Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

She said, with a touch of tiredness in her voice: I don't believe marriage should be a dead end for women, anyway. Most of them behave as if it was a sort of last judgement…

And what do you think?

Oh, I… I think… It sounds pompous, but I think that all human beings ought to try to make the world a little better to live in, as well as living their own little lives.

And do you think that being a Witness helps?

I think so. I don't think of myself as a Witness. I think of myself as a Christian.

And the Witnesses are the only group among Christians who are trying hard to oppose the way things are going.

He opened a second bottle of beer, and poured it into the tumbler.

And which way are things going?

Oh… people are becoming more mean-spirited, more petty-minded.

Don't you think they've always been that way?

He was plying her with questions because he could see she enjoyed talking, and because he liked listening to her voice and watching her averted face. He was thinking that it would be pleasant to kiss her.

In a way, yes. But in the Middle Ages men and women devoted their lives to other people without making a fuss about it — monastic orders and Christian laymen. They did it naturally, out of love of God and their fellow human beings, and no one thought it odd, or accused them of being do-gooders. And it seems that nowadays — well, it's everyone for himself…

And how do you hope to alter that? By converting people?

She looked up and smiled; the tiredness was there underneath it.

I don't know. Sometimes I have friends in the Witnesses over for supper, and I think they… they seem to be rather naive, in spite of their seriousness. And sometimes I talk to these people who call themselves intellectuals, and they seem futile, in spite of their cleverness.

Sorme said, smiling: I'm afraid you have the makings of a first-class heretic.

She said softly: Perhaps I have.

Silence fell between them; he watched her hands as they held the fabric, and observed that it was easy to sit with her, unspeaking, feeling under no obligation to speak.

He wondered how far the beer was responsible for making him feel so relaxed.

She said suddenly: Did you know that Austin went into a monastery?

No. When?

Not long ago. Hardly a year. But he came out. It wasn't what he was looking for…

Were you glad or sorry?

Glad, of course. It was a Catholic monastery. But he still hasn't found what he's looking for.

No?

He pushed his plate further away, and leaned back in the chair. She said softly: Poor Austin.

There could be no mistaking the affection in her voice. He said curiously: You're fond of Austin?

Of course! I watched him grow up. I was nine when he was born. I used to take him out. He was a very strange child.

How?

Sometimes he seemed quite angelic. He was a very good-tempered little boy altogether. But at other times he behaved as if he had an evil spirit. He'd get moods when he had to break things, or hurt something.

Her eyes were looking beyond him; he could see she enjoyed talking of Austin.

Suddenly they came back to him. She had noticed that he was no longer eating.

Would you like coffee?

No, thanks.

Tea?

No, nothing, thanks.

Let's go into the other room then. There's some brandy if you like.

Ah!

She insisted on his going first into the sitting-room. He said: Thank you for a really delicious meal.

Not at all. It was only scraps. Will you have a little brandy?

If you're having some too…

Perhaps I will.

He sank into the armchair, sighing with satisfaction. When she handed him the brandy glass, he said happily:

Thank you. You're an angel!

He felt immediately that it was a mistake, then felt surprised to notice that she was slightly flushed. He was charmed; it made her look like a schoolgirl. He turned the stem of the glass in his fingers, saying:

It's big enough to drink a pint of beer from!

It's supposed to be!

Is it?

Haven't you ever drunk from a brandy glass before?

Never. I had a nautical grandfather who used to let me sip his brandy. But he drank it from a two-pint mug, with hot water and lemon..

She laughed at him: it was the first time he had heard her laugh. She held her glass up towards him:

You're supposed to hold it like this — to warm the brandy with your hands. That is, if it's good brandy, which this isn't.

Tastes all right to me!

Yes, but it isn't. A good brandy tastes far more gentle and smooth…

He said, laughing:

I'm afraid you have the making of an epicure!

Immediately she became serious. She said quietly: No.

He waited for her to go on; then, when he saw she had finished, said, with raised eyebrows: No?

No. I don't think I care for good living… I once lived in a women's hostel in the East End for a fortnight. It didn't make me long to be home. Except for the dirt. But dirt is bad anywhere…

What on earth were you doing in a women's hostel?

Helping.

Ah, I see.

She rearranged the needlework on her knee, and began to sew. He sipped the brandy, watching her with admiration. The glow of the electric fire was red on her stockings, and was reflected from the shiny material of her dress. Her serenity and gentleness filled him with a desire to touch her. An instinct in him warned him that she feared intimacy. He watched her sewing, and speculated about her past. Austin's father-theory sounded plausible. Certainly there was something. He began to wonder how he could lead her to speak of it. Her sudden coolness when he spoke of marriage made him cautious. He said finally:

Tell me about Austin.

What do you want to know about him?

What's this about a monastery?

I don't know. You should ask him.

Where was the place?

In Alsace — on the Rhine, I believe. Austin won't ever speak about it. Not to me, at least.

And you've no idea what happened?

Very little. Austin's mother is a Catholic, and there was a time when she wanted Austin to be a priest. Nothing came of it. Austin's father wanted him to go into business, but he didn't show any inclination for that either. He simply started to drink heavily.

Finally, he got into rather a lot of trouble, and his father decided to send him out to Brazil. Luckily, his mother decided to interfere with that scheme. She persuaded his father that he needed to see a psychiatrist. Which he did. He thought it was all nonsense, but he could see it would be better than Brazil. He even managed to persuade the psychiatrist to tell his father that he wasn't suited for business!

Sorme said: Poor Austin! It sounds as if they just wouldn't let him alone.

Quite! It was a pity, really, that he was the only one.

What happened then?

Then… then he started to take an interest in ballet, and said he wanted to write a book. So they made him an allowance, and simply left him to his own devices — which was what they should have done in the first place. And, as you probably know, he has written three very good books, and begun to make quite a name for himself as a journalist.

What about this monastery affair, though? When did that happen?

Quite recently. He went off to Germany to live three years ago. He stayed there for over a year, and we didn't hear much from him. Then one day, he simply wrote to say he was in a monastery in Alsace, and hoped to become a monk. His mother was delighted, of course. She was quite sure that he wouldn't remain in the monastery after he'd become a priest. But nothing came of it. He spent about a month there — as a paying guest. Then he came back to England. Since then he's been writing a novel — or so he tells me. Probably you know more about that than I do?