The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [352]
‘Oh yes you are,’ repeated Irma. ‘Quite clumsy. Run along now. You are slow, Canvas, slow.’
Again the old man said he ‘didn’t know about that’ and having said so, turned in a puny fury of temper from his mistress and tripping over his own feet as he turned, grabbed at a small table. A tall alabaster vase swayed on its narrow base like a pendulum while Mollocks and Canvas watched it, their mouths open, their limbs paralysed.
But Irma had surged away from them and was practising a certain slow and languid mode of progress which she felt might be effective. Up and down a little strip of the soft grey carpet she swayed, stopping every now and again to raise a limp hand before her, presumably to be touched by the lips of one or other of the professors.
Her head would be tilted away at these moments of formal intimacy, and there was only a segment of her sidelong glance as it grazed her cheekbones, to reward the imaginary gallant as he mouthed her knuckles.
Knowing Irma’s vision to be faulty and that they could not be seen, with the length of the salon between them, Canvas and Mollocks watched her from under their gathered brows, marking time, like soldiers the while, to simulate the sounds of activity.
They had not long, however, in which to watch their mistress for the door opened and the doctor came in. He was in full evening dress and looked more elegant than ever. Across his immaculate breast was the pick of the few decorations with which Gormenghast had honoured him. The crimson Order of the Vanquished Plague, and the Thirty-fifth Order of the Floating Rib lay side by side upon his narrow, snow-white shirt, and were suspended from wide ribbons. In his buttonhole was an orchid.
‘O Alfred,’ cried Irma. ‘How do I seem to you? How do I seem to you?’
The Doctor glanced over his shoulder and motioned the retainers out of the room with a flick of his hand.
He had hidden himself away all afternoon and sleeping dreamlessly had to a great extent recovered from the nightmares he had suffered. As he stood before his sister he appeared as fresh as a daisy, if less pastoral.
‘Now I tell you what,’ he cried, moving round her, his head cocked on one side, ‘I tell you what, Irma. You’ve made something out of yourself, and if it ain’t a work of art, it’s as near as makes no matter. By all that emanates, you’ve brought it off. Great grief! I hardly know you. Turn round, my dear, on one heel! La! La! Significant form, that’s what she is! And to think the same blood batters in our veins! It’s quite embarrassing.’
‘What do you mean, Alfred? I thought you were praising me.’ (There was a catch in her voice.)
‘And so I was, and so I was! – but tell me sister, what is it, apart from your luminous, un-sheltered eyes – and your general dalliance – what is it that’s altered you – that has, as it were … aha … aha … H’m … I’ve got it – O dear me … quite so, by all that’s pneumatic, how silly of me – you’ve got a bosom, my love, or haven’t you?’
‘Alfred! It is not for you to prove.’
‘God forbid, my love.’
‘But if you must know …’
‘No, no, Irma, no no! I am content to leave everything to your judgement.’
‘So you won’t listen to me …’ (Irma was almost in tears).
‘O but I will. Tell me all.’
‘Alfred dear – you liked the look of me. You said you did.’
‘And I still do. Enormously. It was only that, well, I’ve known you a long time and …’
‘I’m told,’ said Irma, breaking in breathlessly, ‘that busts are … well …’
‘… that busts are what you make them?’ queried her brother standing on his toes.
‘Exactly! Exactly!’ his sister shouted. ‘And I’ve made one, Alfred, and it gives me pride of bearing. It’s a hot water bottle, Alfred; an expensive one.’
There was a long and deathly silence. When at last Prunesquallor had reassembled the fragments of his shattered poise he opened his eyes.
‘When do you expect them, my love?’
‘You know as well as I do. At nine o’clock, Alfred. Shall we call in the Chef.’
‘What for?’
‘For