Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Oh dear. You really ought to. I'll get you something in a moment.

Don't bother. I'll find myself a sandwich.

Sorme asked her: What part are you playing? He was not interested, but Miss Quincey's food-talk was beginning to irritate him. Caroline said vaguely:

I forget her name. She's the wife of a poet… We're doing a play about the French poet Rimbaud. I'm the wife of his best friend.

Verlaine?

That's right. I have to recite a poem in French. I hope my accent's all right. It begins…

Drink your tea, dear, Miss Quincey said.

All right, the girl said meekly. She sipped her tea.

Miss Quincey sat down. She asked:

What on earth did I do with my brandy?

Oh… I drank it. I'm sorry. I didn't think you wanted it.

That's all right. I didn't really. I just didn't want to waste it..

She had contrived to make him feel guilty, and given him an odd sense of kinship with Caroline. The girl looked at him over the top of her cup; her eyes looked bright. He stopped himself from answering her look. She set her teacup down, and stretched like a cat, her breasts curving. There was a faint noise of something giving way. She said with annoyance:

Damn. My bra's bust!

Caroline! Miss Quincey said.

The girl ignored her; she raised her elbow and felt down the back of her neck.

That's twice today, she said. Have you got a needle, aunt?

Miss Quincey got up silently, and crossed to the sideboard. Sorme was aware of her irritation and disapproval. Caroline seemed oblivious of it. He said, smiling: I hope it didn't happen under embarrassing circumstances?

He felt Miss Quincey's eyes on him. Caroline said:

No. Luckily I was on my own. But I know one poor girl who lost her pants in rehearsal…

She began to giggle breathlessly. Miss Quincey returned with a needle and a reel of white cotton. Caroline took it without looking at her. She said:

It was so funny… She had the kind that stay up with a button..

Caroline! Miss Quincey said.

And the button bust… She nearly broke her neck with a pair of nylon briefs round her ankles…

Really, Caroline!

But it was funny, the girl said defensively. She looked so silly trying to get off stage without falling over…

Sorme felt a desire to irritate Miss Quincey further. He asked:

What would you have done if it had been you?

Miss Quincey sat down again, as if the conversation had become too risque for her to take any further responsibility. Caroline said:

I'd have stepped out of them and gone on with the rehearsal.

Oh, really, dear! Miss Quincey looked flushed.

But it happens, Caroline said. What's wrong with being frank about it?

Miss Quincey said, with surprising mildness: It's not a nice subject, dear.

Nice, Caroline said scornfully: You are silly, aunt!

Sorme looked apprehensively at Miss Quincey, but she sipped her tea quietly, almost abstractedly. The girl stood up.

I'll go and get this sewn. Then I'll cut myself a sandwich, if I may.

I'll do it, dear.

No, don't bother.

She went out of the room, taking her teacup with her. She turned and flashed Sorme a quick smile at the door. When the door had closed, Miss Quincey stared into space, a faintly perturbed expression on her face. She said finally:

I do worry about her.

Why?

She continued to stare, without replying. She said suddenly:

Oh well, I dare say it doesn't matter… She'll get married…

Of course, Sorme said.

She looked at him.

It's different for you. You're a man. Besides, you're older than she is.

What do you mean?

She began to sew again, not replying. He watched her curiously, wondering what her feelings were. He could think of nothing to say that would open the subject. He asked finally:

Don't you approve of the drama school?

It isn't that…

He waited, staring into the fire. She was looking at him, but he kept his eyes on the red bars. She said:

I try not to force my beliefs on other people, you see. I don't force them on Austin or Caroline, or on you, do I?

No.

But… Well, I'm supposed to, really. It's a part of our belief that everyone should have a chance to…

He waited for her to say 'repent', but she went on:

… hear about our message.

Sorme said:

Perhaps you don't believe in it to that extent?

Oh yes, I believe, she said; her voice was as unmoved as if she was admitting to the possession of a front-door key. People have different ways of behaving about their beliefs. I don't mind speaking to strangers about it, because they are under no obligation to listen. But if I forced it on those nearest to me, I'd feel guilty. Do… you understand me?

Quite. Perfectly.

All the same, when I see Caroline living as if nothing mattered but getting on the stage, I feel worried.

He said: Ask her to come to one of your Bible classes…

The suggestion was not made seriously; he had no interest in talking about Caroline. She said immediately:

Oh no. I don't think she'd be in the least interested. I know she wouldn't. No…

I'm afraid she'd need to be approached by someone nearer her own age.

Preferably someone she'd get on with, Sorme said, remembering the pale-faced, dowdy girls he had seen singing hymns at the Speakers' Corner on a Sunday afternoon.

He looked round to meet her eyes, and was embarrassed to find them regarding him with troubled seriousness. She said:

You might be able to do it.

Me? But I'm not a Jehovah's Witness, after all.

You could attend one or two of our meetings.

Of course. But that doesn't guarantee that I'd finish up with your beliefs, does it?

That doesn't matter. You're a fundamentally serious person. That's the important thing…

I'm glad you think so.

But it is the important thing, isn't it?

Possibly, he said carefully. But there's an immense difference between my outlook and yours, for all that.

Is it so great?

He said:

I act on the assumption that the world is meaningless, that life is meaningless.

Meaningless? She looked almost scared.

Quite.

But how… how can it be meaningless? Surely you don't believe that? No one could believe it.

Why not?

Life wouldn't be worth living…

Not at all. It is pleasant to live. That's quite a different thing from believing life has a meaning.

She was regarding him with a doubtful, penetrating look, as if suspecting him of making fun of her, and being prepared to laugh when he acknowledged it. He smiled at her. She said suddenly:

But what do you write about if you think life has no meaning?

Ah! That's a good question. I'll tell you. I want to write a book about all the different ways people impose a meaning on their lives. It's to be called The Methods and Techniques of Self-deception. It will deal with every possible way that people hide themselves from the meaninglessness of life. I shall start with a chapter on businessmen and politicians called The Efficient Man. Then there'll be a chapter on the artists and writers and theatre people called The Aesthetic Man. Then a chapter on revolutionaries and men motivated by envy and discontentment. And, finally, several chapters on all types of religious self-deception…

Her face had begun to clear as he spoke. She was smiling as she interrupted him:

But that's a wonderful idea! I agree completely with you. A book like that would make our work much easier. After all, it's really a religious conception, isn't it? People won't think about the really important things…

I shall write a chapter on the Jehovah's Witnesses too. I intend to be impartial.

But you know nothing about us.

I do. A little. You base everything on the Bible, don't you? That's a good starting-point.