Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

That thing's more than a painting — it's the tragedy of Van Gogh observing his own tragedy. In my pictures, you need to know all about Lovatt and Heirens to get the full impact of the painting… it's literary painting. In that, it's all there. You don't need to know that Van Gogh cut off his own ear. The title's enough: Self-portrait, the man with his ear cut off. That's what painting should be. That's why my painting's so lousy. That picture of Corbiere leading a pig on a ribbon… you saw it, didn't you? Austin liked it.

He would…

Sorme interrupted him:

I don't agree. I think you're being unfair to yourself. Your Corbiere picture has a terrific impact even if you've never heard of Corbiere. The same goes for your Lovatt and Heirens.

Glasp broke in before he could go on; his voice was impatient:

Thanks. I'm glad you like them…

Sorme decided to drop the subject.

Look here, I'll leave you. Thanks for putting up with me.

Glasp said mechanically: Not at all.

Sorme went to the door. He said:

Why not come over and have a meal with me? I'd like a chance to talk to you.

As he spoke, he was certain Glasp would refuse. But Glasp said:

Thanks, I'd like to. Where do you live?

Camden Town. Change at Moorgate from here. Could you make it this week?

I suppose so.

What's today?… Wednesday. Tomorrow or Friday would be fine.

Glasp stopped painting. He said, after a pause:

Yes, that's all right. Which day?

Friday? I'll give you my address.

He sat on the bed to write in his notebook, drawing a map to show the route from Kentish Town Underground to his lodging. He tore it out, and left it on the pillow. As an afterthought, he added his phone number.

Make it around six, if that's OK by you, then?

OK, Glasp said. He did not look up from his painting.

The stairway was completely black. He groped his way to the stairhead cautiously. The smell of paraffin was strong on the stairs; he discovered why when he stepped in a pool of it on the floorboards, and almost pitched down the stairs.

The uniformed man at the door of the Reading Room smiled and nodded as he went past. He loosened his collar and unbuttoned his jacket; cycling had made him warm.

A woman wearing what looked like Victorian bathing costume was walking in front of him. She pushed through the door and allowed it to swing in his face. He caught it with his foot.

The grey-suited, studious-looking man who stood inside the information counter smiled at him:

Hello there. It's a long time since I saw you.

Hi, Ronnie. How's it go?

The woman looked sharply over her shoulder, as if she suspected them of talking about her. Sorme followed her with his eyes, then commented:

The old witch seems to be in a filthy temper. She tried to knock me out with the door.

Yes. She's been like it for two days. Somebody started a quarrel with her the other day about occupying two desks, and she hit him with her umbrella. She's been glaring at everybody ever since.

Sorme said, chuckling: I wish I'd seen it!

Where have you been recently?

Oh, changing my lodging, and various other things. But look here, Ronnie, can you help me? I want to consult some books on sadism.

Rather a jump from mystical theology, isn't it?

Sorme said cautiously:

It's just an idea for my novel. Thought I'd introduce a sadist.

I see. Well, there's the obvious stuff — Krafft-Ebing and Stekel and that kind of thing. How's that?

It's a beginning. Surely there must be lots of others?

Oh yes. But a lot of it would be in foreign languages in medical journals. You'd have to consult the bibliography in one of the standard works — Bloch or somebody…

Have a look in the subject catalogue under psychology. Would you like me to have a look?

Please. These damn catalogues confuse me. I'll go and find a seat.

He left his raincoat over the back of a chair, and placed two reference books on the table to prevent anyone from taking it. In the downstairs lavatory he washed his hands and face in hot water, and returned to the Reading Room feeling cooler. There was no one behind the information desk, but on his own table he found a pile of catalogues with slips of paper stuck in to mark the places. He spent a further quarter of an hour tracking down the books in the author catalogues, and making out request tickets for them. He handed them in, then took his raincoat and left the Museum. He was beginning to feel hungry again.

In a pub in the Charing Cross Road he ate a beef sandwich and drank a pint of bitter. It was still only a quarter to one. He had no expectation of his books arriving before two o'clock. He spent the next hour wandering around the secondhand bookshops, and bought finally a copy of the first volume of The World as Will and Idea. It was an old copy, with a badly torn binding. He felt pleased with himself as he walked back to the Museum; he had wanted it for years, but had been deterred by the price of new volumes.

The books had arrived when he came back. The Reading Room was crowded now the lunch hour was over. It felt more hot and stuffy than before. He removed his raincoat and jacket and settled down to looking through the ten volumes that formed a rampart between his own desk and that of the man sitting on his right.

An hour later, the warmth was making him sleepy. He pushed away the volume on the Dusseldorf murders and stretched his arms and legs. He decided to go down to the lavatory and wash his face again.

As soon as he stood up he saw Nunne. He was walking towards the central desk, carrying a pile of books. Sorme stood there and watched him as he pushed the books across the counter to the assistant. At that moment, as if feeling Sorme's eyes, he turned round. Immediately he grinned and waved. Sorme waved back, and went over to him.

Gerard! What on earth are you doing here?

Reading.

How extraordinary! How long have you been here?

Since twelve-thirty.

So have I. How lovely to see you. Are you ready to leave yet? Let's go and have some tea.

Sorme was about to agree, then remembered the books. If he handed them in while Nunne was with him, Nunne would be certain to see the titles. He had no wish to let Nunne learn of his curiosity. He said:

Well… no, not just yet. I'd like to finish my book.

What is it?

A life of St Teresa of Lisieux. I want to finish it today. Look, why don't I meet you in about half an hour somewhere?

Sorry — I have to see an editor before five. What are you doing this evening?

Nothing.

Then shall I call around for you about seven? We can go and have a drink.

All right. That's fine.

He returned to his books feeling slightly guilty. There was something almost childlike about Nunne. The spontaneous way in which he had accepted Sorme intensified the guilt. Sorme was charmed and flattered by it, and ruled out the possibility that it might be purely homosexual. He found it difficult to go on reading about Kurten without feeling, illogically, that he was betraying Nunne. He read on for another quarter of an hour, then returned the books to the counter. He folded the request tickets and put them in his wallet. On his way out of the Reading Room, the librarian said:

You off, Gerard?

Hello, Ronnie. Thanks for the catalogues.

You found the books you wanted?

He said, grimacing:

Yes, thanks. I found them pretty repulsive.

I'm not surprised. Do you still intend to use a sadist in your novel?

I think so. But I don't think I'll model him on any of those people. They all seem to be subhuman.

What else did you expect?

He walked the bicycle down Coptic Street, looking into the teashops he passed in the hope of seeing Nunne. Finally, he leaned it against the plate-glass window of the Lyons Corner House and glanced inside. Nunne was not there either. For some reason he felt irritated with himself; his meeting with Nunne left him with a feeling of anticipation.