… hear about our message.
Sorme said:
Perhaps you don't believe in it to that extent?
Oh yes, I believe, she said; her voice was as unmoved as if she was admitting to the possession of a front- door key. People have different ways of behaving about their beliefs. I don't mind speaking to strangers about it, because they are under no obligation to listen. But if I forced it on those nearest to me, I'd feel guilty. Do… you understand me?
Quite. Perfectly.
All the same, when I see Caroline living as if nothing mattered but getting on the stage, I feel worried.
He said: Ask her to come to one of your Bible classes…
The suggestion was not made seriously; he had no interest in talking about Caroline. She said immediately:
Oh no. I don't think she'd be in the least interested. I know she wouldn't. No…
I'm afraid she'd need to be approached by someone nearer her own age.
Preferably someone she'd get on with, Sorme said, remembering the pale-faced, dowdy girls he had seen singing hymns at the Speakers' Corner on a Sunday afternoon.
He looked round to meet her eyes, and was embarrassed to find them regarding him with troubled seriousness. She said:
You might be able to do it.
Me? But I'm not a Jehovah's Witness, after all.
You could attend one or two of our meetings.
Of course. But that doesn't guarantee that I'd finish up with your beliefs, does it?
That doesn't matter. You're a fundamentally serious person. That's the important thing…
I'm glad you think so.
But it is the important thing, isn't it?
Possibly, he said carefully. But there's an immense difference between my outlook and yours, for all that.
Is it so great?
He said:
I act on the assumption that the world is meaningless, that life is meaningless.
Meaningless? She looked almost scared.
Quite.
But how… how can it be meaningless? Surely you don't believe that? No one could believe it.
Why not?
Life wouldn't be worth living…
Not at all. It is pleasant to live. That's quite a different thing from believing life has a meaning.
She was regarding him with a doubtful, penetrating look, as if suspecting him of making fun of her, and being prepared to laugh when he acknowledged it. He smiled at her. She said suddenly:
But what do you write about if you think life has no meaning?
Ah! That's a good question. I'll tell you. I want to write a book about all the different ways people impose a meaning on their lives. It's to be called The Methods and Techniques of Self-deception. It will deal with every possible way that people hide themselves from the meaninglessness of life. I shall start with a chapter on businessmen and politicians called The Efficient Man. Then there'll be a chapter on the artists and writers and theatre people called The Aesthetic Man. Then a chapter on revolutionaries and men motivated by envy and discontentment. And, finally, several chapters on all types of religious self-deception…
Her face had begun to clear as he spoke. She was smiling as she interrupted him:
But that's a wonderful idea! I agree completely with you. A book like that would make our work much easier. After all, it's really a religious conception, isn't it? People won't think about the really important things…
I shall write a chapter on the Jehovah's Witnesses too. I intend to be impartial.
But you know nothing about us.
I do. A little. You base everything on the Bible, don't you? That's a good starting-point.
She said excitedly:
But you say life is meaningless. The Bible contains the meaning of life. How can you condemn us without knowing the Bible?
He said patiently:
You don't understand. That isn't my point. My point is that our experience is bitty.
We live more or less in the present. If we were honest, we'd acknowledge that life is a series of moments tied together by our need to keep alive, to defeat boredom. Our experience is all in bits. But the Surbiton businessman sticks it together by believing that the purpose of life is to get him a bigger car. The politician sticks it together by identifying his purpose with that of his party. The religious man sticks it together by accepting the guidance of his church or his Bible. They're all different kinds of glue, but they all have the same purpose… to impose a pattern, a meaning. But it's all falsifying. If we were honest, we'd accept that life is meaningless.
She asked practically: And what good would that do?
It might make us less lazy and complacent. It might make us turn our lives into a search for a meaning.
But you just said it was meaningless?
Anything is meaningless until you've discovered its meaning.
That's quite a different thing! That's quite different from saying it has no meaning.
But supposing there had been a few men who had seen the meaning? Men who had a vision sent from God…?
What good would that do me? Why should I take anybody else's word for it? I'd want to see the meaning myself.
He was so intent on her face that he started when the door behind him opened.
Caroline said:
Do you mind if I bring my sandwiches in here? I won't make any crumbs.
Miss Quincey said: Yes, dear. Do. Her voice was level, and betrayed no annoyance or surprise. Sorme felt baffled by her placidness. Caroline said: Thanks. She came into the room, carrying a tray. Miss Quincey shot a quick smile at Sorme that was almost coquettish. She said:
Anyway, it's most brave of you to try to take all the responsibility on yourself. I hope you achieve what you want.
Sorme glanced at Caroline, feeling embarrassed. She asked: What's brave of him?
He said: Oh nothing…
He remembered then that he had still not promised to attend one of the meetings, or to 'speak to' Caroline; he felt suddenly pleased with himself.
Caroline said: Gerard looks terribly serious!
Sorme grinned at her:
I've been talking about all the people I'll have shot when I'm dictator.
So long as I'm not on the list…
He looked at her, and started to say: Shooting's the last thing I'd want to do with you, then checked himself. She was looking through the Radio Times, chewing the sandwich. She said suddenly:
Ooh, can we have the radio on, aunt? There's a recording of Dylan Thomas reading his own poetry at ten- fifteen.
Sorme looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past. He said:
Maybe I ought to go anyway. You go to bed early, don't you?
You don't have to go, Miss Quincey said. I don't always go to bed at ten o'clock!
The other night was an exception.
Caroline asked: Don't you like Dylan Thomas, Gerard?
I've never read him, Sorme said. He stood up. I think I'd better be off anyway.
He would have welcomed spending another hour with either of them alone, but to have them both together was frustrating. He sensed obscurely that he was making headway with Miss Quincey; and that she wanted him to
