The Collector

 G.P. as an artist. Caroline's "second-rate Paul Nash" -- horrid, but there is something in it. Nothing like what he would call "photography." But not absolutely individual. I think it's just that he arrived at the same conclusions. And either he sees that (that his landscapes have a Nashy quality) or he doesn't. Either way, it's a criticism of him. That he neither sees it nor says it.

 I'm being objective about him. His faults.

 His hatred of abstract painting -- even of people like Jackson Pollock and Nicholson. Why? I'm more than half convinced intellectually by him, but I still _feel_ some of the paintings he says are bad are beautiful. I mean, he's too jealous. He condemns too much.

 I don't mind this. I'm trying to be honest about him, and about myself. He hates people who don't "think things through" -- and he does it. Too much. But he has (except over women) principles. He makes most people with so-called principles look like empty tin-cans.

 (I remember he once said about a Mondrian -- "it isn't whether you like it, but whether you ought to like it" -- I mean, he dislikes abstract art on principle. He ignores what he _feels_.)

 I've been leaving the worst to last. Women.

 It must have been about the fourth or fifth time I went round to see him.

 There was the Nielsen woman. I suppose (now) they'd been to bed together. I was so naive. But they didn't seem to mind my coming. They needn't have answered the bell. And she was rather nice to me in her glittery at-home sort of way. Must be forty -- what could he see in her? Then a long time after that, it was May, and I'd been the night before, but he was out (or in bed with someone?) and that evening he was in and alone, and we talked some time (he was telling me about John Minton) and then he put on an Indian record and we were quiet. But he didn't shut his eyes that time, he was looking at me and I was embarrassed. When the _raga_ ended there was a silence. I said, shall I turn it? but he said, no. He was in the shadow, I couldn't see him very well.

 Suddenly he said, Would you like to come to bed?

 I said, no I wouldn't. He caught me by surprise and I sounded foolish. Frightened.

 He said, his eyes still on me, ten years ago I would have married you. You would have been my second disastrous marriage.

 It wasn't really a surprise. It had been waiting for weeks.

 He came and stood by me. You're sure?

 I said, I haven't come here for that. At all.

 It seemed so unlike him. So crude. I think now, I know now, he was being kind. Deliberately obvious and crude. Just as he sometimes lets me beat him at chess.

 He went to make Turkish coffee and he said through the door, you're misleading. I went and stood in the kitchen door, while he watched the vriki. He looked back at me. I could swear you want it sometimes.

 How old are you? I said.

 I could be your father. Is that what you mean?

 I hate promiscuity, I said. I didn't mean that.

 He had his back turned to me. I felt angry with him, he seemed so irresponsible. I said, anyhow, you don't attract me that way in the least.

 He said, with his back still turned, what do you mean by promiscuity?

 I said, going to bed for pleasure. Sex and nothing else. Without love.

 He said, I'm very promiscuous then. I never go to bed with the people I love. I did once.

 I said, you warned me against Barber Cruikshank.

 I'm warning you against myself now, he said. He stood watching the vriki. You know the Ashmolean Uccello? _The Hunt_? No? The design hits you the moment you see it. Apart from all the other technical things. You know it's faultless. The professors with Middle-European names spend their lives working out what the great inner secret is, that thing you feel at the first glance. Now, I see you have the great inner secret, too. God knows what it is. I'm not a Middle-European professor, I don't really care _how_ it is. But you have it. You're like Sheraton joinery. You won't fall apart.

 He spoke it all in a very matter-of-fact voice. Too.

 It's hazard, of course, he said. The genes.

 He lifted the vriki off the gas-ring at the last possible moment. The only thing is, he said, there's that scarlet point in your eye. What is it? Passion? Stop?

 He stood staring at me, the dry look.

 It's not bed, I said.

 But for someone?

 For no one.

 I sat on the divan and he on his high stool by the bench.

 I've shocked you, he said.

 I was warned.

 By aunt?

 Yes.

 He turned and very slowly, very carefully, poured the coffee into the cups.

 He said, all my life I've had to have women. They've mostly brought me unhappiness. The most has been brought by the relationships that were supposed to be pure and noble. There -- he pointed at a photo of his two sons -- that's the fine fruit of a noble relationship.

 I went and got my coffee and leant against the bench, away from him.

 Robert's only four years younger than you are now, he said. Don't drink it yet. Let the grounds settle.

 He didn't seem at ease. As if he had to talk. Be on the defensive. Disillusion me and get my sympathy at the same time.