Ritual in the Dark by Colin Wilson Page B

behave as if it was a sort of last judgement. . .
    And what do you think?
    Oh, I. . . I think. . . It sounds pompous, but I think that all human beings ought to try to make the world a little better to live in, as well as living their own little lives.
    And do you think that being a Witness helps?
    I think so. I don’t think of myself as a Witness. I think of myself as a Christian. And the Witnesses are the only group among Christians who are trying hard to oppose the way things are going.
    He opened a second bottle of beer, and poured it into the tumbler.
    And which way are things going?
    Oh. . . people are becoming more mean-spirited, more petty-minded.
    Don’t you think they’ve always been that way?
    He was plying her with questions because he could see she enjoyed talking, and because he liked listening to her voice and watching her averted face. He was thinking that it would be pleasant to kiss her.
    In a way, yes. But in the Middle Ages men and women devoted their lives to other people without making a fuss about it—monastic orders and Christian laymen. They did it naturally, out of love of God and their fellow human beings, and no one thought it odd, or accused them of being do-gooders. And it seems that nowadays—well, it’s everyone for himself. . .
    And how do you hope to alter that? By converting people?
    She looked up and smiled; the tiredness was there underneath it.
    I don’t know. Sometimes I have friends in the Witnesses over for supper, and I think they. . . they seem to be rather naïve, in spite of their seriousness. And sometimes I talk to these people who call themselves intellectuals, and they seem futile, in spite of their cleverness.
    Sorme said, smiling:
    I’m afraid you have the makings of a first-class heretic.
    She said softly:
    Perhaps I have.
    Silence fell between them; he watched her hands as they held the fabric, and observed that it was easy to sit with her, unspeaking, feeling under no obligation to speak. He wondered how far the beer was responsible for making him feel so relaxed.
    She said suddenly:
    Did you know that Austin went into a monastery?
    No. When?
    Not long ago. Hardly a year. But he came out. It wasn’t what he was looking for. . .
    Were you glad or sorry?
    Glad, of course. It was a Catholic monastery. But he still hasn’t found what he’s looking for.
    No?
    He pushed his plate further away, and leaned back in the chair. She said softly:
    Poor Austin.
    There could be no mistaking the affection in her voice. He said curiously:
    You’re fond of Austin?
    Of course! I watched him grow up. I was nine when he was born. I used to take him out. He was a very strange child.
    How?
    Sometimes he seemed quite angelic. He was a very good-tempered little boy altogether. But at other times he behaved as if he had an evil spirit. He’d get moods when he had to break things, or hurt something.
    Her eyes were looking beyond him; he could see she enjoyed talking of Austin. Suddenly they came back to him. She had noticed that he was no longer eating.
    Would you like coffee?
    No, thanks.
    Tea?
    No, nothing, thanks.
    Let’s go into the other room then. There’s some brandy if you like.
    Ah!
    She insisted on his going first into the sitting-room. He said: Thank you for a really delicious meal.
    Not at all. It was only scraps. Will you have a little brandy?
    If you’re having some too. . .
    Perhaps I will.
    He sank into the armchair, sighing with satisfaction. When she handed him the brandy glass, he said happily:
    Thank you. You’re an angel!
    He felt immediately that it was a mistake, then felt surprised to notice that she was slightly flushed. He was charmed; it made her look like a schoolgirl. He turned the stem of the glass in his fingers, saying:
    It’s big enough to drink a pint of beer from!
    It’s supposed to be!
    Is it?
    Haven’t you ever drunk from a brandy glass before?
    Never. I had a nautical grandfather who used to let me sip his brandy. But he drank it from a