The Collector

I thought I might be able to run. But he gripped my arm and I was gagged and bound. It was so dark. So lonely. No lights. Just darkness. I didn’t even know which way to run.

The house is an old cottage. I think it may be timbered outside, indoors there are a lot of beams, the floors all sag, and the ceilings are very low. A lovely old house really, done up in the most excruciating women’s magazine “good taste.” Ghastliest colour-clashes, mix-up of furniture styles, bits of suburban fuss, phoney antiques, awful brass ornaments. And the pictures! You wouldn’t believe me if I described the awfulness of the pictures. He told me some firm did all the furniture choosing and decorating. They must have got rid of all the junk they could find in their store-rooms.

The bath was delicious. I knew he might burst in (no lock on the door, couldn’t even shut it, there was a screwed-in bit of wood). But somehow I knew he wouldn’t. And it was so lovely to see a bathful of hot water and a proper place that I almost didn’t care. I made him wait hours. Just outside. He didn’t seem to mind. He was “good.”

Nothing makes him mind.

But I’ve seen a way to get a message out. I could put a message in a little bottle down the place. I could put a bright ribbon round it. Perhaps someone would see it somewhere some day. I’ll do it next time.

I listened for traffic, but there was none. I heard an owl. And an aeroplane.

If only people knew what they flew over.

We’re all in aeroplanes.

The bathroom window was boarded up. Great screws. I looked everywhere for a weapon. Under the bath, behind the pipes. But there’s nothing. Even if I found one I don’t know how I’d use it. I watch him and he watches me. We never give each other a chance. He doesn’t look very strong, but he’s much stronger than me. It would have to be by surprise.

Everything’s locked and double-locked. There’s even a burglar-alarm on my cell door.

He’s thought of everything. I thought of putting a note in laundry. But he doesn’t send any. When I asked him about sheets, he said, I buy them new, tell me when you want some more.

Down-the-place is the only chance.

Minny, I’m not writing to you, I’m talking to myself.

When I came out, wearing the least horrid of the shirts he’d bought for me, he stood up (he’s been sitting all the time by the door). I felt like the girl-at-the-ball-coming-down-the-grand-staircase. I knocked him over, I suppose it was seeing me in “his” shirt. And with my hair down.

Or perhaps it was just shock at seeing me without the gag. Anyway I smiled and I wheedled and he let me be without the gag and he let me look round. He kept very close to me. I knew that if I made the slightest false step he would leap at me.

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.