The Gormenghast Trilogy: Titus Groan/Gormenghast/Titus Alone

by Mervyn Peake

  It took some time for most of the people to relax but gradually, as the room became warmer and the wine glasses more quickly refilled, a certain gaiety superimposed itself and the mood regained its earlier ease.

  Just as they were finishing the voice could be heard calling out, ‘There will be murder in this house tonight.’

  ‘I think you’d better get over to the theatre,’ murmured the hostess to the girl, who must have been her daughter. ‘Take the younger ones, and we’ll come if we can. It looks an ominous evening ahead.’

  The company divided into two camps – the younger ones leaving by a side door, and the older ones crossing the hall back to the white room.

  ‘I am’ was the only person there, and he was sitting in a big chair, beside him a table covered with what Titus recognised as the instrument of torture, which had nearly reduced him to crying for mercy that morning in the car. He knew that he could not endure another reading, and was on his way out when he was espied and called to.

  ‘Come turn the pages, o slave.’

  ‘I was about to leave. I must go.’

  A deep flush rose on ‘I am’s’ face, and his hostess whispered to Titus, ‘Just once, to quieten him and then you will be free of him. Would you . . . please?’

  How could Titus refuse? He was directed to a chair immediately behind the horrible man, who started to read. He read much of what he had done that morning, and as he finished each page, he threw it over his shoulder and extended his right hand for Titus to refill it with another paper. What he read was obscene and unoriginal, and each listening face betrayed an emotion of disgust or boredom or dislike. The more extreme the emotion shown, the more pleased the reader seemed, as he surveyed them, on reaching the end of each sheet of paper.

  Suddenly a youngish man stood up and shouted, ‘I’ve had enough,’ and ran quickly out of the room.

  The reading stopped and the poet, whose temper seemed hard to control, threw all his papers in the air and screamed, ‘I’m not staying here. There will be murder in this house tonight. There will be murder. I shall walk to my house by the sea. There will be murder!’

  So saying he departed, with all his papers scattered across the floors and chairs and, judging by the apoplectic sound of a door being slammed, left the house.

  Someone picked up the papers, handling them with the disgust one might feel for a decomposing rat, and dropped them behind a chair, out of sight. The windows were opened and someone started to sing. Someone else told a joke, and there was the kind of laughter that people cannot control, after having been silent too long.

  ‘What would you like to do?’ asked the hostess.

  ‘Nothing – just breathe fresh air,’ said one person.

  ‘Automatic writing,’ said another.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said a third, who pulled a round table to the middle of the room.

  Chairs were placed round it, and those who wished sat down and put their hands, palms down, upon it.

  Titus, longing to get out and away, watched in a desultory way. The lights had been lowered and there was a kind of hectic silence. Someone started to write, and as the table began to rise slowly from the ground, outside in the hall there was a sound of a horse’s hooves. One of the women at the table gave a startled cry and the door of the room opened very, very slowly. As it opened wider the head of a white horse appeared, and at that very moment a bell rang through the house.

  The lights turned higher, and the horse’s head backed away. The bell was insistent, and it was not until the hostess left the room that it was silenced.

  Her voice was heard, as the horse’s footsteps receded, saying, ‘No, there has been no murder. No, there has been no murder.’

  Titus left the room and found his way up to the nursery. To be alone was the only thing he wished. All through the night, at hourly intervals, a bell pealed through the house, and it would seem impossible that anyone could sleep in it, as they heard, ‘No, there has been no murder – No, there has been no murder.’

  When it was light, and in between the hourly bell, Titus got off his bed and left the house, making as little sound as possible. He left by the front door, and climbed up the steep steps that led from the Hidden House to the long drive. It took him some time to reach the road on which he had been waylaid only the day before.

  ‘That is another end,’ he thought. ‘Let there be a new beginning.’

  35

  Search Without End

  As Titus walked he decided that whatever happened he would never again be waylaid, and he hoped for his journey on the sea.

  By the quiet of the road he judged that he was still on a sidetrack and he imagined that he would have to walk for some time before he reached a road that would lead him to a larger road that might take him seawards. The obscene man had said that he was walking seawards, and he clung to this, as to perhaps the only truth he might have uttered.

  He walked onwards. His thoughts were of a future, which he could not see, but which he felt. The landscape changed slightly, from a rural emptiness to an occasional lonely house. At last he reached a crossroads with signposts. He could see that to continue straight ahead would lead nowhere, but to turn left into a wider, less arcane road might begin to lead to what he was seeking. Grass verge gave way to a path, then to a pavement, houses in ones and twos became rows of identical homes. Further on, his journey brought him to an old town built round a square. There was little life in it, but enough for him to feel that he might ask directions.

  ‘The sea?’ he asked of one old man. He put his hand to his ear, and Titus repeated the question. Taking his arm, the old man led him to a sign which indicated that there would be transport for such a purpose. A little group of people stood by the sign and he took his place with them. They waited patiently, until up rumbled a green vehicle, and from which people emerged with friendly greetings to those waiting.

  Titus followed, and sat down on a seat. He had no idea where he was to go, but when asked he said ‘To the end’, which seemed to satisfy the conductor.

  The vehicle stopped and started, disgorged and picked up people all along the road, sometimes taking in parcels, sometimes delivering them to people waiting at the roadside.

  The landscape became more urban, then disappeared behind woods, and emerging from a cathedral of trees on to an open road he saw ahead of him the horizon, and the pale line of blue that separated the sky from the sea.

  He was on his way. They went down a steep hill and reached what was presumably the edge of a big town, judging by the smoking chimneys and large areas of unattractive roofscapes. It had begun to rain and an unappetising smell of malt permeated the vehicle each time the door opened and closed. There were no trees, and the people walking briskly because of the rain had the worried look of animals trying to reach their respective lairs.

  The green bus drew up at what must have been the ‘end’ of its journey, for everyone got up, collecting their bundles, and children, and making their way out.

  The end of the road was a railway station. Titus followed the crowd. He spoke to a man at the gate.

  ‘To the sea – to the boats?’ he asked.

  The man looked at a large clock above them and said, ‘You’re lucky. One’ll be going in a quarter-hour. Have you got your ticket? Get it there.’

  A train came slowly along the platform and Titus got in. It stopped and started, and went slowly along, past cranes and sidings until it left the town, and on its left was the sea. They travelled more and more slowly, until more cranes came into sight, then boats of many sizes and for many purposes, until the train stopped, and Titus saw it could go no further.

  As he got down and walked along the grey platform, he knew that at last he was determining for once his own life.

  He asked a man moving long cardboard boxes of flowers what boats there were and where they were going, and if he could get a passage.

  ‘Well, there’s the night boat – you’re in luck. It only goes three times a week from h
ere. You won’t find no trouble getting on it. Look, I’m going that way. Come with me.’

  They walked along the platform, and past a huge empty shed with wooden tables, emerging on to a quay, with a two-funnelled boat waiting. There was a gangplank, and people leaning on the rails of the boat, watching as others made their way up.

  Titus’s spirit was full of anticipation for a course of life that he alone had decided upon. Hitherto events had happened because he had not cared enough to avoid them. There was a tight knot of apprehension in him, no fear. He had made a deliberate decision and fate, somewhere, had helped him. He found himself on the boat, and he walked around the deck and watched the crane loading their cargo into the hold.

  There was a friendliness among the people, both those who were travelling and the crew. It was cold, the rain had stopped, but the wind was rising, and jokes were interchanged as to the likelihood of a stormy crossing.

  It took a little time for Titus to realise that the cranes had finished loading and that the engines were throbbing, and although he was cold, for his clothing was scanty, he wanted to see the vessel edging its way out of the harbour and into the open sea. The gulls with their greedy screeching flapped and swooped on to the debris that was thrown overboard, and he stood watching and listening, and although he had no physical or emotional impediments to discard, he felt as though he too could throw into the sea the dross he had gathered over the last few years, and learn to hope again.

  The cold became too intense as the wind rose, and the boat began to roll. He would have preferred to remain on deck, but his feet and hands were numb. He made his way down some steps and found an empty seat. Someone nearby noticed how cold he seemed and brought a rug to cover him. It took some time for him to warm up and longer still to sleep.

  Titus was awoken by the activity around him and the voices that had the excited ring of people arriving, so he knew that he was nearing the end of this particular journey.

  He rubbed his eyes and massaged his face, and he was fully awake. He had no luggage to collect, but one rug to return to its owner. He went up the steps to the deck and made his way to the bows of the vessel. The roll of the ship had ceased and the throbbing of the engines had diminished.

  The morning mist was tangible in its grey whiteness. As the ship slowed he saw through the film faint forms which took the shape of enormous sea animals – each one an island, each alone, each wrapped in its own silent, private world. There was an aura of something he knew: something from the past; something that surrounded his whole being. Was it a caul or a shroud?

  The ship moved slowly into harbour. The noise and bustle of disembarking prevented his introspection. He stepped on to firm ground and saw in front of him a quay, with its paraphernalia of cranes, and boats, and lobster pots.

  The town behind was misty. Houses grew out of the rock and faced the sea, as though it was one element with the land and sky.

  There was a sense of welcome in the faces of the weather-beaten men on shore and one man, seeing the hesitation in Titus, asked him, ‘You staying or going on?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure . . . quite. Where else is there to go?’

  ‘Well, there’s a boat over in an hour to the little island – they only go three times a week now. Have you any luggage?’

  ‘No, I haven’t – I came without any.’

  ‘Well, that’s easy enough, then. You can get some breakfast and catch it then. You can get your ticket on the boat – just over there. She’s in already.’

  He pointed to a small boat that was being loaded, across the other side of the harbour.

  Titus had breakfast and returned to the boat that had been pointed out to him. He went on board. There were a few people already there. It moved slightly as the waves lapped the harbour wall. He had a feeling of both emptiness and elation in the pit of his stomach. He stood alone. He waited. Time was slow. If asked, he could not explain the turmoil within him but he felt as though all that he was and had become was on the verge of annihilation, ready to embrace an event that was bigger than himself. A sense of the power of life elated him, but he presented to the outside world the figure of a man standing alone and serene.

  The time came for the small ship to cast anchor and move slowly out of its harbour.

  There was still a sea mist, and as the boat sailed out he heard the gulls and the shouts of men in the distance. The sound of foghorns added to the mystery of what lay beyond.

  The sea was calm. He was alone. The mist lifted, and to his right a school of dolphins appeared and disappeared. The boat sailed between two small islands, dotted with black birds – ‘cormorants’ he heard someone say.

  And then again, ahead lay a smaller island than those they had just negotiated. It was in the shape of a dolphin, with a little break between it and its progeny, but inextricably joined.

  The boat approached the island. They could see the inlets and caves and rocks, and the seabirds whose home it was.

  A jetty appeared, dotted with figures sitting on the sea wall. Hands and handkerchiefs were raised, and as they drew nearer the figures on the jetty became clearer. There were the shapes of horses and again the sound of gulls. An unaccountable nostalgia overwhelmed Titus.

  The narrow entrance to the jetty was difficult, but slowly the boat turned and came to rest alongside the narrow quay.

  There was a stillness and a silence within him. He hardly dared raise his eyes, and when he did his stomach turned and he knew that his journey was not an end but a beginning.

  Among those watching the arrival of the boat from the jetty wall was the man whose eyes and very being had haunted Titus since he had first seen him.

  By his side was a small girl, excited at all the fun of activity. Dogs chased each other joyfully. To them, life was for living, and as Titus watched this man, whom he knew, as himself, the same virtue displayed itself. Life and the love of it were paramount. There was no longer any tragic groping. What he understood was a lust for life. The excitement of life transmitted itself into the little girl, and to two young boys, who joined the group.

  They left the wall, and watched as suitcases, provisions and all the sundry necessities of island life were unloaded. The man, tall, dark, urgent, hoisted the little girl on his back.

  Titus had reached an anchorage. He knew that his past and his future, his whole being, his reason, were here.

  As he began to walk away from the jetty, through the small tunnel hacked out of the rock, he was joined by the man and his children. Together they made their way up the steep hill. Titus no longer felt alone, but a part of someone who would shape his life to come. There’s not a road, not a track, but it will lead him home.

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  Epub ISBN: 9781409041733

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  Published by Vintage 2011

  Copyright © Maeve Gilmore and Mervyn Peake 2011

  Introduction copyright © Brian Sibley 2011

  Maeve Gilmore and Mervyn Peake have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  ‘How fly the birds of Heaven save by their wings?’ from A Book of Nonsense (Peter Owen, 1972) reproduced by kind permission of Peter Owen. see here

  ‘Linger now with me’ lines from Titus Groan reproduced by permission of Random House Publishing Ltd. see here

  ‘The sunlight falls upon the grass’ from Rhymes Without Reason (Eyre & Spottiswoode 1944). Reproduced by kind
permission of the Estate of Mervyn Peake. see here

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