How do I know whether you're wasting my time until I know what you want?
Feeling at a disadvantage, Sorme said:
I don't want anything — except to meet you. I saw two of your canvases yesterday and liked them.
Glasp said, with a touch of sarcasm:
I expect you have a busy time. If you go and call on every painter when you take a fancy to one of his pictures.
Sorme declined to be offended by his tone. He said:
In this case, 'like' is the wrong word. I thought the pictures completely extraordinary.
Still Glasp's face registered no pleasure; if anything, a shade of mistrust passed over it. He said:
May I ask where you saw them?
In a basement flat belonging to Austin Nunne…
Oh, you're a friend of Austin's, are you?
There was no mistaking the tone of sarcasm now.
Yes.
A patron of the arts, so to speak?
No, Sorme said steadily, controlling the irritation. I don't buy pictures. I can't afford to. I just thought I'd like to meet you.
He made his voice level, preparing to stand up and walk out of the room. He was beginning to resent Glasp's tone, and was annoyed with himself for placing himself in a position where Glasp could regard him as an intruder.
Glasp picked up a blue-and-white-striped mug from the floor, and began to sip from it. He sat on the edge of the bed, saying:
Well, I'll be candid with you. I live here because I don't like meeting people. Also, of course, because it's cheap. But mainly because I don't like people much…
Why?
Why don't I like people? For the same reason I don't like the smell of rum or China tea, I expect.
Sorme was trying hard to sum him up. The masked resentment in Glasp's tone inclined him to regard him as a paranoiac. His inclination to walk out was curbed only by a dislike of feeling completely defeated. He decided to make another effort. Smiling with deliberate amiability, he said:
As a matter of fact, both Austin and Father Rakosi advised me not to call on you.
Why?
They seemed to have the idea you'd be rude.
Glasp grunted, and took another swallow from the mug. Sorme stood up. He said:
Well, you've a perfect right to be left to yourself. I'll leave you.
Glasp was staring into the mug, which he held between both hands in his lap. He did not move. He said:
What did you want to see me about?
Sorme felt again the inadequacy of his reasons. He said:
I thought you might be able to tell me something about Austin.
Glasp looked up at him; he said grinning:
Why, do you want to blackmail him?
No.
You queer?
No.
Then why?
His manner was no longer pointedly hostile; it was detached and noncommittal.
Sorme sensed that his curiosity was aroused. He said reasonably:
Look here, you're making things rather deliberately awkward for me, aren't you? I liked your canvases. I wanted to meet you. I also knew you'd been a friend of Austin's and Austin also interests me. But if you hate meeting people, and you don't feel like discussing Austin, just say so. I can go.
Glasp looked at him; his expression was speculative and cool, like that of a man about to buy something which he wishes to devalue.
He reached out and took a palette from the table and began to clean it with a table knife. Without raising his face from it, he said:
I can't tell you much about Austin. I never knew him well, and never liked him much. Why does he interest you… if you're not queer?
For the same reason that you do, I suppose.
What have I got in common with Austin?
Sorme felt the need to say something convincing, and could think of nothing to say. He plunged with the first words that came into his head:
From your canvases, I should say… a certain quality of fanaticism.
He saw at once that he had said the right thing. Glasp said:
And you think Austin is a fanatic? He never struck me that way, I must say.
It's difficult to explain. I don't know him well enough yet. But I suspect it's there.
And why does it interest you?
That's also difficult to explain. I always liked the idea of living alone. I used to think about entering a monastery…
Glasp interrupted him: You're not a Catholic?
No.
And why didn't you'go through with the monastery idea?
I saw no point. Besides I wasn't sure that I'd enjoy being a monk. I doubt whether the aims of a community of monks would be the same as mine.
And what were yours?
Sorme looked at him, and felt himself relaxing under the unconcealed interest that Glasp showed. He said:
I don't know… I suppose I wanted to see visions.
Glasp stood up. He said: And what happened?
Nothing much. For a year I read Plotinus and St Francis de Sales and the rest… but I felt something was missing. I began to feel my imagination had gone dead. I began to think I needed sex and human intercourse. So I made a few friends, and got involved with a couple of girls for a very short time. It didn't help much. I didn't want that either. I began to think I'd simply lost all desire to stay alive. I felt sick of books, and sick of people…
I know the feeling, Glasp said.
He had begun to squeeze tubes of paint on to the palette. He took a brush from the jam jar that stood on the windowsill, and began to paint. He said quietly:
I've been through all this myself. There's only one remedy… Work.
He waved the brush at Sorme. Sorme said:
That's OK if you know what you want to do. I didn't.
You say didn't. Do you feel different now?
Well… yes. I met Austin a week ago — barely that. In many ways, I feel sorry for him. He's like me too. But… I can't explain. But suddenly, I begin to feel that something important's happening to me. A sort of daylight's coming through.
Glasp said:
But why Austin? I think that's what you literary gents call an anticlimax!
Sorme said: I don't know. He strikes me as being oddly like me…
Glasp said: Does he? There was disbelief in his voice.
Yes. Did you ever go to that flat of his in Queen's Gate?
I didn't know he had a flat in Queen's Gate.
I went yesterday. It surprised me. It looked like something out of Edgar Allan Poe. Black velvet curtains. A cabinet of liqueurs. The work of de Sade and Masoch. And your pictures…
Glasp said with surprise: So that's where you saw them? Well…
