s the rubbing.

ESTRAGON:

It’s inevitable.

VLADIMIR:

It’s the knot.

ESTRAGON:

It’s the chafing.

They resume their inspection, dwell on the face.

VLADIMIR:

(grudgingly). He’s not bad looking.

ESTRAGON:

(shrugging his shoulders, wry face.) Would you say so?

VLADIMIR:

A trifle effeminate.

ESTRAGON:

Look at the slobber.

VLADIMIR:

It’s inevitable.

ESTRAGON:

Look at the slaver.

VLADIMIR:

Perhaps he’s a halfwit.

ESTRAGON:

A cretin.

VLADIMIR:

(looking closer). Looks like a goiter.

ESTRAGON:

(ditto). It’s not certain.

VLADIMIR:

He’s panting.

ESTRAGON:

It’s inevitable.

VLADIMIR:

And his eyes!

ESTRAGON:

What about them?

VLADIMIR:

Goggling out of his head. #



ESTRAGON:

Looks like his last gasp to me.

VLADIMIR:

It’s not certain. (Pause.) Ask him a question.

ESTRAGON:

Would that be a good thing?

VLADIMIR:

What do we risk?

ESTRAGON:

(timidly). Mister . . .

VLADIMIR:

Louder.

ESTRAGON:

(louder). Mister . . .

POZZO:

Leave him in peace! (They turn toward Pozzo who, having finished eating, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.) Can’t you see he wants to rest? Basket! (He strikes a match and begins to light his pipe. Estragon sees the chicken bones on the ground and stares at them greedily. As Lucky does not move Pozzo throws the match angrily away and jerks the rope.) Basket! (Lucky starts, almost falls, recovers his senses, advances, puts the bottle in the basket and goes back to his place. Estragon stares at the bones. Pozzo strikes another match and lights his pipe.) What can you expect, it’s not his job. (He pulls at his pipe, stretches out his legs.) Ah! That’s better.

ESTRAGON:

(timidly). Please Sir . . .

POZZO:

What is it, my good man?

ESTRAGON:

Er . . . you’ve finished with the . . . er . . . you don’t need the . . . er . . . bones, Sir?

VLADIMIR:

(scandalized). You couldn’t have waited?

POZZO:

No no, he does well to ask. Do I need the bones? (He turns them over with the end of his whip.) No, personally I do not need them any more. (Estragon takes a step towards the bones.) But . . . (Estragon stops short) . . . but in theory the bones go to the carrier. He is therefore the one to ask. (Estragon turns towards Lucky, hesitates.) Go on, go on, don’t be afraid, ask him, he’ll tell you.

Estragon goes towards Lucky, stops before him.

ESTRAGON:

Mister . . . excuse me, Mister . . .

POZZO:

You’re being spoken to, pig! Reply! (To Estragon.) Try him again.

ESTRAGON:

Excuse me, Mister, the bones, you won’t be wanting the bones?

Lucky looks long at Estragon.

POZZO:

(in raptures). Mister! (Lucky bows his head.) Reply! Do you want them or don’t you? (Silence of Lucky. To Estragon.) They’re yours. (Estragon makes a dart at the bones, picks them up and begins to gnaw them.) I don’t like it. I’ve never known him to refuse a bone before. (He looks anxiously at Lucky.) Nice business it’d be if he fell sick on me!

He puffs at his pipe.

VLADIMIR:

(exploding). It’s a scandal!

Silence. Flabbergasted, Estragon stops gnawing, looks at Pozzo and Vladimir in turn. Pozzo outwardly calm. Vladimir embarrassed.

POZZO:

(To Vladimir). Are you alluding to anything in particular?

VLADIMIR:

(stutteringly resolute). To treat a man . . . (gesture towards Lucky) . . . like that . . . I think that . . . no . . . a human being . . . no . . . it’s a scandal!

ESTRAGON:

(not to be outdone). A disgrace!

He resumes his gnawing.

POZZO:

You are severe. (To Vladimir.) What age are you, if it’s not a rude question? (Silence.) Sixty? Seventy? (To Estragon.) What age would you say he was?

ESTRAGON:

Eleven.

POZZO:

I am impertinent. (He knocks out his pipe against the whip, gets up.) I must be getting on. Thank you for your society. (He reflects.) Unless I smoke another pipe before I go. What do you say? (They say nothing.) Oh I’m only a small smoker, a very small smoker, I’m not in the habit of smoking two pipes one on top of the other, it makes (hand to heart, sighing) my heart go pit-a-pat. (Silence.) It’s the nicotine, one absorbs it in spite of one’s precautions. (Sighs.) You know how it is. (Silence.) But perhaps you don’t smoke? Yes? No? It’s of no importance. (Silence.) But how am I to sit down now, without affectation, now that I have risen? Without appearing to –how shall I say– without appearing to falter. (To Vladimir.) I beg your pardon? (Silence.) Perhaps you didn’t speak? (Silence.) It’s of no importance. Let me see . . .

He reflects.

ESTRAGON:

Ah! That’s better.

He puts the bones in his pocket.

VLADIMIR:

Let’s go.

ESTRAGON:

So soon?

POZZO:

One moment! (He jerks the rope.) Stool! (He points with his whip. Lucky moves the stool.) More! There! (He sits down. Lucky goes back to his place.) Done it!

He fills his pipe.

VLADIMIR:

(vehemently). Let’s go!

POZZO:

I hope I’m not driving you away. Wait a little longer, you’ll never regret it.

ESTRAGON:

(scenting charity). We’re in no hurry.

POZZO:

(having lit his pipe). The second is never so sweet . . . (he takes the pipe out of his mouth, contemplates it) . . . as the first I mean. (He puts the pipe back in his mouth.) But it’s sweet just the same.

VLADIMIR:

I’m going.

POZZO:

He can no longer endure my presence. I am perhaps not particularly human, but who cares? (To Vladimir.) Think twice before you do anything rash. Suppose you go now while it is still day, for there is no denying it is still day. (They all look up at the sky.) Good. (They stop looking at the sky.) What happens in that case– (he takes the pipe out of his mouth, examines it) –I’m out– (he relights his pipe) –in that case– (puff) –in that case– (puff) –what happens in that case to your appointment with this . . . Godet . . . Godot . . . Godin . . . anyhow you see who I mean, who has your future in his hands . . . (pause) . . . at least your immediate future?

VLADIMIR:

Who told you?

POZZO:

He speaks to me again! If this goes on much longer we’ll soon be old friends.

ESTRAGON:

Why doesn’t he put down his bags?

POZZO:

I too would be happy to meet him. The more people I meet the happier I become. From the meanest creature one departs wiser, richer, more conscious of one’s blessings. Even you . . . (he looks at them ostentatiously in turn to make it clear they are both meant) . . . even you, who knows, will have added to my store.

ESTRAGON:

Why doesn’t he put down his bags?

POZZO:

But that would surprise me.

VLADIMIR:

You’re being asked a question.

POZZO:

(delighted). A question! Who? What? A moment ago you were calling me Sir, in fear and trembling. Now you’re asking me questions. No good will come of this!

VLADIMIR:

(to Estragon). I think he’s listening.

ESTRAGON:

(circling about Lucky). What?

VLADIMIR:

You can ask him now. He’s on the alert.

ESTRAGON:

Ask him what?

VLADIMIR:

Why he doesn’t put down his bags.

ESTRAGON:

I wonder.

VLADIMIR:

Ask him, can’t you?

POZZO:

(who has followed these exchanges with anxious attention, fearing lest the question get lost). You want to know why he doesn’t put down his bags, as you call them.

VLADIMIR:

That’s it.

POZZO:

(to Estragon). You are sure you agree with that?

ESTRAGON:

He’s puffing like a grampus.

POZZO:

The answer is this. (To Estragon). But stay still, I beg of you, you’re making me nervous!

VLADIMIR:

Here.

ESTRAGON:

What is it?

VLADIMIR:

He’s about to speak.

Estragon goes over beside Vladimir. Motionless, side by side, they wait.

POZZO:

Good. Is everybody ready? Is everybody looking at me? (He looks at Lucky, jerks the rope. Lucky raises his head.) Will you look at me, pig! (Lucky looks at him.) Good. (He puts the pipe in his pocket, takes out a little vaporizer and sprays his throat, puts back the vaporizer in his pocket, clears his throat, spits, takes out the vaporizer again, sprays his throat again, puts back the vaporizer in his pocket.) I am ready. Is everybody listening? Is everybody ready? (He looks at them all in turn, jerks the rope.) Hog! (Lucky raises his head.) I don’t like talking in a vacuum. Good. Let me see.

He reflects.

ESTRAGON:

I’m going.

POZZO:

What was it exactly you wanted to know?

VLADIMIR:

Why he—

POZZO:

(angrily). Don’t interrupt me! (Pause. Calmer.) If we all speak at once we’ll never get anywhere. (Pause.) What was I saying? (Pause. Louder.) What was I saying?

Vladimir mimics one carrying a heavy burden. Pozzo looks at him, puzzled.

ESTRAGON:

(forcibly). Bags. (He points at Lucky.) Why? Always hold. (He sags, panting.) Never put down. (He opens his hands, straightens up with relief.) Why?

POZZO:

Ah! Why couldn’t you say so before? Why he doesn’t make himself comfortable? Let’s try and get this clear. Has he not the right to? Certainly he has. It follows that he doesn’t want to. There’s reasoning for you. And why doesn’t he want to? (Pause.) Gentlemen, the reason is this.

VLADIMIR:

(to Estragon). Make a note of this.

POZZO:

He wants to impress me, so that I’ll keep him.

ESTRAGON:

What?

POZZO:

Perhaps I haven’t got it quite right. He wants to mollify me, so that I’ll give up the idea of parting with him. No, that’s not exactly it either.

VLADIMIR:

You want to get rid of him?

POZZO:

He wants to cod me, but he won’t.

VLADIMIR:

You want to get rid of him?

POZZO:

He imagines that when I see how well he carries I’ll be tempted to keep him on in that capacity.

ESTRAGON:

You’ve had enough of him?

POZZO:

In reality he carries like a pig. It’s not his job.

VLADIMIR:

You want to get rid of him?

POZZO:

He imagines that when I see him indefatigable I’ll regret my decision. Such is his miserable scheme. As though I were short of slaves! (All three look at Lucky.) Atlas, son of Jupiter! (Silence.) Well, that’s that, I think. Anything else?

Vaporizer.

VLADIMIR:

You want to get rid of him?

POZZO:

Remark that I might just as well have been in his shoes and he in mine. If chance had not willed otherwise. To each one his due.

VLADIMIR:

You waagerrim?

POZZO:

I beg your pardon?

VLADIMIR:

You want to get rid of him?

POZZO:

I do. But instead of driving him away as I might have done, I mean instead of simply kicking him out on his arse, in the goodness of my heart I am bringing him to the fair, where I hope to get a good price for him. The truth is you can’t drive such creatures away. The best thing would be to kill them.

Lucky weeps.

ESTRAGON:

He’s crying!

POZZO:

Old dogs have more dignity. (He proffers his handkerchief to Estragon.) Comfort him, since you pity him. (Estragon hesitates.) Come on. (Estragon takes the handkerchief.) Wipe away his tears, he’ll feel less forsaken.

Estragon hesitates.

VLADIMIR:

Here, give it to me, I’ll do it.

Estragon refuses to give the handkerchief.

Childish gestures.

POZZO:

Make haste, before he stops. (Estragon approaches Lucky and makes to wipe his eyes. Lucky kicks him violently in the shins. Estragon drops the handkerchief, recoils, staggers about the stage howling with pain.) Hanky!

Lucky puts down bag and basket, picks up handkerchief and gives it to Pozzo, goes back to his place, picks up bag and basket.

ESTRAGON:

Oh the swine! (He pulls up the leg of his trousers.) He’s crippled me!

POZZO:

I told you he didn’t like strangers.

VLADIMIR:

(to Estragon). Show me. (Estragon shows his leg. To Pozzo, angrily.) He’s bleeding!

POZZO:

It’s a good sign.

ESTRAGON:

(on one leg). I’ll never walk again!

VLADIMIR:

(tenderly). I’ll carry you. (Pause.) If necessary.

POZZO:

He’s stopped crying. (To Estragon.) You have replaced him as it were. (Lyrically.) The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh. (He laughs.) Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. (Pause.) Let us not speak well of it either. (Pause.) Let us not speak of it at all.

Listen to Part 2
After waiting for a 12 second (Pause.)

Back to Part 1

(Pause. Judiciously.) It is true the population has increased.

VLADIMIR:

(looking at the sky.) Will night never come?

POZZO:

Guess who taught me all these beautiful things. (Pause. Pointing to Lucky.) My Lucky! But for him all my thoughts, all my feelings, would have been of common things. (Pause. With extraordinary vehemence.) Professional worries! (Calmer.) Beauty, grace, truth of the first water, I knew they were all beyond me. So I took a knook.

VLADIMIR:

(startled from his inspection of the sky). A knook?

POZZO:

That was nearly sixty years ago . . . (he consults his watch) . . . yes, nearly sixty. (Drawing himself up proudly.) You wouldn’t think it to look at me, would you? Compared to him I look like a young man, no? (Pause.) Hat! (Lucky puts down the basket and takes off his hat. His long white hair falls about his face. He puts his hat under his arm and picks up the basket.) Now look. (Pozzo takes off his hat. [All four wear bowlers.] He is completely bald. He puts on his hat again.) Did you see?

VLADIMIR:

And now you turn him away? Such an old and faithful servant!

ESTRAGON:

Swine!

Pozzo more and more agitated.

VLADIMIR:

After having sucked all the good out of him you chuck him away like a . . . like a banana skin. Really . . .

POZZO:

(groaning, clutching his head). I can’t bear it . . . any longer . . . the way he goes on . . . you’ve no idea . . . it’s terrible . . . he must go . . . (he waves his arms) . . . I’m going mad . . . (he collapses, his head in his hands) . . . I can’t bear it . . . any longer . . .

Silence. All look at Pozzo.

VLADIMIR:

He can’t bear it.

ESTRAGON:

Any longer.

VLADIMIR:

He’s going mad.

ESTRAGON:

It’s terrible.

VLADIMIR:

(to Lucky). How dare you! It’s abominable! Such a good master! Crucify him like that! After so many years! Really!

POZZO:

(sobbing). He used to be so kind . . . so helpful . . . and entertaining . . . my good angel . . . and now . . . he’s killing me.

ESTRAGON:

( to Vladimir). Does he want to replace him?

VLADIMIR:

What?

ESTRAGON:

Does he want someone to take his place or not?

VLADIMIR:

I don’t think so.

ESTRAGON:

What?

VLADIMIR:

I don’t know.

ESTRAGON:

Ask him.

POZZO:

(calmer). Gentlemen, I don’t know what came over me. Forgive me. Forget all I said. (More and more his old self.) I don’t remember exactly what it was, but you may be sure there wasn’t a word of truth in it. (Drawing himself up, striking his chest.) Do I look like a man that can be made to suffer? Frankly? (He rummages in his pockets.) What have I done with my pipe?

VLADIMIR:

Charming evening we’re having.

ESTRAGON:

Unforgettable.

VLADIMIR:

And it’s not over.

ESTRAGON:

Apparently not.

VLADIMIR:

It’s only beginning.

ESTRAGON:

It’s awful.

VLADIMIR:

Worse than the pantomime.

ESTRAGON:

The circus.

VLADIMIR:

The music-hall.

ESTRAGON:

The circus.

POZZO:

What can I have done with that briar?

ESTRAGON:

He’s a scream. He’s lost his dudeen.

Laughs noisily.

VLADIMIR:

I’ll be back.

He hastens towards the wings.

ESTRAGON:

End of the corridor, on the left.

VLADIMIR:

Keep my seat.

Exit Vladimir.

POZZO:

(on the point of tears). I’ve lost my Kapp and Peterson!

ESTRAGON:

(convulsed with merriment). He’ll be the death of me!

POZZO:

You didn’t see by any chance– (He misses Vladimir.) Oh! He’s gone! Without saying goodbye! How could he! He might have waited!

ESTRAGON:

He would have burst.

POZZO:

Oh! (Pause.) Oh well then of course in that case . . .

ESTRAGON:

Come here.

POZZO:

What for?

ESTRAGON:

You’ll see.

POZZO:

You want me to get up?

ESTRAGON:

Quick! (Pozzo gets up and goes over beside Estragon. Estragon points off.) Look!

POZZO:

(having put on his glasses). Oh I say!

ESTRAGON:

It’s all over.

Enter Vladimir, somber. He shoulders Lucky out of his way, kicks over the stool, comes and goes agitatedly.

POZZO:

He’s not pleased.

ESTRAGON:

(to Vladimir). You missed a treat. Pity.

Vladimir halts, straightens the stool, comes and goes, calmer.

POZZO:

He subsides. (Looking round.) Indeed all subsides. A great calm descends. (Raising his hand.) Listen! Pan sleeps.

VLADIMIR:

Will night never come?

All three look at the sky.

POZZO:

You don’t feel like going until it does?

ESTRAGON:

Well you see—

POZZO:

Why it’s very natural, very natural. I myself in your situation, if I had an appointment with a Godin . . . Godet . . . Godot . . . anyhow, you see who I mean, I’d wait till it was black night before I gave up. (He looks at the stool.) I’d very much like to sit down, but I don’t quite know how to go about it.

ESTRAGON:

Could I be of any help?

POZZO:

If you asked me perhaps.

ESTRAGON:

What?

POZZO:

If you asked me to sit down.

ESTRAGON:

Would that be a help?

POZZO:

I fancy so.

ESTRAGON:

Here we go. Be seated, Sir, I beg of you.

POZZO:

No no, I wouldn’t think of it! (Pause. Aside.) Ask me again.

ESTRAGON:

Come come, take a seat I beseech you, you’ll get pneumonia.

POZZO:

You really think so?

ESTRAGON:

Why it’s absolutely certain.

POZZO:

No doubt you are right. (He sits down.) Done it again! (Pause.) Thank you, dear fellow. (He consults his watch.) But I must really be getting along, if I am to observe my schedule.

VLADIMIR:

Time has stopped.

POZZO:

(cuddling his watch to his ear). Don’t you believe it, Sir, don’t you believe it. (He puts his watch back in his pocket.) Whatever you like, but not that.

ESTRAGON:

(to Pozzo). Everything seems black to him today.

POZZO:

Except the firmament. (He laughs, pleased with this witticism.) But I see what it is, you are not from these parts, you don’t know what our twilights can do. Shall I tell you? (Silence. Estragon is fiddling with his boot again, Vladimir with his hat.) I can’t refuse you. (Vaporizer.) A little attention, if you please. (Vladimir and Estragon continue their fiddling, Lucky is half asleep. Pozzo cracks his whip feebly.) What’s the matter with this whip? (He gets up and cracks it more vigorously, finally with success. Lucky jumps. Vladimir’s hat, Estragon’s boot, Lucky’s hat, fall to the ground. Pozzo throws down the whip.) Worn out, this whip. (He looks at Vladimir and Estragon.) What was I saying?

VLADIMIR:

Let’s go.

ESTRAGON:

But take the weight off your feet, I implore you, you’ll catch your death.

POZZO:

True. (He sits down. To Estragon.) What is your name?

ESTRAGON:

Adam.

POZZO:

(who hasn’t listened). Ah yes! The night. (He raises his head.) But be a little more attentive, for pity’s sake, otherwise we’ll never get anywhere. (He looks at the sky.) Look! (All look at the sky except Lucky who is dozing off again. Pozzo jerks the rope.) Will you look at the sky, pig! (Lucky looks at the sky.) Good, that’s enough. (They stop looking at the sky.) What is there so extraordinary about it? Qua sky. It is pale and luminous like any sky at this hour of the day. (Pause.) In these latitudes. (Pause.) When the weather is fine. (Lyrical.) An hour ago (he looks at his watch, prosaic) roughly (lyrical) after having poured forth even since (he hesitates, prosaic) say ten o’clock in the morning (lyrical) tirelessly torrents of red and white light it begins to lose its effulgence, to grow pale (gesture of the two hands lapsing by stages) pale, ever a little paler, a little paler until (dramatic pause, ample gesture of the two hands flung wide apart) pppfff! finished! it comes to rest. But– (hand raised in admonition)– but behind this veil of gentleness and peace, night is charging (vibrantly) and will burst upon us (snaps his fingers) pop! like that! (his inspiration leaves him) just when we least expect it. (Silence. Gloomily.) That’s how it is on this bitch of an earth.

Long silence.

ESTRAGON:

So long as one knows.

VLADIMIR:

One can bide one’s time.

ESTRAGON:

One knows what to expect.

VLADIMIR:

No further need to worry.

ESTRAGON:

Simply wait.

VLADIMIR:

We’re used to it.

He picks up his hat, peers inside it, shakes it, puts it on.

POZZO:

How did you find me? (Vladimir and Estragon look at him blankly.) Good? Fair? Middling? Poor? Positively bad?

VLADIMIR:

(first to understand). Oh very good, very very good.

POZZO:

(to Estragon). And you, Sir?

ESTRAGON:

Oh tray bong, tray tray tray bong.

POZZO:

(fervently). Bless you, gentlemen, bless you! (Pause.) I have such need of encouragement! (Pause.) I weakened a little towards the end, you didn’t notice?

VLADIMIR:

Oh perhaps just a teeny weeny little bit.

ESTRAGON:

I thought it was intentional.

POZZO:

You see my memory is defective.

Silence.

ESTRAGON:

In the meantime, nothing happens.

POZZO:

You find it tedious?

ESTRAGON:

Somewhat.

POZZO:

(to Vladimir). And you, Sir?

VLADIMIR:

I’ve been better entertained.

Silence. Pozzo struggles inwardly.

POZZO:

Gentlemen, you have been . . . civil to me.

ESTRAGON:

Not at all!

VLADIMIR:

What an idea!

POZZO:

Yes yes, you have been correct. So that I ask myself is there anything I can do in my turn for these honest fellows who are having such a dull, dull time.

ESTRAGON:

Even ten francs would be a help.

VLADIMIR:

We are not beggars!

POZZO:

Is there anything I can do, that’s what I ask myself, to cheer them up? I have given them bones, I have talked to them about this and that, I have explained the twilight, admittedly. But is it enough, that’s what tortures me, is it enough?

ESTRAGON:

Even five.

VLADIMIR:

(to Estragon, indignantly). That’s enough!

ESTRAGON:

I couldn’t accept less.

POZZO:

Is it enough? No doubt. But I am liberal. It’s my nature. This evening. So much the worse for me. (He jerks the rope. Lucky looks at him.) For I shall suffer, no doubt about that. (He picks up the whip.) What do you prefer? Shall we have him dance, or sing, or recite, or think, or—

ESTRAGON:

Who?

POZZO:

Who! You know how to think, you two?

VLADIMIR:

He thinks?

POZZO:

Certainly. Aloud. He even used to think very prettily once, I could listen to him for hours. Now . . . (he shudders). So much the worse for me. Well, would you like him to think something for us?

ESTRAGON:

I’d rather he dance, it’d be more fun.

POZZO:

Not necessarily.

ESTRAGON:

Wouldn’t it, Didi, be more fun?

VLADIMIR:

I’d like well to hear him think.

ESTRAGON:

Perhaps he could dance first and think afterwards, if it isn’t too much to ask him.

VLADIMIR:

(to Pozzo). Would that be possible?

POZZO:

By all means, nothing simpler. It’s the natural order.

He laughs briefly.

VLADIMIR:

Then let him dance.

Silence.

POZZO:

Do you hear, hog?

ESTRAGON:

He never refuses?

POZZO:

He refused once. (Silence.) Dance, misery!

Lucky puts down bag and basket, advances towards front, turns to Pozzo. Lucky dances. He stops.

ESTRAGON:

Is that all?

POZZO:

Encore!

Lucky executes the same movements, stops.

ESTRAGON:

Pooh! I’d do as well myself. (He imitates Lucky, almost falls.) With a little practice.

POZZO:

He used to dance the farandole, the fling, the brawl, the jig, the fandango and even the hornpipe. He capered. For joy. Now that’s the best he can do. Do you know what he calls it?

ESTRAGON:

The Scapegoat’s Agony.

VLADIMIR:

The Hard Stool.

POZZO:

The Net. He thinks he’s entangled in a net.

VLADIMIR:

(squirming like an aesthete). There’s something about it . . .

Lucky makes to return to his burdens.

POZZO:

Woaa!

Lucky stiffens.

ESTRAGON:

Tell us about the time he refused.

POZZO:

With pleasure, with pleasure. (He fumbles in his pockets.) Wait. (He fumbles.) What have I done with my spray? (He fumbles.) Well now isn’t that . . . (He looks up, consternation on his features. Faintly.) I can’t find my pulverizer!

ESTRAGON:

(faintly). My left lung is very weak! (He coughs feebly. In ringing tones.) But my right lung is as sound as a bell!

POZZO:

(normal voice). No matter! What was I saying. (He ponders.) Wait. (Ponders.) Well now isn’t that . . . (He raises his head.) Help me!

ESTRAGON:

Wait!

VLADIMIR:

Wait!

POZZO:

Wait!

All three take off their hats simultaneously, press their hands to their foreheads, concentrate.

ESTRAGON:

(triumphantly). Ah!

VLADIMIR:

He has it.

POZZO:

(impatient). Well?

ESTRAGON:

Why doesn’t he put down his bags?

VLADIMIR:

Rubbish!

POZZO:

Are you sure?

VLADIMIR:

Damn it haven’t you already told us?

POZZO:

I’ve already told you?

ESTRAGON:

He’s already told us?

VLADIMIR:

Anyway he has put them down.

ESTRAGON:

(glance at Lucky). So he has. And what of it?

VLADIMIR:

Since he has put down his bags it is impossible we should have asked why he does not do so.

POZZO:

Stoutly reasoned!

ESTRAGON:

And why has he put them down?

POZZO:

Answer us that.

VLADIMIR:

In order to dance.

ESTRAGON:

True!

POZZO:

True!

Silence. They put on their hats.

ESTRAGON:

Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful!

VLADIMIR:

(to Pozzo). Tell him to think.

POZZO:

Give him his hat.

VLADIMIR:

His hat?

POZZO:

He can’t think without his hat.

VLADIMIR:

(to Estragon). Give him his hat.

ESTRAGON:

Me! After what he did to me! Never!

VLADIMIR:

I’ll give it to him.

He does not move.

ESTRAGON:

(to Pozzo). Tell him to go and fetch it.

POZZO:

It’s better to give it to him.

VLADIMIR:

I’ll give it to him.

He picks up the hat and tenders it at arm’s length to Lucky, who does not move.

POZZO:

You must put it on his head.

ESTRAGON:

(to Pozzo). Tell him to take it.

POZZO:

It’s better to put it on his head.

VLADIMIR:

I’ll put it on his head.

He goes round behind Lucky, approaches him cautiously, puts the hat on his head and recoils smartly. Lucky does not move. Silence.

ESTRAGON:

What’s he waiting for?

POZZO:

Stand back! (Vladimir and Estragon move away from Lucky. Pozzo jerks the rope. Lucky looks at Pozzo.) Think, pig! (Pause. Lucky begins to dance.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Forward! (Lucky advances.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Think!

Silence.

LUCKY:

On the other hand with regard to—

POZZO:

Stop! (Lucky stops.) Back! (Lucky moves back.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Turn! (Lucky turns towards auditorium.) Think!

 

During Lucky’s tirade the others react as follows.

1) Vladimir and Estragon all attention, Pozzo dejected and disgusted.

2) Vladimir and Estragon begin to protest, Pozzo’s sufferings increase.

3) Vladimir and Estragon attentive again, Pozzo more and more agitated and groaning.

4) Vladimir and Estragon protest violently. Pozzo jumps up, pulls on the rope. General outcry. Lucky pulls on the rope, staggers, shouts his text. All three throw themselves on Lucky who struggles and shouts his text.

LUCKY:

Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a personal God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers like the divine Miranda with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged in torment plunged in fire whose fire flames if that continues and who can doubt it will fire the firmament that is to say blast hell to heaven so blue still and calm so calm with a calm which even though intermittent is better than nothing but not so fast and considering what is more that as a result of the labors left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Anthropopopometry of Essy-in-Possy of Testew and Cunard it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt than that which clings to the labors of men that as a result of the labors unfinished of Testew and Cunnard it is established as hereinafter but not so fast for reasons unknown that as a result of the public works of Puncher and Wattmann it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labors of Fartov and Belcher left unfinished for reasons unknown of Testew and Cunard left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in Possy of Testew and Cunard that man in Essy that man in short that man in brief in spite of the strides of alimentation and defecation wastes and pines wastes and pines and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of physical culture the practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding conating camogie skating tennis of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn summer winter winter tennis of all kinds hockey of all sorts penicillin and succedanea in a word I resume flying gliding golf over nine and eighteen holes tennis of all sorts in a word for reasons unknown in Feckham Peckham Fulham Clapham namely concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell fades away I resume Fulham Clapham in a word the dead loss per head since the death of Bishop Berkeley being to the tune of one inch four ounce per head approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures stark naked in the stockinged feet in Connemara in a word for reasons unknown no matter what matter the facts are there and considering what is more much more grave that in the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman it appears what is more much more grave that in the light the light the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of stones in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord six hundred and something the air the earth the sea the earth abode of stones in the great deeps the great cold on sea on land and in the air I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis the facts are there but time will tell I resume alas alas on on in short in fine on on abode of stones who can doubt it I resume but not so fast I resume the skull fading fading fading and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis on on the beard the flames the tears the stones so blue so calm alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the labors abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of stones in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the skull alas the stones Cunard (mêlée, final vociferations)
#



 

. . . tennis . . . the stones . . . so calm . . . Cunard . . . unfinished . . .

POZZO:

His hat!

Vladimir seizes Lucky’s hat. Silence of Lucky. He falls. Silence. Panting of the victors.

ESTRAGON:

Avenged!

Vladimir examines the hat, peers inside it.

POZZO:

Give me that! (He snatches the hat from Vladimir, throws it on the ground, tramples on it.) There’s an end to his thinking!

VLADIMIR:

But will he be able to walk?

POZZO:

Walk or crawl! (He kicks Lucky.) Up pig!

ESTRAGON:

Perhaps he’s dead.

VLADIMIR:

You’ll kill him.

POZZO:

Up scum! (He jerks the rope.) Help me!

VLADIMIR:

How?

POZZO:

Raise him up!

Vladimir and Estragon hoist Lucky to his feet, support him an instant, then let him go. He falls.

ESTRAGON:

He’s doing it on purpose!

POZZO:

You must hold him. (Pause.) Come on, come on, raise him up.

ESTRAGON:

To hell with him!

VLADIMIR:

Come on, once more.

ESTRAGON:

What does he take us for?

They raise Lucky, hold him up.

POZZO:

Don’t let him go! (Vladimir and Estragon totter.) Don’t move! (Pozzo fetches bag and basket and brings them towards Lucky.) Hold him tight! (He puts the bag in Lucky’s hand. Lucky drops it immediately.) Don’t let him go! (He puts back the bag in Lucky’s hand. Gradually, at the feel of the bag, Lucky recovers his senses and his fingers finally close round the handle.) Hold him tight! (As before with basket.) #

<!—

—>



Now! You can let him go. (Vladimir and Estragon move away from Lucky who totters, reels, sags, but succeeds in remaining on his feet, bag and basket in his hands. Pozzo steps back, cracks his whip.) Forward! (Lucky totters forward.) Back! (Lucky totters back.) Turn! (Lucky turns.) Done it! He can walk. (Turning to Vladimir and Estragon.) Thank you, gentlemen, and let me . . . (he fumbles in his pockets) . . . let me wish you . . . (fumbles) . . . wish you . . . (fumbles) . . . what have I done with my watch? (Fumbles.) A genuine half-hunter, gentlemen, with deadbeat escapement! (Sobbing.) Twas my granpa gave it to me! (He searches on the ground, Vladimir and Estragon likewise. Pozzo turns over with his foot the remains of Lucky’s hat.) Well now isn’t that just—

VLADIMIR:

Perhaps it’s in your fob.

POZZO:

Wait! (He doubles up in an attempt to apply his ear to his stomach, listens. Silence.) I hear nothing. (He beckons them to approach, Vladimir and Estragon go over to him, bend over his stomach.) Surely one should hear the tick-tick.

VLADIMIR:

Silence!

All listen, bent double. #



ESTRAGON:

I hear something.

POZZO:

Where?

VLADIMIR:

It’s the heart.

POZZO:

(disappointed). Damnation!

VLADIMIR:

Silence!

ESTRAGON:

Perhaps it has stopped.

They straighten up.

POZZO:

Which of you smells so bad?

ESTRAGON:

He has stinking breath and I have stinking feet.

POZZO:

I must go.

ESTRAGON:

And your half-hunter?

POZZO:

I must have left it at the manor.

Silence.

ESTRAGON:

Then adieu.

POZZO:

Adieu.

VLADIMIR:

Adieu.

POZZO:

Adieu.

Silence. No one moves.

VLADIMIR:

Adieu.

POZZO:

Adieu.

ESTRAGON:

Adieu.

Silence.

POZZO:

And thank you.

VLADIMIR:

Thank you.

POZZO:

Not at all.

ESTRAGON:

Yes yes.

POZZO:

No no.

VLADIMIR:

Yes yes.

ESTRAGON:

No no.

Silence.

POZZO:

I don’t seem to be able . . . (long hesitation) . . . to depart.

ESTRAGON:

Such is life.

Pozzo turns, moves away from Lucky towards the wings, paying out the rope as he goes.

VLADIMIR:

You’re going the wrong way.

POZZO:

I need a running start. (Having come to the end of the rope, i.e., off stage, he stops, turns and cries.) Stand back! (Vladimir and Estragon stand back, look towards Pozzo. Crack of whip.) On! On!

ESTRAGON:

On!

VLADIMIR:

On!

Lucky moves off.

POZZO:

Faster! (He appears, crosses the stage preceded by Lucky. Vladimir and Estragon wave their hats. Exit Lucky.) On! On! (On the point of disappearing in his turn he stops and turns. The rope tautens. Noise of Lucky falling off.) Stool! (Vladimir fetches stool and gives it to Pozzo who throws it to Lucky.) Adieu!

VLADIMIR and ESTRAGON:

(waving). Adieu! Adieu!

POZZO:

Up! Pig! (Noise of Lucky getting up.) On! (Exit Pozzo.) Faster! On! Adieu! Pig! Yip! Adieu!

Long silence.

VLADIMIR:

That passed the time.

ESTRAGON:

It would have passed in any case.

VLADIMIR:

Yes, but not so rapidly.

Pause.

ESTRAGON:

What do we do now?

VLADIMIR:

I don’t know.

ESTRAGON:

Let’s go.

VLADIMIR:

We can’t.

ESTRAGON:

Why not?

VLADIMIR:

We’re waiting for Godot.

ESTRAGON:

(despairingly). Ah!

Pause.

VLADIMIR:

How they’ve changed!

ESTRAGON:

Who?

VLADIMIR:

Those two.

ESTRAGON:

That’s the idea, let’s make a little conversation.

VLADIMIR:

Haven’t they?

ESTRAGON:

What?

VLADIMIR:

Changed.

ESTRAGON:

Very likely. They all change. Only we can’t.

VLADIMIR:

Likely! It’s certain. Didn’t you see them?

ESTRAGON:

I suppose I did. But I don’t know them.

VLADIMIR:

Yes you do know them.

ESTRAGON:

No I don’t know them.

VLADIMIR:

We know them, I tell you. You forget everything. (Pause. To himself.) Unless they’re not the same . . .

ESTRAGON:

Why didn’t they recognize us then?

VLADIMIR:

That means nothing. I too pretended not to recognize them. And then nobody ever recognizes us.

ESTRAGON:

Forget it. What we need– Ow! (Vladimir does not react.) Ow!

VLADIMIR:

(to himself). Unless they’re not the same . . .

ESTRAGON:

Didi! It’s the other foot!

He goes hobbling towards the mound.

VLADIMIR:

Unless they’re not the same . . .

BOY:

(off). Mister!

Estragon halts. Both look towards the voice.

ESTRAGON:

Off we go again.

VLADIMIR:

Approach, my child.

Enter Boy, timidly. He halts.

BOY:

Mister Albert . . . ?

VLADIMIR:

Yes.

ESTRAGON:

What do you want?

VLADIMIR:

Approach!

The Boy does not move.

ESTRAGON:

(forcibly). Approach when you’re told, can’t you?

The Boy advances timidly, halts.

VLADIMIR:

What is it?

BOY:

Mr. Godot . . .

VLADIMIR:

Obviously . . . (Pause.) Approach.

ESTRAGON:

(violently). Will you approach! (The Boy advances timidly.) What kept you so late?

VLADIMIR:

You have a message from Mr. Godot?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

Well, what is it?

ESTRAGON:

What kept you so late?

The Boy looks at them in turn, not knowing to which he should reply.

VLADIMIR:

(to Estragon). Let him alone.

ESTRAGON:

(violently). You let me alone. (Advancing, to the Boy.) Do you know what time it is?

BOY:

(recoiling). It’s not my fault, Sir.

ESTRAGON:

And whose is it? Mine?

BOY:

I was afraid, Sir.

ESTRAGON:

Afraid of what? Of us? (Pause.) Answer me!

VLADIMIR:

I know what it is, he was afraid of the others.

ESTRAGON:

How long have you been here?

BOY:

A good while, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

You were afraid of the whip?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

The roars?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

The two big men.

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

Do you know them?

BOY:

No Sir.

VLADIMIR:

Are you a native of these parts? (Silence.) Do you belong to these parts?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

ESTRAGON:

That’s all a pack of lies. (Shaking the Boy by the arm.) Tell us the truth!

BOY:

(trembling). But it is the truth, Sir!

VLADIMIR:

Will you let him alone! What’s the matter with you? #



(Estragon releases the Boy, moves away, covering his face with his hands. Vladimir and the Boy observe him. Estragon drops his hands. His face is convulsed.) What’s the matter with you?

ESTRAGON:

I’m unhappy.

VLADIMIR:

Not really! Since when?

ESTRAGON:

I’d forgotten.

VLADIMIR:

Extraordinary the tricks that memory plays! (Estragon tries to speak, renounces, limps to his place, sits down and begins to take off his boots. To Boy.) Well?

BOY:

Mr. Godot—

VLADIMIR:

I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?

BOY:

I don’t know, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

You don’t know me?

BOY:

No Sir.

VLADIMIR:

It wasn’t you came yesterday?

BOY:

No Sir.

VLADIMIR:

This is your first time?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

Words words. (Pause.) Speak.

BOY:

(in a rush). Mr. Godot told me to tell you he won’t come this evening but surely tomorrow.

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

Is that all?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

You work for Mr. Godot?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

What do you do?

BOY:

I mind the goats, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

Is he good to you?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

He doesn’t beat you?

BOY:

No Sir, not me.

VLADIMIR:

Whom does he beat?

BOY:

He beats my brother, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

Ah, you have a brother?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

What does he do?

BOY:

He minds the sheep, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

And why doesn’t he beat you?

BOY:

I don’t know, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

He must be fond of you.

BOY:

I don’t know, Sir.

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

Does he give you enough to eat? (The Boy hesitates.) Does he feed you well?

BOY:

Fairly well, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

You’re not unhappy? (The Boy hesitates.) Do you hear me?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

Well?

BOY:

I don’t know, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

You don’t know if you’re unhappy or not?

BOY:

No Sir.

VLADIMIR:

You’re as bad as myself. (Silence.) Where do you sleep?

BOY:

In the loft, Sir.

VLADIMIR:

With your brother?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

VLADIMIR:

In the hay?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

All right, you may go.

BOY:

What am I to tell Mr. Godot, Sir?

VLADIMIR:

Tell him . . . (he hesitates) . . . tell him you saw us. (Pause.) You did see us, didn’t you?

BOY:

Yes Sir.

He steps back, hesitates, turns and exit running. The light suddenly fails. In a moment it is night. The moon rises at back, mounts in the sky, stands still, shedding a pale light on the scene.

VLADIMIR:

At last! (Estragon gets up and goes towards Vladimir, a boot in each hand. He puts them down at edge of stage, straightens and contemplates the moon.) #



What are you doing?

ESTRAGON:

Pale for weariness.

VLADIMIR:

Eh?

ESTRAGON:

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the likes of us.

VLADIMIR:

Your boots, what are you doing with your boots?

ESTRAGON:

(turning to look at the boots). I’m leaving them there. (Pause.) Another will come, just as . . . as . . . as me, but with smaller feet, and they’ll make him happy.

VLADIMIR:

But you can’t go barefoot!

ESTRAGON:

Christ did.

VLADIMIR:

Christ! What has Christ got to do with it. You’re not going to compare yourself to Christ!

ESTRAGON:

All my life I’ve compared myself to him.

VLADIMIR:

But where he lived it was warm, it was dry!

ESTRAGON:

Yes. And they crucified quick.

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

We’ve nothing more to do here.

ESTRAGON:

Nor anywhere else.

VLADIMIR:

Ah Gogo, don’t go on like that. Tomorrow everything will be better.

ESTRAGON:

How do you make that out?

VLADIMIR:

Did you not hear what the child said?

ESTRAGON:

No.

VLADIMIR:

He said that Godot was sure to come tomorrow. (Pause.) What do you say to that?

ESTRAGON:

Then all we have to do is to wait on here.

VLADIMIR:

Are you mad? We must take cover. (He takes Estragon by the arm.) Come on.

He draws Estragon after him. Estragon yields, then resists. They halt.

ESTRAGON:

(looking at the tree). Pity we haven’t got a bit of rope.

VLADIMIR:

Come on. It’s cold.

He draws Estragon after him. As before.

ESTRAGON:

Remind me to bring a bit of rope tomorrow.

VLADIMIR:

Yes. Come on.

He draws him after him. As before.

ESTRAGON:

How long have we been together all the time now?

VLADIMIR:

I don’t know. Fifty years maybe.

ESTRAGON:

Do you remember the day I threw myself into the Rhone?

VLADIMIR:

We were grape harvesting.

ESTRAGON:

You fished me out.

VLADIMIR:

That’s all dead and buried.

ESTRAGON:

My clothes dried in the sun.

VLADIMIR:

There’s no good harking back on that. Come on.

He draws him after him. As before.

ESTRAGON:

Wait!

VLADIMIR:

I’m cold!

ESTRAGON:

Wait! (He moves away from Vladimir.) I sometimes wonder if we wouldn’t have been better off alone, each one for himself. (He crosses the stage and sits down on the mound.) We weren’t made for the same road.

VLADIMIR:

(without anger). It’s not certain.

ESTRAGON:

No, nothing is certain.

Vladimir slowly crosses the stage and sits down beside Estragon. #



VLADIMIR:

We can still part, if you think it would be better.

ESTRAGON:

It’s not worthwhile now.

Silence.

VLADIMIR:

No, it’s not worthwhile now.

Silence.

ESTRAGON:

Well, shall we go?

VLADIMIR:

Yes, let’s go.

They do not move.

Curtain.



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Image from Irish Repertory Theatre







Bare interior.

Grey Light.

Left and right back, high up, two small windows, curtains drawn.

Front right, a door. Hanging near door, its face to wall, a picture.

Front left, touching each other, covered with an old sheet, two ashbins.

Center, in an armchair on castors, covered with an old sheet, Hamm.

Motionless by the door, his eyes fixed on Hamm, Clov. Very red face.

Brief tableau.

Clov goes and stands under window left. Stiff, staggering walk. He looks up at window left. He turns and looks at window right. He goes and stands under window right. He looks up at window right. He turns and looks at window left. He goes out, comes back immediately with a small step-ladder, carries it over and sets it down under window left, gets up on it, draws back curtain. He gets down, takes six steps (for example) towards window right, goes back for ladder, carries it over and sets it down under window right, gets up on it, draws back curtain. He gets down, takes three steps towards window left, goes back for ladder, carries it over and sets it down under window left, gets up on it, looks out of window. Brief laugh. He gets down, takes one step towards window right, goes back for ladder, carries it over and sets it down under window right, gets up on it, looks out of window. Brief laugh. He gets down, goes with ladder towards ashbins, halts, turns, carries back ladder and sets it down under window right, goes to ashbins, removes sheet covering them, folds it over his arm. He raises one lid, stoops and looks into bin. Brief laugh. He closes lid. Same with other bin. He goes to Hamm, removes sheet covering him, folds it over his arm. In a dressing-gown, a stiff toque on his head, a large blood-stained handkerchief over his face, a whistle hanging from his neck, a rug over his knees, thick socks on his feet, Hamm seems to be asleep. Clov looks him over. Brief laugh. He goes to door, halts, turns towards auditorium.

CLOV (fixed gaze, tonelessly):

Finished, it’s finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished.

(Pause.)

Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there’s a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap.

(Pause.)

I can’t be punished any more.

(Pause.)

I’ll go now to my kitchen, ten feet by ten feet by ten feet, and wait for him to whistle me.

(Pause.)

Nice dimensions, nice proportions, I’ll lean on the table, and look at the wall, and wait for him to whistle me.

(He remains a moment motionless, then goes out. He comes back immediately, goes to window right, takes up the ladder and carries it out. Pause. Hamm stirs. He yawns under the handkerchief. He removes the handkerchief from his face. Very red face. Glasses with black lenses.)

HAMM:

Me�

(he yawns)

�to play.

(He takes off his glasses, wipes his eyes, his face, the glasses, puts them on again, folds the handkerchief and puts it back neatly in the breast pocket of his dressing gown. He clears his throat, joins the tips of his fingers.)

Can there be misery�

(he yawns)

�loftier than mine? No doubt. Formerly. But now?

(Pause.)

My father?

(Pause.)

My mother?

(Pause.)

My… dog?

(Pause.)

Oh I am willing to believe they suffer as much as such creatures can suffer. But does that mean their sufferings equal mine? No doubt.

(Pause.)

No, all is a�

(he yawns)

�bsolute,

(proudly)

the bigger a man is the fuller he is.

(Pause. Gloomily.)

And the emptier.

(He sniffs.)

Clov!

(Pause.)

No, alone.

(Pause.)

What dreams! Those forests!

(Pause.)

Enough, it’s time it ended, in the shelter, too.

(Pause.)

And yet I hesitate, I hesitate to… to end. Yes, there it is, it’s time it ended and yet I hesitate to�

(He yawns.)

�to end.

(Yawns.)

God, I’m tired, I’d be better off in bed.

(He whistles. Enter Clov immediately. He halts beside the chair.)

You pollute the air!

(Pause.)

Get me ready, I’m going to bed.

CLOV:

I’ve just got you up.

HAMM:

And what of it?

CLOV:

I can’t be getting you up and putting you to bed every five minutes, I have things to do.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Did you ever see my eyes?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

Did you never have the curiosity, while I was sleeping, to take off my glasses and look at my eyes?

CLOV:

Pulling back the lids?

(Pause.)

No.

HAMM:

One of these days I’ll show them to you.

(Pause.)

It seems they’ve gone all white.

(Pause.)

What time is it?

CLOV:

The same as usual.

HAMM (gesture towards window right):

Have you looked?

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Well?

CLOV:

Zero.

HAMM:

It’d need to rain.

CLOV:

It won’t rain.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Apart from that, how do you feel?

CLOV:

I don’t complain.

HAMM:

You feel normal?

CLOV (irritably):

I tell you I don’t complain.

HAMM:

I feel a little strange.

(Pause.)

Clov!

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Have you not had enough?

CLOV:

Yes!

(Pause.)

Of what?

HAMM:

Of this… this… thing.

CLOV:

I always had.

(Pause.)

Not you?

HAMM (gloomily):

Then there’s no reason for it to change.

CLOV:

It may end.

(Pause.)

All life long the same questions, the same answers.

HAMM:

Get me ready.

(Clov does not move.)

Go and get the sheet.

(Clov does not move.)

Clov!

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

I’ll give you nothing more to eat.

CLOV:

Then we’ll die.

HAMM:

I’ll give you just enough to keep you from dying. You’ll be hungry all the time.

CLOV:

Then we won’t die.

(Pause.)

I’ll go and get the sheet.

(He goes towards the door.)

HAMM:

No!

(Clov halts.)

I’ll give you one biscuit per day.

(Pause.)

One and a half.

(Pause.)

Why do you stay with me?

CLOV:

Why do you keep me?

HAMM:

There’s no one else.

CLOV:

There’s nowhere else.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

You’re leaving me all the same.

CLOV:

I’m trying.

HAMM:

You don’t love me.

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

You loved me once.

CLOV:

Once!

HAMM:

I’ve made you suffer too much.

(Pause.)

Haven’t I?

CLOV:

It’s not that.

HAMM:

I haven’t made you suffer too much?

CLOV:

Yes!

HAMM (relieved):

Ah, you gave me a fright!

(Pause. Coldly)

Forgive me.

(Pause. Louder.)

I said, Forgive me.

CLOV:

I heard you.

(Pause.)

Have you bled?

HAMM:

Less.

(Pause.)

Is it not time for my pain-killer?

CLOV:

No.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

How are your eyes?

CLOV:

Bad.

HAMM:

How are your legs?

CLOV:

Bad.

HAMM:

But you can move.

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM (violently):

Then move!

(Clov goes to back wall, leans against it with his forehead and hands.)

Where are you?

CLOV:

Here.

HAMM:

Come back!

(Clov returns to his place beside the chair.)

Where are you?

CLOV:

Here.

HAMM:

Why don’t you kill me?

CLOV:

I don’t know the combination of the cupboard.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Go and get two bicycle-wheels.

CLOV:

There are no more bicycle-wheels.

HAMM:

What have you done with your bicycle?

CLOV:

I never had a bicycle.

HAMM:

The thing is impossible.

CLOV:

When there were still bicycles I wept to have one. I crawled at your feet. You told me to go to hell. Now there are none.

HAMM:

And your rounds? When you inspected my paupers. Always on foot?

CLOV:

Sometimes on horse.

(The lid of one of the bins lifts and the hands of Nagg appear,

gripping the rim. Then his head emerges. Nightcap. Very white face.

Nagg yawns, then listens.)

I’ll leave you, I have things to do.

HAMM:

In your kitchen?

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Outside of here it’s death.

(Pause.)

All right, be off.

(Exit Clov. Pause.)

We’re getting on.

NAGG:

Me pap!

HAMM:

Accursed progenitor!

NAGG:

Me pap!

HAMM:

The old folks at home! No decency left! Guzzle, guzzle, that’s all they think of.

(He whistles. Enter Clov. He halts beside the chair.)

Well! I thought you were leaving me.

CLOV:

Oh not just yet, not just yet.

NAGG:

Me pap!

HAMM:

Give him his pap.

CLOV:

There’s no more pap.

HAMM (to Nagg):

Do you hear that? There’s no more pap. You’ll never get any more pap.

NAGG:

I want me pap!

HAMM:

Give him a biscuit.

(Exit Clov.)

Accursed fornicator! How are your stumps?

NAGG:

Never mind me stumps.

(Enter Clov with biscuit.)

CLOV:

I’m back again, with the biscuit.

(He gives biscuit to Nagg who fingers it, sniffs it.)

NAGG (plaintively):

What is it?

CLOV:

Spratt’s medium.

NAGG (as before):

It’s hard! I can’t!

HAMM:

Bottle him!

(Clov pushes Nagg back into the bin, closes the lid.)

CLOV (returning to his place beside the chair):

If age but knew!

HAMM:

Sit on him!

CLOV:

I can’t sit.

HAMM:

True. And I can’t stand.

CLOV:

So it is.

HAMM:

Every man his specialty.

(Pause.)

No phone calls?

(Pause.)

Don’t we laugh?

CLOV (after reflection):

I don’t feel like it.

HAMM (after reflection):

Nor I.

(Pause.)

Clov!

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Nature has forgotten us.

CLOV:

There’s no more nature.

HAMM:

No more nature! You exaggerate.

CLOV:

In the vicinity.

HAMM:

But we breathe, we change! We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom! Our ideals!

CLOV:

Then she hasn’t forgotten us.

HAMM:

But you say there is none.

CLOV (sadly):

No one that ever lived ever thought so crooked as we.

HAMM:

We do what we can.

CLOV:

We shouldn’t.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

You’re a bit of all right, aren’t you?

CLOV:

A smithereen.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

This is slow work.

(Pause.)

Is it not time for my pain-killer?

CLOV:

No.

(Pause.)

I’ll leave you, I have things to do.

HAMM:

In your kitchen?

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

What, I’d like to know.

CLOV:

I look at the wall.

HAMM:

The wall! And what do you see on your wall? Mene, mene? Naked bodies?

CLOV:

I see my light dying.

HAMM:

Your light dying! Listen to that! Well, it can die just as well here, your light. Take a look at me and then come back and tell me what you think of your light.

(Pause.)

CLOV:

You shouldn’t speak to me like that.

(Pause.)

HAMM (coldly):

Forgive me.

(Pause. Louder.)

I said, Forgive me.

CLOV:

I heard you.

(The lid of Nagg’s bin lifts. His hands appear, gripping the rim. Then his head emerges. In his mouth the biscuit. He listens.)

HAMM:

Did your seeds come up?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

Did you scratch round them to see if they had sprouted?

CLOV:

They haven’t sprouted.

HAMM:

Perhaps it’s still too early.

CLOV:

If they were going to sprout they would have sprouted.

(Violently.)

They’ll never sprout!

(Pause. Nagg takes biscuit in his hand.)

HAMM:

This is not much fun.

(Pause.)

But that’s always the way at the end of the day, isn’t it, Clov?

CLOV:

Always.

HAMM:

It’s the end of the day like any other day, isn’t it, Clov?

CLOV:

Looks like it.

(Pause.)

HAMM (anguished):

What’s happening, what’s happening?

CLOV:

Something is taking its course.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

All right, be off.

(He leans back in his chair, remains motionless. Clov does not move, heaves a great groaning sigh. Hamm sits up.)

I thought I told you to be off.

CLOV:

I’m trying.

(He goes to the door, halts.)

Ever since I was whelped.

(Exit Clov.)

HAMM:

We’re getting on.

(He leans back in his chair, remains motionless. Nagg knocks on the lid of the other bin. Pause. He knocks harder. The lid lifts and the hands of Nell appear, gripping the rim. Then her head emerges. Lace cap. Very white face.)

NELL:

What is it, my pet?

(Pause.)

Time for love?

NAGG:

Were you asleep?

NELL:

Oh no!

NAGG:

Kiss me.

NELL:

We can’t.

NAGG:

Try.

(Their heads strain towards each other, fail to meet, fall apart again.)

NELL:

Why this farce, day after day?

(Pause.)

NAGG:

I’ve lost me tooth.

NELL:

When?

NAGG:

I had it yesterday.

NELL (elegiac):

Ah yesterday.

(They turn painfully towards each other.)

NAGG:

Can you see me?

NELL:

Hardly. And you?

NAGG:

What?

NELL:

Can you see me?

NAGG:

Hardly.

NELL:

So much the better, so much the better.

NAGG:

Don’t say that.

(Pause.)

Our sight has failed.

NELL:

Yes.

(Pause. They turn away from each other.)

NAGG:

Can you hear me?

NELL:

Yes. And you?

NAGG:

Yes.

(Pause.)

Our hearing hasn’t failed.

NELL:

Our what?

NAGG:

Our hearing.

NELL:

No.

(Pause.)

Have you anything else to say to me?

NAGG:

Do you remember�

NELL:

No.

NAGG:

When we crashed on our tandem and lost our shanks.

(They laugh heartily.)

NELL:

It was in the Ardennes.

(They laugh less heartily.)

NAGG:

On the road to Sedan.

(They laugh still less heartily.)

Are you cold?

NELL:

Yes, perished, and you?

NAGG:

(Pause.)

I’m freezing.

(Pause.)

Do you want to go in?

NELL:

Yes.

NAGG:

Then go in.

(Nell does not move.)

Why don’t you go in?

NELL:

I don’t know.

(Pause.)

NAGG:

Has he changed your sawdust?

NELL:

It isn’t sawdust.

(Pause. Warily.)

Can you not be a little accurate, Nagg?

NAGG:

Your sand then. It’s not important.

NELL:

It is important.

(Pause.)

NAGG:

It was sawdust once.

NELL:

Once!

NAGG:

And now it’s sand.

(Pause.)

From the shore.

(Pause. Impatiently.)

Now it’s sand he fetches from the shore.

NELL:

Now it’s sand.

NAGG:

Has he changed yours?

NELL:

No.

NAGG:

Nor mine.

(Pause.)

I won’t have it!

(Pause. Holding up the biscuit.)

Do you want a bit?

NELL:

No.

(Pause.)

Of what?

NAGG:

Biscuit. I’ve kept you half.

(He looks at the biscuit. Proudly.)

Three quarters. For you. Here.

(He proffers the biscuit.)

No?

(Pause.)

Do you not feel well?

HAMM (wearily):

Quiet, quiet, you’re keeping me awake.

(Pause.)

Talk softer.

(Pause.)

If I could sleep I might make love. I’d go into the woods. My eyes would see… the sky, the earth. I’d run, run, they wouldn’t catch me.

(Pause.)

Nature!

(Pause.)

There’s something dripping in my head.

(Pause.)

A heart, a heart in my head.

(Pause.)

NAGG:

Do you hear him? A heart in his head!

(He chuckles cautiously.)

NELL:

One mustn’t laugh at those things, Nagg. Why must you always laugh at them?

NAGG:

Not so loud!

NELL (without lowering her voice):

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. But�

NAGG (shocked):

Oh!

NELL:

Yes, yes, it’s the most comical thing in the world. And we laugh, we laugh, with a will, in the beginning. But it’s always the same thing. Yes, it’s like the funny story we have heard too often, we still find it funny, but we don’t laugh any more.

(Pause.)

Have you anything else to say to me?

NAGG:

No.

NELL:

Are you quite sure?

(Pause.)

Then I’ll leave you.

NAGG:

Do you not want your biscuit?

(Pause.)

I’ll keep it for you.

(Pause.)

I thought you were going to leave me.

NELL:

I am going to leave you.

NAGG:

Could you give me a scratch before you go?

NELL:

No.

(Pause.)

Where?

NAGG:

In the back.

NELL:

No.

(Pause.)

Rub yourself against the rim.

NAGG:

It’s lower down. In the hollow.

NELL:

What hollow?

NAGG:

The hollow!

(Pause.)

Could you not?

(Pause.)

Yesterday you scratched me there.

NELL (elegiac):

Ah yesterday.

NAGG:

Could you not?

(Pause.)

Would you like me to scratch you?

(Pause.)

Are you crying again?

NELL:

I was trying.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Perhaps it’s a little vein.

(Pause.)

NAGG:

What was that he said?

NELL:

Perhaps it’s a little vein.

NAGG:

What does that mean?

(Pause.)

That means nothing.

(Pause.)

Shall I tell you the story of the tailor?

NELL:

No.

(Pause.)

What for?

NAGG:

To cheer you up.

NELL:

It’s not funny.

NAGG:

It always made you laugh.

(Pause.)

The first time I thought you’d die.

NELL:

It was on Lake Como.

(Pause.)

One April afternoon.

(Pause.)

Can you believe it?

NAGG:

What?

NELL:

That we once went out rowing on Lake Como.

(Pause.)

One April afternoon.

NAGG:

We had got engaged the day before.

NELL:

Engaged!

NAGG:

You were in such fits that we capsized. By rights we should have been drowned.

NELL:

It was because I felt happy.

NAGG (indignant):

It was not, it was not, it was my STORY and nothing else. Happy! Don’t you laugh at it still? Every time I tell it. Happy!

NELL:

It was deep, deep. And you could see down to the bottom. So white. So clean.

NAGG:

Let me tell it again.

(Raconteur’s voice.)

An Englishman, needing a pair of striped trousers in a hurry for the New Year festivities, goes to his tailor who takes his measurements.

(Tailor’s voice.)

“That’s the lot, come back in four days, I’ll have it ready.” Good. Four days later.

(Tailor’s voice.)

“So sorry, come back in a week, I’ve made a mess of the seat.” Good, that’s all right, a neat seat can be very ticklish. A week later.

(Tailor’s voice.)

“Frightfully sorry, come back in ten days, I’ve made a hash of the crotch.” Good, can’t be helped, a snug crotch is always a teaser. Ten days later.

(Tailor’s voice.)

“Dreadfully sorry, come back in a fortnight, I’ve made a balls of the fly.” Good, at a pinch, a smart fly is a stiff proposition.

(Pause. Normal voice.)

I never told it worse.

(Pause. Gloomy.)

I tell this story worse and worse.

(Pause. Raconteur’s voice.)

Well, to make it short, the bluebells are blowing and he ballockses the buttonholes.

(Customer’s voice.)

“God damn you to hell, Sir, no, it’s indecent, there are limits! In six days, do you hear me, six days, God made the world. Yes Sir, no less Sir, the WORLD! And you are not bloody well capable of making me a pair of trousers in three months!”

(Tailor’s voice, scandalized.)

“But my dear Sir, my dear Sir, look�

(disdainful gesture, disgustedly)

�at the world�

(Pause.)

and look�

(loving gesture, proudly)

�at my TROUSERS!”

(Pause. He looks at Nell who has remained impassive, her eyes unseeing. He breaks into a high forced laugh, cuts it short, pokes his head towards Nell, launches his laugh again.)

HAMM:

Silence!

(Nagg starts, cuts short his laugh.)

NELL:

You could see down to the bottom.

HAMM (exasperated):

Have you not finished? Will you never finish?

(With sudden fury.)

Will this never finish?

(Nagg disappears into his bin, closes the lid behind him. Nell does not move. Frenziedly.)

My kingdom for a nightman!

(He whistles. Enter Clov.)

Clear away this muck! Chuck it in the sea!

(Clov goes to bins, halts.)

NELL:

So white.

HAMM:

What? What’s she blathering about?

(Clov stoops, takes Nell’s hand, feels her pulse.)

NELL (to Clov):

Desert!

(Clov lets go her hand, pushes her back in the bin, closes the lid.)

CLOV (returning to his place beside the chair):

She has no pulse.

HAMM:

What was she drivelling about?

CLOV:

She told me to go away, into the desert.

HAMM:

Damn busybody! Is that all?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

What else?

CLOV:

I didn’t understand.

HAMM:

Have you bottled her?

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Are they both bottled?

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Screw down the lids.

(Clov goes towards door.)

Time enough.

(Clov halts.)

My anger subsides, I’d like to pee.

CLOV (with alacrity):

I’ll go get the catheter.

(He goes towards door.)

HAMM:

Time enough.

(Clov halts.)

Give me my pain killer.

CLOV:

It’s too soon.

(Pause.)

It’s too soon on top of your tonic, it wouldn’t act.

HAMM:

In the morning they brace you up and in the evening they calm you down. Unless it’s the other way round.

(Pause.)

That old doctor, he’s dead naturally?

CLOV:

He wasn’t old.

HAMM:

But he’s dead?

CLOV:

Naturally.

(Pause.)

You ask me that?

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Take me for a little turn.

(Clov goes behind the chair and pushes it forward.)

Not too fast!

(Clov pushes chair.)

Right round the world!

(Clov pushes chair.)

Hug the walls, then back to the center again.

(Clov pushes chair.)

I was right in the center, wasn’t I?

CLOV (pushing):

Yes.

HAMM:

We’d need a proper wheel-chair. With big wheels. Bicycle wheels!

(Pause.)

Are you hugging?

CLOV (pushing):

Yes.

HAMM (groping for wall):

It’s a lie! Why do you lie to me?

CLOV (bearing closer to wall):

There! There!

HAMM:

Stop!

(Clov stops chair close to back wall. Hamm lays his hand against wall.)

Old wall!

(Pause.)

Beyond is the… other hell.

(Pause. Violently.)

Closer! Closer! Up against!

CLOV:

Take away your hand.

(Hamm withdraws his hand. Clov rams chair against wall.)

There!

(Hamm leans towards wall, applies his ear to it.)

HAMM:

Do you hear?

(He strikes the wall with his knuckles.)

Do you hear? Hollow bricks!

(He strikes again.)

All that’s hollow!

(Pause. He straightens up. Violently.)

That’s enough. Back!

CLOV:

We haven’t done the round.

HAMM:

Back to my place!

(Clov pushes chair back to center.)

Is that my place?

CLOV:

Yes, that’s your place.

HAMM:

Am I right in the center?

CLOV:

I’ll measure it.

HAMM:

More or less! More or less!

CLOV (moving chair slightly):

There!

HAMM:

I’m more or less in the center?

CLOV:

I’d say so.

HAMM:

You’d say so! Put me right in the center!

CLOV:

I’ll go and get the tape.

HAMM:

Roughly! Roughly!

(Clov moves chair slightly.)

Bang in the center!

CLOV:

There!

(Pause.)

HAMM:

I feel a little too far to the left.

(Clov moves chair slightly.)

Now I feel a little too far to the right.

(Clov moves chair slightly.)

I feel a little too far forward.

(Clov moves chair slightly.)

Now I feel a little too far back.

(Clov moves chair slightly.)

Don’t stay there.

(i.e. behind the chair)

you give me the shivers.

(Clov returns to his place beside the chair.)

CLOV:

If I could kill him I’d die happy.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

What’s the weather like?

CLOV:

As usual.

HAMM:

Look at the earth.

CLOV:

I’ve looked.

HAMM:

With the glass?

CLOV:

No need of the glass.

HAMM:

Look at it with the glass.

CLOV:

I’ll go and get the glass.

(Exit Clov.)

HAMM:

No need of the glass!

(Enter Clov with telescope.)

CLOV:

I’m back again, with the glass.

(He goes to window right, looks up at it.)

I need the steps.

HAMM:

Why? Have you shrunk?

(Exit Clov with telescope.)

I don’t like that, I don’t like that.

(Enter Clov with ladder, but without telescope.)

CLOV:

I’m back again, with the steps.

(He sets down ladder under window right, gets up on it, realizes he has not the telescope, gets down.)

I need the glass.

(He goes towards door.)

HAMM (violently):

But you have the glass!

CLOV (halting, violently):

No, I haven’t the glass!

(Exit Clov.)

HAMM:

This is deadly.

(Enter Clov with the telescope. He goes towards ladder.)

CLOV:

Things are livening up.

(He gets up on ladder, raises the telescope, lets it fall.)

I did it on purpose.

(He gets down, picks up the telescope, turns it on auditorium.)

I see… a multitude… in transports… of joy.

(Pause. He lowers telescope, looks at it.)

That’s what I call a magnifier.

(He turns toward Hamm.)

Well? Don’t we laugh?

HAMM (after reflection):

I don’t.

CLOV (after reflection):

Nor I.

(He gets up on ladder, turns the telescope on the without.)

Let’s see.

(He looks, moving the telescope.)

Zero…

(he looks)

…zero…

(he looks)

…and zero.

HAMM:

Nothing stirs. All is�

CLOV:

Zer�

HAMM (violently):

Wait till you’re spoken to!

(Normal voice.)

All is… all is… all is what?

(Violently.)

All is what?

CLOV:

What all is? In a word? Is that what you want to know? Just a moment.

(He turns the telescope on the without, looks, lowers the telescope, turns towards Hamm.)

Corpsed.

(Pause.)

Well? Content?

HAMM:

Look at the sea.

CLOV:

It’s the same.

HAMM:

Look at the ocean!

(Clov gets down, takes a few steps towards window left, goes back for ladder, carries it over and sets it down under window left, gets up on it, turns the telescope on the without, looks at length. He starts, lowers the telescope, examines it, turns it again on the without.)

CLOV:

Never seen anything like that!

HAMM (anxious):

What? A sail? A fin? Smoke?

CLOV (looking):

The light is sunk.

HAMM (relieved):

Pah! We all knew that.

CLOV (looking):

There was a bit left.

HAMM:

The base.

CLOV (looking):

Yes.

HAMM:

And now?

CLOV (looking):

All gone.

HAMM:

No gulls?

CLOV (looking):

Gulls!

HAMM:

And the horizon? Nothing on the horizon?

CLOV (lowering the telescope, turning towards Hamm, exasperated):

What in God’s name could there be on the horizon?

(Pause.)

HAMM:

The waves, how are the waves?

CLOV:

The waves?

(He turns the telescope on the waves.)

Lead.

HAMM:

And the sun?

CLOV (looking):

Zero.

HAMM:

But it should be sinking. Look again.

CLOV (looking):

Damn the sun.

HAMM:

Is is night already then?

CLOV (looking):

No.

HAMM:

Then what is it?

CLOV (looking):

Gray.

(Lowering the telescope, turning towards Hamm, louder.)

Gray!

(Pause. Still louder.)

GRRAY!

(Pause. He gets down, approaches Hamm from behind, whispers in his ear.)

HAMM (starting):

Gray! Did I hear you say gray?

CLOV:

Light black. From pole to pole.

HAMM:

You exaggerate.

(Pause.)

Don’t stay there, you give me the shivers.

(Clov returns to his place beside the chair.)

CLOV:

Why this farce, day after day?

HAMM:

Routine. One never knows.

(Pause.)

Last night I saw inside my breast. There was a big sore.

CLOV:

Pah! You saw your heart.

HAMM:

No, it was living.

(Pause. Anguished.)

Clov!

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

What’s happening?

CLOV:

Something is taking its course.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Clov!

CLOV (impatiently):

What is it?

HAMM:

We’re not beginning to… to… mean something?

CLOV:

Mean something! You and I, mean something!

(Brief laugh.)

Ah that’s a good one!

HAMM:

I wonder.

(Pause.)

Imagine if a rational being came back to earth, wouldn’t he be liable to get ideas into his head if he observed us long enough.

(Voice of rational being.)

Ah, good, now I see what it is, yes, now I understand what they’re at!

(Clov starts, drops the telescope and begins to scratch his belly with both hands. Normal voice.)

And without going so far as that, we ourselves…

(with emotion)

…we ourselves… at certain moments…

(Vehemently.)

To think perhaps it won’t all have been for nothing!

CLOV (anguished, scratching himself):

I have a flea!

HAMM:

A flea! Are there still fleas?

CLOV:

On me there’s one.

(Scratching.)

Unless it’s a crab louse.

HAMM (very perturbed):

But humanity might start from there all over again! Catch him, for the love of God!

CLOV:

I’ll go and get the powder.

(Exit Clov.)

HAMM:

A flea! This is awful! What a day!

(Enter Clov with a sprinkling-tin.)

CLOV:

I’m back again, with the insecticide.

HAMM:

Let him have it!

(Clov loosens the top of his trousers, pulls it forward and shakes powder into the aperture. He stoops, looks, waits, starts, frenziedly shakes more powder, stoops, looks, waits.)

CLOV:

The bastard!

HAMM:

Did you get him?

CLOV:

Looks like it.

(He drops the tin and adjusts his trousers.)

Unless he’s laying doggo.

HAMM:

Laying! Lying, you mean. Unless he’s lying doggo.

CLOV:

Ah? One says lying? One doesn’t say laying?

HAMM:

Use your head, can’t you. If he was laying we’d be bitched.

CLOV:

Ah.

(Pause.)

What about that pee?

HAMM:

I’m having it.

CLOV:

Ah that’s the spirit, that’s the spirit!

(Pause.)

HAMM (with ardour):

Let’s go from here, the two of us! South! You can make a raft and the currents will carry us away, far away, to other… mammals!

CLOV:

God forbid!

HAMM:

Alone, I’ll embark alone! Get working on that raft immediately. Tomorrow I’ll be gone forever.

CLOV (hastening towards door):

I’ll start straight away.

HAMM:

Wait!

(Clov halts.)

Will there be sharks, do you think?

CLOV:

Sharks? I don’t know. If there are there will be.

(He goes towards door.)

HAMM:

Wait!

(Clov halts.)

Is it not yet time for my pain-killer?

CLOV (violently):

No!

(He goes towards door.)

HAMM:

Wait!

(Clov halts.)

How are your eyes?

CLOV:

Bad.

HAMM:

But you can see.

CLOV:

All I want.

HAMM:

How are your legs?

CLOV:

Bad.

HAMM:

But you can walk.

CLOV:

I come… and go.

HAMM:

In my house.

(Pause. With prophetic relish.)

One day you’ll be blind like me. You’ll be sitting here, a speck in the void, in the dark, forever, like me.

(Pause.)

One day you’ll say to yourself, I’m tired, I’ll sit down, and you’ll go and sit down. Then you’ll say, I’m hungry, I’ll get up and get something to eat. But you won’t get up. You’ll say, I shouldn’t have sat down, but since I have I’ll sit on a little longer, then I’ll get up and get something to eat. But you won’t get up and you won’t get anything to eat.

(Pause.)

You’ll look at the wall a while, then you’ll say, I’ll close my eyes, perhaps have a little sleep, after that I’ll feel better, and you’ll close them. And when you open them again there’ll be no wall any more.

(Pause.)

Infinite emptiness will be all around you, all the resurrected dead of all the ages wouldn’t fill it, and there you’ll be like a little bit of grit in the middle of the steppe.

(Pause.)

Yes, one day you’ll know what it is, you’ll be like me, except that you won’t have anyone with you, because you won’t have had pity on anyone and because there won’t be anyone left to have pity on you.

(Pause.)

CLOV:

It’s not certain.

(Pause.)

And there’s one thing you forgot.

HAMM:

Ah?

CLOV:

I can’t sit down.

HAMM (impatiently):

Well you’ll lie down then, what the hell! Or you’ll come to a standstill, simply stop and stand still, the way you are now. One day you’ll say, I’m tired, I’ll stop. What does the attitude matter?

(Pause.)

CLOV:

So you all want me to leave you.

HAMM:

Naturally.

CLOV:

Then I’ll leave you.

HAMM:

You can’t leave us.

CLOV:

Then I won’t leave you.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Why don’t you finish us?

(Pause.)

I’ll tell you the combination of the cupboard if you promise to finish me.

CLOV:

I couldn’t finish you.

HAMM:

Then you won’t finish me.

(Pause.)

CLOV:

I’ll leave you, I have things to do.

HAMM:

Do you remember when you came here?

CLOV:

No. Too small, you told me.

HAMM:

Do you remember your father?

CLOV (wearily):

Same answer.

(Pause.)

You’ve asked me these questions millions of times.

HAMM:

I love the old questions.

(With fervour.)

Ah the old questions, the old answers, there’s nothing like them!

(Pause.)

It was I was a father to you.

CLOV:

Yes.

(He looks at Hamm fixedly.)

You were that to me.

HAMM:

My house a home for you.

CLOV:

Yes.

(He looks about him.)

This was that for me.

HAMM (proudly):

But for me,

(gesture towards himself)

no father. But for Hamm,

(gesture towards surroundings)

no home.

(Pause.)

CLOV:

I’ll leave you.

HAMM:

Did you ever think of one thing?

CLOV:

Never.

HAMM:

That here we’re down in a hole.

(Pause.)

But beyond the hills? Eh? Perhaps it’s still green. Eh?

(Pause.)

Flora! Pomona!

(Ecstatically.)

Ceres!

(Pause.)

Perhaps you won’t need to go very far.

CLOV:

I can’t go very far.

(Pause.)

I’ll leave you.

HAMM:

Is my dog ready?

CLOV:

He lacks a leg.

HAMM:

Is he silky?

CLOV:

He’s kind of a Pomeranian.

HAMM:

Go and get him.

CLOV:

He lacks a leg.

HAMM:

Go and get him!

(Exit Clov.)

We’re getting on.

(Enter Clov holding by one of its three legs a black toy dog.)

CLOV:

Your dogs are here.

(He hands the dog to Hamm who feels it, fondles it.)

HAMM:

He’s white, isn’t he?

CLOV:

Nearly.

HAMM:

What do you mean, nearly? Is he white or isn’t he?

CLOV:

He isn’t.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

You’ve forgotten the sex.

CLOV (vexed):

But he isn’t finished. The sex goes on at the end.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

You haven’t put on his ribbon.

CLOV (angrily):

But he isn’t finished, I tell you! First you finish your dog and then you put on his ribbon!

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Can he stand?

CLOV:

I don’t know.

HAMM:

Try.

(He hands the dog to Clov who places it on the ground.)

Well?

CLOV:

Wait!

(He squats down and tries to get the dog to stand on its three legs, fails, lets it go. The dog falls on its side.)

HAMM (impatiently):

Well?

CLOV:

He’s standing.

HAMM (groping for the dog):

Where? Where is he?

(Clov holds up the dog in a standing position.)

CLOV:

There.

(He takes Hamm’s hand and guides it towards the dog’s head.)

HAMM (his hand on the dog’s head):

Is he gazing at me?

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM (proudly):

As if he were asking me to take him for a walk?

CLOV:

If you like.

HAMM (as before):

Or as if he were begging me for a bone.

(He withdraws his hand.)

Leave him like that, standing there imploring me.

(Clov straightens up. The dog falls on its side.)

CLOV:

I’ll leave you.

HAMM:

Have you had your visions?

CLOV:

Less.

HAMM:

Is Mother Pegg’s light on?

CLOV:

Light! How could anyone’s light be on?

HAMM:

Extinguished!

CLOV:

Naturally it’s extinguished. If it’s not on it’s extinguished.

HAMM:

No, I mean Mother Pegg.

CLOV:

But naturally she’s extinguished!

(Pause.)

What’s the matter with you today?

HAMM:

I’m taking my course.

(Pause.)

Is she buried?

CLOV:

Buried! Who would have buried her?

HAMM:

You.

CLOV:

Me! Haven’t I enough to do without burying people?

HAMM:

But you’ll bury me.

CLOV:

No I won’t bury you.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

She was bonny once, like a flower of the field.

(With reminiscent leer.)

And a great one for the men!

CLOV:

We too were bonny�once. It’s a rare thing not to have been bonny�once.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Go and get the gaff.

(Clov goes to the door, halts.)

CLOV:

Do this, do that, and I do it. I never refuse. Why?

HAMM:

You’re not able to.

CLOV:

Soon I won’t do it any more.

HAMM:

You won’t be able to any more.

(Exit Clov.)

Ah the creatures, the creatures, everything has to be explained to them.

(Enter Clov with gaff.)

CLOV:

Here’s your gaff. Stick it up.

(He gives the gaff to Hamm who, wielding it like a puntpole, tries to move his chair.)

HAMM:

Did I move?

CLOV:

No.

(Hamm throws down the gaff.)

HAMM:

Go and get the oilcan.

CLOV:

What for?

HAMM:

To oil the castors.

CLOV:

I oiled them yesterday.

HAMM:

Yesterday! What does that mean? Yesterday!

CLOV (violently):

That means that bloody awful day, long ago, before this bloody awful day. I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

I once knew a madman who thought the end of the world had come. He was a painter�and engraver. I had a great fondness for him. I used to go and see him, in the asylum. I’d take him by the hand and drag him to the window. Look! There! All that rising corn! And there! Look! The sails of the herring fleet! All that loveliness!

(Pause.)

He’d snatch away his hand and go back into his corner. Appalled. All he had seen was ashes.

(Pause.)

He alone had been spared.

(Pause.)

Forgotten.

(Pause.)

It appears the case is… was not so… so unusual.

CLOV:

A madman? When was that?

HAMM:

Oh way back, way back, you weren’t in the land of the living.

CLOV:

God be with those days.

(Pause. Hamm raises his toque.)

HAMM:

I had a great fondness for him.

(Pause. He puts on his toque again.)

He was a painter�and engraver.

CLOV:

There are so many terrible things.

HAMM:

No, no, there are not so many now.

(Pause.)

Clov!

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Do you not think this has gone on long enough?

CLOV:

Yes!

(Pause.)

What?

HAMM:

This… this… thing.

CLOV:

I’ve always thought so.

(Pause.)

You not?

HAMM (gloomily):

Then it’s a day like any other day.

CLOV:

As long as it lasts.

(Pause.)

All life long the same inanities.

HAMM:

I can’t leave you.

CLOV:

I know. And you can’t follow me.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

If you leave me how shall I know?

CLOV (briskly):

Well you simply whistle me and if I don’t come running it means I’ve left you.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

You won’t come and kiss me goodbye?

CLOV:

Oh I shouldn’t think so.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

But you might be merely dead in your kitchen.

CLOV:

The result would be the same.

HAMM:

Yes, but how would I know, if you were merely dead in your kitchen?

CLOV:

Well… sooner or later I’d start to stink.

HAMM:

You stink already. The whole place stinks of corpses.

CLOV:

The whole universe.

HAMM (angrily):

To hell with the universe.

(Pause.)

Think of something.

CLOV:

What?

HAMM:

An idea, have an idea.

(Angrily.)

A bright idea!

CLOV:

Ah good.

(He starts pacing to and fro, his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands behind his back. He halts.)

The pains in my legs! It’s unbelievable! Soon I won’t be able to think any more.

HAMM:

You won’t be able to leave me.

(Clov resumes his pacing.)

What are you doing?

CLOV:

Having an idea.

(He paces.)

Ah!

(He halts.)

HAMM:

What a brain!

(Pause.)

Well?

CLOV:

Wait!

(He meditates. Not very convinced.)

Yes…

(He raises his head.)

I have it! I set the alarm.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

This is perhaps not one of my bright days, but frankly�

CLOV:

You whistle me. I don’t come. The alarm rings. I’m gone. It doesn’t ring. I’m dead.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Is it working?

(Pause. Impatiently.)

The alarm, is it working?

CLOV:

Why wouldn’t it be working?

HAMM:

Because it’s worked too much.

CLOV:

But it’s hardly worked at all.

HAMM (angrily):

Then because it’s worked too little!

CLOV:

I’ll go and see.

(Exit Clov. Brief ring of alarm offstage. Enter Clov with alarm-clock. He holds it against Hamm’s ear and releases alarm. They listen to it ringing to the end. Pause.)

Fit to wake the dead! Did you hear it?

HAMM:

Vaguely.

CLOV:

The end is terrific!

HAMM:

I prefer the middle.

(Pause.)

Is is not time for my pain-killer?

CLOV:

No!

(He goes to door, turns.)

I’ll leave you.

HAMM:

It’s time for my story. Do you want to listen to my story?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

Ask my father if he wants to listen to my story.

(Clov goes to bins, raises the lid of Nagg’s, stoops, looks into it. Pause. He straightens up.)

CLOV:

He’s asleep.

HAMM:

Wake him.

(Clov stoops, wakes Nagg with the alarm. Unintelligible words. Clov straightens up.)

CLOV:

He doesn’t want to listen to your story.

HAMM:

I’ll give him a bon-bon.

(Clov stoops. As before.)

CLOV:

He wants a sugar-plum.

HAMM:

He’ll get a sugar-plum.

(Clov stoops. As before.)

CLOV:

It’s a deal.

(He goes towards door. Nagg’s hands appear, gripping the rim. Then the head emerges. Clov reaches door, turns.)

Do you believe in the life to come?

HAMM:

Mine was always that.

(Exit Clov.)

Got him that time!

NAGG:

I’m listening.

HAMM:

Scoundrel! Why did you engender me?

NAGG:

I didn’t know.

HAMM:

What? What didn’t you know?

NAGG:

That it’d be you.

(Pause.)

You’ll give me a sugar-plum?

HAMM:

After the audition.

NAGG:

You swear?

HAMM:

Yes.

NAGG:

On what?

HAMM:

My honor.

(Pause. They laugh heartily.)

NAGG:

Two.

HAMM:

One.

NAGG:

One for me and one for�

HAMM:

One! Silence!

(Pause.)

Where was I?

(Pause. Gloomily.)

It’s finished, we’re finished.

(Pause.)

Nearly finished.

(Pause.)

There’ll be no more speech.

(Pause.)

Something dripping in my head, ever since the fontanelles.

(Stifled hilarity of Nagg.)

Splash, splash, always on the same spot.

(Pause.)

Perhaps it’s a little vein.

(Pause.)

A little artery.

(Pause. More animated.)

Enough of that, it’s story time, where was I?

(Pause. Narrative tone.)

The man came crawling towards me, on his belly. Pale, wonderfully pale and thin, he seemed on the point of�

(Pause. Normal tone.)

No, I’ve done that bit.

(Pause. Narrative tone.)

I calmly filled my pipe�the meerschaum, lit it with… let us say a vesta, drew a few puffs. Aah!

(Pause.)

Well, what is it you want?

(Pause.)

It was an extra-ordinarily bitter day, I remember, zero by the thermometer. But considering it was Christmas Eve there was nothing… extra-ordinary about that. Seasonable weather, for once in a way.

(Pause.)

Well, what ill wind blows you my way? He raised his face to me, black with mingled dirt and tears.

(Pause. Normal tone.)

That should do it.

(Narrative tone.)

No no, don’t look at me, don’t look at me. He dropped his eyes and mumbled something, apologies I presume.

(Pause.)

I’m a busy man, you know, the final touches, before the festivities, you know what it is.

(Pause. Forcibly.)

Come on now, what is the object of this invasion?

(Pause.)

It was a glorious bright day, I remember, fifty by the heliometer, but already the sun was sinking down into the… down among the dead.

(Normal voice.)

Nicely put, that.

(Narrative tone.)

Come on now, come on, present your petition and let me resume my labors.

(Pause. Normal tone.)

There’s English for you. Ah well…

(Narrative tone.)

It was then he took the plunge. It’s my little one, he said. Tsstss, a little one, that’s bad. My little boy, he said, as if the sex mattered. Where did he come from? He named the hole. A good half-day, on horse. What are you insinuating? That the place is still inhabited? No no, not a soul, except himself and the child�assuming he existed. Good. I enquired about the situation at Kov, beyond the gulf. Not a sinner. Good. And you expect me to believe you have left your little one back there, all alone, and alive into the bargain? Come now!

(Pause.)

It was a howling day, I remember, a hundred by the anenometer. The wind was tearing up the dead pines and sweeping them… away.

(Pause. Normal tone.)

A feeble bit, that.

(Narrative tone.)

Come on, man, speak up, what is it you want from me, I have to put up my holly.

(Pause.)

Well to make it short it finally transpired that what he wanted from me was… bread for his brat? Bread? But I have no bread, it doesn’t agree with me. Good. Then perhaps a little corn?

(Pause. Normal tone.)

That should do it.

(Narrative tone.)

Corn, yes, I have corn, it’s true, in my granaries. But use your head. I give you some corn, a pound, a pound and a half, you bring it back to your child and you make him�if he’s still alive�a nice pot of porridge.

(Nagg reacts.)

a nice pot and a half of porridge, full of nourishment. Good. The colors come back into his little cheeks�perhaps. And then?

(Pause.)

I lost patience.

(Violently.)

Use your head, can’t you, use your head. You’re on earth, there’s no cure for that!

(Pause.)

It was an exceedingly dry day, I remember, zero by the hygrometer. Ideal weather, for my lumbago.

(Pause. Violently.)

But what in God’s name do you imagine? That the earth will awake in the spring? That the rivers and seas will run with fish again? That there’s manna in heaven still for imbeciles like you?

(Pause.)

Gradually I cooled down, sufficiently at least to ask him how long he had taken on the way. Three whole days. Good. In what condition he had left the child. Deep in sleep.

(Forcibly.)

But deep in what sleep, deep in what sleep already?

(Pause.)

Well to make it short I finally offered to take him into my service. He had touched a chord. And then I imagined already that I wasn’t much longer for this world.

(He laughs. Pause.)

Well?

(Pause.)

Well? Here if you were careful you might die a nice natural death, in peace and comfort.

(Pause.)

Well?

(Pause.)

In the end he asked me would I consent to take in the child as well�if he were still alive.

(Pause.)

It was the moment I was waiting for.

(Pause.)

Would I consent to take in the child…

(Pause.)

I can see him still, down on his knees, his hands flat on the ground, glaring at me with his mad eyes, in defiance of my wishes.

(Pause. Normal tone.)

I’ll soon have finished with this story.

(Pause.)

Unless I bring in other characters.

(Pause.)

But where would I find them?

(Pause.)

Where would I look for them?

(Pause. He whistles. Enter Clov.)

Let us pray to God.

NAGG:

Me sugar-plum!

CLOV:

There’s a rat in the kitchen!

HAMM:

A rat! Are there still rats?

CLOV:

In the kitchen there’s one.

HAMM:

And you haven’t exterminated him?

CLOV:

Half. You disturbed us.

HAMM:

He can’t get away?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

You’ll finish him later. Let us pray to God.

CLOV:

Again!

NAGG:

Me sugar-plum!

HAMM:

God first!

(Pause.)

Are you right?

CLOV (resigned):

Off we go.

HAMM (to Nagg):

And you?

NAGG (clasping his hands, closing his eyes, in a gabble):

Our Father which art�

HAMM:

Silence! In silence! Where are your manners?

(Pause.)

Off we go.

(Attitudes of prayer. Silence. Abandoning his attitude, discouraged.)

Well?

CLOV (abandoning his attitude):

What a hope! And you?

HAMM:

Sweet damn all!

(To Nagg.)

And you?

NAGG:

Wait!

(Pause. Abandoning his attitude.)

Nothing doing!

HAMM:

The bastard!! He doesn’t exist.

CLOV:

Not yet.

NAGG:

Me sugar-plum!

HAMM:

There are no more sugar plums!

(Pause.)

NAGG:

It’s natural. After all I’m your father. It’s true if it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else. But that’s no excuse.

(Pause.)

Turkish Delight, for example, which no longer exists, we all know that, there is nothing in the world I love more. And one day I’ll ask you for some, in return for a kindness, and you’ll promise it to me. One must live with the times.

(Pause.)

Whom did you call when you were a tiny boy, and were frightened, in the dark? Your mother? No. Me. We let you cry. Then we moved you out of earshot, so that we might sleep in peace.

(Pause.)

I was asleep, as happy as a king, and you woke me up to have me listen to you. It wasn’t indispensable, you didn’t really need to have me listen to you.

(Pause.)

I hope the day will come when you’ll really need to have me listen to you, and need to hear my voice, any voice.

(Pause.)

Yes, I hope I’ll live till then, to hear you calling me like when you were a tiny boy, and were frightened, in the dark, and I was your only hope.

(Pause. Nagg knocks on lid of Nell’s bin. Pause.)

Nell!

(Pause. He knocks louder. Pause. Louder.)

Nell!

(Pause. Nagg sinks back into his bin, closes the lid behind him. Pause.)

HAMM:

Our revels now are ended.

(He gropes for the dog.)

The dog’s gone.

CLOV:

He’s not a real dog, he can’t go.

HAMM (groping):

He’s not there.

CLOV:

He’s lain down.

HAMM:

Give him up to me.

(Clov picks up the dog and gives it to Hamm. Hamm holds it in his arms. Pause. Hamm throws away the dog.)

Dirty brute!

(Clov begins to pick up the objects lying on the ground.)

What are you doing?

CLOV:

Putting things in order.

(He straightens up. Fervently.)

I’m going to clear everything away!

(He starts picking up again.)

HAMM:

Order!

CLOV (straightening up):

I love order. It’s my dream. A world where all would be silent and still, and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.

(He starts picking up again.)

HAMM (exasperated):

What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?

CLOV (straightening up):

I’m doing my best to create a little order.

HAMM:

Drop it!

(Clov drops the objects he has picked up.)

CLOV:

After all, there or elsewhere.

(He goes towards door.)

HAMM (irritably):

What’s wrong with your feet?

CLOV:

My feet?

HAMM:

Tramp! Tramp!

CLOV:

I must have put on my boots.

HAMM:

Your slippers were hurting you?

(Pause.)

CLOV:

I’ll leave you.

HAMM:

No!

CLOV:

What is there to keep me here?

HAMM:

The dialogue.

(Pause.)

I’ve got on with my story.

(Pause.)

I’ve got on with it well.

(Pause. Irritably.)

Ask me where I’ve got to.

CLOV:

Oh, by the way, your story?

HAMM (surprised):

What story?

CLOV:

The one you’ve been telling yourself all your days.

HAMM:

Ah you mean my chronicle?

CLOV:

That’s the one.

(Pause.)

HAMM (angrily):

Keep going, can’t you, keep going!

CLOV:

You’ve got on with it, I hope.

HAMM (modestly):

Oh not very far, not very far.

(He sighs.)

There are days like that, one isn’t inspired.

(Pause.)

Nothing you can do about it, just wait for it to come.

(Pause.)

No forcing, no forcing, it’s fatal.

(Pause.)

I’ve got on with it a little all the same.

(Pause.)

Technique, you know.

(Pause. Irritably.)

I say I’ve got on with it a little all the same.

CLOV (admiringly):

Well I never! In spite of everything you were able to get on with it!

HAMM (modestly):

Oh not very far, you know, not very far, but nevertheless, better than nothing.

CLOV:

Better than nothing! Is it possible?

HAMM:

I’ll tell you how it goes. He comes crawling on his belly�

CLOV:

Who?

HAMM:

What?

CLOV:

Who do you mean, he?

HAMM:

Who do I mean! Yet another.

CLOV:

Ah him. I wasn’t sure.

HAMM:

Crawling on his belly, whining for bread for his brat. He’s offered a job as gardener. Before�

(Clov bursts out laughing.)

What is there so funny about that?

CLOV:

A job as gardener!

HAMM:

Is that what tickles you?

CLOV:

It must be that.

HAMM:

It wouldn’t be the bread?

CLOV:

Or the brat.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

The whole thing is comical, I grant you that. What about having a good guffaw, the two of us together?

CLOV (after reflection):

I couldn’t guffaw again today.

HAMM (after reflection):

Nor I.

(Pause.)

I continue then. Before accepting with gratitude he asks if he may have his little boy with him.

CLOV:

What age?

HAMM:

Oh tiny.

CLOV:

He would have climbed the trees.

HAMM:

All the little odd jobs.

CLOV:

And then he would have grown up.

HAMM:

Very likely.

(Pause.)

CLOV:

Keep going, can’t you, keep going?

HAMM:

That’s all. I stopped there.

(Pause.)

CLOV:

Do you see how it goes on?

HAMM:

More or less.

CLOV:

Will it not soon be the end?

HAMM:

I’m afraid it will.

CLOV:

Pah! You’ll make up another.

HAMM:

I don’t know.

(Pause.)

I feel rather drained.

(Pause.)

The prolonged creative effort.

(Pause.)

If I could drag myself down to the sea! I’d make a pillow of sand for my head and the tide would come.

CLOV:

There’s no more tide.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Go and see is she dead.

(Clov goes to bins, raises the lid of Nell’s, stoops, looks into it. Pause.)

CLOV:

Looks like it.

(He closes the lid, straightens up. Hamm raises his toque. Pause. He puts it on again.)

HAMM (with his hand to his toque):

And Nagg?

(Clov raises lid of Nagg’s bin, stoops, looks into it. Pause.)

CLOV:

Doesn’t look like it.

(He closes the lid, straightens up.)

HAMM (letting go his toque):

What’s he doing?

(Clov raises lid of Nagg’s bin, stoops, looks into it. Pause.)

CLOV:

He’s crying.

(He closes lid, straightens up.)

HAMM:

Then he’s living.

(Pause.)

Did you ever have an instant of happiness?

CLOV:

Not to my knowledge.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Bring me under the window.

(Clov goes towards chair.)

I want to feel the light on my face.

(Clov pushes chair.)

Do you remember, in the beginning, when you took me for a turn? You used to hold the chair too high. At every step you nearly tipped me out.

(With senile quaver.)

Ah great fun, we had, the two of us, great fun.

(Gloomily.)

And then we got into the way of it.

(Clov stops the chair under window right.)

There already?

(Pause. He tilts back his head.)

Is it light?

CLOV:

It isn’t dark.

HAMM (angrily):

I’m asking you is it light?

CLOV:

Yes.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

The curtain isn’t closed?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

What window is it?

CLOV:

The earth.

HAMM:

I knew it!

(Angrily.)

But there’s no light there! The other!

(Clov pushes chair towards window left.)

The earth!

(Clov stops the chair under window left. Hamm tilts back his head.)

That’s what I call light!

(Pause.)

Feels like a ray of sunshine.

(Pause.)

No?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

It isn’t a ray of sunshine I feel on my face?

CLOV:

No.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Am I very white?

(Pause. Angrily.)

I’m asking you am I very white?

CLOV:

Not more so than usual.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Open the window.

CLOV:

What for?

HAMM:

I want to hear the sea.

CLOV:

You wouldn’t hear it.

HAMM:

Even if you opened the window?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

Than it’s not worth while opening it?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM (violently):

Than open it!

(Clov gets up on the ladder, opens the window. Pause.)

Have you opened it?

CLOV:

Yes.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

You swear you’ve opened it?

CLOV:

Yes.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Well…!

(Pause.)

It must be very calm.

(Pause. Violently.)

I’m asking you is it very calm!

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

It’s because there are no more navigators.

(Pause.)

You haven’t much conversation all of a sudden. Do you not feel well?

CLOV:

I’m cold.

HAMM:

What month are we?

(Pause.)

Close the window, we’re going back.

(Clov closes the window, gets down, pushes the chair back to its place, remains standing behind it, head bowed.)

Don’t stand there, you give me the shivers!

(Clov returns to his place beside the chair.)

Father!

(Pause. Louder.)

Father!

(Pause.)

Go and see did he hear me.

(Clov goes to Nagg’s bin, raises the lid, stoops. Unintelligible words. Clov straightens up.)

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Both times?

(Clov stoops. As before.)

CLOV:

Once only.

HAMM:

The first time or the second?

(Clov stoops. As before.)

CLOV:

He doesn’t know.

HAMM:

It must have been the second.

CLOV:

We’ll never know.

(He closes lid.)

HAMM:

Is he still crying?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

The dead go fast.

(Pause.)

What’s he doing?

CLOV:

Sucking his biscuit.

HAMM:

Life goes on.

(Clov returns to his place beside the chair.)

Give me the rug, I’m freezing.

CLOV:

There are no more rugs.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Kiss me.

(Pause.)

Will you not kiss me?

CLOV:

No.

HAMM:

On the forehead.

CLOV:

I won’t kiss you anywhere.

(Pause.)

HAMM (holding out his hand):

Give me your hand at least.

(Pause.)

Will you not give me your hand?

CLOV:

I won’t touch you.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Give me the dog.

(Clov looks round for the dog.)

No!

CLOV:

Do you not want your dog?

HAMM:

No.

CLOV:

Then I’ll leave you.

HAMM (head bowed, absently):

That’s right.

(Clov goes to door, turns.)

CLOV:

If I don’t kill that rat he’ll die.

HAMM (as before):

That’s right.

(Exit Clov. Pause.)

Me to play.

(He takes out his handkerchief, unfolds it, holds it spread out before him.)

We’re getting on.

(Pause.)

You weep, and weep, for nothing, so as not to laugh, and little by little… you begin to grieve.

(He folds the handkerchief, puts it back in his pocket, raises his head.)

All those I might have helped.

(Pause.)

Helped!

(Pause.)

Saved.

(Pause.)

Saved!

(Pause.)

The place was crawling with them

(Pause. Violently.)

Use your head, can’t you, use your head, you’re on earth, there’s no cure for that!

(Pause.)

Get out of here and love one another! Lick your neighbor as yourself!

(Pause. Calmer.)

When it wasn’t bread they wanted it was crumpets.

(Pause. Violently.)

Out of my sight and back to your petting parties!

(Pause.)

All that, all that!

(Pause.)

Not even a real dog!

(Calmer.)

The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.

(Pause.)

Perhaps I could go on with my story, end it and begin another.

(Pause.)

Perhaps I could throw myself out on the floor.

(He pushes himself painfully off his seat, falls back again.)

Dig my nails into the cracks and drag myself forward with my fingers.

(Pause.)

It will be the end and there I’ll be, wondering what can have brought it on and wondering what can have…

(he hesitates)

…why it was so long coming.

(Pause.)

There I’ll be, in the old shelter, alone against the silence and…

(he hesitates)

…the stillness. If I can hold my peace, and sit quiet, it will be all over with sound, and motion, all over and done with.

(Pause.)

I’ll have called my father and I’ll have called my…

(he hesitates)

…my son. And even twice, or three times, in case they shouldn’t have heard me, the first time, or the second.

(Pause.)

I’ll say to myself, He’ll come back.

(Pause.)

And then?

(Pause.)

And then?

(Pause.)

He couldn’t, He has gone too far.

(Pause.)

And then?

(Pause. Very agitated.)

All kinds of fantasies! That I’m being watched! A rat! Steps! Breath held and then…

(He breathes out.)

Then babble, babble, words, like the solitary child who turns himself into children, two, three, so as to be together, and whisper together, in the dark.

(Pause.)

Moment upon moment, pattering down, like the millet grains of…

(he hesitates)

…that old Greek, and all life long you wait for that to mount up to a life.

(Pause. He opens his mouth to continue, renounces.)

Ah let’s get it over!

(He whistles. Enter Clov with alarm-clock. He halts beside the chair.)

What? Neither gone nor dead?

CLOV:

In spirit only.

HAMM:

Which?

CLOV:

Both.

HAMM:

Gone from me you’d be dead.

CLOV:

And vice versa.

HAMM:

Outside of here it’s death!

(Pause.)

And the rat?

CLOV:

He’s got away.

HAMM:

He can’t go far.

(Pause. Anxious.)

Eh?

CLOV:

He doesn’t need to go far.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Is it not time for my pain-killer?

CLOV:

Yes.

HAMM:

Ah! At last! Give it to me! Quick!

(Pause.)

CLOV:

There’s no more pain-killer.

(Pause.)

HAMM (appalled):

Good…!

(Pause.)

No more pain-killer!

CLOV:

No more pain-killer. You’ll never get any more pain-killer.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

But the little round box. It was full!

CLOV:

Yes. But now it’s empty.

(Pause. Clov starts to move about the room. He is looking for a place to put down the alarm-clock.)

HAMM (soft):

What’ll I do?

(Pause. In a scream.)

What’ll I do?

(Clov sees the picture, takes it down, stands it on the floor with its face to the wall, hangs up the alarm-clock in its place.)

What are you doing?

CLOV:

Winding up.

HAMM:

Look at the earth.

CLOV:

Again!

HAMM:

Since it’s calling to you.

CLOV:

Is your throat sore?

(Pause.)

Would you like a lozenge?

(Pause.)

No.

(Pause.)

Pity.

(Clov goes, humming, towards window right, halts before it, looks up at it.)

HAMM:

Don’t sing.

CLOV (turning towards Hamm):

One hasn’t the right to sing any more?

HAMM:

No.

CLOV:

Then how can it end?

HAMM:

You want it to end?

CLOV:

I want to sing.

HAMM:

I can’t prevent you.

(Pause. Clov turns towards window right.)

CLOV:

What did I do with that steps?

(He looks around for ladder.)

You didn’t see that steps?

(He sees it.)

Ah, about time.

(He goes towards window left.)

Sometimes I wonder if I’m in my right mind. Then it passes over and I’m as lucid as before.

(He gets up on ladder, looks out of window.)

Christ, she’s under water!

(He looks.)

How can that be?

(He pokes forward his head, his hand above his eyes.)

It hasn’t rained.

(He wipes the pane, looks. Pause.)

Ah what a fool I am! I’m on the wrong side!

(He gets down, takes a few steps towards window right.)

Under water!

(He goes back for ladder.)

What a fool I am!

(He carries ladder towards window right.)

Sometimes I wonder if I’m in my right senses. Then it passes off and I’m as intelligent as ever.

(He sets down ladder under window right, gets up on it, looks out of window. He turns towards Hamm.)

Any particular sector you fancy? Or merely the whole thing?

HAMM:

Whole thing.

CLOV:

The general effect? Just a moment.

(He looks out of window. Pause.)

HAMM:

Clov.

CLOV (absorbed):

Mmm.

HAMM:

Do you know what it is?

CLOV (as before):

Mmm.

HAMM:

I was never there.

(Pause.)

Clov!

CLOV (turning towards Hamm, exasperated):

What is it?

HAMM:

I was never there.

CLOV:

Lucky for you.

(He looks out of window.)

HAMM:

Absent, always. It all happened without me. I don’t know what’s happened.

(Pause.)

Do you know what’s happened?

(Pause.)

Clov!

CLOV (turning towards Hamm, exasperated):

Do you want me to look at this muckheap, yes or no?

HAMM:

Answer me first.

CLOV:

What?

HAMM:

Do you know what’s happened?

CLOV:

When? Where?

HAMM (violently):

When! What’s happened? Use your head, can’t you! What has happened?

CLOV:

What for Christ’s sake does it matter?

(He looks out of window.)

HAMM:

I don’t know.

(Pause. Clov turns towards Hamm.)

CLOV (harshly):

When old Mother Pegg asked you for oil for her lamp and you told her to get out to hell, you knew what was happening then, no?

(Pause.)

You know what she died of, Mother Pegg? Of darkness.

HAMM (feebly):

I hadn’t any.

CLOV (as before):

Yes, you had.

(Pause.)

HAMM:

Have you the glass?

CLOV:

No, it’s clear enough as it is.

HAMM:

Go and get it.

(Pause. Clov casts up his eyes, brandishes his fists. He loses balance, clutches on to the ladder. He starts to get down, halts.)

CLOV:

There’s one thing I’ll never understand.

(He gets down.)

Why I always obey you. Can you explain that to me?

HAMM:

No… Perhaps it’s compassion.

(Pause.)

A kind of great compassion.

(Pause.)

Oh you won’t find it easy, you won’t find it easy.

(Pause. Clov begins to move about the room in search of the telescope.)

CLOV:

I’m tired of our goings on, very tired.

(He searches.)

You’re not sitting on it?

(He moves the chair, looks at the place where it stood, resumes his search.)

HAMM (anguished):

Don’t leave me there!

(Angrily Clov restores the chair to its place.)

Am I right in the center?

CLOV:

You’d need a microscope to find this�

(He sees the telescope.)

Ah, about time.

(He picks up the telescope, gets up on the ladder, turns the telescope on the without.)

HAMM:

Give me the dog.

CLOV (looking):

Quiet!

HAMM (angrily):

Give me the dog!

(Clov drops the telescope, clasps his hands to his head. Pause. He gets down precipitately, looks for the dog, sees it, picks it up, hastens towards Hamm and strikes him violently on the head with the dog.)

CLOV:

There’s your dog for you.

(The dog falls to the ground. Pause.)

HAMM:

He hit me!

CLOV:

You drive me mad, I’m mad!

HAMM:

If you must hit me, hit me with the axe.

(Pause.)

Or with the gaff, hit me with the gaff. Not with the dog. With the gaff. Or with the axe.

(Clov picks up the dog and gives it to Hamm who takes it in his arms.)

CLOV (impatiently):

Let’s stop playing!

HAMM:

Never!

(Pause.)

Put me in my coffin.

CLOV:

There are no more coffins.

HAMM:

Then let it end!

(Clov goes towards ladder.)

With a bang!

(Clov gets up on ladder, gets down again, looks for telescope, sees it, picks it up, gets up on ladder, raises telescope.)

Of darkness! And me? Did anyone ever have pity on me?

CLOV (lowering the telescope, turning towards Hamm):

What?

(Pause.)

Is it me you’re referring to?

HAMM (angrily):

An aside, ape! Did you never hear an aside before?

(Pause.)

I’m warming up for my last soliloquy.

CLOV:

I warn you. I’m going to look at this filth since it’s an order. But it’s the last time.

(He turns the telescope on the without.)

Let’s see.

(He moves the telescope.)

Nothing… nothing… good… good… nothing… goo�

(He starts, lowers the telescope, examines it, turns it again on the without. Pause.)

Bad luck to it!

HAMM:

More complications!

(Clov gets down.)

Not an underplot, I trust.

(Clov moves ladder nearer window, gets up on it, turns telescope on the without.)

CLOV (dismayed):

Looks like a small boy!

HAMM (sarcastic):

A small… boy!

CLOV:

I’ll go and see.

(He gets down, drops the telescope, goes towards door, turns.)

I’ll take the gaff.

(He looks for the gaff, sees it, picks it up, hastens towards door.)

HAMM:

No!

(Clov halts.)

CLOV:

No? A potential procreator?

HAMM:

If he exists he’ll die there or he’ll come here. And if he doesn’t…

(Pause.)

CLOV:

You don’t believe me? You think I’m inventing?

(Pause.)

HAMM:

It’s the end, Clov, we’ve come to the end. I don’t need you any more.

(Pause.)

CLOV:

Lucky for you.

(He goes towards door.)

HAMM:

Leave me the gaff.

(Clov gives him the gaff, goes towards door, halts, looks at alarm-clock, takes it down, looks round for a better place to put it, goes to bins, puts it on lid of Nagg’s bin. Pause.)

CLOV:

I’ll leave you.

(He goes towards door.)

HAMM:

Before you go…

(Clov halts near door.)

…say something.

CLOV:

There is nothing to say.

HAMM:

A few words… to ponder… in my heart.

CLOV:

Your heart!

HAMM:

Yes.

(Pause. Forcibly.)

Yes!

(Pause.)

With the rest, in the end, the shadows, the murmurs, all the trouble, to end up with.

(Pause.)

Clov… He never spoke to me. Then, in the end, before he went, without my having asked him, he spoke to me. He said…

CLOV (despairingly):

Ah…!

HAMM:

Something… from your heart.

CLOV:

My heart!

HAMM:

A few words… from your heart.

(Pause.)

CLOV (fixed gaze, tonelessly, towards auditorium):

They said to me, That’s love, yes, yes, not a doubt, now you see how�

HAMM:

Articulate!

CLOV (as before):

How easy it is. They said to me, That’s friendship, yes, yes, no question, you’ve found it. They said to me, Here’s the place, stop, raise your head and look at all that beauty. That order! They said to me, Come now, you’re not a brute beast, think upon these things and you’ll see how all becomes clear. And simple! They said to me, What skilled attention they get, all these dying of their wounds.

HAMM:

Enough!

CLOV (as before):

I say to myself� sometimes, Clov, you must learn to suffer better than that if you want them to weary of punishing you� one day. I say to myself�sometimes, Clov, you must be better than that if you want them to let you go�one day. But I feel too old, and too far, to form new habits. Good, it’ll never end, I’ll never go.

(Pause.)

Then one day, suddenly, it ends, it changes, I don’t understand, it dies, or it’s me, I don’t understand that either. I ask the words that remain� sleeping, waking, morning, evening. They have nothing to say.

(Pause.)

I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.

(Pause.)

It’s easy going.

(Pause.)

When I fall I’ll weep for happiness.

(Pause. He goes towards door.)

HAMM:

Clov!

(Clov halts, without turning.)

Nothing.

(Clov moves on.)

Clov!

(Clov halts, without turning.)

CLOV:

This is what we call making an exit.

HAMM:

I’m obliged to you, Clov. For your services.

CLOV (turning sharply):

Ah pardon, it’s I am obliged to you.

HAMM:

It’s we are obliged to each other.

(Pause. Clov goes towards door.)

One thing more.

(Clov halts.)

A last favor.

(Exit Clov.)

Cover me with the sheet.

(Long pause.)

No? Good.

(Pause.)

Me to play.

(Pause. Wearily.)

Old endgame lost of old, play and lose and have done with losing.

(Pause. More animated.)

Let me see.

(Pause.)

Ah yes!

(He tries to move the chair, using the gaff as before. Enter Clov, dressed for the road. Panama hat, tweed coat, raincoat over his arm, umbrella, bag. He halts by the door and stands there, impassive and motionless, his eyes fixed on Hamm, till the end.)

Hamm gives up:

Good.

(Pause.)

Discard.

(He throws away the gaff, makes to throw away the dog, thinks better of it.)

Take it easy.

(Pause.)

And now?

(Pause.)

Raise hat.

(He raises his toque.)

Peace to our… arses.

(Pause.)

And put on again.

(He puts on his toque.)

Deuce.

(Pause. He takes off his glasses.)

Wipe.

(He takes out his handkerchief and, without unfolding it, wipes his glasses.)

And put on again.

(He puts on his glasses, puts back the handkerchief in his pocket.)

We’re coming. A few more squirms like that and I’ll call.

(Pause.)

A little poetry.

(Pause.)

You prayed�

(Pause. He corrects himself.)

You CRIED for night; it comes�

(Pause. He corrects himself.)

It FALLS: now cry in darkness.

(He repeats, chanting.)

You cried for night; it falls: now cry in darkness.

(Pause.)

Nicely put, that.

(Pause.)

And now?

(Pause.)

Moments for nothing, now as always, time was never and time is over, reckoning closed and story ended.

(Pause. Narrative tone.)

If he could have his child with him…

(Pause.)

It was the moment I was waiting for.

(Pause.)

You don’t want to abandon him? You want him to bloom while you are withering? Be there to solace your last million last moments?

(Pause.)

He doesn’t realize, all he knows is hunger, and cold, and death to crown it all. But you! You ought to know what the earth is like, nowadays. Oh I put him before his responsibilities!

(Pause. Normal tone.)

Well, there we are, there I am, that’s enough.

(He raises the whistle to his lips, hesitates, drops it. Pause.)

Yes, truly!

(He whistles. Pause. Louder. Pause.)

Good.

(Pause.)

Father!

(Pause. Louder.)

Father!

(Pause.)

Good.

(Pause.)

We’re coming.

(Pause.)

And to end up with?

(Pause.)

Discard.

(He throws away the dog. He tears the whistle from his neck.)

With my compliments.

(He throws the whistle towards the auditorium. Pause. He sniffs. Soft.)

Clov!

(Long pause.)

No? Good.

(He takes out the handkerchief.)

Since that’s the way we’re playing it…

(he unfolds handkerchief)

…let’s play it that way…

(he unfolds)

…and speak no more about it…

(he finishes unfolding)

…speak no more.

(He holds handkerchief spread out before him.)

Old stancher!

(Pause.)

You…  remain.

(Pause. He covers his face with handkerchief, lowers his arms to armrests, remains motionless.)

(Brief tableau.)

Curtain