The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy

by Mervyn Peake

  Lady Cusp-Canine herself appeared for one fleeting minute. She had not been down to the kitchens for thirty years and was accompanied by an Inspector, who kept his head tilted on one side as he talked to her Ladyship while keeping his eyes on the captive. The effect of this was to suggest that Titus was some kind of caged animal.

  ‘An enigma,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘I don’t agree,’ said Lady Cusp-Canine. ‘He is only a boy.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘And I like his face, too,’ said Lady Cusp-Canine.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘He has splendid eyes.’

  ‘But has he splendid habits, your Ladyship?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lady Cusp-Canine. ‘Why? Have you?’

  The Inspector shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘There is nothing to shrug about,’ said Lady Cusp-Canine. ‘Nothing at all. Where is my Chef?’

  This gentleman had been hovering at her side ever since she had entered the kitchen. He now presented himself.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Have you fed the boy?’

  ‘Yes, my Lady.’

  ‘Have you given him the best? The most nutritious? Have you given him a breakfast to remember?’

  ‘Not yet, your Ladyship.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for!’ Her voice rose. ‘He is hungry. He is despondent, he is young!’

  ‘Yes, your Ladyship.’

  ‘Don’t say “yes” to me!’ She rose on tip-toe to her full height, which did not take her long for she was minute. ‘Feed him and let him go,’ and with that she skimmed across the room on tiny septuagenarian feet, her plumed hat swaying dangerously among the loins and briskets.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Meanwhile, the powerful Muzzlehatch had escorted Juno out of the building and had helped her into his hideous car. It was his intention to take her to her house above the river and then to race for home, for even Muzzlehatch was weary. But, as usual when he was at the wheel, whatever plans had been formulated were soon to be no more than chaff in the wind, and within half a minute of his starting he had changed his mind and was now heading for that wide and sandy stretch of the river where the banks shelved gently into the shallow water.

  The sky was no longer very dark, though one or two stars were still to be seen, when Muzzlehatch, having taken a long and quite unnecessary curve to the west, careered off the road and, turning left and right to avoid the juniper bushes that littered the upper banks, swept all of a sudden into the shallows of the broad stream. Once in the water he accelerated and great arcs of brine spurted from the wheels to port and starboard.

  As for Juno, she leaned forward a little; her elbow rested on the door of the car, and her face lay sideways in the gloved palm of her hand. As far as could be seen she was quite oblivious to the speed of the car, let alone the spray: nor did she take any notice of Muzzlehatch, who, in his favourite position, was practically lying on the floor of the machine, one eye above the ‘bulwarks’ from whence came forth a sort of song:

  ‘I have my price: it’s rather high –

  (About the level of your eye),

  But if you’re nice to me, I’ll try

  To lower it for you –

  To lower it; to lower it;

  Upon the kind of rope they knit

  From yellow grass and purple hay

  When knitting is taboo –’

  A touch of the wheel and the car sped deeper into the river so that the water was not far from brimming over, but another movement brought her out again while the steam hissed like a thousand cats.

  ‘Some knit them pearl,’ roared Muzzlehatch,

  ‘Some knit them plain –

  Some knit their brows of pearl in vain

  Some are so plain they try again

  To tease the wool of love!

  But ah! the palms of yesterday –

  There’s not a soul from yesterday

  Who’s worth the dreaming of – they say –

  Who’s worth the dreaming of …’

  As Muzzlehatch’s voice wandered off the sun began to rise out of the river.

  ‘Have you finished?’ said Juno. Her eyes were half closed.

  ‘I have given my all,’ said Muzzlehatch.

  ‘Then listen please!’ – her eyes were a little wider but their expression was still faraway.

  ‘What is it, Juno love?’

  ‘I am thinking of that boy. What will they do to him?’

  ‘They’ll find him difficult,’ said Muzzlehatch, ‘very difficult. Rather like a form of me. It is more a case of what will he do to them. But why? Has he set a sparrow twittering in your breast? Or woken up a predatory condor?’

  But there was no reply, for at that moment he drew up at the front door of Juno’s house, with a great cry of metal. It was a tall building, dusty pink in colour, and was backed by a small hill or knoll surmounted by a marble man. Immediately behind the knoll was a loop of the river. On either side of Juno’s house were two somewhat similar houses but these were forsaken. The windows were smashed. The doors were gone and the rooms let in the rain.

  But Juno’s house was in perfect repair and when the door was opened by a servant in a yellow gown it was possible to see how daringly yet carefully the hall was furnished. Lit up in the darkness, it presented a colour scheme of ivory, ash, and coral red.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ said Juno. ‘Do mushrooms tempt you – or plovers’ eggs? Or coffee?’

  ‘No my love!’

  ‘As you wish.’

  They sat without moving for a little while.

  ‘Where do you think the boy is?’ she said at last.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Muzzlehatch.

  Juno climbed out of the car. It was like a faultless disembarkation. Whatever she did had style.

  ‘Good night, then,’ she said, ‘and sweet dreams.’

  Muzzlehatch gazed at her as she made her way through the dark garden to the lighted hall. Her shadow cast by the light reached out behind her, almost to the car, and as she moved away step by long smooth step, Muzzlehatch felt a twitch of the heart, for it seemed that he saw in the slow leisure of her stride something, at the moment, that he was loth to forgo.

  It was as if those faraway days when they were lovers came flooding back, image upon image, shade upon shade, unsolicited, unbidden, each one challenging the strength of the dykes which they had built against one another. For they knew that beyond the dykes heaved the great seas of sentiment on whose bosom they had lost their way.

  How often had he stared at her in anger or in boisterous love! How often had he admired her. How often had he seen her leave him, but never quite like this. The light from the hall where the servant stood came flooding across the garden and Juno was a silhouette against the lighted entrance. From the full, rounded, and bell-shaped hips which swayed imperceptibly as she moved, arose the column of her almost military back; and from her shoulders sprang her neck, perfectly cylindrical, surmounted by her classic head.

  As Muzzlehatch gazed at her he seemed to see, in some strange way, himself. He saw her as his failure – and he knew himself to be hers. For they had each received all that the other could provide. What had gone wrong? Was it that they need no longer try because they could see through one another? What was the trouble? A hundred things. His unfaithfulness; his egotism; his eternal playacting; his gigantic pride; his lack of tenderness; his deafening exuberance; his selfishness.

  But she had run out of love; or it had been battered out of her. Only a friendship remained: ambient and unbreakable.

  So it was strange, this twitch of the heart, strange that he should follow her with his eyes; strange that he should turn the car about so slowly, and it was strange also (when he arrived in the courtyard of his home) to see how ruminative was the look upon his face as he tied his car to the mulberry tree.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  In the late afternoon of the next day they took Titus and they put
him in a cell. It was a small place with a barred window to the south-west.

  When Titus entered the cell this rectangle was filled with a golden light. The black bars that divided the window into a dozen upright sections were silhouetted against the sunset.

  In one corner there was a rough trestle bed with a dark-red blanket spread over it. Taking up most of the space in the middle of the cell was a table that stood up on three legs only, for the stone floor was uneven. On the table were a few candles, a box of matches and a cup of water. By the side of the table stood a chair, a flimsy-looking thing which someone had once started to paint: but they (whoever they may have been) had grown tired of the work so that the chair was piebald black and yellow.

  As Titus stood there taking in the features of the room the jailer closed the door behind him and he heard the key turn in the lock. But the sunbeams were there, the low, slanting beams of honey-coloured light; they flooded through the bars and gave a kind of welcome to the prisoner – so that he made, without a pause, for the big window, where, holding an iron bar with either hand, he stared across a landscape.

  It seemed it was transfigured. So ethereal was the light that great cedars floated upon it and hilltops seemed to wander through the gold.

  In the far distance Titus could see what looked like the incrustation of a city, and as though the sun were striking it obliquely there came the golden flash of windows, now here, now there, like sparks from a flint.

  Suddenly, out of the gilded evening a bird flew directly towards the window where Titus stood staring through the bars. It approached rapidly, looping its airborne way, was all at once standing on the window-ledge.

  By the way its head moved rapidly to and fro upon its neck it seemed it was looking for something. It was evident that the last occupant of the cell had shared his crumbs with the piebald bird – but today there were no crumbs and the magpie at last began to peck at its feathers as though in lieu of better fare.

  Then out of the golden atmosphere: out of the stones of the cell: out of the cedars: out of a flutter of the magpie’s wing, came a long waft of memory so that images swam up before his eyes and he saw, more vividly than the sunset or the forested hills, the long coruscated outline of Gormenghast and the stones of his home where the lizards lazed, and there, blotting out all else, his mother as he had last seen her at the door of the shanty, the great dripping castle drawn up like a backcloth behind her.

  ‘You will come back,’ she had said. ‘All roads lead back to Gormenghast’; and he yearned suddenly for his home, for the bad of it no less than for the good of it – yearned for the smell of it and the taste of the bitter ivy.

  Titus turned from the window as though to dispel the nostalgia, but the mere movement of his body through space was no help to him, and he sat down on the edge of the bed.

  From far below the window came the fluting of a blackbird; the golden light had begun to darken and he became conscious of a loneliness he had never felt before.

  He leaned forward pressing the tightened muscles below his ribs and then began to rock back and forth, like a pendulum. So regular was the rocking that it would seem that no assuagement of grief could result from so mechanical a rhythm.

  But there was a kind of comfort to be had, for while his brain wept, his body went on swaying.

  An aching to be once again in the land from which he grew gave him no rest. There is no calm for those who are uprooted. They are wanderers, homesick and defiant. Love itself is helpless to heal them though the dust rises with every footfall – drifts down the corridors – settles on branch or cornice – each breath an inhalation from the past so that the lungs, like a miner’s, are dark with bygone times.

  Whatever they eat, whatever they drink, is never the bread of home or the corn of their own valleys. It is never the wine of their own vineyards. It is a foreign brew.

  So Titus rocked himself in grief’s cradle to and fro, to and fro, while the cell darkened, and at some time during the night he fell asleep.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  What was it? He sat bolt upright and stared about him. It was very cold but it was not this that woke him. It was a little sound. He could hear it now quite clearly. It came from within a few feet of where he sat. It was a kind of tapping, but it did not seem to come from the wall. It came from beneath the bed.

  Then it stopped for a little and when it returned it seemed as though it bore some kind of message, for there was a pattern or rhythm in it: something that sounded like a question. ‘Tap – Tap … Tap – Tap – Tap. Are … yóu … thére …? Are … yóu … thére …?’

  This tapping, sinister as it was, had the effect, at least, of turning Titus’ mind from the almost unbearable nostalgia that had oppressed it.

  Edging himself silently from the flimsy bed, he stood beside it, his heart beating, and then he lifted it bodily from where it stood and set it down in the centre of the cell.

  Remembering the candles on the table, he fumbled for one, lit it, and then tip-toed back to where the bed had stood, and then moved the small flame to and fro along the flagstones. As he did so the tapping started again.

  ‘Are … yóu … thére …?’ it seemed to say – ‘Are … yóu … thére …?’

  Titus knelt down and shone the candle flame full upon the stone from immediately below which the tapping appeared to proceed.

  It seemed quite ordinary, at first, this flagstone, but under scrutiny Titus could see that the thin fissure that surrounded it was sharper and deeper than was the case with the adjacent stones. The candlelight showed up what the daylight would have hidden.

  Again the knocking started and Titus, taking the knuckle of flint from his pocket, waited for the next lull. Then, with a trembling hand, he struck the stone slab twice.

  For a moment there was no reply and then the answer came – ‘One … two …’

  It was a brisk ‘one – two’, quite unlike the tentative tapping which had preceded it.

  It was as though, whoever or whatever stood or lay or crawled beneath the flagstone, the mood of the enigma had changed. The ‘being’, whatever it was, had gained in confidence.

  What happened next was stranger and more fearful. Something more startling than the tapping had taken its place. This time it was the eyes that were assailed. What did they see that made his whole body shake? Peering at the candle-lit flagstone below him, he saw it move.

  Titus jumped back from the oscillating stone and, lifting his candle high in the air, he looked about him wildly for some kind of weapon. His eyes returned to the stone which was now an inch above the ground.

  From where Titus stood in the centre of the cell he could not see that the stone was supported by a pair of hands that trembled with its weight. All he saw was a part of the floor rising up with a kind of slow purpose.

  Woken out of his sleep to find himself in a prison – and then to hear a knocking in the darkness – and then to be faced with something phantasmagoric – a stone, apparently alive, raising itself in secret in order to survey the supine vaults – all this and the depth of his homesickness – what could all this lead to but a lightness in the head? But this lightness, though it all but brought a kind of mad laughter in its train, did not prevent him seeing in the half-painted chair a possible weapon. Grabbing it, with his eyes fixed upon the flagstone, he wrenched the chair to pieces, this way and that, until he had pulled free from the skeleton one of its front legs. With this in his hand he began to laugh silently as he crept towards his enemy, the stone.

  But as he crept forward he saw before the flagstone, which was by now five inches up in the air, two thick grey wrists.

  They were trembling with the weight of the stone slab, and as Titus watched, his eyes wide with conjecture, he saw the thick slab begin to tilt and edge itself over the adjacent stone until, by degrees, the whole weight was transferred and there was a square hole in the floor.

  The thick grey hands had withdrawn, taking their fingers with them – but a moment later somet
hing arose to take their place. It was the head of a man.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Little did he know – this riser-out-of-flagstones – that his head was that of a batter’d god – nor that with such a visage, he was, when he spoke, undermining his own grandeur, for no voice could be tremendous enough for such a face.

  ‘Be not startled,’ he whined, and his accents were as soft as dough. ‘All is well; all is lovely; all is as it should be. Accept me. That is all I ask you. Accept me. Old Crime they call me. They will have their little jokes. Dear boys, they are. Ha ha! That I have come to you through a hole in the floor is nothing. Put down that chair leg, friend.’

  ‘What do you want?’ said Titus.

  ‘Listen to him,’ replied the soft voice. ‘“What do you want?” he says. I want nothing, dear child. Nothing but friendship. Sweet friendship. That is why I have come to see you. To initiate you. One must help the helpless, mustn’t one? And pour out balm, you know: and bathe all kinds of bruises.’

  ‘I wish to hell you had left me alone,’ said Titus savagely. ‘You can keep your balm.’

  ‘Now is that nice?’ said Old Crime. ‘Is that kind? But I understand. You are not used to it: are you? It takes some time to love the Honeycomb.’

  Titus stared at the leonine head.

  The voice had robbed it of all grandeur, and he placed the chair leg on the table within reach.

  ‘The Honeycomb? What’s that?’ said Titus at last. The man had been staring at him intently.

  ‘It is the name we give, dear boy, to what some would call a prison. But we know better. To us it is a world within a world – and I should know, shouldn’t I? I’ve been here all my life – or nearly all. For the first few years I lived in luxury. There were tiger-skins on the scented floorboards of our houses: and golden cutlery and golden plates. Money was like the sands of the sea. For I come from a great line. You have probably heard of us. We are the oldest family in the world – we are the originals.’ He edged forward, out of the hole.