Titus Groan

by Mervyn Peake

  Her hair was drawn back from her brow with an even finer regard for symmetry than on the night when Steerpike had first seen her, and the knot of grey twine which formed a culmination as hard as a boulder, a long way down the back of her neck, had not a single hair out of place.

  The Doctor had himself noticed that she was spending more and more time upon her toilette, although it had at all times proved one of her most absorbing occupations; a paradox to the Doctor’s mind which delighted him, for his sister was, even in his fraternal eyes, cruelly laden with the family features. As she approached her chair to the left of the fire, Steerpike removed his hand from her elbow, and, shifting back the Doctor’s chair with his foot while Prunesquallor was drawing the blinds, pulled forward the sofa into a more favourable position in front of the fire.

  ‘They don’t meet – I said “They don’t meet”,’ said Irma Prunesquallor, pouring out the coffee.

  How she could see anything at all, let alone whether they met or not, through her dark glasses was a mystery.

  Dr Prunesquallor, already on his way back to his chair, on the padded arms of which his coffee was balancing, stopped and folded his hands at his chin.

  ‘To what are you alluding, my dear? Are you speaking of a brace of spirits? ha ha ha! – twin souls searching for consummation, each in the other? Ha ha! ha ha ha! Or are you making reference to matters more terrestrial? Enlighten me, my love.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said his sister. ‘Look at the curtains, I said: “Look at the curtains”.’ Dr Prunesquallor swung about.

  ‘To me,’ he said, ‘they look exactly like curtains. In fact, they are curtains. Both of them. A curtain on the left, my love, and a curtain on the right. Ha ha! I’m absolutely certain they are!’

  Irma, hoping that Steerpike was looking at her, laid down her coffee-cup.

  ‘What happens in the middle, I said; what happens right down the middle?’ Her pointed nose warmed, for she sensed victory.

  ‘There is a great yearning one for the other. A fissure of impalpable night divides them, Irma, my dear sister, there is a lacuna.’

  ‘Then kill it,’ said Irma, and sank back into her chair. She glanced at Steerpike, but he had apparently taken no notice of the conversation and she was disappointed. He was leaning back into one corner of the couch, his legs crossed, his hands curled around the coffee-cup as though to feel its warmth, and his eyes were peering into the fire. He was evidently far away.

  When the Doctor had joined the curtains together with great deliberation and stood back to assure himself that the Night was satisfactorily excluded from the room, he seated himself, but no sooner had he done so than there was a jangling at the door-bell which continued until the cook had scraped the pastry from his hands, removed his apron and made his way to the front door.

  Two female voices were speaking at the same time.

  ‘Only for a moment, only for a moment,’ they said. ‘Just passing – On our way home – Only for a moment – Tell him we won’t stay – No, of course not; we won’t stay. Of course not. Oh no – Yes, yes. Just a twinkling – only a twinkling.’

  But for the fact that it would have been impossible for one voice to wedge so many words into so short a space of time and to speak so many of them simultaneously, it would have been difficult to believe that it was not the voice of a single individual, so continuous and uniform appeared the flat colour of the sound.

  Prunesquallor cast up his hands to the ceiling and behind the convex lenses of his spectacles his eyes revolved in their orbits.

  The voices that Steerpike now heard in the passage were unfamiliar to his quick ear. Since he had been with the Prunesquallors he had taken advantage of all his spare time and had, he thought, run to earth all the main figures of Gormenghast. There were few secrets hidden from him, for he had that scavenger like faculty of acquiring unashamedly and from an infinite variety of sources, snatches of knowledge which he kept neatly at the back of his brain and used to his own advantage as opportunity offered.

  When the twins, Cora and Clarice, entered the room together, he wondered whether the red wine had gone to his head. He had neither seen them before nor anything like them. They were dressed in their inevitable purple.

  Dr Prunesquallor bowed elegantly. ‘Your Ladyships,’ he said, ‘we are more than honoured. We are really very much more than honoured, ha ha ha!’ He whinnied his appreciation. ‘Come right along, my dear ladies, come right the way in, Irma, my dear, we have been doubly lucky in our privileges. Why “doubly” you say to yourself, why “doubly”? Because, O sister, they have both come, ha ha ha! Very much so, very much so.’

  Prunesquallor, who knew from experience that only a fraction of what anyone said ever entered the brains of the twins, permitted himself a good deal of latitude in his conversation, mixing with a certain sycophancy remarks for his own amusement which could never have been made to persons more astute than the twins.

  Irma had come forward, her iliac crest reflecting a streak of light.

  ‘Very charmed, your Ladyships; I said “very, very charmed”.’

  She attempted to curtsey, but her dress was too tight.

  ‘You know my sister, of course, of course, of course. Will you have coffee? Of course you will, and a little wine? Naturally – or what would you prefer?’

  But both the Doctor and his sister found that the Ladies Cora and Clarice had not been paying the slightest attention but had been staring at Steerpike more in the manner of a wall staring at a man than a man staring at a wall.

  Steerpike in a well-cut uniform of black cloth, advanced to the sisters and bowed. ‘Your Ladyships,’ he said, ‘I am delighted to have the honour of being beneath the same roof. It is an intimacy that I shall never forget.’ And then, as though he were ending a letter – ‘I am your very humble servant,’ he added.

  Clarice turned herself to Cora, but kept her eyes on Steerpike.

  ‘He says he’s glad he’s under the same roof as us,’ she said.

  ‘Under the same roof,’ echoed Cora. ‘He’s very glad of it.’

  ‘Why?’ said Clarice emptily. ‘What difference does it make about the roof?’

  ‘It couldn’t make any difference whatever the roof ’s like,’ said her sister.

  ‘I like roofs,’ said Clarice; ‘they are something I like more than most things because they are on top of the houses they cover, and Cora and I like being over the tops of things because we love power, and that’s why we are both fond of roofs.’

  ‘That’s why,’ Cora continued. ‘That’s the reason. Anything that’s on top of something else is what we like, unless it is someone we don’t like who’s on top of something we are pleased with like ourselves. We’re not allowed to be on top, except that our own room is high, oh, so high up in the castle wall, with our Tree – our own Tree that grows from the wall, that is so much more important than anything Gertrude has.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Clarice; ‘she hasn’t anything as important as that. But she steals our birds.’

  She turned her expressionless eyes to Cora, who met them as though she were her sister’s reflection. It may be that between them they recognized shades of expression in each other’s faces, but it is certain that no one else, however keen his eyesight, could have detected the slightest change in the muscles that presumably governed the lack of expressions of their faces. Evidently this reference to stolen birds was the reason why they came nearer to each other so that their shoulders touched. It was obvious that their sorrow was conjoined.

  Dr Prunesquallor had, during all this, been trying to shepherd them into the chairs by the fire, but to no avail. They had no thought for others when their minds were occupied. The room, the persons around them ceased to exist. They had only enough room for one thought at a time.

  But now that there was a sudden lull the Doctor, reinforced this time by Irma, managed to shift the twins by means of a mixture of deference and force and to get them established by the fire. Steerpike, who had vanishe
d from the room, now returned with another pot of coffee and two more cups. It was this sort of thing that pleased Irma, and she tilted her head on its neck and turned up the corners of her mouth into something approaching the coy.

  But when the coffee was passed to the twins they did not want it. One, taking her cue from the other, decided that she, or the other one, or possibly both, or neither, did not want it.

  Would they have anything to drink? Cognac, sherry, brandy, a liqueur, cherry wine… ?

  They shook their heads profoundly.

  ‘We only came for a moment,’ said Cora.

  ‘Because we were passing,’ said Clarice. ‘That’s the only reason.’

  But although they refused on those grounds to indulge in a drink of any sort, yet they gave no indication of being in a hurry to go, nor had they for a long time anything to say, but were quite content to sit and stare at Steerpike.

  But after a long interval, halfway through which the Doctor and his sister had given up all attempts to make conversation, Cora turned her face to Steerpike.

  ‘Boy,’ she said, ‘what are you here for?’

  ‘Yes,’ echoed Clarice, ‘that’s what we want to know.’

  ‘I want,’ said Steerpike, choosing his words, ‘only your gracious patronage, your Ladyships. Only your favour.’

  The twins turned their faces towards each other and then at the same moment they returned them to Steerpike.

  ‘Say that again,’ said Cora.

  ‘All of it,’ said Clarice.

  ‘Only your gracious patronage, your Ladyships. Only your favour. That is what I want.’

  ‘Well, we’ll give it you,’ said Clarice. But for the first time the sisters were at variance for a moment.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Cora. ‘It’s too soon for that.’

  ‘Much too soon,’ agreed Clarice. ‘It’s not time yet to give him any favour at all. What’s his name?’

  This was addressed to Steerpike.

  ‘His name is Steerpike,’ was the youth’s reply.

  Clarice leaned forward in her chair and whispered to Cora across the hearthrug: ‘His name is Steerpike.’

  ‘Why not?’ said her sister flatly. ‘It will do.’

  Steerpike was, of course, alive with ideas and projects. These two half-witted women were a gift. That they should be the sisters of Lord Sepulchrave was of tremendous strategic value. They would prove an advance on the Prunesquallors, if not intellectually at any rate socially, and that at the moment was what mattered. And in any case, the lower the mentality of his employers the more scope for his own projects.

  That one of them had said his name ‘Steerpike’ would ‘do’ had interested him. Did it imply that they wished to see more of him? That would simplify matters considerably.

  His old trick of shameless flattery seemed to him the best line to take at this critical stage. Later on, he would see. But it was another remark that had appealed to his opportunist sense even more keenly, and that was the reference to Lady Groan.

  These ridiculous twins had apparently a grievance, and the object of it was the Countess. This when examined further might lead in many directions. Steerpike was beginning to enjoy himself in his own dry, bloodless way.

  Suddenly as in a flash he remembered two tiny figures the size of halma players, dressed in the same crude purple. Directly he had seen them enter the room an echo was awakened somewhere in his subconscious, and although he had put it aside as irrelevant to the present requirements, it now came back with redoubled force and he recalled where he had seen the two minute replicas of the twins.

  He had seen them across a great space of air and across a distance of towers and high walls. He had seen them upon the lateral trunk of a dead tree in the summer, a tree that grew out at right angles from a high and windowless wall.

  Now he realized why they had said ‘Our Tree that grows from the wall that is so much more important than anything Gertrude has.’ But then Clarice had added: ‘But she steals our birds.’ What did that imply? He had, of course, often watched the Countess from points of vantage with her birds or her white cats. That was something he must investigate further. Nothing must be let fall from his mind unless it were first turned to and fro and proved to be useless.

  Steerpike bent forward, the tips of his fingers together. ‘Your Ladyships,’ he said, ‘are you enamoured of the feathered tribe? – Their beaks, their feathers, and the way they fly?’

  ‘What?’ said Cora.

  ‘Are you in love with birds, your Ladyships?’ repeated Steerpike, more simply.

  ‘What?’ said Clarice.

  Steerpike hugged himself inside. If they could be as stupid as this, he could surely do anything he liked with them.

  ‘Birds,’ he said more loudly; ‘do you like them?’

  ‘What birds?’ said Cora. ‘What do you want to know for?’

  ‘We weren’t talking about birds,’ said Clarice unexpectedly.

  ‘We hate them.’

  ‘They’re such silly things,’ Cora ended.

  ‘Silly and stupid; we hate them,’ said Clarice.

  ‘Avis, avis, you are undone, undone!’ came Prunesquallor’s voice. ‘Your day is over. Oh, ye hordes of heaven! the treetops shall be emptied of their chorus and only clouds ride over the blue heaven.’

  Prunesquallor leaned forward and tapped Irma on the knee.

  ‘Pretty pleasing,’ he said, and showed her all his brilliant teeth together. ‘What did you think, my riotous one?’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Irma, who was sitting on the couch with Steerpike. Feeling that as the hostess she had so far this evening had very little opportunity of exhibiting what she, and she alone felt was her outstanding talent in that direction, she bent her dark glasses upon Cora and then upon Clarice and tried to speak to both of them at once.

  ‘Birds,’ she said, with something arch in her voice and manner, ‘birds depend – don’t you think, my dear Ladyships – I said birds depend a lot upon their eggs. Do you not agree with me? I said do you not agree with me?’

  ‘We’re going now,’ said Cora, getting up.

  ‘Yes, we’ve been here too long. Much too long. We’ve got a lot of sewing to do. We sew beautifully, both of us.’

  ‘I am sure you do,’ said Steerpike. ‘May I have the privilege of appreciating your craft at some future date when it is convenient for you?’

  ‘We do embroidery as well,’ said Cora, who had risen and had approached Steerpike.

  Clarice came up to her sister’s side and they both looked at him. ‘We do a lot of needlework, but nobody sees it. Nobody is interested in us, you see. We only have two servants. We used –’

  ‘That’s all,’ said Cora. ‘We used to have hundreds when we were younger. Our father gave us hundreds of servants, We were of great – of great –’

  ‘Consequence,’ volunteered her sister. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what it was that we were. Sepulchrave was always so dreamy and miserable, but he did play with us sometimes; so we did what we liked. But now he doesn’t ever want to see us.’

  ‘He thinks he’s so wise,’ said Cora.

  ‘But he’s no cleverer than we are.’

  ‘He’s not as clever,’ said Clarice.

  ‘Nor is Gertrude,’ they said almost at the same moment.

  ‘She stole your birds, didn’t she?’ said Steerpike, winking at Prunesquallor.

  ‘How did you know?’ they said, advancing on him a step further.

  ‘Everyone knows, your Ladyships. Everyone in the castle knows,’ replied Steerpike, winking this time at Irma.

  The twins held hands at once and drew close together. What Steerpike had said had sunk in and was making a serious impression on them. They had thought it was only a private grievance, that Gertrude had lured away their birds from the Room of Roots which they had taken so long preparing. But everyone knew! Everyone knew!

  They turned to leave the room, and the Doctor opened his eyes, for he had almost fallen asleep with one elbo
w on the central table and his hand propping his head. He arose to his feet but could do nothing more elegant than to crook a finger, for he was too tired. His sister stood beside him creaking a little, and it was Steerpike who opened the door for them and offered to accompany them to their room. As they passed through the hall he removed his cape from a hook. Flinging it over his shoulders with a flourish he buttoned it at the neck. The cloak accentuated the highness of his shoulders, and as he drew its folds about him, the spareness of his body.

  The aunts seemed to accept the fact that he was leaving the house with them, although they had not replied when he had asked their permission to escort them to their rooms.

  With an extraordinary gallantry he shepherded them across the quadrangle.

  ‘Everybody knows, you said.’ Cora’s voice was so empty of feeling and yet so plaintive that it must have awakened a sympathetic response in anyone with a more kindly heart than Steerpike’s.

  ‘That’s what you said,’ repeated Clarice.

  ‘But what can we do? We can’t do anything to show what we could do if only we had the power we haven’t got,’ said Clarice lucidly. ‘We used to have hundreds of servants.’

  ‘You shall have them back,’ said Steerpike. ‘You shall have them all back. New ones. Better ones. Obedient ones. I shall arrange it. They shall work for you, through me. Your floor of the castle shall be alive again. You shall be supreme. Give me the administration to handle, your Ladyships, and I will have them dancing to your tune – whatever it is – they’ll dance to it.’

  ‘But what about Gertrude?’

  ‘Yes, what about Gertrude,’ came their flat voices.

  ‘Leave everything to me, I will secure your rights for you. You are Lady Cora and Lady Clarice, Lady Clarice and Lady Cora. You must not forget that. No one must be allowed to forget it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what must happen,’ said Cora.

  ‘Everyone must think of who we are,’ said Clarice.

  ‘And never stop thinking about it,’ said Cora.

  ‘Or we will use our power,’ said Clarice.