The Collector

wall.

Steady on, I said.

But another jug followed. All the time she was laughing, there was nothing vicious exactly, she just seemed to be mad, like a kid. There was a pretty green plate with a cottage moulded in relief that hung by the window and she had that off the wall and smashed that. I don’t know why, I always liked that plate and I didn’t like to see her break it, so I shouted, really sharp, stop it!

All she did was to put her thumb to her nose and make a rude sign and put her tongue out. She was just like a street boy.

I said, you ought to know better.

“You ought to know better,” she said, making fun of me. Then she said, “Please come round this side and then I can get at those beautiful plates behind you.” There were two by the door. “Unless you’d like to smash them yourself.”

Stop it, I said again, that’s enough.

But suddenly she came behind the sofa, going for the plates. I got between her and the door, she tried to dodge under my arm; however, I caught hers.

Then she suddenly changed.

“Let go,” she said, all quiet. Of course I didn’t, I thought she might be joking still.

But then suddenly she said, “Let go,” in a nasty voice that I did at once. Then she went and sat down by the fire.

After a while she said, “Get a broom. I’ll sweep up.”

I’ll do it tomorrow.

“I want to clear up.” Very my-lady.

I’ll do it.

“It’s your fault.”

Of course.

“You’re the most perfect specimen of petit bourgeois squareness I’ve ever met.”

Am I?

“Yes you are. You despise the real bourgeois classes for all their snobbishness and their snobbish voices and ways. You do, don’t you? Yet all you put in their place is a horrid little refusal to have nasty thoughts or do nasty things or be nasty in any way. Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?”

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I said.

“Yes you do. Why do you keep on using these stupid words—nasty, nice, proper, right? Why are you so worried about what’s proper? You’re like a little old maid who thinks marriage is dirty and everything except cups of weak tea in a stuffy old room is dirty. Why do you take all the life out of life? Why do you kill all the beauty?”

I never had your advantages. That’s why.

“You can change, you’re young, you’ve got money. You can learn. And what have you done? You’ve had a little dream, the sort of dream I suppose little boys have and masturbate about, and you fall over yourself being nice to me so that you won’t have to admit to yourself that the whole business of my being here is nasty, nasty, nasty—”

She stopped sudden then. “This is no good,” she said. “I might be talking Greek.”

I understand, I said. I’m not educated.

She almost shouted. “You’re so stupid. Perverse.”

“You have money—as a matter of fact, you aren’t stupid, you could become whatever you liked. Only you’ve got to shake off the past. You’ve got to kill your aunt and the house you lived in and the people you lived with. You’ve got to be a new human being.”

She sort of pushed out her face at me, as if it was something easy I could do, but wouldn’t.

Some hope, I said.

“Look what you could do. You could . . . you could collect pictures. I’d tell you what to look for, I’d introduce you to people who would tell you about art-collecting. Think of all the poor artists you could help. Instead of massacring butterflies, like a stupid schoolboy.”

Some very clever people collect butterflies, I said.

“Oh, clever . . . what’s the use of that? Are they human beings?”

What do you mean? I asked.

“If you have to ask, I can’t give you the answer.”

Then she said, “I always seem to end up by talking down to you. I hate it. It’s you. You always squirm one step lower than I can go.”

She went like that at me sometimes. Of course I forgave her, though it hurt at the time. What she was asking for was someone different to me, someone I could never be. For instance, all that night after she said I could collect pictures I thought about it; I dreamed myself collecting pictures, having a big house with famous pictures hanging on the walls, and people coming to see them. Miranda there, too, of course. But I knew all the time it was silly; I’d never collect anything but butterflies. Pictures don’t mean anything to me. I wouldn’t be doing it because I wanted, so there wouldn’t be any point. She could never see that.

She did several more drawings of me which were quite good, but there was something in them I didn’t like, she didn’t bother so much about a nice likeness as what she called my inner character, so sometimes she made my nose so pointed it would have pricked you and my mouth was all thin and unpleasant, I mean more than it really is, because I know I’m no beauty. I didn’t dare think about the four weeks being up, I didn’t know what would happen, I just thought there would be arguing and she’d sulk and I’d get her to stay another four weeks—I mean I thought I had some sort of power over her, she would do what I wanted. I lived from day to day, really. I mean there was no plan. I just waited. I even half expected the police to come. I had a horrible dream one night when they came and I had to kill her before they came in the room. It seemed like a duty and I had only a cushion to kill her with. I hit and hit and she laughed and then I jumped on her and smothered her and she lay still, and then when I took the cushion away she was lying there laughing, she’d only pretended to die. I woke up in a sweat, that was the first time I ever dreamed of killing anyone.

She started talking about going several days before the end. She kept on saying that she would never tell a soul, and of course I had to say I believed her, but I knew even if she meant it the police or her parents would screw it out of her in the end. And she kept on about how we’d be friends and she’d help me choose pictures and introduce me to people and look after me. She was very nice to me those days; not that of course she didn’t have her reasons.

At last the fatal day (November 10th, the 11th was her release day) came. The first thing she said when I took her in her coffee was, could we have a celebration party tonight?

What about guests, I said, joking, not that I was feeling lighthearted, need I add.

“Just you and me. Because . . . oh, well, we’ve come through, haven’t we?”

Then she said, “And upstairs, in your dining-room?”

To which I agreed. I had no choice.

She gave me a list of things to buy at the posh grocer’s in Lewes, and then she asked if I’d buy sherry and a bottle of champagne and of course I said I would. I never saw her get so excited. I suppose I got excited too. Even then. What she felt, I felt.

To make her laugh I said, evening dress, of course. And she said, “Oh, I wish I had a nice dress. And I must have some more hot water to wash my hair.”

I said, I’ll buy you a dress. Just tell me like before the colour and so on and I’ll see what there is in Lewes.

Funny, I’d been so careful, and there I was, going red. She gave me a smile, however,

“I knew it was Lewes. There’s a ticket on one of the cushions. And I’d like either a black dress, or no, a biscuit, stone—oh, wait . . .” and she went to her paint-box and mixed colours like she did before when she wanted a scarf of a special colour when I was going to London. “This colour, and it must be simple, knee-length, not long, sleeves like this (she drew it), or no sleeves, something like this or like this.” I always liked it when she