One evening | Samuel Beckett, 1929-89

Jean-Michel Basquiat,  Untitled (Julius Caesar on Gold), 1981


He was found lying on the ground. No one had missed him. No one was looking for him. An old 
woman found him. To put it vaguely. It happened so long ago. She was straying in search of wild
 flowers. Yellow only. With no eyes but for these she stumbled on him lying there. He lay face 
downward and arms outspread. He wore a greatcoat in spite of the time of year. Hidden by the body
 a long row of buttons fastened it all the way down. Buttons of all shapes and sizes. Worn upright the 
skirts swept the ground. That seems to hang together. Near the head a hat lay askew on the ground. 
At once on its brim and crown. He lay inconspicuous in the greenish coat. To catch an eye searching
 from afar there was only the white head. May she have seen him somewhere before? Somewhere on 
his feet before? Not too fast. She was all in black. The hem of her long black skirt trailed in the grass.
 It was close of day. Should she now move away into the east her shadow would go before. A long 
black shadow. It was lambing time. But there were no lambs. She could see none. Were a third party 
to chance that way theirs were the only bodies he would see. First that of the old woman standing. 
Then on drawing near it lying on the ground. That seems to hang together. The deserted fields. The 
old woman all in black stockstill. The body stockstill on the ground. Yellow at the end of the black
 arm. The white hair in the grass. The east foundering in night. Not too fast. The weather. Sky overcast 
all day till evening. In the west-north-west near the verge already the sun came out at last. Rain? A few
 drops if you will. A few drops in the morning if you will. In the present to conclude. It happened so 
long ago. Cooped indoors all day she comes out with the sun. She makes haste to gain the fields. 
Surprised to have seen no one on the way she strays feverishly in search of the wild flowers. Feverishly
 seeing the imminence of night. She remarks with surprise the absence of lambs in great numbers here at
 this time of year. She is wearing the black she took on when widowed young. It is to reflower the grave
 she strays in search of the flowers he had loved. But for the need of yellow at the end of the black arm 
there would be none. There are therefore only as few as possible. This is for her the third surprise since
 she came out. For they grow in plenty here at this time of year. Her old friend her shadow irks her. So
 much so that she turns to face the sun. Any flower wide of her course she reaches sidelong. She craves
 for sundown to end and to stray freely again in the long afterglow. Further to her distress the familiar 
rustle of her long black skirt in the grass. She moves with half-closed eyes as if drawn on into the glare.
 She may say to herself it is too much strangeness for a single March or April evening. No one abroad.
 Not a single lamb. Scarcely a flower. Shadow and rustle irksome. And to crown all the shock of her 
foot against a body. Chance. No one had missed him. No one was looking for him. Black and green of 
the garments touching now. Near the white head the yellow of the few plucked flowers. The old sunlit 
face. Tableau vivant if you will. In its way. All is silent from now on. For as long as she cannot move.
 The sun disappears at last and with it all shadow. All shadow here. Slow fade of afterglow. Night 
without moon or stars. All that seems to hang together. But no more about it.


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