Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake Read Free Book Online Page A

where it all but hissed.
           The doctor twirled about on his narrow feet and flung open a silkwood cabinet door with a grandiose flourish, bringing his long white hands together beneath his chin and tossing a mop of grey hair from his forehead. He flashed his brilliant teeth at the Countess (who was still presenting him with her shoulder and about an eighth of her face), and then with eyebrows raised- 'Your Ladyship,' he said, 'that you should decide to visit me, and to discuss some subject with me, is an honour. But first what will you drink?'
           The doctor in flinging open the door of his cabinet had revealed as rare and delicately chosen a group of wines as he had ever selected from his cellar.
           The Countess moved her great head through the air.
           'A jug of goat's milk, Prunesquallor, if you please,' she said.
           What there was in the doctor that loved beauty, selectivity, delicacy and excellence - and there was a good deal in him that responded to these abstractions - shrank up like the horn of a snail and all but died. But his hand, which was poised in the air and was half-way to the trapped sunlight of a long-lost vineyard, merely fluttered to and fro as though it was conducting some gnomic orchestra, while he turned about, apparently in full control of himself. He bowed, and his teeth flashed. Then he rang the bell, and when a face appeared at the door - 'Have we a goat?' he said. 'Come, come, my man - yes or no. Have we, or haven't we, a goat?'
           The man was positive that they had no such thing.
           'Then you will find one, if you please. You will find one immediately. It is wanted. That will do.'
           The Countess had seated herself. Her feet were planted apart and her heavy freckled arms were along the sides of her chair. In the silence that followed even Prunesquallor could think of nothing to say. The stillness was eventually broken by the voice of the Countess.
           'Why do you have knives sticking in your ceiling?'
           The doctor recrossed his legs and followed her impassive gaze which was fixed on the long bread-knife that suddenly appeared to fill the room. A knife in the fender, on a pillow, or under a chair is one thing, but a knife surrounded by the blank white wasteland of a ceiling has no shred of covering - is as naked and blatant as a pig in a cathedral.
           But any subject was fruitful to the doctor. It was only a lack of material. a rare enough contingency in him, that he found appalling.
           'That knife, your ladyship,' he said, giving the implement a glance of the deepest respect. 'bread-knife though it be, has a history. A history, madam! It has indeed.'
           He turned his eyes to his guest. She waited impassively.
           'Humble, unromantic, ill-proportioned, crude as it looks, yet it means much to me. Indeed, madam, it is so, and I am no sentimentalist. And why? you will be asking yourself. Why? Let me tell you all.'
           He clasped his hands together and raised his narrow and elegant shoulders. 'It was with that knife, your ladyship, that I performed my first successful operation. I was among mountains. Huge tufted things. Full of character; but no charm. I was alone with my faithful mule. We were lost. A meteor flew overhead. What use was that to us? No use at all. It merely irritated us. For a moment it showed a track through the fever-dripping ferns. It was obviously the wrong one. It would only have taken us back to a morass we had just spent half a day struggling out of. What a sentence! What a vile sentence, your Ladyship, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Where was I? Ah, yes! Plunged in darkness. Miles from anywhere. What happened next? The strangest thing. Prodding my mule forward with my walking-cane - I was riding the brute at the time - it suddenly gave a cry like a child and began to collapse under me. As it subsided it turned its huge hairy head