The Collector

 Upstairs, bedrooms, lovely rooms in themselves, but all fusty, unlived-in. A strange dead air about everything. Downstairs what he (he would) called "the lounge" is a beautiful room, much bigger than the other rooms, peculiarly square, you don't expect it, with one huge crossbeam supported on three uprights in the middle of the room, and other crossbeams and nooks and delicious angles an architect wouldn't think of once in a thousand years. All massacred, of course, by the furniture. China wild duck on a lovely old fireplace. I couldn't stand it, I got him to retie my hands in front and then I unhooked the monsters and smashed them on the hearth.

 That hurt him almost as much as when I slapped his face for not letting me escape.

 He makes me change, he makes me want to dance round him, bewilder him, dazzle him, dumbfound him. He's so slow, so unimaginative, so lifeless. Like zinc white. I see it's a sort of tyranny he has over me. He forces me to be changeable, to act. To show off. The hateful tyranny of weak people. G.P. said it once.

 The ordinary man is the curse of civilization.

 But he's so ordinary that he's extraordinary.

 He takes photographs. He wants to take a "portrait" of me.

 Then there were his butterflies, which I suppose were rather beautiful. Yes, rather beautifully arranged, with their poor little wings stretched out all at the same angle. And I felt for them, poor dead butterflies, my fellow-victims. The ones he was proudest of were what he called aberrations!

 Downstairs he let me watch him make tea (in the outer cellar), and something ridiculous he said made me laugh -- or want to laugh.

 Terrible.

 I suddenly realized that I was going mad too, that he was wickedly wickedly cunning. Of course he doesn't mind what I say about him. That I break his miserable china duck. Because suddenly he has me (it's mad, he _kidnapped_ me) laughing at him and pouring out his tea, as if I'm his best girlfriend.

 I swore at him. I was my mother's daughter. A bitch.

 There it is, Minny. I wish you were here and we could talk in the dark. If I could just talk to someone for a few minutes. Someone I love. I make it sound brighter so much brighter than it is.

 I'm going to cry again.

 It's so unfair.

    _October 17th_

 I hate the way I have changed.

 I accept too much. To begin with I thought I must force myself to be matter-of-fact, not let his abnormality take control of the situation. But he might have planned it. He's getting me to behave exactly as _he_ wants.

 This isn't just a fantastic situation; it's a fantastic variation of a fantastic situation. I mean, now he's got me at his mercy, he's not going to do what anyone would expect. So he makes me falsely grateful. I'm so lonely. He must realize that. He can make me depend on him.

 I'm on edge, I'm nowhere near as calm as I seem (when I read what I've written).

 It's just that there's so much time to get through. Endless endless endless time.

 What I write isn't natural. It's like two people trying to keep up a conversation.

 It's the very opposite of drawing. You draw a line and you know at once whether it's a good or a bad line. But you write a line and it seems true and then you read it again later.

 Yesterday evening he wanted to take a photograph of me. I let him take several. I think, he may be careless, someone may see me lying around. But I think he lives quite alone. He must do. He must have spent all last night developing and printing them (as if he'd go to the chemist's! I don't think). Flashlit me's on glossy paper. I didn't like the flashlight. It hurt my eyes.

 Nothing has happened today, except that we have come to a sort of agreement about exercise. No daylight yet. But I can go in the outer cellar. I felt sulky so I was sulky. I asked him to go away after lunch and I asked him to go away after supper, and he went away both times. He does everything he's told.

 He's bought me a record-player and records and all the things on the huge shopping-list I gave him. He wants to buy things for me. I could ask for anything. Except my freedom.

 He's given me an expensive Swiss watch. I say I will use it _while I am here_ and give it back when I go. I said I couldn't stand the orangeady carpet any more and he's bought me some Indian and Turkish rugs. Three Indian mats and a beautiful deep purple, rose-orange and sepia white-fringed Turkish carpet (he said it was the only one "they" had, so no credit to his taste).

 It makes this cell more liveable in. The floor's very soft and springy. I've broken all the ugly ashtrays and pots. Ugly ornaments don't deserve to exist.

 I'm so superior to him. I know this sounds wickedly conceited. But I _am_. And so it's Ladymont and Boadicaea and _noblesse oblige_ all over again. I feel I've got to show him how decent human beings live and behave.

 He is ugliness. But you can't smash human ugliness.