Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose I'd better have some beer. Have you a glass?

Sorme took a glass from the table and inverted it over the neck of the bottle. He said:

You might let me have the glass back some time.

Oh, I don't want to take it away.

He removed the glass, unscrewed the bottle, and carefully laid the stopper on the table. A feeling of comic resignation came over Sorme; he imagined Bill Payne in the room, watching with amusement and preparing an imitation of the old man's eager innocence and Sorme's baffled irritation. He sat down in the armchair, and stared at the old man as he poured beer. The old man caught his eye and smiled genially. He replaced the bottle on the table, screwed on the stopper, then came over and sat in the other armchair. He said:

Forgive me for not offering you some. But the bottle wasn't quite full to begin with, and I'm afraid I shan't have enough for myself. This is not selfishness, you understand, but ordinary self-preservation. Well, chin-chin, or whatever you young people say nowadays.

The military phrase sounded odd pattering over his lips. He drank the beer with an expression of distaste. When the glass was half empty, he lowered it, saying:

I'm afraid I wouldn't drink this by preference.

No, Sorme said. He took care not to sound interrogative, for fear of provoking another explanation. The old man said pleasantly:

I find you likeable. What can I tell you to amuse you?

Sorme said gruffly: Nothing, thanks.

Let me see. Weren't you interested in Jack the Ripper?

Sorme was unable to conceal his surprise. He said:

I suppose so. Why?

I knew it. I know a great deal about you…

Sorme wondered if Carlotte had mentioned the subject. He determined not to be drawn out any further. He said:

I'm not particularly interested.

No? All the same, I think I can tell you one or two things that would interest you. How old would you say I am?

He stared at Sorme so persistently that he found it difficult to ignore the question. He said finally:

Seventy, maybe.

The old man's eyes glittered with delight. He reached for the beer bottle.

Wrong again. I'm eighty-nine.

Sorme said unbelievingly: Yes?

I can show you my birth certificate to prove it. I have it somewhere…

He clapped a hand to his coat over his heart, then said:

I thought I had it. It must be in the drawer. But this is beside the point. I'm assuming you disbelieve me, whereas, in fact, I am sure you don't. Is that not so?

Yes, Sorme said.

Thank you, sir. A man prefers to be trusted. Well, there you are. Eighty-nine. Born on the twenty-third of August, eighteen sixty-seven. I may add that my father was in diplomatic service in Cracow, where he knew Zeromski. My mother was Polish. Well… the gentleman who is known to the Press as Jack the Ripper was a close friend of my father's. His name was Sergei Pedachenko, and he came from the same village as Grigory Efimovitch Rasputin. In fact, he was a relative by law of Grigory Efimovitch. Together they grew up in Pokrovskoe in Tobolsk, although Sergei Fyodorovitch was several years his senior…

As he reclined in the armchair, gesturing with his left hand as he talked, the old man made Sorme think of an actor in some Turgenev play. The words flowed out like a speech learned by heart. When the old man paused to empty his glass, Sorme found himself wanting him to go on. The old man talked as he refilled the glass:

Well, Grigory Efimovitch and Sergei Fyodorovitch belonged to one of the raskolniki, that is to say, a heretical sect, known as the Khlysty. And the Khlysty believed in salvation through sin. You understand? A fine theological point, as you will recognise. The more one sins, the more one can repent. A verbal sophistry, you say? Not at all. Consider that many a man who is inclined to saintliness suffers from boredom, a sense of futility. Consider that it is better to feel yourself a sinner than to feel as if you have no identity. This is admittedly a human weakness, that a man has to dramatise himself into an identity or suffer stagnation. You and I, sir, know that man is a god. And yet he can do nothing to make himself into a god unless circumstances are kind enough to give him an opportunity to behave like one.

Sorme found himself listening with increasing amazement; a sense of unreality came over him. A fantasy shaped itself in his head, that the old man was really an angel in disguise, sent to bring home to him a sense of his own immaturity. The old man could evidently see the effect he was creating; something like a smirk formed in his eyes as he talked. He raised his finger in admonition:

This is the paradox of our nature, the result of original sin. A tree can be itself by standing still. A man becomes himself only by making a bonfire of his potentialities. In the light of action, he sees his reality as it disappears in a new persona. And…

He paused to take a long drink, then said vaguely:

Where were we?

Jack the Ripper.

Ah yes. My friend Pedachenko. Well, to make it brief, Sergei Fyodorovitch came to London to sin his way to salvation. He had read a book by Dostoevsky describing it as the most sordid capital in Europe. At the time, I was a boy of eighteen. He and I travelled together from Odessa. He brought with him an Austrian tailoress named Limberg, a woman of distinctly sadistic tendencies. They took rooms in Leman Street, and my friend embarked on his career of disembowelling. His mistress was always somewhere near carrying a cloak. When he had committed his crime, she would hand him the cloak: he would cover his bloodstained suit — he bought innumerable suits in the Petticoat Lane market — and together they would walk home arm in arm, like a respectable man and wife returning from a late evening with friends. On three occasions they were stopped by police when a mere glimpse of my friend's trousers would have given him to the hangman. On each occasion, they posed as a married couple and were allowed to proceed immediately. After his last murder, he sailed for America, where he became the proprietor of a brothel in New Orleans.

The old man emptied his second glass, and carefully filled it to the brim again, emptying the bottle.

Naturally, he was made very welcome on his return to Russia. He was appointed Archimandrite of the sect, and was generally regarded as something of a saint. He then began his career of repentance. His mistress Limberg had no taste for repentance and left Russia with another young man who hoped to emulate Sergei Fyodorovitch. My friend Pedachenko accompanied Grigory Efimovitch to St Petersburg, where he shared his extraordinary success for a number of years. They died within a year of one another — Rasputin in nineteen-sixteen, murdered by the bandit Yussupov, and Pedachenko in nineteen-seventeen, shot in the back by one of Kerensky's men.

The old man took a sip from the full glass, then stood up, holding it carefully. He said politely:

I shall now leave you, borrowing, if I may, your glass.

Sorme stared at him, unable to find words. The old man bowed slightly, saying gravely:

Goodnight.

He took the empty bottle, and went to the door. Sorme heard the bottle clink into the straw bag. A moment later, the old man returned, still holding the full glass. He said:

You are still certain you can't lend me eight and ninepence?

Sorme fumbled in his back pocket, and produced a crumpled ten-shilling note. He handed it to the old man without speaking. The old man bowed; he said formally:

Sir, you have saved my life. A thousand thanks.

He kissed the note, then backed out of the door. Sorme found his voice to say: Goodnight, as the door closed. The old man did not reply. He heard him mounting the next flight of stairs, the bottles clinking.