Complete Nonsense

by Mervyn Peake

  Far from interrogating Footfruit, the official becomes more and more fascinated by this happy creature and his answers. But he determines all the same to get him into the same mould as everyone else. Because they don’t like people being different.

  News spreads about him and more officials arrive. They are all agreed that they must do something about him; i.e. he has the wrong things on, and his nose is wrong, yet he was whistling and humming to himself. Only Footfruit’s dog is passable. They cannot understand how he can be so ignorant, and yet so happy.

  Why did he leave his home, they ask. He had after all enough food, drink and laughter.

  ‘Adventure can be a voice.’

  ‘A Voice?’

  ‘Yes, in the night, my dear friends. I have been advised to leave the border, and stand upon the margin of civilization.’

  Not only this, he wishes to prove himself to his tribe when he returns to the wasteland.

  Footfruit can see in the darkness what looks like the outpost of a city. He leaps in the air with excitement. Is it not true that he is near to goodness, beauty and love? From now on he must believe all that he reads, sees or hears. He feels that his conversion is at hand. There is no time to waste.

  Out strides Footfruit towards the distant city, leaving the officials far behind (including the dog).

  Advertisements are from now on his Bible, and he will believe without question.

  His religion is materialism. The hoardings dominate everything. An avenue of hoardings.

  Taste. Food he has been eating is natural, therefore must be bad. Taste-buds are sold in shops so that otherwise tasteless food can take on any flavour required.

  Smell. Natural smells are bad. Everything must be disguised. His nose grows big. Everyone stares at it on arrival. Also he has a natural odour which has to be got rid of.

  Hearing. Has been brought up to the sound of silence, or the natural ebullience of singing. Finds that music is potted and permanent, and if anyone is tasteless enough to sing on their own out of sheer joie-de-vivre they are sent to a reformatory where they are taught not to be anti-social. As for my hearing… it is marvellously good. No one can spoil my privacy. Not now!

  Touch. Civilized people don’t feel.

  Sight. At first he couldn’t see a thing, but later on he felt the Truth arriving, and he forced himself to benefit from all you stand for. It

  was a beautiful conception, and the dog loved it. As for the hoardings, they convinced me. There have been black moments of course, but what are they compared with this glory? O Science, what a lad you are.

  Priests are the salesmen to whom one confesses not owning such and such an article. Absolution is given on the understanding that the penitent will purchase whatever he has confessed to not owning, etc.

  Footfruit has a very long confession to make. His jaws begin to ache, and his legs grow shorter and shorter with pressure from above. But he knows that there is Truth to be apprehended.

  By the time ‘civilization’ has done its worst with Footfruit he wants to go back to the wilderness. He is to be met by a delegation, and given a hero’s welcome.

  When they see him, they are shocked at his terrible appearance, but they are told by ambassadors of civilization that he has had a magnificent schooling and they are delighted with all he has done since he left the wilderness. It takes some time to convince them that what has happened to him is ‘good’, but high pressure talk wears them down, and they come to realize that perhaps after all Footfruit is lucky. And they decide that they would like to follow in his footsteps.

  The Adventures of Footfruit or The Enthusiast

  Look!

  Look!

  Here cometh Footfruit, out of the wilderness: a fire in his belly, a purpose in his head; and a nose for the truth.

  Exactly.

  See how he covers the ground! Hey Footfruit! Footfruit!

  Where are you off to now? Whizz! Bang! What a lad he is.

  Can it be that he is making tracks for the border?

  Yes, yes, and more than yes. He is heading for the City itself.

  Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho! If only he knew.

  What?

  Oh never mind.

  But tell me, why the agitation, my friend?

  That is quite a question.

  Let us watch him. All will unfold… we hope.

  Thank heaven we’re in hiding.

  Thank heaven indeed.

  Where is he now?

  Yes, yes, yes. Where is he now.

  I’ve spotted him. Aha! He moves like a God.

  Which God?

  O any good God… hallo there, he’s disappeared again. Who would have thought it.

  He’s half way to the Border. Was ever man more ardent.

  Or with better reason.

  Aha…

  For he is of the missionary breed.

  As for the Border, each footfall brings him closer.

  Heigh ho, heigh ho, and the high hills hoary.

  Are you listening?

  Why of course.

  Very well then.

  Yes, yes.

  What is it that he carries in his hand – that powerful hand, gnarled by long usage? Can it be a document?

  It can.

  It is.

  Carry it high then, Footfruit, as you stride. It is your passport into paradise.

  Are you there?

  Yes, indeed.

  Some say good old Footfruit, but there are others. For my part I see in him the world’s last hope, but what was that?

  Only that mangy hound of his. Oh I could whip him to within an inch of his tail.

  And now the rain. Does Footfruit care?

  Not a jot.

  See how his boots spout water.

  See how he laughs. Ha ha!

  As though he had no care in all the world. Footfruit the great.

  Footfruit the glorious.

  No doubt of it.

  For see, his future spread before him, his past spread out behind him; and in the middle, why there is our friend indeed, with his warrior’s head, and his ears like worm-casts.

  Sweet Footfruit! There is no question of it, for he’s both sweet and great.

  Why otherwise should he dream.

  Dream?

  Yes, dream. Dream of Doing Good. Wherefore his passion to leave the wilderness which was his home?

  It is hard to fathom. He does not know himself. All he knows is that shortly after dawn this splendid morning, he heard the call, and he upped and he went.

  Confound that dog of his.

  He laughs like a drain.

  Forget him.

  I will try to.

  Aha Footfruit. He believes that everyone is there to do him good.

  I know.

  Just as he is ready to do good to everyone.

  He knows very well that the Great City is far away, yet he strides out like a madman.

  Or as though he had a tiger on his tail.

  Time was when Footfruit spurned the twisting globe. All of it. No quarter asked; none given. As a spurner there were few to touch him. And those who did soon took their feet away.

  Do you remember those days?

  I do indeed. Why, civilization itself came within the range of his lash.

  His gentle lash.

  As you say, his gentle lash.

  And the Cities were like gall-spots on his tongue. But now he knows better. Civilization was alright.

  Quite alright.

  And the cities were alright.

  As you say.

  Do you agree?

  Yes, yes. But watch that filthy hound. I have him in the corner of my eye. Heigh ho, heigh ho. He had heard stories.

  And he had had inklings.

  Goat’s milk and locusts.

  He had put two and two together with outrageous results.

  He had been seen, leaning across the dawn, dreaming of the Big City.

  He was undoubtedly touched.

  No, no.

  No?
He had an independence of spirit, that is all.

  There he goes… there’s no holding him.

  Oh what a glorious, uproarious, bounding beast he is.

  Oh what a pride he takes in every stride he makes.

  What a splendid picture, Footfruit and his hound, I must admit it.

  They carve themselves in air.

  Hang on Footfruit. This is the real thing. Strap on your breastplate!

  Flair the proud nostril, blare out in your extreme abandon.

  The truth, my friend, and nothing but the truth.

  (c. 1957–60)

  Another Draft of Footfruit

  How otherwise can I unfold myself and the affairs of Footfruit. And his dog.

  Let me make a confession – I have never met him or been introduced. But I have followed his career, & once I smelt the tang of his cigar. So I was fairly near him when I have followed him to his next

  Here cometh Footfruit, head-foremost, bum backmost; Chapter 1, Verse 1 – heigh ho… heigh ho… and the high hills hoary:

  Footfruit! Footfruit! Where are you? He has fire in his blood has Footfruit and a nose for the Truth. (This can be awkward.)

  What, no reply? Is this a time to tease your Chronicler? Really, Footfruit: the whole thing’s about as chronic as it could be! Ha ha ha… sh… sh…

  Step out Footfruit, the world’s spread before you; your failures trail behind you & in the middle, why there you are, my dear, with ears like worm-casts.

  Lo! Here he comes at last: along with that vile hound that dogs him. Jackpot by name. He irks me.

  Secretly – but secretly, let me tell you something. I would rather be trailing Jackpot than acting as a kind of off-stage Voice. In other words I’m jealous. For he is a great man with a great heart is Footfruit. (And he has big feet too). What’s more I would be near him, wouldn’t I? if I were Jackpot & perhaps, who knows, one day … (the stomach turns, picturing it) — I might touch him.

  Water! Water!

  (c. 1957–60)

  From Figures of Speech. The Key to the drawing is on p. 234.

  Crown Me with Hairpins

  Crown me with hairpins intertwined

  Into a wreath each hairpin lined

  With plush that only spinsters find

  At night beneath huge sofas where

  The feathers, wool, and straw and hair

  Bulge through a lining old as time

  And secret as a beldam’s lair

  Of ghostly grime.

  Tired aunts who live on sphagnum moss

  Are quite the best to ask, because

  They are less likely to get cross

  Than those less ancient ones who still

  Peer coyly from the window-sill,

  Until their seventieth year.

  Go find an old and tired one,

  Secure the hairpin; then have done

  With your relations, dear.

  Notes

  Abbreviations

  For full publication details see ‘References and Further Reading’, p. 16.

  Batchelor Batchelor, Mervyn Peake: A Biographical and Critical Exploration

  BN Peake, A Book of Nonsense

  Bod. Dep. Peake 16 Undated exercise book entitled ‘Nonsence Poems’; see Introduction, p. 2. Now in the Peake archive at the British Library, reference Add. MS 88931.

  f.p. first published

  G Peake, Gormenghast

  MB Peake’s unfinished play Manifold Basket, written early to mid-1950s.

  MP Peake, Mr Pye

  MPR Mervyn Peake Review

  N1 1939 notebook (see Introduction, p. 1, and Peake, Collected Poems, pp. 1–2). Now in the Peake archive at the British Library, reference Add. MS 88931.

  N2 1946 notebook (see Introduction, p. 1, and Peake, Collected Poems, pp. 1–2). Now in the Peake archive at the British Library, reference Add. MS 88931.

  Nonsence 1 1947 Nonsence notebook (see Introduction, p. 1). Now in the Peake archive at the British Library, reference Add. MS 88931.

  Nonsence 2 Post-1957 Nonsence notebook (see Introduction, pp. 1–2). Now in the Peake archive at the British Library, reference Add. MS 88931.

  Peake Archive Reference Add. MS 88931 in the British Library

  PP Peake, Peake’s Progress, 1981 edition

  PS Peake Studies

  RWR Peake, Rhymes without Reason

  Smith Smith, Mervyn Peake: A Personal Memoir

  TA Peake, Titus Alone (TA 1 refers to the first edition, TA 2 the second – see ‘Further Reading’, p. 16)

  TG Peake, Titus Groan

  VH Winnington, The Voice of the Heart

  W&D Peake, Writings and Drawings

  WW Peake’s play The Wit to Woo, first performed in 1957

  Yorke Malcolm Yorke, Mervyn Peake: My Eyes Mint Gold

  p. 1 ‘I Saw a Puffin’: f.p. Batchelor, p. 79, where the conjectural date is given. Written with Peake’s brother Leslie. Source unknown.

  p. 2 ‘The Song of Lien Tsung’: f.p. PS, vol. 2, no. 4 (Summer 1992), pp. 25–6, along with its source, a letter to Gordon Smith dated 25 January 1930. In that year Peake began writing a light opera which he summarized to Smith as follows: ‘an Emperor, his beautiful daughter (à la carte) the Captain of the Guard (in love with The Emp’s daughter) soldiers etc, & the Chinese pirate bandits, who live in a cave up in the hills. All in China of course.

  ‘The Captain of the Guard is found wooing the Emp’s daughter and chucked out. He then becomes a bandit & rises in the ranks. The Emp’s daughter is captured as a hostage, and cannot be ransomed, the price being too high. So she is to be beheaded next Thursday – oh weladay – etc. Lien Tsung the hero bandit, (incidently the name of our last Coolie in Tientsin) he saves of course, & then I presume the conventional ending. But the plot doesn’t matter in Light Opera – mine is so light that it probably won’t exist.

  ‘This is the Song of Lien Tsung, the first verse of it, that is, that he sings when cast from the Emperor’s court.’

  p. 3 ‘Waddon’: unpublished. Source: MS on the front endpaper of a copy of TG, now owned by Jim Boyd, scanned for us by his daughter Madeleine. Date given by Pete Bellotte in his article ‘Did You Know…?’, PS, vol. 2, no. 4 (Summer 1992), pp. 18–28. According to Lady Patricia Masefield (speaking to Pete Bellotte in 1989), while a student at the Royal Academy Schools Peake would ‘travel up to town by train and make rhymes about the stations’. This is the first of five surviving ‘Railway Ditties’.

  p. 4 ‘Thornton Heath’: f.p. PS, vol. 2, no. 4 (Summer 1992), p. 20. Source: MS on the front endpaper of a copy of TG, now owned by Jim Boyd, scanned for us by his daughter Madeleine. This is one of the ‘Railway Ditties’; for date and other details, see note to ‘Waddon’, above.

  p. 5 ‘Norbury’: f.p. PS, vol. 2, no. 4 (Summer 1992), p. 20. Source: MS on the front endpaper of a copy of TG, now owned by Jim Boyd, scanned for us by his daughter Madeleine. This is one of the ‘Railway Ditties’; for date and other details, see note to ‘Waddon’, above.

  p. 6 ‘Streatham and Balham’: f.p. Yorke, p. 212. Source: MS on the front endpaper of a copy of TG, now owned by Jim Boyd, scanned for us by his daughter Madeleine. This is one of the ‘Railway Ditties’; for date and other details, see note to ‘Waddon’, above.

  p. 7 ‘Green Park’: unpublished. Source: supplied by Pete Bellotte from a letter to Gordon Smith in his possession, dated 14 August 1930. This confirms the date we have assigned to the other four ‘Railway Ditties’, for which see note to ‘Waddon’, above.

  p. 8 ‘You Can Never Be Sure of Your Birron’: unpublished. Source: supplied by Pete Bellotte from an undated letter to Gordon Smith in his possession. Date conjectural, based on period when Peake worked with Gordon Smith on a book called The Dusky Birron.

  p. 9 ‘Beard of My Chin’: unpublished. Source: Peake archive MS, on the same leaf that contains ‘You Before Me’ (below). Date conjectural, based on period when Peake worked with Gordon Smith on The Moccus Book, which features the plains of Phiz. Som
e punctuation has been added.

  p. 10 ‘You Before Me’: unpublished. Source: Peake archive MS. Date conjectural, based on the dating of ‘Beard of My Chin’ (above), which occurs in the same MS. There is a longer version of this poem in Bod. Dep. Peake 16, pp. 13r–14r.

  p. 11 ‘Although I Love Him’: unpublished. Source: Peake archive MS, on the same leaf that contains ‘You Before Me’ and ‘Beard of My Chin’. Date conjectural, based on the dating of ‘Beard of My Chin (see note, above).

  p. 12 ‘Practically Poetry’: f.p. Satire, December 1934, p. 17, which is our source and supplies the date.

  p. 13 ‘Ode to a Bowler’: f.p. Satire, December 1934, p. 17, which is our source and supplies the date. This is the first of several poems featuring bowlers. See ‘Tintinnabulum’ and ‘The Men in Bowler Hats Are Sweet’ (pp. 128, 148).

  p. 14 ‘Raft Song of the Conger Eel’: f.p. PP, pp. 83–4, which is our source and supplies the date. The song is sung by the piratical crew of Mr Slaughterboard’s ship as they paddle towards an island. The following commentary occurs between the stanzas: ‘For all the unlovely content of the song, one might imagine judging from Mr Croozle Zenith’s face that he were conducting some gentle lullaby. Never so happy in the world was Mr Zenith as when leading these creatures [i.e. the pirates] in song. The songs were varied. Their words were the outcome of age-old snatches bandied here and there in the dim piratical past, slowly evolved among the crews of buccaneer ships the seas over. Now their form was fixed as it were in a vice of all the hirsute throats that sang or rather roared this Raft Song of the Conger Eel; none more delicately expressed its sentiments and appreciated its nonsense than Slaughterboard. To most of the pirates it was as a germ in their blood, it was part of their life. To Mr Slaughterboard it was as the nursery rhyme is to the scholar. A thing to be wondered at, a thing that denied analysis by a sort of inevitability of wording and form.’