The Collector

This morning I drew a whole series of quick sketches of bowls of fruit. Since Caliban wants to give, I don’t care how much paper I waste. I “hung” them and asked him to choose which one was best. Of course he picked all those that looked most like the wretched bowl of fruit. I started to try to explain to him. I was boasting about one of the sketches (the one I liked best). He annoyed me, it didn’t mean anything to him, and he made it clear in his miserable I’ll-take-your-word-for-it way that he didn’t really care. To him I was just a child amusing herself.

Blind, blind, other world.

My fault. I was showing off. How could he see the magic and importance of art (not my art, of art) when I was so vain?

We had an argument after lunch. He always asks me if he may stay. Sometimes I feel so lonely, so sick of my own thoughts, that I let him. I want him to stay. That’s what prison does. And there’s escape, escape, escape.

The argument was about nuclear disarmament. I had doubts, the other day. But not now.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN MIRANDA AND CALIBAN.

M. (I was sitting on my bed, smoking. Caliban on his usual chair by the iron door, the fan was going outside) What do you think about the H-bomb?

C. Nothing much.

M. You must think something.

C. Hope it doesn’t drop on you. Or on me.

M. I realize you’ve never lived with people who take things seriously, and discuss seriously. (He put on his hurt face.) Now let’s try again. What do you think about the H-bomb?

C. If I said anything serious, you wouldn’t take it serious. (I stared at him till he had to go on.) It’s obvious. You can’t do anything. It’s here to stay.

M. You don’t care what happens to the world?

C. What’d it matter if I did?

M. Oh, God.

C. We don’t have any say in things.

M. Look, if there are enough of us who believe the bomb is wicked and that a decent nation could never think of having it, whatever the circumstances, then the government would have to do something. Wouldn’t it?

C. Some hope, if you ask me.

M. How do you think Christianity started? Or anything else? With a little group of people who didn’t give up hope.

C. What would happen if the Russians come, then? (Clever point, he thinks.)

M. If it’s a choice between dropping bombs on them, or having them here as our conquerors—then the second, every time.

C. (check and mate) That’s pacifism.

M. Of course it is, you great lump. Do you know I’ve walked all the way from Aldermaston to London? Do you know I’ve given up hours and hours of my time to distribute leaflets and address envelopes and argue with miserable people like you who don’t believe anything? Who really deserve the bomb on them?

C. That doesn’t prove anything.

M. It’s despair at the lack of (I’m cheating, I didn’t say all these things—but I’m going to write what I want to say as well as what I did) feeling, of love, of reason in the world. It’s despair that anyone can even contemplate the idea of dropping a bomb or ordering that it should be dropped. It’s despair that so few of us care. It’s despair that there’s so much brutality and callousness in the world. It’s despair that perfectly normal young men can be made vicious and evil because they’ve won a lot of money. And then do what you’ve done to me.

C. I thought you’d get on to that.

M. Well, you’re part of it. Everything free and decent in life is being locked away in filthy little cellars by beastly people who don’t care.

C. I know your lot. You think the whole blooming world’s all arranged so as everything ought to be your way.

M. Don’t be so wet.

C. I was a private in the army. You can’t tell me. My lot just do what they’re told (he was really quite worked up—for him) and better look out if they don’t.

M. You haven’t caught up with yourself. You’re rich now. You’ve got nothing to be hurt about.

C. Money doesn’t make all that difference.

M. Nobody can order you about any more.

C. You don’t understand me at all.

M. Oh, yes I do. I know you’re not a teddy. But deep down you feel like one. You hate being an underdog, you hate not being able to express yourself properly. They go and smash things, you sit and sulk. You say, I won’t help the world. I won’t do the smallest good thing for humanity. I’ll just think of myself and humanity can go and stew for all I care. (It’s like continually slapping someone across the face—almost a wince.) What use do you think money is unless it’s used? Do you understand what I’m talking about?

C. Yes.

M. Well?

C. Oh . . . you’re right. As always.

M. Are you being sarcastic again?