The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy полностью

Mulefire, the most difficult of the crew for Perch-Prism to control, sat like a hulk of stupid, bull-necked irritability, immediately behind the miserable Flannelcat, who looked to be in perpetual danger of being bitten in the back of the neck by Mulefire’s tomb-stone teeth, and of being lifted out of his seat and slung away across the ballroom water. Behind Mulefire sat Cutflower; he was the last of them all to admit that silence was the best thing that could happen to them. Chatter was lifeblood – and it was a mere shadow of the one time vapid but ebullient wag who sat now staring at Mulefire’s heavily muscled back.

There were only two other members to this crew: Shred and Swivell. No doubt the rest of the staff had got hold of boats from somewhere, or, like these gentlemen, had constructed something themselves, or even ignored Bellgrove’s ruling, and kept to the upper floors.

Shred and Swivell dipping their mortarboards in the glassy surface were of course the nearest to the approaching raft. Swivell, the bow ‘oar’, turning his ageing face to see who it was that Perch-Prism was hailing, upset for a few moments the balance of the dugout which listed dangerously to the port side.

‘Now then! Now then!’ shouted Perch-Prism from the stern. ‘Are you trying to capsize us, sir?’

‘Nonsense,’ shouted Swivell, colouring, for he hated being reprimanded over the seven heads of his colleagues. He knew that he had behaved in an utterly unworthy way, for a bow oar, but ‘Nonsense’ he shouted again.

‘We will not discuss the matter now sir, if you please!’ said Perch-Prism, dropping the lids over his small black and eloquent eyes, and half turning away his head so that the underside of his porcine nose caught what light there was reflected from the water.

‘I would have thought it were enough that you had endangered your colleagues. But no. You wish to justify yourself, like all men of science. Tomorrow you and Cutflower will change places.’

‘Oh Lord! la!’ said Cutflower, testily. ‘I’m comfy where I am, la!’

Perch-Prism was about to let the ungracious Cutflower into a secret or two on the nature of mutiny when the Doctor came alongside.

‘Good morning, Doctor,’ said Perch-Prism.

The Doctor, starting out of an uneasy sleep, for even after he had heard Perch-Prism’s shout across the water he had been unable to keep his eyes open, forced himself upright on the raft and turned his tired eyes upon the dugout.

‘Did somebody say something?’ cried he, with a valiant effort at jocularity, though his limbs felt like lead and there was a fire in the top of his head.

‘Did I hear a voice across the brine? Well, well, it’s you, Perch-Prism, by all that’s irregular! How are you, admiral?’

But even as the Doctor was flashing one of his Smiles along the length of the dugout, like a dental broadside, he fell back upon the mattress, and the orderly with the long pole, taking no notice of Perch-Prism and the rest, gave a great shove against the ballroom floor and the raft swam forward and away from the Professors in the direction of the hospital, where, he hoped, he could persuade the Doctor to lie down for an hour or two irrespective of the maimed and distressed, the dead and the dying.

SEVENTY-FOUR

Irma had not spared herself over the furnishing of her home. A great deal of work, a great deal of thought – and, in her opinion, a great deal of taste – had been lavished upon it. The colour scheme had been carefully considered. There was not a discordant note in the whole place. It was so tasteful, in fact, that Bellgrove never felt at home. It gave him a sense of inferiority and he hated the powder-blue curtains and the dove-grey carpets, as though it were their fault that Irma had chosen them. But this meant little to her. She knew that he as a mere man would know nothing of ‘artistic’ matters. She had expressed herself, as women will, in a smug broadside of pastel shades. Nothing clashed because nothing had the strength to clash; everything murmured of safety among the hues; all was refinement.

But the vandal water came and the work and the thought and the taste and the refinement, O where was it now? It was too much! It was too much! That all the love she had lavished was drowned beneath the mean, beastly, stupid, unnecessary rain, that this thing, this thing, this useless, brainless element called rain, should turn her artistry to filth and pulp!

‘I hate nature,’ she cried. ‘I hate it, the rotten beast …’

‘Tut, tut,’ muttered Bellgrove as he lolled in a hammock and stared up at one of the beams in the roof. (They had been assigned a small loft where they were able to be miserable in comparative comfort.) ‘You can’t talk about nature like that, my ignorant child. Good gracious, no! Dammit, I should think not.’

‘Nature,’ cried Irma scornfully. ‘Do you think I’m frightened of it! Let it do what it likes!’

‘You’re a piece of nature yourself,’ said Bellgrove after a pause.

‘O don’t be stupid, you … you …’ Irma could not continue.