The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy полностью

It had been arranged that the staff should gather in the quadrangle outside the Doctor’s house at a few minutes past nine and wait for Bellgrove, who, as headmaster, had ignored the suggestion that he should be first on the spot and wait for them. Perch-Prism’s argument that it was a good deal more ludicrous for a horde of men to hang about as though they were hatching some kind of conspiracy than it would be for Bellgrove, even though he was headmaster, cut no ice with the old lion.

Bellgrove, in his present mood, was peculiarly dogged. He had glowered over his shoulder at them as though he were at bay. ‘Never let it be said in future years …’ he had ended, ‘that a headmaster of Gormenghast had once to wait the pleasure of his staff’s arrival – by night, in the South Quadrangle. Never let it be said that so responsible an office had sunk into such disrespect.’

And so it was that a few minutes after nine a great blot formed in the darkness of the quadrangle as though a section of the dusk had coagulated. Bellgrove, who had been hiding behind a pillar of the cloisters, had decided to keep his staff waiting for at least five minutes. But he was unable to contain his impatience. Not three minutes had passed since their arrival before his excitement propelled him forwards into the open gloom. When he was halfway across the quadrangle, and could hear the muttering of their voices, quite plainly, the moon slid out from behind a cloud. In the cold light that now laid bare the rendezvous, the red gowns of the professors burned darkly, the colour of wine. Not so Bellgrove’s. His ceremonial gown was of the finest white silk, embroidered across the back with a large ‘G’. It was a magnificent, voluminous affair, this gown, but the effect was a little startling by moonlight, and more than one of the waiting professors gave a start to see what appeared to be a ghost bearing down upon them.

The Professors had forgotten the ceremonial robe of leadership. Deadyawn had never worn it. For the smaller-minded of the staff there was something irritating about this sartorial discrepancy of their gowns which gave the old man so unique an advantage, both decoratively and socially. They had all been secretly rather pleased to have the opportunity of wearing their red robes in public, although the public consisted solely of the Doctor and his sister (for they didn’t count each other) – and now, Bellgrove, of all people, Bellgrove, their decrepit head had stolen with a single peal, as it were, the wealth of their red thunder.

He could feel their discontent, short-lived though it was, and the effect of this recognition was to excite him still further. He tossed his white mane of hair in the moonlight and gathered his arctic gown about him in a great sculptural swathe.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Silence if you please. I thank you.’

He dropped his head so that with his face in deep shadow he could relax his features in a smile of delight at finding himself obeyed. When he raised his face it was as solemn and as noble as before.

‘Are all who are here gathered present?’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ said a coarse voice, out of the red gloom of the gowns, and immediately on top of Mulefire’s voice, the staccato of Cutflower’s laughter broke out in little clanks of sound – ‘Oh La! la! la! if that isn’t ripeness, la! “Are all who are here gathered present?” La! … What a tease the old man is, lord help my lungs!’

‘Quite so! Quite so!’ broke out a crisper voice. ‘What he was trying to ask, presumably’ (it was Shrivell speaking) ‘was whether everyone here was really here, or whether it was only those who thought themselves here when they weren’t really here at all who were here? You see it’s quite simple, really, once you have mastered the syntax.’

Somewhere close behind the headmaster there was a sense of strangled body-laughter, a horrible inaudible affair and then the sound of a deep bucketful of breath being drawn out of a well – and then Opus Fluke’s mid-stomach voice. ‘Poor old Bellgrove,’ it said. ‘Poor old bloody Bellgrove!’ and then the rumbling again, and a chorus of dark and stupid laughter.

Bellgrove was in no mood for this. His old face was flushed and his legs trembled. Fluke’s voice had sounded very close. Just behind his left shoulder. Bellgrove took a step to the rear and then turning suddenly with a whirl of his white gown he swung his long arm and at once he was startled at what he at first imagined was a complete triumph. His gnarled old fist had struck a human jaw. A quick, wild, and bitter sense of mastery possessed him and the intoxicating notion that he had been under-rating himself for seventy odd years and that all unwittingly he had discovered in himself the ‘man of action’. But his exhilaration was short lived for the figure who lay moaning at his feet was not Opus Fluke at all, but the weedy and dyspeptic Flannelcat, the only member of his staff who held him in any kind of respect.