Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

Why do you say that? Do you suppose I've never felt like Austin?

He said:

I don't know. Have you?

I've wanted to let all my impulses loose. I suppose most people have. Austin's been lucky. He's always had the money to go where he likes and do what he likes, and no one has tried to interfere with him. In another sense he's been unlucky, because he's had too much freedom. But he's really a good person. He could never destroy the good in him, no matter what he did.

You're probably right. But don't you see? The fact that you've wanted to let your own impulses loose doesn't mean you understand Austin's impulses.

Do you understand them?

I… don't know. I think perhaps I do.

Then explain them to me.

He stared into the fire, feeling no desire to talk. The evening with Glasp had tired him. Aware of the persistence of her eyes, he said finally:

It's a feeling of being at a total loose end… having no sense of purpose or motive — a feeling of being disinherited. As if your existence was meaningless. And then sometimes you get a glimpse of an insight — a feeling that human existence is meaningless, but that you've got to give it meaning. And then you suddenly feel that you've got to stop living like a bad actor in a second-rate play. Somehow, you've got to start living properly. Well, human existence is mostly taboos, laws and rules. So the first thing to do — if you want to start living all the way down — is to break the laws and rules. That's the way you feel about it. And it just depends which laws and rules you feel like breaking. A man with a neurosis about being socially underprivileged might try to rob a bank or throw a bomb at the House of Lords. But most men suffer from a feeling of being sexually underprivileged, so it's more likely to break out in that direction…

He checked the impulse to say more. She waited for him to go on; then, after a moment, said sadly:

He doesn't realise there are other ways of… living fully. I wish I could teach him.

The resignation in her voice stirred an obscure pity in him; he found himself wishing she was sitting beside him on the settee, where he could touch her. Immediately, he felt a distrust of his own impulse, remembering the last time he had tried to touch her. He stood up, saying:

I'm afraid I'd belter go… Excuse me a moment.

In the bathroom, he opened the window and looked out towards the Heath; the rain fell steadily. Drops of water ran down his face. The washbasin was half full of clothes soaking in soapy water; he leaned over the bath and washed his hands under the hot tap. He sat on the edge of the bath to dry his hands, taking pleasure in the warmth and softness of the towel, surprised by the curious happiness that rose in him, the feeling of expectancy.

She was still sitting in front of the fire. Something in her pose, the crossed knees, the shoe that hung loosely on the small foot, made her seem very young. He said:

What time does the train go from Hampstead?

I'm not sure. They go earlier on Sundays. It might have gone by now.

I'd better hurry.

You can't go yet. You'll be soaked. Hadn't you better stay here?

He asked with surprise:

All night, you mean?

You… could if you wanted to.

What about your reputation with the neighbours?

She looked away from his smile:

It's none of their business, is it?

Well… thanks very much. Where would I sleep?

Down here. Or in Caroline's room. I'm afraid you'll have to make do with Caroline's sheets if you sleep in there…

That's fine. I don't mind at all.

I put them on last time she came here. They ought to be clean. Would you rather sleep upstairs?

I don't mind. Whichever is least trouble…

I'll go and turn the fire on.

He felt she was glad to get out of the room. He wondered if the thought of offering him Caroline's bed had suddenly struck her with embarrassment, recognising its meaning as a symbol of vicarious intimacy. After a moment's hesitation, he followed her upstairs.

She was changing the pillow-case as he came into the room; the bedclothes were pulled back to air. The bars of the electric fire were warming to redness. He picked up a nylon nightdress that had slipped down the bottom of the bed, asking:

Is this Caroline's?

She snatched it from him, and dropped it into a drawer.

No. It's one of mine that she borrowed.

She went out of the room, saying:

I'll get you a hot-water bottle.

He looked down at the photograph of Caroline, and experienced a feeling that was not unlike guilt. With surprise, he realised he was a little in love with Caroline. It was an unexpected recognition; the feeling seemed to have developed retrospectively since he had last seen her. At the time, he had been aware of nothing but a certain amused tenderness, and the gratitude that is a response to a woman's offer of her body.

Miss Quincey came in while he was still looking at it. She asked:

Do you like Caroline?

Of course. She's very sweet.

She dropped the hot-water bottle into the bed and adjusted the sheets. She said suddenly:

I'd forgotten that I'd left the washbasin next door half full of clothes. I was starting to wash them when you arrived. So I'd better finish them now. Do you want to go to bed yet?

Er… no, not especially. Why?

I think I shall go soon. I'm rather tired.

He followed her out of the room, sensing a tension in her. He wondered if she was regretting asking him to stay. She asked:

Would you like some hot chocolate before I go to bed? I shall make some for myself.

Thanks. I'd like some.

She went into the bedroom; he heard the lock click. He stared at the door, shaking his head. Her changes of mood baffled him. He went downstairs slowly, toying with the idea of leaving, then abandoned it; she had already prepared the room.

In the sitting-room, he helped himself to a sweet martini, and lay down on the settee, unlacing his shoes. He ate the remaining ham sandwich, and stared at the moving shadows on the ceiling. He remembered Miss Quincey's face as she had talked about Austin, and experienced again a protective warmth. He thought with amusement: This family has a talent for inspiring affection. But they are all weak: Austin, Caroline, Gertrude. They need people.

Strange, the element of love that has nothing to do with sex. I feel it for Austin, for Caroline. For Gertrude too. Less, perhaps, for Gertrude. Why is it supposed to be impossible to love more than one person?

Still thinking about it, he fell into a light doze, lulled by the sound of running water from overhead.

He woke up suddenly and half sat up. A moment later Gertrude Quincey came into the room, carrying a cup and saucer. She was wearing a blue dressing-gown, belted at the waist, and carpet slippers. Her hair was hanging loosely down her back; there was more of it than he realised. Without makeup, her face looked pale.

What time is it?

After midnight.

I've been asleep.

I know. I came in just now. I'm going to bed.

Wait. Don't go yet.

She had set the cup down beside the settee. He reached out and took her hand before she could move away, and pulled it gently.

It felt cold and slim. As she sat down, he raised it to his lips and kissed it. She made no movement to resist

You're cold.

I know. I always get cold after a bath.

He tried to pull her down beside him, his hand on her waist. She resisted for a moment, then stood up. She said:

I've left my chocolate outside.

He listened as she went into the kitchen, then returned carrying her own cup. As she sat down beside him again, he felt a shock of pleasure. He had been certain she would sit in the armchair. He said:

Put your feet on.

No.

Please.