The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy полностью

‘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.

‘Do you think that because I am here, in the Honeycomb, I am missing anything? Do you think I am jealous of my family? Do you think I miss the golden plates and the tiger-skins? No! Nor the reflections in the polished floor. I have found my luxury here. This is my joy. To be a prisoner in the Honeycomb. So, my dear child, be not startled. I came to tell you there’s a friend below you. You can always tap to me. Tap out your thoughts. Tap out your joys and sorrows. Tap out your love. We will grow old together.’

Titus turned his face sharply. What did he mean, this vile, unhealthy creature.

‘Leave me alone,’ cried Titus, ‘– leave me alone!’

The man from the cell below stared at Titus. Then he began to tremble.

‘This used to be my cell,’ he said. ‘Years and years ago. I was a fire-raiser. “Arson” they called it. I did so love a fire. The flames make up for everything.

‘Bring on the rats and mice! Bring on my skinning-knife. Bring on the New Boys.’

He moved a step towards Titus who, in his turn, moved a little nearer to the chair-leg weapon.

‘This is a good cell. I had it once,’ whined Old Crime. ‘I made something out of it, I can tell you. I learned the nature of it. I was sad to leave it. This window is the finest in the prison. But who cares about it now? Where are the frescoes gone? My yellow frescoes. Drawings, you understand. Drawings of fairies. Now they have been covered up and nothing is left of all my work. Not a trace.’

He lifted his proud head and but for the shortness of his legs he might well have been Isaiah.

‘Put that chair leg on the table, boy. Forget yourself. Eat up your crumbs.’

Titus looked down at the old lag and the craggy grandeur of his upturned face.

‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Old Crime. ‘Away from the filthy thing called Life. Join us, dear boy. You would be an asset. My friends are unique. Grow old with us.’

‘You talk too much,’ said Titus.

The man from below stretched out his strong arm slowly. His right hand fastened upon Titus’ biceps and as it tightened Titus could feel an evil strength, a sense that Old Crime’s power was limitless and that, had he wanted to, he could have torn the arm away with ease.

As it was he brought Titus to his side with a single pull, and far back in the sham nobility of his countenance Titus could see two little fires no bigger than pin-heads burning.

‘I was going to do so much for you,’ said the man from below. ‘I was going to introduce you to my colleagues. I was going to show you all the escape routes – should you want them – I was going to tell you about my poetry and where the harlots prowl. After all one mustn’t become ill, must we? That wouldn’t do at all.

‘But you have told me I talk too much, so I will do something quite different and crack your skull like an egg-shell.’

All in a breath the dreadful man let go of Titus, wheeled in his tracks, and lifting the table above his head he flung it, with all the force he could command, at Titus. But he was too late, for all his speed. Directly Titus saw the man reach for the table he sprang to one side, and the heavy piece of furniture crashed against the wall at his back.

Turning now upon the massive-chested and muscular creature, he was surprised to hear the sound of sobbing. His adversary was now upon his knees, his huge archaic face buried in his hands.

Not knowing what to do, Titus re-lit one of the candles which had been on the table and then sat down on his trestle bed, the only piece of furniture left in the cell that hadn’t been smashed.

‘Why did you have to say it? Why did you have to? O why? Why?’ sobbed the man.

‘O God,’ said Titus to himself, ‘what have I done?’

‘So I talk too much? O God, I talk too much.’

A shadow passed over Old Crime’s face. At the same moment there was a heavy sound of feet beyond the door and then after a rattling of keys the sound of one turning in the lock. Old Crime was by this time on the move and by the time the door began to open he had disappeared down the hole in the floor.

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Titus dragged the trestle bed over the hole and then lay down on it as the door opened.

A warder came in with a torch. He flashed it around the cell, the beam of light lingering on the broken table, the broken chair, and the supposedly sleeping boy.

Four strides took him to Titus, whom he pulled from his bed only to beat him back again with a vicious clout on the head.