The Collector

 But it made me feel, that meeting with her, that G.P. did love me (want me). That there's a deep bond between us -- his loving me in his way, my liking him very much (even loving him, but not sexually) in my way -- a feeling that we're groping towards a compromise. A sort of fog of unsolved desire and sadness between us. Something other people (like the N woman) couldn't ever understand.

 Two people in a desert, trying to find both themselves and an oasis where they can live together.

 I've begun to think more and more like this -- it is terribly cruel of fate to have put these twenty years between us. Why couldn't he be my age, or me his? So the age thing is no longer the all-important factor that puts love right out of the question but a sort of cruel wall fate has built between us. I don't think any more, the wall is between us, I think, the wall keeps us apart.

    _November 2nd_

 He produced the paper after supper, and dictated an absurd letter that I had to write out.

 Then the trouble started. I had prepared a little note, written in my smallest writing, and I slipped it into the envelope when he wasn't looking. It was very small, and in the best spy stories wouldn't have been noticed.

 He did.

 It upset him. Made him see things in the cold light of reality. But he was genuinely shocked that I should be frightened. He can't imagine himself killing or raping me, and that is something.

 I let him have his pet, but in the end I went and tried to be nice to him (because I knew I must get him to send that letter). It _was_ a job. I've never known him in such a huff.

 Wouldn't he call it a day, and let me go home?

 No.

 What did he want to do with me then? Take me to bed?

 He gave me such a look, as if I was being really disgusting.

 Then I had an inspiration. I acted a little charade. His oriental slave. He likes me to play the fool. The stupidest things I do he calls witty. He has even got in the habit of joining in, stumbling after me (not that I'm very dazzling) like a giraffe.

 So I got him to let me write another letter. He looked in the envelope again.

 Then I talked him into going to London, as my plan requires. I gave him a ridiculous list of things (most of them I don't want, but it'll keep him busy) to buy. I told him it was impossible to trace a letter posted in London. So he finally agreed. He likes me to wheedle, the brute.

 One request -- no, I don't ask him for things, I order them. I commanded him to try and buy a George Paston. I gave him a list of galleries where he might find things by G.P. I even tried to get him to go to the studio.

 But as soon as he heard it was in Hampstead, he smelt a rat. He wanted to know if I knew this George Paston. I said, no, well, just by name. But it didn't sound very convincing; and I was afraid he wouldn't buy any of his pictures anywhere. So I said, he's a casual friend of mine, he's quite old, but he's a very good painter, and he badly needs money and I should very much like some of his pictures. We could hang them on the walls. If you bought straight from him we wouldn't be paying money to the galleries, but I can see you're frightened to go, I said, so there's an end to it. Of course he didn't fall for _that_.

 He wanted to know if G.P. was one of these paintpot-at-the-wall chaps. I just gave him a look.

 C. I was only joking.

 M. Then don't.

 After a bit, he said, he would want to know where I came from and all.

 I told him what he could say, and he said he'd think about it. Which is Calibanese for "no." It was too much to expect; and there probably won't be anything in any of the galleries.

 And I don't worry because I'm not going to be here this time tomorrow. I'm going to escape.

 He'll go off after breakfast. He's going to leave my lunch. So I shall have four or five hours (unless he cheats and doesn't get all I've asked, but he's never failed before).

 I felt sorry for Caliban this evening. He _will_ suffer when I am gone. There will be nothing left. He'll be alone with all his sex neurosis and his class neurosis and his uselessness and his emptiness. He's asked for it. I'm not really sorry. But I'm not absolutely unsorry.

    _November 4th_

 I couldn't write yesterday. Too fed up.

 I was so stupid. I got him away all yesterday. I had hours to escape. But I never really thought of the problems. I saw myself scooping out handfuls of soft loamy earth. The nail was useless, it wouldn't dig the cement properly. I thought it would crumble away. It was terribly hard. I took hours to get one stone out. There wasn't earth behind, but another stone, a bigger one, chalk, and I couldn't even find where its edge was. I got another stone out of the wall, but it didn't help. There was the same huge stone behind. I began to get desperate, I saw the tunnel was no good. I hit violently at the door, I tried to force it with the nail, and managed to hurt my hand. That's all. All I had at the end was a sore hand and broken fingernails.

 I'm just not strong enough, without tools. Even with tools.