Rough for Theatre II (Fragment de théâtre II, written c. late 1950s, published 1976) by Samuel Beckett (Summary)

 

Rough for Theatre II (Fragment de théâtre II, written c. late 1950s, published 1976)

by Samuel Beckett

(Summary) 

Rough for Theatre II — Summary

In a bare, undefined space—neither indoors nor outdoors, neither real nor imagined—two figures sit at a table. They are known only as A and B. Between them lie papers, files, notes, and a pencil. Their task is grimly simple: to decide whether a third man, C, should be allowed to live.

C is not present at the table. He stands apart, near a window or ledge, poised in stillness. He does not speak. He does not move. His body is upright, suspended between action and collapse. He appears to be contemplating suicide. Whether he intends to jump, or has already decided to die, is unclear. What matters is that A and B have been assigned the authority to judge him.

A and B begin their examination.

They open folders containing fragments of C’s life—observations, testimonials, psychological notes, scraps of biography. Nothing is complete. The information contradicts itself. One note suggests kindness, another cruelty. One describes talent, another mediocrity. One implies suffering, another indifference. C’s life appears only in pieces, like a body dismembered into paperwork.

A reads. B listens. Then B reads. A comments.

Their tones differ.

A is dry, detached, procedural—he treats C as a case file.

B is more speculative, prone to reflection, sometimes irritated, sometimes compassionate, sometimes impatient.

They attempt to reconstruct C’s existence as if assembling a puzzle—but the puzzle has missing pieces, and the picture never forms.

They consider C’s relationships. He had acquaintances, perhaps friends, perhaps lovers—though none are present now. His interactions seem shallow, fleeting, or misunderstood. If he loved, the love was imperfect. If he was loved, it did not last. No one has come to stop him. No one stands beside him.

They consider C’s work. He attempted things—art, labor, effort—but nothing conclusive resulted. There are hints of promise, followed by failure. He tried to speak, but was unheard. Or he spoke too much, and was ignored. Achievement slips away under scrutiny.

They consider C’s character. He may be gentle, or selfish. He may be honest, or self-deceiving. Each claim is countered by another. The more A and B read, the less certain they become. C resists definition.

At times, B wonders aloud whether the evidence is enough to condemn him. A insists they must continue. This is their duty.

They debate the meaning of suffering. Has C suffered enough to justify release? Or has he merely endured the ordinary weight of existence? Is pain a reason to die—or is it the universal condition of living?

They debate the value of hope. Does C possess any? Is hope required to continue living? Or is the mere fact of breathing sufficient?

As the discussion continues, the tone becomes colder. C’s life is reduced further—from man to subject, from subject to data, from data to inconvenience. His silence becomes oppressive. He remains motionless, as if already halfway into death.

A and B begin to sound less like judges and more like bureaucrats processing an application. The act of judgment feels routine, mechanical. The decision seems pre-written.

Finally, they reach a conclusion.

C’s case does not warrant intervention.

There is no compelling reason to save him. No decisive virtue. No future promise strong enough to outweigh the evidence of futility. Life, as documented, offers nothing that requires preservation.

A and B prepare to close the file.

They signal—quietly, almost casually.

C moves.

Without a word, without resistance, he exits the frame—implied to step into death. Whether he jumps, collapses, or simply disappears is not shown. His departure is swift, unceremonious, and final.

A and B remain at the table.

They tidy the papers.

The space returns to stillness.

The play ends not with tragedy, but with administration completed—another life processed, evaluated, and dismissed.

 

Closing Note (The Beckettian Weight)

Rough for Theatre II does not dramatize suicide—it dramatizes judgment without presence, life evaluated without voice, and existence reduced to documentation. C never speaks because, in Beckett’s world, the individual no longer has language capable of defending himself against systems, reason, or even compassion.

The cruelty lies not in the verdict, but in its calmness.