The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy полностью

THE EARLING

The day of the ‘Earling’ was a day of rain. Monotonous, sullen, grey rain with no life in it. It had not even the power to stop. There were always a hundred heads at the windows of the North wing that stared into the sky, into the rain. A hundred figures leant across the sills of the Southern wall, and stared. They would disappear back into the darkness, one by one, but others would have appeared at other windows. There would always be about a hundred starers. Rain. The slow rain. The East and the West of the Castle watched the rain. It was to be a day of rain … There could be no stopping it.

Even before the dawn, hours before, when the Grey Scrubbers were polishing the walls of the stone kitchen, and the Raft Makers were putting the finishing touches to the raft of chestnut boughs, and the stable boys, by the light of lanterns, were grooming the horses, it was obvious that there was a change in the Castle. It was the Greatest Day. And it rained. It was obvious, this change, in many ways, most superficially of all, in the visual realm, for all wore sacking. Every mortal one. Sacking dyed in the hot blood of eagles. On this day there could be no one, no one save Titus, exempted from the immemorial decree – ‘That the Castle shall wear sacking on the Earling day.’

Steerpike had officiated at the distribution of the garments under the direction of Barquentine. He was getting to know a great deal about the more obscure and legendary rites. It was in his mind to find himself on Barquentine’s decease the leading, if not the sole authority in matters of ritual and observance. In any event, the subject fascinated him. It was potential.

‘Curse!’ he muttered, as he woke to the sound of rain. But still, what did it matter? It was the future that he had his eyes on. A year ahead. Five years ahead. In the meantime, ‘all aboard for glory!’

Mrs Slagg was up early and had put her sacking garment on at once in deference to the sacrosanct convention. It was a pity that she could not wear her hat with the glass grapes, but of course, on the day of the Earling, no one wore hats. A servant had brought in, the night before, the stone which Titus was to hold in his left hand, the ivy branch which he was to carry in his right, and the necklace of snail-shells for his little neck. He was still asleep, and Nannie was ironing the white linen smock which would reach his ankles. It was blanched to a quality as of white light. Nannie fingered it as though it were gossamer.

‘So it’s come to this.’ Nannie was talking to herself. ‘So it’s come to this. The tiniest thing in the world to be an Earl today. Today! Oh, my weak heart, how cruel they are to make a tiny thing have such responsiverity! Cruel. Cruel. It isn’t righteousness! No, it isn’t. But he is. He is the Earl, the naughty mite. The only one – and no one can say he isn’t. Oh, my poor heart! they’ve never been to see him. It’s only now they want to see him because the day has come.’

Her miniature screwed-up face was skirmishing with tears. Her mouth worked itself in and out of its own dry wrinkles between every sentence. ‘They expect him to come, the new little Earl, for their homage and everything, but it’s me who baths him and gets him ready, and irons out his white smock, and gives him his breakfast. But they won’t think of all that – and then … and then …’ (Nannie suddenly sat down on the edge of a chair and began to cry) ‘they’ll take him away from me, Oh, justlessness – and I’ll be all alone – all alone to die … and –’

‘I’ll be with you,’ said Fuchsia from the door. ‘And they won’t take him away from you. Of course, they won’t.’

Nannie Slagg ran up to her and clung to her arm. ‘They will!’ she cried. ‘Your huge mother said she would. She said she would.’

‘Well, they haven’t taken me away, have they?’ said Fuchsia.

‘But you’re only a girl!’ cried Nannie Slagg louder than ever.

‘You don’t matter. You’re not going to be anything.’

Fuchsia dislodged the old woman’s hand and walked heavily to the window. The rain poured down. It poured down.

The voice behind her went on: ‘As though I haven’t poured my love out every day – every day. I’ve poured it all away until I’m hollowed out. It’s always me. It always has been. Toil after toil. Moil after moil; with no one to say “God bless you”. No one to understand.’

Fuchsia could stand it no longer. Much as she loved her nurse, she could not hear that melancholy, peevish voice and watch the doleful rain and keep herself calm. Unless she left the room she would break something – the nearest breakable thing. She turned and ran, and in her own room once more, fell upon her bed, the skirt of a sacking costume rucked up about her thighs.

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