The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [349]
As was their habit, they leaned this evening over the balustrade of the verandah that surrounded the Masters’ Quadrangle. Below them, the small faraway figure of the quadman was sweeping the ground from end to end, leaving behind him the thin strokes of his broom in the fine dust.
They were all there, the evening light upon them; all except Bellgrove, who, leaning back in the headmaster’s chair in his room above the distant classrooms was cogitating the extraordinary suggestions which had been made to him during the day. These suggestions, which had been put forward by Perch-Prism, Opus Fluke, Shred, Swivell and other members, were to the effect that they, for one reason or another and on one occasion or another had heard from friends of friends or had half-heard through hollow panels, or in the darkness below stairs, at such times when Irma was talking to herself aloud (a habit which they assured Bellgrove she had no power to master) that she (Irma) had got the very devil of a passion for him, their reverend headmaster – and that although it was not their affair, they felt he would not be offended to be faced with the reality of the situation – for what could be more obvious than that the party was merely a way for Irma to be near him? It was obvious, was it not, that she could never ask him alone. It would be too blatant, too indelicate, but there it was … there it was. They had frowned at him in sympathy and left.
Now Bellgrove was well used to having his leg pulled. He had had it pulled for as long as he had possessed one. He was thus, for all this weakness and vagueness, no simpleton when it came to banter and the kindred arts. He had listened to all they had said, and now as he sat alone he pondered the whole question for the twentieth time. And his conclusions and speculations came forth from him, heavily like this.
1 The whole thing was poppycock.
2 The purpose of the fabrication was no more than that he should provide, unknowingly, an added zest to the party. These wags on his staff looked forward no doubt to seeing him in constant flight with Irma on his tail.
3 As he had not questioned the story, they could have no idea that he had seen through it.
4 So far, very excellent.
5 How were the tables to be turned …?
6 What was wrong with Irma Prunesquallor anyway?
A fine, upright woman with a long sharp nose. But what about it? Noses had to be some shape or other. It had character. It wasn’t negative. Nor was she. She had no bosom to speak of: that was true enough. But he was rather too old for bosoms anyway. And there was nothing to touch the cool of white pillows in summertime – (‘Bless my soul,’ he said aloud, ‘what am I thinking?’) …
As headmaster he was far more alone than he had ever been before. Bad mixer as he was he preferred to be ‘out of it’ in a crowd than out of it altogether.
He disliked the sense of isolation, when his staff departed every evening. He had pictured himself as a thwarted hermit – one who could find tranquillity, alone with a profound volume on his knee, and a room about him spare, ascetic, the hard chair, the empty grate. But this was not so. He loathed it and bared his teeth at the mean furniture and the dirty muddle of his belongings. This was no way for a headmaster’s study to be! He thought of cushions and bedroom slippers. He thought of socks of long ago with heels to their name. He even thought of flowers in a vase.
Then he thought of Irma again. Yes, there was no denying it, a fine young woman. Well set up. Vivacious. Rather silly, perhaps, but an old man couldn’t expect all the qualities.
He rose to his feet and plodding to a mirror wiped the dust from its face with his elbow. Then he peered at himself. A slow childish smile spread over his features as though he were pleased with what he saw. Then with his head on one side, he bared his teeth, and frowned for they were terrible. ‘I must keep my mouth shut more than I usually do,