The Illustrated Gormenghast Trilogy - Mervyn Peake [560]
‘Forget it!’ said his irritating friend. He turned his gaze to where Crabcalf and Slingshott sat with frowns like birds’ nests on their brows.
Slingshott got to his feet and took a few paces towards the newcomers. Then he lifted his face to the dark ceiling.
‘When I escaped from the merciless mines,’ he said, ‘when the days and the nights were salt, and my lips were cracked and split with it and the taste of that damn chemical …’
‘Yes, old man, we know all about that,’ said Crabcalf. ‘Sit down and keep quiet. Now let me ask these two gentlemen whether they are interested in literature.’
The taller of the two, a long-limbed, crop-headed man with a grass-green handkerchief, rose to tip-toe.
‘Interested!’ he cried. ‘I’m practically literature myself. But surely you know that? After all, my family is not exactly devoid of lustre. We are patrons, as you know, of the arts, and have been so for hundreds of years. In fact, it is doubtful whether the literature of our time could come into being without the inspired guidance of the Foux-Foux family. Think of the great works that would never have been born without the patronage of my grandfather. Think of the works of Morzch in general, and of his masterpiece “Pssss” in particular: and think how my mother nursed him back out of chaos to the limpid vision of …’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said a voice. ‘You and your family make me sick.’
It was Crabcalf who, surrounded and walled in by the hundreds of unsold copies of his ill-fated novel, felt that he if anyone should be the judge not only of literature, but of all that went on behind the sordid scenes.
‘Foux-Foux indeed,’ he continued. ‘Why you and your family are nothing but jackals of art.’
‘Well really,’ said Foux-Foux. ‘That’s hardly fair, you know. We cannot all be creative, but the Foux-Foux family have always …’
‘Who’s your friend?’ said Crabcalf, interrupting. ‘Is he a jackal too? Never mind. Carrow has flown. He helped me in his day to kill emotion. But now he vanishes on an up-draught of the stuff. He has failed me. I need a cynic for a friend, old man. A cynic to steady me. Sit down, indeed. Is your friend a Foux-Foux too? I soften, as you see. I can’t make enemies: not for long. It is only when I look at my books that I get angry. After all, that’s where my heart’s blood is. But who reads them? Who cares about them? Answer me that!’
Slingshott rose to his feet, as though it were he who had been addressed.
‘I left my wife behind,’ he said. ‘On the fringe of the ice-cap. Did I do right?’ He brought his heel down to the wet brick floor with a click and a spurt of spray.
But as no one was watching him his posture faded out. He turned and addressed the author.
‘Shall I continue with the broth?’ he said.
‘Yes, if that’s what it is,’ said Crabcalf. ‘By all means do. As for you, gentlemen, join us … eat with us … suffer acute bellyache with us … and then, if needs be, die with us as friends.’
FIFTY-ONE
At that very moment, with Crabcalf about to expand … Carrow gone … Slingshott about to dilate upon the salt mines, and Foux-Foux on the point of withdrawing a long eating-knife from his belt, and his friend about to stir what was left of the sluggish grey fibre in the pot … at that very moment there was a pause, a silence, and in the pregnant heart of that silence another sound could be heard, the quick muffled fly-away thudding of hounds’ feet.
The sound came from the black and hollow land that spread to the south in a honeycomb of under-river masonry: the sound grew louder.
‘Here they come again,’ said Crabcalf. ‘What dandy boys they are, and no mistake.’
The others made no reply, but remained motionless, waiting for the appearance of the hounds.
‘It is later than I thought,’ said Foux-Foux … ‘but look, look …’
But there was nothing to see. It was only the shifting of a long shadow and a glimmer across the saturated bricks. The hounds were still a league or more away.
Why were these men with their heads cocked upon one side so anxious to see the entrance of the hounds? Why were they