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TITUS GROAN PDF

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This electronic edition differs from the published source in the numbering of chapters and the restoration of international typography conventions. TITUS GROAN. Titus Groan. Home · Titus Groan The Gormenghast Trilogy 1: Titus Groan. Read more · Mervyn Peake - Ghormenghast 01 - Titus Groan · Read more. Titus Groan. Read more · Mervyn Peake - Ghormenghast 01 - Titus Groan · Read more The Gormenghast Trilogy 1: Titus Groan. Read more · Titus Andronicus.


Titus Groan Pdf

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The Gormenghast Trilogy 1: Titus Groan. Read more · Titus Groan · Read more Mervyn Peake - Ghormenghast 01 - Titus Groan. Read more · Mervyn Peake. As the novel opens, Titus, heir to Lord Sepulchrave, has just been born. He stands to inherit the miles of rambling stone and mortar that form. Titus Groan [Mervyn Peake, Anthony Burgess] on resourceone.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. As the novel opens, Titus, heir to Lord Sepulchrave, has.

This mixture of incompatibles is not restricted to the physical, but also describes the mood typically expressed in grotesque art, as it combines the horrific and the comic Thomson 9, The significance of these opposing reactions to grotesque art, horror and laughter, is one of the key discussions among critics, and this paper discusses the function of both the horrifying and the comic in the Gormenghast Trilogy at length.

This paper bases its examination of the Gormenghast Trilogy largely on The Grotesque in Art and Literature, a work generally considered one of the most definitive studies on the literary grotesque.

Kayser defines the grotesque as a play with the absurd, a depiction of the estranged world and an attempt to invoke the demonic aspects of the world and subdue them by confronting them Kayser , , Kayser stresses the ominousness of grotesque art, and argues that it leads to existential angst as a result of the estranged world where concepts that are normally perceived as reliable, such as historical order, identity and personality, and natural shapes and sizes are distorted, fragmented and abolished Kayser Due to the limited size of this paper and the fact that Bakhtin largely bases his theory on the medieval and Renaissance grotesque, this paper mainly draws upon the introduction and chapter five of Rabelais and His World in order to show how the Gormenghast Trilogy contains elements of the carnival folk humour that Bakhtin believes defines genuine grotesque art.

The Estranged World Gormenghast Castle, the central location in the first two novels and a constant presence in the minds of the characters in the third novel, has a crucial function in the works. Far from being simply a background for the action, it is inextricably tied to the plot of the novels as characters struggle to overcome or are overcome by its influence.

A closer look at Gormenghast Castle and the additional topography in the trilogy reveals how Peake uses the confusion of separate spheres, distorted timelines and grotesque paradoxes to make his setting transgressive and depict the estranged world which Kayser argues is a crucial element in grotesque fiction. Gormenghast Castle goes beyond the natural limits of a building in several ways. The castle is anthropomorphised throughout the trilogy. The consequence of blending with the castle in this way is the gradual loss of personal identity and autonomous action.

Tanya J. The contrast between the anthropomorphised castle and the objectified characters evokes a sense of alienation as the natural order is distorted to the point where the castle seems to be a living entity while human beings resemble inanimate objects.

Sepulchrave is literally consumed when he is eaten by the owls that inhabit the Tower of Flints. Fuchsia is slowly defeated by her environment as her need for love and artistic expression is strangled by the rigid and oppressive world of the castle, and her death by drowning can be seen as the castle consuming her after overpowering her youthful and imaginative spirit. Although the aesthetic purpose of the blurred boundaries between the human and architectural is to evoke feelings of alienation and horror, the sheltering walls of the castle also protect its inhabitants.

In Endgame the characters are confined in a house which on one hand protects them from the seemingly post-apocalyptic environment outside while on the other hand trapping them in a stale and miserable world of endless repetitions and absurd rituals.

The rituals are dreary and joyless in both works, but in both cases they also create a sense of order and safety in a disintegrating world. Likewise, Hamm is able to establish an illusion of meaning through ritualised speech and patterns of behaviour.

In both works the characters live as if according to a familiar script, and naturally this is in a sense safer than living spontaneously, although it is also a stagnant and lifeless existence. In short, the existential situation in Endgame is highly similar to the one in Titus Groan and Gormenghast: Characters are suspended in a closed, decaying world which evokes contradictory feelings of security and imprisonment.

Like Hamm and Clov, the inhabitants of the castle are a community of misanthropes, preferring the claustrophobic and insular world inside the castle walls to the risk of any disrupting outside influence. The castle is like a living embodiment of this misanthropy. Although both Steerpike and Titus rebel against the castle, it is significant that while Steerpike can be seen as a foreign body in the castle, Titus is a part of it and tears himself free from the organism because he views it as diseased.

As mentioned earlier, the boundary between the architectural and the vegetable realm is also blurred in Gormenghast Castle. The vegetation that overgrows parts of the castle has a similar ominous vitality. The overgrown state of the castle depicts it as simultaneously ancient and timeless. By merging with nature, the castle is made to seem primordial and everlasting.

This portrays the world of Gormenghast as on one hand dominated by a rigid time schedule and on the other hand as ageless and unaffected by the passage of time.

The castle as a whole is not revealed until nearly pages into Titus Groan when Steerpike surveys the roofscape of the castle. The idea of a city wholly or partially made of giant trees is not unusual in fantasy fiction, and would not be grotesque in a pure fantasy story where the reader would anticipate the existence of such a place.

Despite the strangeness of Gormenghast Castle, however, nothing has prepared the reader for revelations as fantastic as these, and the swimming horses and giant tree are grotesque precisely because they are unexpected and incongruous within the parameters of the fictional universe established so far.

Although the fantastic is an essential aspect of the grotesque Kayser 51 , critics often stress that for the grotesque to be effective, the fictional world must be, at least partly, our own, familiar one. In the Gormenghast Trilogy, Peake distorts the world just enough to make it bizarre, but he never takes his story into an entirely different universe. This confusion between fantasy and reality is very prominent in the trilogy. Titus Groan and Gormenghast are a set in a gothic, fantastically exaggerated castle while Titus Alone takes place in the 20th century where cars, aeroplanes, factories and cities are commonplace.

Manlove notes in Modern Fantasy that all of these locations can be found on the Channel Island of Sark Manlove This is not to say that the story is set on Sark, since there is no indication of the castle existing on an island, but it is nevertheless another detail which obscures the boundary between the fantasy world and the real world.

This is another example of how the world of Gormenghast, even in the first two volumes, contains warped, but recognisable parallels to our own world. It is through these parallels that Peake depicts a universe that is simultaneously familiar and strange. The strongest example of this is the sudden transition to a futuristic setting in Titus Alone. These worlds; these realms — could they both be true? By juxtaposing these contradictory worlds, Peake creates a grotesque paradox, and Titus verges on a descent into madness as he tries to reconcile this modern world with his memories of Gormenghast Castle.

Although much of the grotesque horror in the Gormenghast Trilogy is instigated by the characters, especially Steerpike in the first two volumes and Cheeta in the third, it is the inexplicable and impersonal presence of Gormenghast Castle that ultimately makes the world distorted.

It is, however, important to differentiate between the different kinds of laughter that these grotesque figures evoke in the reader in order to determine the exact function of the comic in the works. Contrary to Kayser, Bakhtin claims that it is erroneous to define the grotesque as negative and satirical Bakhtin Furthermore, Bakhtin argues that the grotesque image of the body and bodily functions are typical expressions of this carnivalesque folk humour Bakhtin Overall, there is little in the trilogy that can be described as carnivalesque.

Nevertheless, this scene is not truly carnivalesque. Flay stresses that although he personally disapproves of the hedonistic celebration, it observes the tradition of the castle. While the atmosphere in the Great Kitchen may resemble the carnival feast, this is clearly an official feast in terms of purpose. There are some carnival elements in the depiction of Irma Prunesquallor, too. Bakhtin argues that comic grotesque images typically involve exaggerated noses, mouths and other protruding body parts as well as features that resemble animals or inanimate objects Bakhtin Irma represents an earthy, bodily humour, not only because of her ridiculous appearance, but also because of the situations she finds herself in: She is painfully aware of her own sexual short-comings and fashions a false bosom for herself out of a hot water bottle, for example.

Peake typically intersperses particularly violent or horrific scenes with Irma and Alfred Prunesquallor as comic relief, and in that sense, the laughter that the Prunesquallors evoke in the reader is always liberating.

The professors also function as comic relief. In this way, the ominous power of the castle is occasionally defeated temporarily through the liberating power of laughter. This can be illustrated by a comparison of the grotesque themes in the Gormenghast Trilogy and E. As he stood below Mr. Swelter, he had nothing but contempt for the man who had but yesterday struck him across the head. He could do nothing, however, except stay where he was, prodded and nudged from behind by the excited minions, and wait.

The voice recurred from above. It is a shong to a hard-hearted monshter sho lishen mosht shfixedly, my pretty wart. Closher, closher! He was now supporting himself almost the whole of the while against the sweating pillar and was sagging hideously.

Steerpike stared up at him from under his high bony brow. One arm hung, a dead-weight, down the fluted surface of the support. The enormous area of the face had fallen loose. It glistened like a jelly. A hole appeared in the face. Out of it came a voice that had suddenly become weaker. Lishen well, lishen well! Swelter lowered his head downwards over his wine-raddled breast without moving his shoulders and made an effort to see whether his audience was sufficiently keyed up for his opening chords.

The song, the song! He made one feeble effort to heave himself away from the pillar and to deliver his verses at a more imposing angle, but, incapable of mustering the strength he sank back, and then, as a vast inane smile opened up the lower half of his face, and as Mr. Flay watched him, his hard little mouth twisted downwards, the chef began gradually to curl in upon himself, as though folding himself up for death.

The kitchen had become as silent as a hot tomb. At last, through the silence, a weak gurgling sound began to percolate but whether it was the first verse of the long awaited poem, none could tell for the chef, like a galleon, lurched in his anchorage. There was a sound of something spreading as an area of seven flagstones became hidden from view beneath a catalyptic mass of wine-drenched blubber.

As it was he bared his sand-coloured teeth, and fixed his eyes for a last moment on the cook with an expression of unbelievable menace.

He had turned his head away at last and spat, and then brushing aside whoever stood in his path, had made his way with great skeleton strides, to a narrow doorway in the wall opposite that through which he had entered. Flay was pacing onwards, every step taking him another five feet further from the reek and horror of the Great Kitchen. His head, parchment-coloured and bony, was indigenous to that greasy fabric. It stuck out from the top window of its high black building as though it had known no other residence.

While Mr. Flay was pacing along the passages to that part of the castle where Lord Sepulchrave had been left alone for the first time for many weeks, the curator, sleeping peacefully in the Hall of the Bright Carvings, snored beneath the venetian blind. The hammock was still swinging a little, a very little, from the movement caused by Mr.

The sun burned through the shutters, made bands of gold around the pedestals that supported the sculpture and laid its tiger stripes across the dusty floor boarding. The sunlight, as Mr. Flay strolled on, still had one finger through the kitchen window, lighting the perspiring stone pillar which was now relieved of its office of supporting the chef for the soak had fallen from the wine-barrel a moment after the disappearance of Mr.

Flay and lay stretched at the foot of his rostrum. Around him lay scattered a few small flattened lumps of meat, coated with sawdust.

There was a strong smell of burning fat, but apart from the prone bulk of the chef, the Grey Scrubbers under the table, and the gentlemen who were suspended from the beam, there was no one left in the huge, hot, empty hall. Every man and boy who had been able to move his legs had made his way to cooler quarters.

Steerpike had viewed with a mixture of amazement, relief and malignant amusement the dramatic cessation of Mr. For a few moments he had gazed at the winespattered form of his overlord spread below him, then glancing around and finding that he was alone he had made for the door through which Mr.

Flay had passed and was soon racing down the passages turning left and right as he ran in a mad effort to reach the fresh air. He had never before been through that particular door, but he imagined that he would soon find his way into the open and to some spot where he could be on his own.

Turning this way and that he found that he was lost in a labyrinth of stone corridors, lit here and there by candles sunk in their own wax and placed in niches in the walls. In desperation he put his hands to his head as he ran, when suddenly, as he rounded the curve of a wall a figure passed rapidly across the passage before him, neither looking to right or left.

As soon as Mr. This was almost impossible, as Mr. However, young Steerpike, feeling that here at any rate was his one chance of escaping from these endless corridors, followed as best he could in the hope that Mr.

Flay would eventually turn into some cool quadrangle or open space where get-away could be effected. At times, when the candles were thirty or forty feet apart, Mr. Flay would be lost to view and only the sound of his feet on the flagstones would guide his follower.

Then slowly, as his erratic shape approached the next guttering aura he would begin by degrees to become a silhouette, until immediately before the candle he would for a moment appear like an inky scarecrow, a mantis of pitchblack cardboard worked with strings. Then the progression of the lighting would be reversed and for a moment immediately after passing the flame Steerpike would see him quite clearly as a lit object against the depths of the still-to-be-trodden avenues of stone.

The grease at those moments shone from the threadbare cloth across his shoulders, the twin vertical muscles of his neck rose out of the tattered collar nakedly and sharply. As he moved forward the light would dim upon his back and Steerpike would lose him, only hearing the cracking of his knee-joints and his feet striking the stones, until the ensuing candle carved him anew. Practically exhausted, first by the unendurable atmosphere of the Great Kitchen and now with this seemingly endless journey, the boy, for he was barely seventeen, sank suddenly to the ground with exhaustion, striking the flags with a thud, his boots dragging harshly on the stone.

The noise brought Flay to a sudden halt and he turned himself slowly about, drawing his shoulders up to his ears as he did so. There was no answer. Flay began to retrace his steps, his head forward, his eyes peering.

As he proceeded he came into the light of one of the candles in the wall. He approached it, still keeping his small eyes directed into the darkness beyond, and wrenched the candle, with a great substratum of ancient tallow with it, from the wall and with this to help him he soon came across the boy in the centre of the corridor several yards further on.

He bent forward and lowered the great lump of lambent wax within a few inches of Steerpike, who had fallen face downwards, and peered at the immobile huddle of limbs. The sound of his footsteps and the cracking of his knee-joints had given place to an absolute silence. He drew back his teeth and straightened himself a little. Then he turned the boy over with his foot. This roused Steerpike from his faintness and he raised himself weakly on one elbow.

One of his striped rats. Flay aloud. Give me daylight. Curse them! Far away. He had noticed the sneer in Mr. Steerpike, who seemed able to interpret this sort of shorthand talk, answered. Flay raised his gaunt shoulders again. What have you done? The candle was beginning to fail. Is it rebellion? Leave his name in its fat and grease. Swelter, always Swelter! Hold your tongue. Take this candle. Lead the way. Put it in the niche.

Rebellion is it? Lead the way, left, left, right, keep to the left, now right. Show you what it means. A male Groan. New, eh? Never understand. Turn right and left again—again. Flay, drawing a bunch of keys from his pocket and selecting one with great care as though he were dealing with objects of rarity inserted it into the lock ofan invisible door, for the blackness was profound.

Steerpike heard the iron grinding in the lock. Come here. Suddenly he found himself next to the dank smelling garments of Mr. The only interpretation he could give to the ejaculation was that Flay was referring to him as a cat and asking to be given more room. Yet there had been no irritation in the voice. He opened the door slowly and Steerpike, peering past him, found no longer any need for an explanation. A room was filled with the late sunbeams. Steerpike stood quite still, a twinge of pleasure running through his body.

He grinned. A carpet filled the floor with blue pasture. Thereon were seated in a hundred decorative attitudes, or stood immobile like carvings, or walked superbly across their sapphire setting, inter-weaving with each other like a living arabesque, a swarm of snow-white cats.

Flay passed down the centre of the room, Steerpike could not but notice the contrast between the dark rambling figure with his ungainly movements and the monotonous cracking of his knees, the contrast between this and the superb elegance and silence of the white cats. They took not the slightest notice of either Mr. Flay or of himself save for the sudden cessation of their purring. When they had stood in the darkness, and before Mr.

Flay had removed the bunch of keys from his pocket, Steerpike had imagined he had heard a heavy, deep throbbing, a monotonous sea-like drumming of sound, and he now knew that it must have been the pullulation of the tribe. As they passed through a carved archway at the far end of the room and had closed the door behind them he heard the vibration of their throats, for now that the white cats were once more alone it was revived, and the deep unhurried purring was like the voice of an ocean in the throat of a shell.

Titus Groan (ingles)

They were climbing stone stairs. The wall on their right was draped with hideous papers that were peeling off and showed rotting surfaces of chill plaster behind. A mingling of many weird colours enlivened this nether surface, dark patches of which had a submarine and incredible beauty.

A thousand imaginary journeys might be made along the banks of these rivers of an unexplored world. Still following me? I know what my name is. Flay put a knuckly hand on the banisters preparatory to mounting the stairs again, but waited, frowning over his shoulder, for the reply. Two Squeertikes, two of you.

Twice over. What for? He concentrated his dark eyes on the gawky figure above him for a few moments and shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly.

Then he spoke again, showing no sign of irritation. May I ask? Who do they belong to? Flay held up a finger. His hard voice seemed a part of this cold narrow stairway of stone and iron. All hers. Hold your tongue you greasy fork. Steerpike followed him in. Flay had been longer away from his lordship than he had intended or thought right and it was on his mind that the earl might be needing him. Directly he entered the octagonal room he approached one of the portraits at the far end and pushing the suspended frame a little to one side, revealed a small round hole in the panelling the size of a farthing.

He placed his eye to this hole and Steerpike watched the wrinkles of his parchment-coloured skin gather below the protruding bone at the base of the skull, for Mr. Flay both had to stoop and then to raise his head in order to apply his eye at the necessary angle. What Mr. Flay saw was what he had expected to see. From his vantage point he was able to get a clear view of three doors in a corridor, the central one belonging to the chamber of her ladyship, the seventy-sixth Countess of Groan.

It was stained black and had painted upon it an enormous white cat. The wall of the landing was covered with pictures of birds and there were three engravings of cacti in bloom. This door was shut, but as Mr. Flay watched the doors on either side were being constantly opened and closed and figures moved quickly in and out or up and down the landing, or conversed with many gesticulations or stood with their chins in the curled palms of their hands as though in profound meditation.

Young Steerpike glued his eye to the hole, keeping the heavy gold frame from swinging back with his shoulder.

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All at once he found himself contemplating a narrow-chested man with a shock of grey hair and glasses which magnified his eyes so that they filled the lenses up to their gold rims, when the central door opened, and a dark figure stole forth, closing the door behind him quietly, and with an air of the deepest dejection.

Steerpike watched him turn his eyes to the shockheaded man, who inclined his body forward clasping his hands before him. No notice was taken of this by the other, who began to pace up and down the landing, his dark cloak clasped around him and trailing on the floor at his heels.

Each time he passed the doctor, for such it was, that gentleman inclined his body, but as before there was no response, until suddenly, stopping immediately before the physician in attendance, he drew from his cape a slender rod of silver mounted at the end with a rough globe of black jade that burned around its edges with emerald fire.

The doctor coughed. The silver and jade implement was pointed to the floor, and Steerpike was amazed to see the doctor, after hitching his exquisitely creased trousers to a few inches above his ankle, squat down. His great vague eyes swam about beneath the magnifying lenses like a pair of jellyfish seen through a fathom of water.

His dark grey hair was brushed out over his eyes like thatch. For all the indignity of his position it was with a great sense of style that he became seated following with his eyes the gentleman who had begun to walk around him slowly. Eventually the figure with the silver rod came to a halt. Indeed I am. Very, very much so; ha, ha, ha. Very, very much so. I am a proud fellow, my lord, ha, ha, ha, ha, a very proud fellow.

It appeared to be out of control as though it were a part of his voice, a top-storey of his vocal range that only came into its own when the doctor laughed. Between the laughs he would speak very rapidly, which made the sudden stillness of his beautifully shaven jaws at the time of laughter all the more extraordinary.

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The laugh was not necessarily connected with humour at all. It was simply a part of his conversation. Oh very, very satisfactory it all was. Very much so. Anything unusual about him? You need not be afraid to speak out. Completely at a loss, sir.

If not structurally, then how, my lord? Out of the corner of his eyes he looked up to find his lordship scrutinizing him. The face of his little lordship. Oh yes, definitely I noticed it. Did you or did you not? Why must you hedge? Do you understand? I comprehend. Be honest. And never a boy with such—er, ha, ha, ha, never a boy with such extraordinary eyes. Have you not seen them? Hurry yourself. What is it? She was gauche in movement and in a sense, ugly of face, but with how small a twist might she not suddenly have become beautiful.

Her sullen mouth was full and rich—her eyes smouldered. A yellow scarf hung loosely around her neck. Her shapeless dress was a flaming red. For all the straightness of her back she walked with a slouch. She stood in about as awkward a manner as could be conceived.

Utterly unfeminine—no man could have invented it. Where, girl? I hate them. Have I? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, he, he, he! Oh yes! Ha, ha! Oh yes indeed! Let me go! How I hate people! Oh how I hate people! Flay had been gazing out of a narrow window in the octagonal room and was preoccupied with certain matters relating to how he could best let Lord Groan know that he, Flay, his servant for over forty years, disapproved of having been put aside as it were at the one moment when a son had been born—at the one moment when he, Flay, would have been invaluable as an ally.

Flay was rather hurt about the whole business, and he very much wanted Lord Groan to know this, and yet at the same time it was very difficult to think of a way in which he could tactfully communicate his chagrin to a man quite as sullen as himself.

Flay bit his nails sourly. He had been at the window for a much longer time than he had intended and he turned with his shoulders raised, an attitude typical of him and saw young Steerpike, whose presence he had forgotten. He strode over to the boy and catching him by his coat-tails jerked him backwards into the centre of the room. The great picture swung back across the spy-hole. Lord Groan said so.

The doctor said so.

So hideous. The new baby. They both said so. Most terrible he is. Come here! Been agaping, have you? This he unlocked with one of his many keys and thrusting Steerpike inside turned it upon the boy. From its sweeping arms of iron, long stalactites of wax lowered their pale spilths drip by drip, drip by drip. A rough table with a drawer half open, which appeared to be full of birdseed, was in such a position below the iron spider that a cone of tallow was mounting by degrees at one corner into a lambent pyramid the size of a hat.

The room was untidy to the extent of being a shambles. Everything had the appearance of being put aside for the moment. Even the bed was at an angle, slanting away from the wall and crying out to be pushed back flush against the red wallpaper. As the candles guttered or flared, so the shadows moved from side to side, or up and down the wall, and with those movements behind the bed there swayed the shadows of four birds. Between them vacillated an enormous head.

This umbrage was cast by her ladyship, the seventy-sixth Countess of Groan. She was propped against several pillows and a black shawl was draped around her shoulders. Her hair, a very dark red colour of great lustre, appeared to have been left suddenly while being woven into a knotted structure on the top of her head. Thick coils still fell about her shoulders, or clustered upon the pillows like burning snakes. Her eyes were of the pale green that is common among cats.

They were large eyes, yet seemed, in proportion to the pale area of her face, to be small. The nose was big enough to appear so in spite of the expanse that surrounded it.

The effect which she produced was one of bulk, although only her head, neck, shoulders and arms could be seen above the bedclothes. A magpie moving sideways up and down her left forearm, which lay supine upon the bedclothes, pecked intermittently at a heap of grain which lay in the palm of her hand. On her shoulders sat a stonechat, and a huge raven which was asleep.

The bed-rail boasted two starlings, a missel-thrush and a small owl. Every now and then a bird would appear between the bars of a small high window which let in less than no light. The ivy had climbed through it from the outside and had begun to send its tendrils down the inner wall itself and over the crimson wallpaper.

Although this ivy had choked out what little light might have trickled into the room, it was not strong enough to prevent the birds from finding a way through and from visiting Lady Gertrude at any hour of night or day. Lady Groan flung what remained of the grain across the room and the stonechat hopping from the bed-rail to her head, took off again from that rabous landing ground with a flutter, circled twice around the room steering during his second circuit through the stalactites of shining wax, and landed on the floor beside the grain.

The Countess of Groan dug her elbows into the pillows behind her, which had become flattened and uncomfortable and levered her bulk up with her strong, heavy arms. Then she relaxed again, and spread out her arms to left and right along the bed-rail behind her and her hands drooped from the wrists at either extremity, overhanging the edges of the bed.

The line of her mouth was neither sad nor amused, as she gazed abstractedly at the pyramid of wax that was mounting upon the table. She watched each slow drip as it descended upon the blunt apex of the mound, move sluggishly down the uneven side and solidify into a long pulpy petal. Whether the Countess was thinking deeply or was lost in vacant reverie it would have been impossible to guess. She reclined hugely and motionlessly, her arms extended along the iron rail, when suddenly a great fluttering and scrambling broke into the wax-smelling silence of the room and turning her eyes to the ivy-filled window, fourteen feet from the ground, the Countess without moving her head, could see the leaves part and the white head and shoulders of an albino rook emerge guiltily.

So it is the truant back again. Where has he been? What has he been doing? What trees has he been sitting in? What clouds has he been flying through? What a boy he is! What a bunch of feathered whiteness. What a bunch of wickedness! Wants a great treeful of forgiveness, for his heavy old beak and months of absolution for his plumage. He stood on the foot-rail, his claws curled around it, and stared at Lady Groan.

Come here with your old beak and rub it on my arm. Come along my whitest one, come along, then. Come along. Then his eyes focused upon the rook in a hard stare. He sat there wide awake, a lock of dark red hair between his feet. The small owl as though to take the place of the raven fell asleep. One of the starlings turned about in three slow paces and faced the wall.

The missel-thrush made no motion, and as a candle guttered, a ghoul of shadow from under a tall cupboard dislodged itself and moved across the floorboards, climbed the bed, and crawled half way across the eiderdown before it returned by the same route, to curl up and roost beneath the cupboard again.

Her pale eyes would either concentrate upon an object in a remorseless way or would appear to be without sight, vacant, with the merest suggestion of something childish. It was in this abstracted manner that she gazed through the pale pyramid, while her hands, as though working on their own account, moved gently over the breast, head and throat of the white rook. For some time there was complete silence in the room and it was with something of a shock that a rapping at the panels of her bedroom door awakened Lady Groan from her reverie.

Her eyes now took on the concentrated, loveless, cat-like look. The birds coming to life at once, flapped simultaneously to the end rail of the bed, where they stood balancing in a long uneven line, each one on the alert, their heads turned towards the door. What are you hitting my door for? So you want to come in, do you? With his lordship. What have you brought him to me for?

Hurry up then! Stop scratching at my door. What are you waiting for? She carried the child towards the bed and turned the little face to the mother, who gazed right through it and said: Put the child down and open the door. Slagg obeyed, and as her back was turned Lady Groan bent forward and peered at the child.

The little eyes were glazed with sleep and the candlelight played upon the bald head, moulding the structure of the skull with shifting shade. The old nurse picked the baby up dexterously and began to rock him gently by way of an answer. Oh dear, yes, bless the little thing. Modified though it was, it brought Doctor Prunesquallor to his feet at once. His fish eyes swam all round his glasses before finishing at the top, where they gave him an expression of fantastic martyrdom.

Running his long, exquisitely formed fingers through his mop of grey hair, he drained his glass of punch at a draught and started for the door, flicking small globules of the drink from his waistcoat. Before he had reached her room he had begun a rehearsal of the conversation he expected, his insufferable laughter punctuating every other sentence whatever its gist. Slagg nothing except his head around the doorpost in a decapitated manner, before entering.

Down it came, ha, ha—down it came. Oh yes, it did! Slagg had rocked the baby to sleep. Doctor Prunesquallor was running a long tapering forefinger up and down a stalactite of wax and smiling horribly.

I thought you would; I guessed it. I get up tomorrow—tomorrow at dawn. I only advise. What he had seen disquieted him, for he had found in her expression such a concentration of distaste that as he deflected his gaze away from her he found that his feet were moving backwards one after the other and that he was at the door before he knew that he had decided what to do.

Bowing quickly he withdrew his body from the bedroom. The baby awoke at the sound and moaned, and Nannie Slagg retreated. I would like to see the boy when he is six. Find a wet nurse from the Outer Dwellings. Make him green dresses from the velvet curtains. Take this gold ring of mine. Fix a chain to it. Let him wear it around his wry little neck. Call him Titus. Go away and leave the door six inches open. Two long sweet notes sang out through the dark air.

At the sound, Mrs. Slagg, grabbing the gold ring from the bedclothes, where the Countess had thrown it, hurried as fast as her old legs could carry her from the room as though a werewolf were at her heels.

They were fixed upon the door. Her hands were gripping the edges of her pillow. She became rigid. In the distance, a vibration was becoming louder and louder until the volume seemed to have filled the chamber itself, when suddenly there slid through the narrow opening of the door and moved into the fumid atmosphere of the room an undulation of whiteness, so that, within a breath, there was no shadow in all the room that was not blanched with cats.

It is there, at the long table that he takes his breakfast. The table is raised upon a dais, and from where he sits he can gaze down the length of the grey refectory. On either side and running the entire length, great pillars prop the painted ceiling where cherubs pursue each other across a waste of flaking sky. There must be about a thousand of them all told, interweaving among the clouds, their fat limbs for ever on the move and yet never moving, for they are imperfectly articulated.

The colours, once garish, have faded and peeled away and the ceiling is now a very subtle shade of grey and lichen green, old rose and silver.

Lord Sepulchrave may have noticed the cherubs long ago. Probably when a child he had attempted more than once to count them, as his father had done, and as young Titus in his turn will try to do; but however that might be, Lord Groan had not cast up his eyes to the old welkin for many years.

Nor did he ever stare about him now. How could he love this place? He was a part of it. He could not imagine a world outside it; and the idea of loving Gormenghast would have shocked him. To have asked him of his feelings for his hereditary home would be like asking a man what his feelings were towards his own hand or his own throat. But his lordship remembered the cherubs in the ceiling. His great grandfather had painted them with the help of an enthusiastic servant who had fallen seventy feet from the scaffolding and had been killed instantly.

But it seemed that Lord Sepulchrave found his only interest in these days among the volumes in his library and in a knob ofjade on his silver rod, which he would scrutinize for hours on end. Mounting the dais he would move around to the far side of the table where hung a heavy brass bell.

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He would strike it. The servants sitting down at once, would begin their meal of bread, rice wine and cake. As he sat, this morning, in his high-backed chair, he saw before him—through a haze of melancholia that filmed his brain and sickened his heart, robbing it of power and his limbs of health—he saw before him a snow-white tablecloth. It was set for two.

The silver shone and the napkins were folded into the shapes of peacocks and were perched decoratively on the two plates. There was a delicious scent of bread, sweet and wholesome. There were eggs painted in gay colours, toast piled up pagoda-wise, tier upon tier and each as frail as a dead leaf; and fish with their tails in their mouths lay coiled in sea-blue saucers. There were all varieties of coloured fruits that looked strangely tropical in that dark hall.

There were honeys and jams, jellies, nuts and spices and the ancestral breakfast plate was spread out to the greatest advantage amid the golden cutlery of the Groans. In the centre of the table was a small tin bowl of dandelions and nettles. Lord Sepulchrave sat silently. He did not seem to notice the delicacies spread before him, nor when for a moment or two at a time his head was raised, did he appear to see the long cold dining-hall nor the servants at their tables.

Lord Groan, his eyes upon the jade knob of the rod which he was twisting slowly upon its ferrule, again rang the brass bell and a door opened in the wall behind him. Sourdust entered with great books under his arm. He was arrayed in crimson sacking. His beard was knotted and the hairs that composed it were black and white. His face was very lined, as though it had been made of brown paper that had been crunched by some savage hand before being hastily smoothed out and spread over the tissues.

His eyes were deep-set and almost lost in the shadows cast by his fine brow, which for all its wrinkles, retained a sweeping breadth of bone. The old man seated himself at the end of the table, and stacked the four volumes beside a porcelain decanter, and raising his sunken eyes to Lord Groan, murmured these words in a weak and shaking voice and yet with a certain dignity as though it were not simply a case of having to get through the ritual, but that it was now, as always, well worth getting through.

Lord Groan propped his chin on the knuckles of his hands that were cupping the jade knob. His face was very long and was olive coloured. The eyes were large, and of an eloquence, withdrawn. His nostrils were mobile and sensitive. His mouth, a narrow line. On his head was the iron crown of the Groans that fastens with a strap under the chin.

It had four prongs that were shaped like arrow heads. Between these barbs small chains hung in loops. The prerogative of precedent on his side, he was wrapped in his dark grey dressing-gown. This he muzzled in his cheek for the major part of the meal. The fish became cold on the plate. Sourdust had helped himself to one of them, a slice of watermelon and a fire-green egg, but all else lost its freshness or its heat upon the ritualistic table.

Below in the long basement of the hall the clattering of the knives had ceased. The rice wine had been passed up and down the table, and the jugs were empty.

They were waiting for the sign to go about their duties, Sourdust, having wiped his old mouth with the napkin, turned his eyes to his lordship, who was now leaning back in the chair and sipping at a glass of black tea, his eyes un-focused as usual. The Librarian was watching the left eyebrow of his lordship. It was twenty-one minutes to ten by the clock at the far end of the hall.

Lord Groan appeared to be looking through this clock. Three-quarters of a minute went by, it was ten seconds—five seconds—three seconds—one second—to twenty to ten. It was twenty minutes to ten. Then it slowly lowered itself. At the movement, Sourdust arose and stamped upon the ground with an old thin leg. The crimson sacking about his body shook as he did so and his beard of black and white knots swung madly to and fro.

Sourdust re-seated himself, panting a little and coughing in an ugly way. Then he leaned across the table and scratched the white cloth in front of Lord Groan with a fork. His lordship turned his black and liquid eyes towards the old librarian and adviser. There was a period of silence, Sourdust making use of the interim by re-knotting several tassels of his beard.

The eyes were too deeply set in their sockets of shadow to be seen. By not so much as the faintest sign or movement had Sourdust suggested that he was in a state of emotional stress. Nor was he, ever, save that at moments of reflection upon matters connected with the traditions of the Castle, it so happened that great tears emerged from the shadows beneath his brow.

He fingered the great tomes beside his plate. His lordship, as though making the resolve after long deliberation, leaned forward, placed his rod on the table and adjusted his iron crown. Then, supporting his long olive chin with his hands, he turned his head to the old man: Sourdust gathered the sacking about himself in a quick shaky way, and getting to his feet moved round to the back of his own chair which he pushed a few inches closer to the table, and squeezing between the table and the chair he re-seated himself carefully and was apparently more comfortable than before.

Then with great deliberation, bending his corrugated brow upon each in turn he pushed the varied assortment of dishes, cruets, glasses, cutlery and by now tepid delicacies away from before him, clearing a semi-circle ofwhite cloth. Only then did he remove the three tomes from beside his elbow. He opened them one after the other by balancing them carefully on their vellum spines and allowing them to break open at pages indicated by embroidered book-markers.

The left hand pages were headed with the date and in the first of the three books this was followed by a list of the activities to be performed hour by hour during the day by his lordship. The exact times; the garments to be worn for each occasion and the symbolic gestures to be used. Diagrams facing the left hand page gave particulars of the routes by which his lordship should approach the various scenes of operation. The diagrams were hand tinted. The second tome was full of blank pages and was entirely symbolic, while the third was a mass of cross references.

If, for instance, his lordship, Sepulchrave, the present Earl of Groan, had been three inches shorter, the costumes, gestures and even the routes would have differed from the ones described in the first tome, and from the enormous library, another volume would have had to have been chosen which would have applied.

Had he been of a fair skin, or had he been heavier than he was, had his eyes been green, blue or brown instead of black, then, automatically another set of archaic regulations would have appeared this morning on the breakfast table. This complex system was understood in its entirety only by Sourdust—the technicalities demanding the devotion of a lifetime, though the sacred spirit of tradition implied by the daily manifestations was understood by all.

His lordship nodded silently. That stairway had been warped and twisted out of shape seventy years ago when the vestibule had been razed to the ground in the great fire. An alternative route had to be planned. A plan approaching as far as possible to the spirit of the original conception, and taking the same amount of time.

Sourdust scored the new route shakily on the tablecloth with the point of a fork. His lordship nodded. Every few seconds he glanced at the clock.

A long sigh came from his lordship. For a moment a light appeared in his eyes and then dulled. The line of his mouth seemed for a moment to have softened.

He was making noises in his throat and chest, his mouth working at the corners. Lord Groan looked at him quickly and his face whitened under the olive. Taking a spoon he bent it into three-quarters of a circle. The door opened suddenly in the wall behind the dais and Flay entered. Lord Sepulchrave rose and moved to the door. Flay nodded sullenly at the man in crimson sacking, and after filling his pockets with peaches followed his lordship between the pillars of the Stone Hall.

It lay in the centre of the western wing and upon the second floor. A walnut bed monopolized the inner wall in which stood the doorway. The two triangular windows in the opposite wall gave upon the battlements where the master sculptors from the mud huts moved in silhouette across the sunset at the full moon of alternate months. Beyond the battlements the flat pastures spread and beyond the pastures were the Twisted Woods of thorn that climbed the ever steepening sides of Gormenghast mountain.

Fuchsia had covered the walls of her room with impetuous drawings in charcoal. There had been no attempt to create a design of any kind upon the coral plaster at either end of the bedroom. The drawings had been done at many an odd moment of loathing or excitement and although lacking in subtlety or proportion were filled with an extraordinary energy. These violent devices gave the two walls of her bedroom such an appearance of riot that the huddled heaps of toys and books in the four corners looked, by comparison, compact.

The attic, her kingdom, could be approached only through this bedchamber. The door of the spiral staircase that ascended into the darkness was immediately behind the bedstead, so that to open this door which resembled the door of a cupboard, the bed had to be pulled forward into the room.

Fuchsia never failed to return the bed to its position as a precaution against her sanctum being invaded. It was unnecessary, for no one saving Mrs. Slagg ever entered her bedroom and the old nurse in any case could never have manoeuvred herself up the hundred or so narrow, darkened steps that gave eventually on the attic, which since the earliest days Fuchsia could remember had been for her a world undesecrate.

Through succeeding generations a portion of the lumber of Gormenghast had found its way into this zone of moted half-light, this warm, breathless, timeless region where the great rafters moved across the air, clouded with moths. Where the dust was like pollen and lay softly on all things. The attic was composed of two main galleries and a cock loft, the second gallery leading at right angles from the first after a descent of three rickety steps.

At its far end a wooden ladder rose to a balcony resembling a narrow verandah. At the left extremity of this balcony a doorway, with its door hanging mutely by one hinge, led to the third of the three rooms that composed the attic. This was the loft which was for Fuchsia a very secret place, a kind of pagan chapel, an eyrie, a citadel, a kingdom never mentioned, for that would have been a breach of faith—a kind of blasphemy. She had pulled at the long black pigtail of a chord which hung from the ceiling in one corner of her bedroom and had set a bell jangling in the remote apartment which Mrs.

Slagg had inhabited for two decades. As the sun rose, thorn tree after thorn tree on Gormenghast mountain emerged in the pale light and became a spectre, one following another, now here, now there, over the huge mass until the whole shape was flattened into a radiant jagged triangle against the darkness. Seven clouds like a group of naked cherubs or sucking-pigs, floated their plump pink bodies across a sky of slate. Fuchsia watched them through her window sullenly.

Then she thrust her lower lip forward. Her hands were on her hips. Her bare feet were quite still on the floorboards. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven clouds. As Fuchsia turned away from the wall she took an awkward shuffling step towards the bed.

Her jet black hair hung loosely across her shoulders. Her eyes, that were always smouldering, were fixed on the door. Thus she remained with one foot forward as the door knob turned and Mrs.

Slagg entered. Seeing her, Fuchsia continued her walk from where she had left off, but instead of going towards the bed, she approached Mrs. Then she made a little noise which seemed to indicate that she was not impressed. Nine for a—nine, nine—ten for a tower of turbulent toast—but what is seven. What is seven? What did you ring for? Quickly, quickly my caution. Very stiff she had become and angular.

As soon as the door had closed, Fuchsia leaped at her bed and diving between the blankets head first, wriggled her way to the far end, where from all appearances, she became engaged in a life and death struggle with some ambushed monster. The heavings of the bedclothes ended as suddenly as they had begun and she emerged with a pair of long woollen stockings which she must have kicked off during the night. Sitting on her pillows she began pulling them on in a series of heaves, twisting with difficulty, at a very late stage, the heel of each from the front to the back.

I will go to my secret room and think things over. It was sly but it was so childishly sly that it was lovable. Her lips, big and well-formed and extraordinarily mature, curled up like plump petals and showed between them her white teeth. As soon as she had smiled her face altered again, and the petulant expression peregrine to her features took control. Her black eyebrows were drawn together.

Her dressing became interrupted between the addition of each garment by dance movements of her own invention. There was nothing elegant in these attitudes into which she flung herself, standing sometimes for a dozen of seconds at a time in some extraordinary position of balance. Finally her blood-red dress, absolutely shapeless, was pulled over her head. It fitted nowhere except where a green cord was knotted at her waist.

She appeared rather to inhabit, than to wear her clothes. Meanwhile Mrs. Slagg had not only prepared the breakfast for Fuchsia in her own little room, but was on the way back with the loaded tray shaking in her hands.

As she turned a corner of the corridor she was brought to a clattering standstill by the sudden appearance of Doctor Prunesquallor, who also halting with great suddenness, avoided a collision. His spectacles held in either lens the minute reflection of Nannie Slagg.

The old nurse had never really approved of Doctor Prunesquallor. It was true that he belonged to Gormenghast as much as the Tower itself. He was no intruder, but somehow, in Mrs. He was not her idea of a doctor in the first place, although she could never have argued why. Nor could she pin her dislike down to any other cause.

Nannie Slagg found it very difficult to marshal her thoughts at the best of times, but when they became tied up with her emotions she became quite helpless.

What she felt but had never analysed was that Doctor Prunesquallor rather played down to her and even in an obtuse way made fun of her. She had never thought this, but her bones knew of it. She gazed up at the shock-headed man before her and wondered why he never brushed his hair, and then she felt guilty for allowing herself such thoughts about a gentleman and her tray shook and her eyes wavered a little. Slagg, let me take your tray, ha, ha, until you have tasted the fruits of discourse and told me what you have been up to for the last month or more.

Why have I not seen you, Nannie Slagg? Why have my ears not heard your footfall on the stairs, and your voice at nightfall, calling. He sat there on his heels with the tray at his side and peered up at the old lady, who gazed in a frightened way at his eye swimming hugely beneath his magnifying spectacles. Slagg, that galls me. Are you an animal, Mrs. I repeat are you an animal? Poor Nannie Slagg was too frightened to be able to give her answer to the query.

The doctor sank back on his heels. I have known you for some time. For, shall we say, a decade? It is true we have never plumbed the depths of sorcery together nor argued the meaning of existence—but it is enough for me to say that I have known you for a considerable time, and that you are no animal.

No animal whatsoever. Sit upon my knee. Then she gave one frightened look down the passage and was about to make a run for it when she was gripped about the knees, not unkindly, but firmly and without knowing how she got there found herself sitting upon the high bony knee-cap of the squatting doctor. Tell me what you are? Oh yes, ha, ha, ha, oh yes, a very invaluable old woman indeed.

It must be a very long time. Months and months and months. Then you can have no idea of why you will be indispensable? Slagg in the most animated tone that she had so far used. You could eat them up. That will be unnecessary. In fact it would be positively injurious, my dear Mrs. Slagg, and especially under the circumstances about which I must now enlighten you. A child will be placed in your keeping. Do not devour him Nannie Slagg. It is for you to bring him up, that is true, but there will be no need for you to swallow him first.

You would be, ha, ha, ha, ha— swallowing a Groan. Sometime today, if I am not mistaken, my wide-eyed Nannie Slagg, I shall be delivering a brand new Groan. Do you remember when I delivered the Countess of Lady Fuchsia?

Who would have thought? No one ever tells me anything. There is no doubt at all about that. Is there? Oh, I could smack him already. Oh, what a blessing that it is. They will let me have him, sir? His grey hayrick of hair removed itself from the wall.Flay who believes in strictly holding to the rules of Gormenghast.

This is the present. But they were calm. He had stood by the door unobserved, but now as he came forward a roysterer leaping suddenly into the air caught hold of one of the hooks in the dark beam above them. London: Duckworth,