The Collector

He’s been secretly watching me for nearly two years. He loves me desperately, he was very lonely, he knew I would always be “above” him. It was awful, he spoke so awkwardly, he always has to say things in a roundabout way, he always has to justify himself at the same time. I sat and listened. I couldn’t look at him.

It was his heart. Sicked up all over the hideous tangerine carpet. We just sat there when he had finished. When lie got up to go I tried to tell him that I understood, that I wouldn’t say anything if he would take me home, but he backed away out. I tried to look very understanding, very sympathetic, but it seemed to frighten him.

The next morning I tried again, I found out what his name was (vile coincidence!), I was very reasonable, I looked up at him and appealed, but once again it just frightened him.

At lunch I told him I could see he was ashamed of what he was doing, and that it wasn’t too late. You hit his conscience and it gives, but it doesn’t hurt him at all. I am ashamed, he says; I know I ought, he says. I told him he didn’t look a wicked person. He said, this is the first wicked thing I’ve ever done.

It probably is. But he’s been saving up.

Sometimes I think he’s being very clever. He’s trying to enlist my sympathy by pretending he’s in the grip of some third thing.

That night I tried not being decent, being sharp and bitchy instead. He just looked more hurt than ever. He’s very clever at looking hurt.

Putting the tentacles of his being hurt around me.

His not being my “class.”

I know what I am to him. A butterfly he has always wanted to catch. I remember (the very first time I met him) G.P. saying that collectors were the worst animals of all. He meant art collectors, of course. I didn’t really understand, I thought he was just trying to shock Caroline—and me. But of course, he is right. They’re anti-life, anti-art, anti-everything.

I write in this terrible nightlike silence as if I feel normal. But I’m not. I’m so sick, so frightened, so alone. The solitude is unbearable. Every time the door opens I want to rush at it and out. But I know now I must save up my escape attempts. Outwit him. Plan ahead.

Survive.

October 16th

It’s afternoon. I should be in life class. Does the world go on? Does the sun still shine? Last night, I thought—I am dead. This is death. This is hell. There wouldn’t be other people in hell. Or just one, like him. The devil wouldn’t be devilish and rather attractive, but like him.

I drew him this morning. I wanted to get his face, to illustrate this. But it wasn’t any good, and he wanted it. Said he would pay TWO HUNDRED guineas for it. He is mad.

It is me. I am his madness.

For years he’s been looking for something to put his madness into. And he found me.

I can’t write in a vacuum like this. To no one. When I draw I always think of someone like G.P. at my shoulder.

All parents should be like ours, then sisters really become sisters. They have to be to each other what Minny and I are.

Dear Minny.

I have been here over a week now, and I miss you very much, and I miss the fresh air and the fresh faces of all those people I so hated on the Tube and the fresh things that happened every hour of every day if only I could have seen them—their freshness, I mean. The thing I miss most is fresh light. I can’t live without light. Artificial light, all the lines lie, it almost makes you long for darkness.

I haven’t told you how I tried to escape. I thought about it all night, I couldn’t sleep, it was so stuffy, and my tummy’s all wrong (he tries his best to cook, but it’s hopeless). I pretended something was wrong with the bed, and then I just turned and ran. But I couldn’t get the door shut to lock him in and he caught me in the other cellar. I could see daylight through a keyhole.

He thinks of everything. He padlocks the door open. It was worth it. One keyholeful of light in seven days. He foresaw I would try and get out and lock him in.

Then I treated him for three days with a view of my back and my sulky face. I fasted. I slept. When I was sure he wouldn’t come in I got up and danced about a bit, and read the art books and drank water. But I didn’t touch his food.

And I brought him to terms. His condition was six weeks. A week ago six hours would have been too much. I cried. Brought him down to four weeks. I’m not less horrified at being with him. I’ve grown to know every inch of this foul little crypt, it’s beginning to grow on me like those coats of stones on the worms in rivers. But the four weeks seem less important.

I don’t seem to have any energy, any will, I’m constipated in all ways.

Minny, going upstairs with him yesterday. First, the outside air, being in a space bigger than ten by ten by twenty (I’ve measured it out), being under the stars, and breathing in wonderful wonderful, even though it was damp and misty, wonderful air.