by Mervyn Peake
‘Yes, Ruth, it looks beautiful and, in a strange way, so do you.’
‘Strangely beautiful, beautifully strange, pretty ugly, pretty pretty, plain ugly, purl and plain, a pearl of great worth, a rough diamond – thank you, Titus.’
‘Have you started your work yet?’
‘Well, I’ve got my paper, my pens, my reference books. I’m a little bit short of ideas but they’ll come. They must. I’ve already discarded all those,’ Ruth said, as she pointed to balls of paper, creased and crumpled and lying wherever she had thrown them in her dissatisfaction.
‘I don’t think I can help you.’
‘I feel better now that you’re here, Titus, and I think if you don’t mind I’ll get back to work now, but first of all tell me how you got on at Herbert’s.’
Titus told Ruth of his first venture into modelling, which seemed to consist mainly of sitting down, eating and drinking.
‘Oh, they’re so kind, those two,’ said Ruth. ‘I expect Herbert will take you to meet Mrs Sempleton-Grove later. But Titus . . . beware.’
‘I’ve met many rich women before, and there is a common denominator . . .’
‘Common?’
‘Well, uncommon, then, but all right, what shall I say? I’ve never met a rich woman who suffers from an inferiority complex, or who doesn’t feel that all she possesses is hers by some undefined right, including the right to possess her latest lover until she tires of him . . .’
‘I really want to get on now, Titus. I’m quite sure you’ll know what to do with Mrs Sempleton-Grove, so I shan’t worry. Are you staying, or going out?’
‘I thought I’d leave you in peace and look around to see what I can see. Do you want to come out, Dog?’
Dog had been lying near Ruth’s work table and he stood up as Titus spoke to him, but remained in the same place.
Titus said, ‘Well, I’m going now, aren’t you coming?’
Dog walked slowly to the door, as Titus opened it, but made no move to follow him. He acted as any host might behave to his guest and waited courteously until that guest had completely taken his leave, before closing the door, in this case, with a large soft paw.
When Titus left the studio he felt isolated, more lonely than was his wont. The walls of his heart had been breached. He had thought he was immune, a nature not subject to human feeling. But why? he asked himself. Because I am different. I belong to a past that I have rejected. I am a pariah. Why am I to exist without human contact? Why do I feel that I may inflict pain without retribution? Since Juno I have learned that there is something in me that can hurt but I have also been damaged by that waif, that being of gossamer, that ‘Thing’. The sprite, the cruel piece of nature, who taunted me has killed whatever tenderness I might have shared with another. My heart breaks when I think of Fuchsia, and the staunch, beautiful, ageing Juno. Ruth, too, is a woman who will give until she dies . . . So thought Titus as he wandered towards the river. It was the first time that he had been without Dog and he missed him. He walked on the dark pavements, not knowing where he was going; he let his footsteps guide him, down darkened roads, looking through lit windows at people unaware of those outside looking in, who were gathered in family groups, or couples in an embrace that only time could force apart.
He went in through one door, drawn by the sound of hilarity, the only explanation being drink. He was not a great drinker, but in the mood he was in, human company impelled him to push open the door.
The noise, and the fumes of drink and smoke, were enough to swamp his need for human contact, and he was backing out as a woman lurched forward and with a hoarse and vulgar hiccup clutched at his arm. ‘Oh, sorry, darling,’ she said, peering at him with eyes that saw nothing, they were so glazed. All Titus could see was the demarcation line where her raven hair changed from black to white.
‘You’re just in time,’ she said.
Titus said nothing as she propelled him into the room to a bar, where people were propped up in varying degrees of inebriation.
‘In time for what?’ asked Titus.
‘Well, tha’ depends, what you mean by time – eh, wha’? Wha’ abow a drink . . . eh? Tha’s wha’ ah meant – time to gi’ me a drink.’
Titus was in no mood for banter, for drinking, for compassion towards a middle-aged woman’s maudlin attentions, so that with a little of the money he had earned that afternoon he bought her a drink, and the haze of smoke was so thick, both in the bar and her brain, that he made his way out. His mood of introspection and lack of love for the human race was not accelerated by this little episode, but it was good for him to be alone and free from pursuit of any kind. In the back of his mind he suffered an ache of conscience for what he knew he was going to do to Ruth, yet he knew that he was powerless to prevent himself.
It was getting dark as he crossed the wide road that led to the embankment, and he made his way to the wall, where he stood listening to the lapping of the water, a sound that filled him with a nostalgia that had no reason, but for the melancholy with which it filled him. One or two barges drifted by in the darkness, and he felt out of his element and anxious, and as he heard the water his mind went back to the distant sounds and sights of a flood which, if it had not happened sooner, was to turn him from youth to manhood by the taking of a life so malignant that to him it was an act of benefaction. The ache of longing to see his sister Fuchsia was unbearable. He could not and never would be able to associate her with death, whose life had been so short and unfulfilled. In thinking of Fuchsia, his mind returned to the present, to Ruth, whose vulnerability was parallel to his sister’s. He turned and made his way back to the studio.
24
Moments of Serenity
As Titus walked back through the darkened streets, he longed to give something to Ruth, which would expiate the hurt that he knew he was going to inflict on her. But of material things there was nothing that she would wish for, even if he had the power or the money to buy them. I have only myself, and in my own eyes that is of doubtful value, we both know, he thought. He passed a house that was withdrawn from the road by a deep laurel hedge and a holly tree. Even in the gloom he could see it was loaded with bright berries. He stopped under the street lamp and cut a branch.
The leaves pricked his fingers as he carried it, and as he went up the steps to the studio he cradled it against his chest. He had to grope along the unlit corridor until he came to the door and, although there was no sound, there was a glimmer of light, so that he did not put his hand through the letterbox to withdraw the key, but tapped on it gently.
He heard the sound of footsteps and the softer patter of canine pads before the door was opened, then the wheezing cough of a smoker.
‘Oh, Titus, I’m so glad to see you.’ Dog, standing beside Ruth as a huge ochre-coloured protector, gave a whimper of welcome and backed to let him in.
The room was almost overheated by the big, black, living monster of a stove, and a light on the table revealed a disorder of paper and pens, pencils, ink and all the paraphernalia of an artist at work, topped by a cat or two sitting on small mountains of books and paper.
‘What a beautiful sight, Ruth,’ Titus could not help exclaiming. ‘How have you managed? Is it going better now? Your drawing, I mean.’
‘Well, yes. Yes and no – I’m disturbed, and sometimes that’s better. Sometimes not. When I’m disturbed, sometimes I work better if I’ve had a few drinks. Sometimes, then, it clears my mind and so long as I can control my pen or my brush, I can turn out the dross and see clearly what I want to do. I’m happy – unhappy – exhilarated, despairing, desperate, hopeful – lost, and found.’
‘Yes, Ruth, I can feel all these things, and without arrogance too. I had to come back, to see you, to feel your warmth, but I dreaded it too.’
‘Oh, I know that, Titus. But what can we do – eh? I know. I expect you could do with something to eat. How practical I am, eh? Come on, let’s pretend. Come on, Titus. Come in. Let’s pretend there is no world outs
ide, back or beyond, past or future. Just now. Come on. I can’t work any more anyway. Come on. Come on. Let’s eat a little, drink a little more and grasp what we can . . .’
‘I’ve brought you something,’ said Titus, and he handed Ruth the holly branch, which she took, acknowledging what lay beyond the gift. ‘It’s rather prickly,’ he warned her.
‘Prickles, stickles, red and green, look out, look out, my lily queen,’ chanted Ruth as she laid it on the overburdened table, and one cat, on being so unceremoniously displaced, jumped off the paper mountain.
Ruth lit the candles in the black three-pronged candle holder and motioned Titus to a dilapidated magenta armchair, which sat guard by the stove.
‘I’ll bring the soup in, and then let’s see what happens. I’m tired, hungry, I want to dance, to sing, to weep, to laugh, to sleep, to wake. Come on, Titus, what do you want to do?’
‘I just want to be here. I feel safe.’
Ruth left the room and Dog stayed, not knowing now whether to stay or go. He stayed in the centre of the studio, and Titus and his canine friend heard the sounds from across the corridor of crockery being moved, put down and lifted, and clatter, clatter, down she came again, kicked open the door and brought in a tray, on which stood a saucepan, steaming, and plates and two glasses and a bottle of wine.
Titus got out of his chair and, taking the tray, deposited it on the floor.
‘I must give them all something first, then we can settle down and see what we shall see – eh, Titus Groan?’
Ruth put down plates of food for the cats, and a larger bowl for Dog, who with his customary courtesy made no move until he saw that his master and his hostess were also served.
Ruth sat in another chair on the other side of the stove, and in the candlelit silence, with candlelit thoughts, they all settled down to eat and drink what had been prepared.
‘I’m tired, Titus. Will you take Dog out now, for a bit. The cats have their own private door but poor Dog, he can’t get through that.’
They stacked up the plates and bowls, and Ruth told Titus to leave it on the floor, just where it was.
‘Yes, I’ll take Dog.’
‘Leave the door open, Titus. I expect I’ll be in bed when you get back.’
Titus groped his way back along the corridor to the front door of the building, which was never closed.
When he returned the candles were still lit, and he saw Ruth’s dark head on the pillow, with the little drift of smoke coming from the cigarette, clinging as always to her lower lip.
As she removed it, the wheezing cough reached the proportions of a small dust storm, and her laughter fought the wheezing until the bed shook and the cats were displaced in a most inelegant way.
Titus threw off his clothes and dropped them beside the bed, with no attempt to arrange them, and as Ruth removed the cigarette, she slid to the side of the bed against the wall and Titus, with the sigh of coming home, lay down beside her.
They slept deeply and innocently. It was only in the early hours of the morning that they awoke and their lovemaking was half in another world, so that on waking at dawn neither knew if they had dreamed it. It was then that Titus opened his heart to Ruth. It was then that for hours he talked of his childhood, of the home he had forsaken, the people he had loved and hated. The landscape – the castle – all that it stood for – all that at times he could hardly breathe for the longing for, and the hatred of. Ruth listened as he spoke, shed tears for the death of Fuchsia, ached for Keda, and was silenced in her tears for that being, to whom Titus would be for ever bound – the ‘Thing’, amoral, beautiful and heartless. She took it all to her heart. She wanted to return with Titus to the few who remained. His mother, the magnificent Gertrude, whose russet hair must by now surely have turned to the colour of flint. She clung to Titus, with a love that almost broke her and realised that nothing and no one could hold a wandering man. She had no doubts. Her acceptance of him was absolute.
Ruth knew that, whatever happened, whether sooner or later, she would be for ever, like Titus, alone. But she would not have had it otherwise, and she prepared herself anew for the wounds to come.
For many days they lived in the studio. Ruth working, Titus going out and returning, and savouring a life they knew could not last. They hardly spoke. There was no need. Both wondered where, when and how the world would intrude.
One morning there was a hearty rapping on the door and Herbert’s voice called, ‘Ripe strawberries – ripe strawberries – anyone there? Ripe strawberries – you there, old boy, ripe strawberries.’
Ruth looked at Titus, as she went to open the door, and Herbert came in with his arms full of what looked like a harvest festival.
‘Sophia sent you these, old girl,’ and he put down, where he could find a place, a pie dish with a crust of golden pastry, and as much fruit and vegetables as his hands could hold.
‘Oh, how kind of her,’ said Ruth. ‘My mouth waters, for I’ve tasted her cooking and it’s memorable – do please thank her – how wonderful. I’m afraid my prowess stops at a bowl of soup and some bread.’
‘Well, old boy, it’s as I thought – I’ve dolled up the drawings of you and the old bag won’t rest until I’ve taken you to see her. Can you come now, with me? She’s worse than I am when she gets an idea in her head, and it’s always got to be done NOW, no matter what anyone else’s plans are. Can you come, old boy, eh?’
Titus looked at Ruth, and he knew she felt a shrinking of her heart.
‘Well, I’m not . . .’
‘Oh, yes, Titus, do go. I’ve got so much to get on with. I must finish these drawings. I have to take them up tomorrow. They’ve promised to pay me on the dot . . . and carry one.’
‘Good girl,’ roared Herbert. ‘Oh, she’s a good girl.’
‘What about Dog?’ asked Titus.
‘Well, the old bag’s keen on virility and all that, but I think one specimen at a time, old boy.’
‘I’ll keep him, Titus, while you’re out.’
‘Oh, good girl, that’s the girl. Come on, Tite, old boy. You never know what might happen once you get through old Sempleton’s portals. Let’s get going – we can walk there.’
‘All right, I’ll follow you then. I just want a word with Ruth before I go.’
‘Don’t worry, old fellow. I know where I’m not wanted. I’ll wait for you by the front door.’
Herbert burst into an arpeggio of song as he bashed his way noisily out of the studio door.
‘Is that all right, Ruth? Do you mind my going?’
‘Of course not, Titus.’
‘You know, Ruth . . .’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I will be back.’
‘Of course, Titus . . . goodbye, then, or more appropriately, goodbye now.’
Titus gently kissed her, and as he left the studio Dog went back to Ruth and pushed his muzzle into her lowered face.
25
At Mrs Sempleton-Grove’s
Titus joined Herbert on the outside steps and they made their way down quiet side roads, past rather mean little terraced houses with blankets at windows, and broken panes of glass, peeling paint and neglected children looking out. From these dreary houses they turned at the end of the road and the whole house-scape changed to an elegance of white-painted houses, each front door painted a different colour and window boxes, a fantasy of colour and plant, set off like jewels by the whiteness of the bricks. An orderly world, at least from the outside, beautiful and cared for.
‘Well, it’s not far, old boy. I don’t think I’ll stay long – she won’t care anyway. She doesn’t fancy me – I’m a bit old hat – long in the tooth or what have you, but she’ll be an experience anyway.’
‘I’ve met many rich women, you know.’
‘I dare say you have, old boy. Still you never know, you never know.’
They made their way down a cul-de-sac, which was bounded by a very large four-storeyed house with an imposing portico and steps le
ading up to the front door, wrought-iron grilles at the windows, and a brass door knocker shaped like a tropical fish.
‘Here we are, old boy,’ said Herbert, as he tugged at the bell-pull, which sounded on the other side of the door with an imperiousness worthy of a dowager.
The door was opened by a youngish dark man, dressed in black tights and a black leather jacket. He was small and lithe, with the body of a dancer, and possessed what Titus thought was a rather withdrawn dignity, until he spoke, and his voice was high, thin and nasal.
‘This is Henry, Titus,’ said Herbert.
‘She’s expecting you,’ said Henry, with a rather unpleasant leer. ‘Go on up, ’erbert’ll take you. I’ve ’ad ’er malarkin’ about all day – spent the morning looking for a dress, upstairs, downstairs, in and out the window, she accused me of pinching it, as near as. Two hours, I was, lookin’ for the thing, and then you know what? She’d got it on all the time. I said to ’er, I’ve got better things to do than go looking all the morning for a dress you’re wearin’, but she said she thinks she’s in love. Well, you’ve a treat in store, Titus, and no mistake.’
Saying this, Henry did a little pirouette and a twist and a turn and, with an elegant gesture of his hands, pointed the way upstairs.
The hall was pale, the carpet was pale. The walls had alcoves in which were dark paintings, ornately framed. Huge vases of flowers, a spinet and a harpsichord, and delicate small tables of rosewood were scattered with consummate taste, and a lack of anyone loving or caring for them. A museum of taste and money, but no home.
A curved carpeted staircase with wrought-iron banisters led upstairs, and Herbert, whose exuberance seemed to have disappeared, led Titus up the staircase to the third door, on which he knocked.
A rather husky-dusky voice was heard. Whatever it said was not intelligible, but obviously enough for Herbert to obey its order.
He pushed open the door. The house seemed full of silence.
‘Come in, Titus,’ he said, in a voice so subdued that it was not recognisable.