Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

It's the same with people. If you need people, you've got to persuade them to accept you on the level you want. It's OK for somebody like Picasso. Everybody accepts him, anyway, so he goes his own way. Do you see what I mean? But if you want to do good work, it costs more effort than it's worth to make them accept you…

I know just what you mean, Sorme said. It's happened to me many times. Just before I gave up work, I used to work in an office with a Scottish clerk who had a terrific chip on his shoulder. He knew I wanted to be a writer, and he used to enjoy getting at me — telling me I was a bloody intellectual and out of touch with reality.

You should have belted him one, Glasp said.

I felt like it. But what was the good? He'd just succeeded in getting under my skin. I think he had some sort of inferiority complex — he stuttered badly. But I had to put up with him because he sat next to me. I used to feel the same as you — a feeling of outrage that he should criticise me. I felt like saying: You're a bloody fool. I don't want to know you. Unfortunately, I couldn't help knowing him, and I couldn't help talking to him and working with him…

Glasp said bitterly:

Well, that's how I feel about Austin Nunne. Except that I did say to him 'You're a bloody fool. I don't want to know you.' And still I can't get away from his stupidities.

Sorme said: But wouldn't you feel differently if your work made you famous?

Of course. Because then I shouldn't have to argue with the fools. I could leave that to my admirers. Look at this man tonight — Brother whatsisname at Gertrude's. I could see he was a bloody fool and there was no point in exchanging two words with him. So I didn't. That's how it's supposed to be.

Sorme said guiltily:

You know, you're being a bit unfair to Austin about this matter of the girl. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know anything about her.

But you said he had…

Two Americans said it, Sorme said firmly. And they weren't sure it was you.

Glasp said irritably:

Austin's a fool, anyway.

Sorme said, smiling:

I wondered why you looked so fierce when I first introduced myself to you as a friend of Austin's.

It was about the worst thing you could say. But when I talked to you I found I liked you.

Thanks.

Shall I tell you why?

Sorme nodded. Glasp said:

You've got a job of your own to do. You don't waste time like Austin.

Sorme said, shrugging:

I waste too much.

Not like Austin. You know, something goes wrong with a man who wastes time. He starts to go rotten. You can almost smell him. Don't you feel that about Austin?

No. I don't feel he's very different from me.

You'll find out, Glasp said.

He sank deeper into the chair, bending his knees above the footstool, saying meditatively:

I'll introduce you to Christine some time. You'll like her. She's a talented child.

Does she paint?

A little. I'm trying to teach her. She has a lot of talent… more than me.

Seriously?

Seriously. I'm not talented; I have to work like hell for all my effects. She does it easily.

How old is she? Nine, did you say?

No, twelve. She looks nine, though.

How did you meet her?

In rather an odd way. One day, I was standing outside a bookshop in the Mile End Road looking through the sixpenny case, and this little girl stood at the side of me. She kept looking at an old leather covered autograph book — years old, the pages discoloured, but for some reason unused. And I could see she wanted this thing. When I looked inside it, I saw it was more expensive than the other books — not much — a shilling or one and six. And she kept putting it back and looking at other books, then taking out this thing again. I began to wonder if she intended to pinch it. But she didn't. She finally put it back, and walked off. Well, I'd found a couple of books I wanted, and I'd just sold some woodcuts to a shop, so I took the autograph book and bought it with the other two. Well, when I got outside she was already about half a mile away, so I ran after her, caught her up, and gave her the book.

Sorme asked, laughing:

What did she do?

She just took it, and stared at me. I felt a bit silly about buying it, so I turned and walked away. And that was that. Neither of us spoke.

What a strange thing to do!

Oh, I dunno. It was just an impulse, you know.

But how did you get to know her?

That happened later. I saw her a couple of times in the street, and guessed she must live near me. But I wasn't really curious, you know… Anyway, one day I was walking past the cinema in the Commercial Road — it was a Saturday afternoon and there was a queue of kids outside. And she came running out of the queue and said hello. Then she went belting back into the queue before I could say anything. Then about two days later I met her as I came out of a bread shop in Vallance Road, and she walked along with me. I felt a bit embarrassed — you know, I hate asking kids how old they are and what they do at school and all that stuff — I remember how it used to bore me when I was a kid. But it's difficult to think of much else to say. Anyway, she asked me what I did, and I said I was a painter. She said 'Oh!' not very interested — she thought I meant a painter and decorator. Then when I said I painted pictures she got very interested. I could almost see her building romantic daydreams about a real artist. Well, she had to go home that day, but I said I'd show her my pictures some time, and the next day I found her outside my house at about four in the afternoon, so I asked her in. She was funny. She looked both ways to see no one was watching, then dashed through the doorway like a jack rabbit. And I showed her my pictures, and gave her a cup of tea, and told her to come in any time she liked. She was obviously pretty shy… Well, the next Saturday afternoon, she turned up and insisted on watching me paint. Her parents thought she'd gone to the threepenny rush again… And that was how I got to know her.

She sounds charming, Sorme said. Was she really romantic about being an artist?

Oh yes. I found out that she'd developed a grand passion. I met her one day with some school friend, and she blushed like mad. And the following Saturday afternoon I started to pump her about it, and finally got her to admit that she'd told her friend that I'd asked her to marry me when she was sixteen!

Sorme said, laughing:

Well, why not?

Glasp shrugged:

Well, it's a possibility, I suppose — she has only three years to go. She's nearly thirteen.

Sorme said with astonishment:

Are you that interested?

I… You don't understand. You see, she comes from a big family — she's got seven brothers and sisters. They used to sleep four in a bed once. And her father's a warder in Brixton gaol — an absolutely bloody moron who spends all he can on booze. She's got an elder sister who's married. She married a Pole, and they live next door. And when the Pole comes home drunk and tries to beat his wife, she goes next door and sleeps with Christine and her other sister in a single bed… She sleeps down the other end. And I saw her mother once — a poor, wrecked old thing with terrific sagging breasts and no teeth. She can't be more than fifty, and she looks seventy. That's the sort of background she comes from. She wants to study at art school — she's brilliant enough to get a scholarship — but her parents wouldn't even dream of it. Her mother told her that art students are no better than prostitutes. And, anyway, they want her to go to work when she leaves school and bring in a few shillings a week until she marries. Her family have lived in slums for generations. They don't want to do anything better.

That's stupid. Can't you persuade them?