dark. Seated in the wooden chair, Sorme reflected how dismally uncomfortable Glasp's room was. Glasp said:
I never made many friends.
Sorme said, shrugging:
Nor me.
What's the good of friends if they don't understand the problems that worry you? You've got to be able to talk to them. You, for instance… I could talk to you five minutes after I first met you. That's unusual.
Thanks.
Sorme felt slightly awkward about the compliment; he said:
I've got a theory about people. You and I are completely different types. I think too much, you feel too much. I lay too much emphasis on the mind, and you lay too much on the heart. Now some people lay too much on the body… Austin, for instance. When he gets repressed, he needs a physical outlet.
And what about you?
Oh, me. I try to think my way out of problems. I try to get detached from them. I don't like strong emotions much — I suspect them. That's why I don't feel too good at the moment about Austin.
Why? You don't feel any strong emotions about him, do you?
No. But he's stopped me from stagnating. I've become so absorbed in his problems that I've become quite detached from my own problems. That's all right… but it's not the right way to solve problems.
No? Why not?
As he spoke, Sorme became aware that his ideas reflected on Glasp; he repressed the misgiving, certain that Glasp would understand, anyway. He said:
I think it's a kind of weakness to get too involved in other people's lives. I once knew a girl who was the sort of person everybody told their troubles to. She gave the impression of being a very cool and calm sort of person, and people felt she was strong and sympathetic. When I got to know her pretty well, I found she had no ideas, no beliefs, no real self-confidence — in fact, she was a complete mess inside. She kept herself happy by worrying about other people's problems. She liked unhappy people — I suppose they made her feel superior… And when I meet people like Gertrude who go in for social work and converting people, I wonder if they're not doing the same thing.
Glasp said:
Does it matter?
Yes, it does. It matters if people are made of marshmallow. Very few people are real inside. They need people and distractions as a cripple needs crutches. Look at me. Two weeks ago I felt completely lost. I didn't like leaving my room because the street made me feel as if I didn't exist. London made me feel like an insect, and when I got back to my own room and tried to write I still felt like an insect. Then what happens? I go to this Diaghilev exhibition and meet Austin. And immediately I stop being an insect. But that's the wrong reason.
What does it matter what the reason is?
But it does matter. I should have outgrown Austin's world a long time ago. I only went to the Diaghilev exhibition out of a sentimental feeling about Nijinsky. Normally, I can't stick ballet. Last time I went to the ballet, it nearly gave me diarrhoea… a lot of bloody prancing queers and posturing women. I had to come out half way through. And yet that's Austin's world. He's a romantic. He's not real inside either. He needs unreality to stop him from feeling an insect.
Glasp said softly:
We all need something to lean on.
But we shouldn't. If a man could kill all his illusions, he'd become a god.
Or kill himself, Glasp said.
No… He'd be strong enough to live. People die because they don't know what life is.
Glasp said: Who does?
I do sometimes. Just occasionally. And I spend all my time trying to regain the insight.
And what was your insight like?
I… It was a feeling of acceptance. It happened once when I was on Hampstead Heath, looking down on London. I was thinking about all the lives and all the problems… and then suddenly I felt real. I saw other people's illusions, and my own illusions disappeared, and I felt real inside. I stopped wondering whether the world's ultimately good or evil. I felt that the world didn't matter a damn. What mattered was me, whether I saw it as good or evil. I suddenly felt as if I'd turned into a giant. I felt absurdly happy…
Glasp said:
I've never felt like that.
No?
He controlled the excitement his own words had aroused in him, waiting for Glasp to speak, watching the face that leaned into the firelight. Glasp spoke in a low voice, without emphasis. He said:
That's not how I feel… I suppose I need other people, as you say. For instance, this stupid business is bad for me because it makes me think about myself. And Christine's good for me because she makes me think about other people. Not just about her. She makes me realise that hundreds — thousands — are living in complete misery, never having a chance to feel these things you're talking about. They don't feel like giants or gods, and they don't feel like insects either. They're just ordinary men and women, and most of their lives is suffering or boredom.
He stopped speaking, and drank the remainder of the tea from his mug, then set it down on the green tiles that reflected the flames. The toe of his wornout shoe pushed a fragment of smoking coal into the grate. He said:
That's my vision… if it is a vision.
Sorme looked at him silently, realising the gulf that separated their ways of feeling, and understanding the futility of words. The coal collapsed over the burnt wood, sending up sparks. Glasp said abruptly:
What about going out for a meal? Are you hungry?
Do you know anywhere around here?
I know a place where we can get sausage, egg and chips for two bob.
Sorme said, standing up:
Good. Let's go.
CHAPTER SIX
Sorry I'm so late.
Come in. Where have you been? Have you eaten?
Yes, thanks. I ate this afternoon with Oliver. I stayed and talked to him. He was pretty shaken up.
The fire was still burning in the sitting-room. The hands of the electric clock showed ten-fifteen. She touched his hand, and said:
Oh dear, you are cold. Come and get warm. Would you like a drink?
No, thanks. I've been drinking with Oliver.
He sat opposite the fire, and stretched out his legs towards it. Miss Quincey started to build it up with small nuggets of coal, using a glove that lay across the fender.
Is he all right now?
Yes. He's calmer, at any rate.
Have they examined the child yet?
No. That's the trouble. She's disappeared. When we got back to Oliver's room, the police had been there already. Oliver says they probably suspect him of murdering her to keep her quiet!
How silly!
Oh yes. He wasn't really serious. They probably suspected him of hiding her. Anyway, she's a little fool to run away like this. It makes it look worse for Oliver — as if she's got something to be afraid of. When we came out of the cafe Oliver saw one of her schoolfriends and persuaded her to go and call for Christine — to see if she'd come back. She hadn't, of course, and then he started to get really upset.
I'm not surprised, with a murderer at large in Whitechapel.
