Bellgrove, turning from Perch-Prism, surveyed Mr Fluke. His noble head had coloured, but suddenly the blood was driven from it. For a flashing moment Bellgrove saw his destiny. Was he, or was he not, to be a leader of men? Was this, or was this not, one of those crucial moments when authority must be exercised – or withheld for ever? Here they were, in full conclave. Here was he – Bellgrove – within his feet of clay, standing in all his weakness before his colleagues. But there was something in him which was not consistent with the proud cast of his face.
At that moment he knew himself to be of finer marl. He had known what ambition was. True, it was long ago and he was no longer worried by such ideas, but he had known of it.
Quite deliberately, realizing that if he did not act at once he would never act again, he lifted a large stone bottle of red ink from the table at his side and, on reaching Mr Fluke and finding his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his strong jaws wide open in a paroxysm of seismic laughter, Mr Bellgrove poured the entire contents down the funnel of Fluke’s throat in one movement of the wrist. Turning to the staff, ‘Perch-Prism,’ he said, in a voice of such patriarchal authority as startled the professors almost as much as the ink-pouring, ‘you will set about organizing the search for his Lordship. Take the staff with you to the red-stone yard. Flannelcat, you will get Mr Fluke removed to the sick-room. Fetch the doctor for him. Report progress this evening. I shall be found in the Headmaster’s study. Good morning, Gentlemen.’
As he swept out of the room with a bellying sweep of his gown and a toss of his silver hair, his old heart was beating madly. Oh, the joy of giving orders! Oh, the joy of it! Once he had closed the door behind him, he ran, with high monstrous bounds, to the Headmaster’s study and collapsed into the Headmaster’s chair – his chair from now onwards. He hugged his knees against his chin, flopped over on his side, and wept with the first real sense of happiness he had known for many years.
EIGHTEEN
Like rooks hovering in a black cloud over their nests, a posse of professors in a whirl of gowns and a shuffling roofage of mortar-boards, flapped and sidled their individual way towards, and eventually, through, a narrow opening in a flank of the Masters’ Hall.
This opening was less like a doorway than a fissure, though the remains of a lintel were visible and a few boards swung aimlessly near the head of the opening to show that there had once been a door. Faintly discernible on these upper boards were these words: To the Professorial Quarters: Strictly Private – and above them some irreverent hand had sketched the lively outline of a stoat in gown and mortar-board. Whether or not the professors had ever noticed this drawing, it is certain that it held no interest for them today. It was enough for them to work their way through the fissure in the wall where the darkness engulfed them, one by one.
Doorless as the opening was, yet there was no question about the Professors’ Quarters being ‘strictly private’. What lay beyond that cleft in the heavy wall had been a secret for many generations, a secret known only to the succeeding staff – those hoary and impossible bands with whom, by ancient tradition, there was no interference. There had once been talk of progress by a young member of a bygone staff, but he had been instantly banished.
It was for the professors to suffer no change. To eye the scaling paint, the rusting pen-nib, the sculpted desk lid, with understanding and approval.
They had by now, one and all, negotiated the narrow opening. Not a soul was left in the Masters’ Hall. It was as though no one had been there. A wasp zoomed across the empty floorboards with a roar; and then the silence filled the hall once again, as though with a substance.
Where were the professors now? What were they doing? They were halfway along the third curve of a domed passageway which ended in a descending flight of steps at the base of which stood an enormous turnstile.
As the professors moved like a black, hydra-headed dragon with a hundred flapping wings, it might have been noticed that for all the sinister quality of the monster’s upper half, yet in its numerous legs there was a certain gaiety. The little legs of blackness almost twinkled, almost hopped. The great legs let fall their echoing feet in a jocular and carefree fashion as though they were smacking a friend on the back.
And yet it was not wholly gay, this great composite dragon. For there were two of its feet which moved less happily than the others. They belonged to Bellgrove.
Delighted as he was to be the Headmaster, yet the alteration which this was making in his way of life was beginning to gall him. And yet was there not something about him more imposing than before? Had he taken some kind of grip on himself? His face was stern and melancholy. He led his staff like a prophet to their quarters. Their quarters, for they were no longer his. With his accession to Headmasterdom he had forfeited his room above the Professors’ Quadrangle which he had occupied for three-quarters of his life. Alone among the professors it was for him to turn back after he had escorted his staff a certain distance of the way, and to return alone to the headmaster’s bedroom above the Masters’ Hall.
It had been a difficult time for him since he first put on the Zodiac gown of high office. Was he winning or losing his fight for authority? He longed for respect, but he loved indolence also. Time would tell whether the nobility of his august head could become the symbol of his leadership. To tread the corridors of Gormenghast the acknowledged master of staff and pupil alike! He must be wise, stern, yet generous. He must be revered. That was it … revered. But did this mean that he would be involved in extra work …? Surely, at his age …?
The excitement in the multiform legs of the dragon had only begun to operate since the professors had left the Masters’ Hall behind them, and with the Hall their duties also. For their day in the classrooms of Gormenghast was over, and if there was one thing above others that the professors looked forward to, it was this thrill, this five o’clock thrill of returning to their quarters.
They breathed in the secret air of their demesne. Over their faces a series of private smiles began to play. They were nearing a world they understood – not with their brains, but with the dumb, happy, ancestral understanding of their marrow bones.
The long evening was ahead. Not one ink-faced boy would they see for fifteen hours.
Taking deep breaths into its many lungs the hydra-headed dragon approached the stone flight of steps. In its wake, along the domed ceiling of the long corridor, an impalpable serpent of exhaled pipe-smoke hovered and coiled.
An almost imperceptible widening of the corridor was now apparent. The professors became less cramped in their movements as the dragon began to come to bits. The widening of the corridor had become something quite unique, for a great vista of wooden floorboards was spread before them until the walls (now about forty feet apart) turned abruptly away on either side to flank the wide wooden terrace which overlooked the flight of stairs. Although this flight was exceptionally broad and the professors as they descended had plenty of space in which to indulge themselves (if the whim should take them) in a general loosening of their deportment, a more vigorous smacking or a fiercer twinkling of their feet – yet at the base of the stairs there was, once again, a bottleneck; for although there was plenty of room on each side of the ancient turnstile for them to stream past and into the great crumbling chamber beyond, yet the custom was that the turnstile should be the only means of access to the chamber.
Above the stone flight the sloping roof was in so advanced a state of disintegration that a great deal of light found its way through the holes in the roof, to lie in golden pools all over the great flight of stairs, with their low treads and wide terrace, like shelves of shallow stone.
As with their difficult egress from the Masters’ Hall, the professors were now being held up at the Great Turnstile.
But here it was a more leisurely affair. There was neither the scuffling nor the agitation. They were in their own realms again. Their apartments that surrounded the small quadrangle would be waiting for them. What did it matter
if they waited a little longer than they could have wished? The long, bland, archaic, nostalgic, almond-smelling evening lay ahead of them, and then the long, sequestered night before the clanging bell aroused them, and a day of ink-and thumb-marks, cribbing and broken spectacles, flies and figures, coastlines, prepositions, isthmuses and essays, paper darts, test tubes, catapults, chemicals and prisms, dates, battles and tame white mice, and hundred half-formed, ingenious and quizzical faces, with their chapped red ears that never listened, renewed itself.
Deliberately, almost augustly, the gowned and mortar-boarded figures followed one another through the great red turnstile and filed into the chamber beyond.
But for the most part, the professors stood in groups, or were seated on the lower steps of the stone flights, where they waited to take their turn at the ‘stile’. They were in no hurry. Here and there a savant could be seen lying stretched at full length along one of the steps or shelves of the stone stairs. Here and there a group would be squatting like aboriginals upon their haunches, their gowns gathered about them. Some were in shadow, and very dark they looked – like bandits in a bad light; some were silhouetted against the hazy, golden swathes of the sun shafts; and some stood transfixed in the last rays as they streamed through the honeycombed roof.
A small muscular gentleman with a spade-shaped beard was balancing himself upside down and was working his way down the wide steps on his hands. His head was, for the most part, hidden because his gown fell over and obliterated it, so that, apart from balancing, he had to feel for the edge of each step with his hidden hands. But occasionally his head would appear out of the folds of his gown and the beard could be seen for a quick moment, its harsh black spade a few inches from the ground.
Of the few who watched him bemusedly there were none who had not seen it all a hundred times before. A long-limbed figure, with his knees drawn up to his blue jaw, which they supported, stared abstractedly at a group which stood out in silhouette against a swarm of golden motes. Had he been a little closer and a little less abstracted he might have heard some very peculiar ejaculations.
But he could see quite clearly that at the centre of this distant group a short, precise figure was handing out to his colleagues what looked like small stiff pieces of paper.
And so it was. The sprightly Perch-Prism was dispensing the invitation cards which he had received that same afternoon by special messenger:
IRMA and ALFRED PRUNESQUALLOR
hope to have the
pleasure of … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …’s company
on
… … … … … … … … … … … … … … …. (etc.)
One by one the invited parties were handed their invitations, and there was not a single professor who could withhold either a gasp or grunt of surprise or a twitch of the eyebrow.
Some were so stupefied that they were forced to sit down on the steps for a short while until their pulse rate slackened.
Shred and Shrivell tapped their teeth with the gilded edges of their cards, and were already making guesses at the psychological implications.
Fluke, his wide lipless mouth disgorging endless formations of dense and cumulous smoke, was gradually allowing a giant grin to spread itself across his gaunt face.
Flannelcat was embarrassingly excited, and was already trying to rub a thumb-mark from the corner of his card, which he had every intention of framing.
Bellgrove had his great prophet’s jaw hanging wide.
There were sixteen invitations altogether. The entire staff of the Leather Room had been invited.
They had arrived, these invitation cards, at a time when Perch-Prism had been the only master present in the Common-room and he had taken over the responsibility of delivering them personally to the others.
Suddenly Opus Fluke’s long leather mouth opened like a horse’s and a howl of insensitive laughter reverberated through the sun-blotched place.
A score of mortar-boards swivelled.
‘Really!’ said the sharp, precise voice of Perch-Prism. ‘Really, my dear Fluke! What a way to receive an invitation from a lady! Come, come.’
But Fluke could hear nothing. The idea of being invited to a party by Irma Prunesquallor had somehow broken through to the most sensitized area of his diaphragm, and he yelled and yelled again until he was breathless. As he panted hoarsely to a standstill, he did not even look about him: he was still in his own world of amusement; but he did hold the Invitation Card up before his wet and pebbly eyes once more, only to open his wide mouth again in a fresh spasm; but there was no laughter left in him.
Perch-Prism’s pug-baby features expressed a certain condescension, as though he understood how Mr Fluke felt, but was nevertheless surprised and mildly irritated by the coarseness in his colleague’s make-up.
It was Perch-Prism’s saving grace that in spite of his old-maidishness, his clipped and irritatingly academic delivery and his general aura of omniscience, yet he had a strongly developed sense of the ridiculous and was often forced to laugh when his brain and pride wished otherwise.
‘And the Headmaster,’ he said, turning to the noble figure at his side, whose jaw still hung open like the mouth of a sepulchre, ‘what does he think, I wonder? What does our Headmaster think about it all?’
Bellgrove came to with a start. He looked about him with the melancholy grandeur of a sick lion. Then he found his mouth was open, so he closed it gradually, for he would not have them think that he would hurry himself for anyone.
He turned his vacant lion’s eye to Perch-Prism, who stood there perkily looking up at him and tapping his shiny invitation card against his polished thumbnail.
‘My dear Perch-Prism,’ said Bellgrove, ‘why on earth should you be interested in my reaction to what is, after all, not a very extraordinary thing in my life? It is possible, you know,’ he continued laboriously, ‘it is just possible that when I was a younger man I received more invitations to various kinds of functions than you have ever received, or can ever hope to receive, during the course of your life.’
‘But exactly!’ said Perch-Prism. ‘And that is why we want his opinion. That is why our Headmaster alone can help us. What could be more enlightening than to have it straight from the horse’s mouth?’
For neatness’ sake he could not help wishing that he were addressing Opus Fluke, for Bellgrove’s mouth, though hardly hyper-human, was nothing like a horse’s.
‘Prism,’ he said, ‘compared with me you are a young man. But you are not so young as to be ignorant of the elements of decent conduct. Be good enough in your puff-adder attitude to life to find room for one delicacy at least; and that is to address me, if you must, in a manner less calculated to offend. I will not be talked across. My staff must realize this from the outset. I will not be the third person singular. I am old, I admit it. But I am nevertheless here. Here,’ he roared; ‘and standing on the selfsame pavement with you, Master ’Prism; and I exist, by hell! in my full conversational and vocative rights.’
He coughed and shook his leonine head. ‘Change your idiom, my young friend, or change your tense, and lend me a handkerchief to put over my head – these sunbeams are giving me a headache.’ Perch-Prism produced a blue silk handkerchief at once and draped it over the peeved and noble head.
‘Poor old “prickles” Bellgrove, poor old fangs,’ he mused, whispering the words into the old man’s ears as he tied the corners of the blue handkerchief into little knots, where it hung over the elder’s head. ‘It’ll be just the thing for him, so it will – a wild party at the Doctor’s, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!’
Bellgrove opened his rather weak mouth and grinned. He could never keep his sham dignity up for long; but then he remembered his position again and in a voice of sepulchral authority –
‘Watch your step, sir,’ he said. ‘You have twisted my tail for long enough.’
‘What a peculiar business this Prunesquallor affair is, my dear Flannelcat,’ said Mr Crust. ‘I
rather doubt whether I can afford to go. I wonder whether you could possibly – er – lend me …’
But Flannelcat interrupted. ‘They’ve asked me, too,’ he said, his invitation card shaking in his hand. ‘It is a long time since …’
‘It is a long time since our evenings were disturbed from the Outside like this,’ interrupted Perch-Prism. ‘You gentlemen will have to brush yourselves up a bit. How long is it since you have seen a lady, Mr Fluke?’
‘Not half long enough,’ said Opus Fluke, drawing noisily at his pipe. ‘Never care for hens. Irritated me. May be wrong – quite possible – that’s another point. But for me – no. Spoilt the day completely.’
‘But you will accept, of course, won’t you, my dear fellow?’ said Perch-Prism, inclining his shiny round head to one side.
Opus Fluke yawned and then stretched himself before he replied.
‘When is it, friend?’ he asked (as though it made any difference to him when his every evening was an identical yawn).
‘Next Friday evening, at seven o’clock – R.S.V.P. it is,’ panted Flannelcat.
‘If dear old bloody Bellgrove goes,’ said Mr Fluke, after a long pause, ‘I couldn’t stay away – not if I was paid. It’ll be as good as a play to watch him.’
Bellgrove bared his irregular teeth in a leonine snarl and then he took out a small notebook, with his eyes on Mr Fluke, made a note. Approaching his taunter, ‘Red Ink,’ he whispered, and then began to laugh uncontrollably. Mr Fluke was stupefied.
‘Well … well … well …’ he said at last.
‘It is far from “well”, Mr Fluke,’ said Bellgrove, recovering his composure; ‘and it will not be well until you learn to speak to your Headmaster like a gentleman.’
Said Shrivell to Shred: ‘As for Irma Prunesquallor, it’s a plain case of mirror-madness, brought on by enlargement of the terror-duct – but not altogether.’