women he can screw behind the dance hall on a Saturday night.
When he rapes the girl, he doesn't feel any pity for knocking her down. He doesn't feel that, if he'd really wanted her, he could easily have made her acquaintance and seduced her without killing her. Her life doesn't mean anything to him, or the feelings of her family. It's all that balanced against one stupid lust, and he lets the lust win. Can you feel any sympathy after that?
I agree; you're right. But it's still not the whole truth. Listen to me. One day I was cycling along the Embankment when I saw a girl and a soldier looking at the river. It was a windy day, and suddenly her dress blew right over her head. And I tell you, I experienced a sensation like a kick in the stomach. For weeks afterwards, I got into a fever every time I thought of it.
Glasp interrupted: Sounds like ordinary sexual frustration!
I know. But what would have satisfied it? I suppose, if the girl had been alone, I might have made her acquaintance. I might have finally persuaded her to come to bed.
But that wouldn't satisfy it. It's something far more violent and instantaneous than a desire for an affair. It's a sudden longing for far more freedom than we possess. It's an insight into freedom — that's the reason it's so overpowering. What's more, it hasn't much to do with ordinary lust. I once had a girl friend… when I lived in a basement off the Marylebone Road. Well, one Sunday I made love to her more times than I would have thought possible — until I felt like a wet dish rag. I got a feeling that I'd never want a woman again in all my life, that I'd emptied myself completely. Then I walked out of my front door to get the milk, and a girl came walking past overhead in a wide skirt that swayed open and showed me her legs and thighs. And, you know, I could have carried her off to bed whooping! I was astonished to realise that I hadn't exhausted my desire. I'd just exhausted my desire for a particular girl. My appetite for women generally was untouched.
Glasp was frowning. He had not touched his wine since Sorme refilled the glass.
He said:
I don't understand what you're trying to prove. I don't see what you mean about an insight into freedom.
I can't explain easily. But it has that effect. It's a sort of vision of more life. It makes you feel as if you've been robbed of the powers of a god. It's as if we are gods, as if we're really free, but no one realises it. And it comes back to us occasionally through sex.
Glasp murmured: D. H. Lawrence and all that.
No, not just that. It's not just the sexual orgasm that counts. I've got a friend — a journalist — who's as indefatigable as Casanova at trying to seduce women. But he doesn't actually enjoy going to bed with them. That part bores him. He just needs to feel the conquest, to feel that he can go to bed if he wants to. I can't explain it… but I feel as if we ought to be gods, as if the freedom of the gods ought to belong to us naturally, but something's taken it away.
Glasp said, smiling: You'll make a good Catholic yet.
I doubt it. I just feel that our slavery to sex is just a need to regain something that is naturally ours. It would be an internal condition of tremendous intensity. There wouldn't be any more sex crime then. It'd be a state of such inner power that other people would be superfluous. The need for a woman is only the need to regain that intensity for a moment…
Glasp held up his hand to silence him. Sorme asked:
What is it?
Someone calling, Glasp said.
Sorme got up and went to the door. He heard the girl's voice shouting:
Telephone! Mr Sorme.
He called: Thank you.
He hurried downstairs, experiencing the warm sense of well-being that came from food and wine. The receiver was on the hall table. He said:
Hello?
Gerard? This is Austin.
Hello, Austin! How are you?
Very well, thanks. What are you doing now?
I've just finished supper…
Are you free?
No. Oliver Glasp's here.
Oh…
Sorme could heard the disappointment in his voice. Wondering if it was dislike of Glasp, he asked:
What is it?
Nothing. When is he going?
Oh… in a couple of hours. He's only just arrived.
Oh.
Why? Did you want me to come over?
Well, I did, rather. Can't you get rid of him?
Not really. Not without being impolite. You know how touchy he is. Is it anything important?
No. I'd just like to see you. Could you come in a couple of hours?
Sorme said, sighing:
No, Austin. I'm dog-tired, and I've been falling asleep all day. When he goes I want to sleep.
I won't keep you up all night, I promise.
On the point of yielding, Sorme thought of the prospect of getting to Albany
Street, and felt a sudden certainty that he didn't want to go. He said:
It's not that. I'm really fagged out. I wouldn't be good company if I came.
Nunne said, with scarcely concealed irritation:
Oh, all right!
Let's make it tomorrow, or some time.
I'll ring you again.
The line went dead. Sorme hung on for a moment, wondering if they had been cut off. He replaced the phone, and returned upstairs. He said:
That was Austin.
Glasp said: Oh yes. What did he want?
Just to know how I felt. We had a late night last night.
Did he want to see you now?
He suggested it. I told him I couldn't.
Glasp was bending over the case of records. He said:
I think you'll find Mr Nunne rather a demanding person before you've finished…
Yes?
Glasp was sitting on the end of the bed; he had all the records spread over the counterpane. He said:
Like all weak men, he has to use his friends as crutches.
You think he's weak?
Don't you?
I'm… not sure.
You'll find out, Glasp said.
He selected one of the records, saying:
Unless you'd like to go on talking, what about some Mozart?
Certainly. More wine?
No, thank you. And then, if you're agreeable, let us adjourn to the nearest pub, where I can repay some of your hospitality with a little brandy…
You don't have to do that.
Nevertheless, I'd like to.
Glasp was affecting a curiously pedantic and stately manner of speaking. Sorme said, laughing:
That's OK by me.
