more, only she started to move a bit, so I had to pack up and get out quick.
I started the developing and printing right away. They came out very nice. Not artistic, but interesting.
I never slept that night, I got in such a state. There were times I thought I would go down and give her the pad again and take other photos, it was as bad as that. I am not really that sort and I was only like it that night because of all that happened and the strain I was under. Also the champagne had a bad effect on me. And everything she said. It was what they call a culmination of circumstances.
Things were never the same again, in spite of all that happened. Somehow it proved we could never come together, she could never understand me, I suppose she would say I never could have understood her, or would have, anyhow.
About what I did, undressing her, when I thought after, I saw it wasn’t so bad; not many would have kept control of themselves, just taken photos, it was almost a point in my favour.
I considered what to do, I decided a letter was best. This is what I wrote:
I am sorry for last night, I dare say you think now you cannot ever forgive me.
I did say I would not ever use force unless obliged. I think you will admit you did oblige me by what you did.
Please understand that I did only the necessary. I took your dress off as I thought you might be ill again.
I showed every respect I could under the circumstances. Please give me the credit for not going as far as some might in the same.
I will not say any more. Except I must have you here a bit longer.
Yours sincerely, etc.
I didn’t put any beginning. I couldn’t decide what to call her: Dear Miranda seemed familiar.
Well, I went down and took in her breakfast. It was just like I thought. She was sitting in her chair, staring at me. I said good morning, she didn’t reply. I said something—do you want krispies or corn flakes?—she just stared. So I just left her breakfast with the letter on the tray and waited out-side and when I went back nothing was touched, the letter was unopened, and she was still sitting there staring at me. I knew it was no good talking, she had it in for me good and proper.
She kept it up several days. So far as I know all she had was some water. At least once a day, when I took in the food she always refused, I tried to argue with her. I took in the letter again and she read it this time, at least it was torn up, so she touched it. I tried everything: I spoke gentle, I pretended I was angry, bitter, I begged her, but it was all no use. Mostly she just sat with her back to me as if she didn’t hear me. I got special things like continental chocolate, caviare, the best food money could buy (in Lewes) but it was never touched.
I was beginning to get really worried. But then one morning when I went in she was standing by her bed with her back to me; however, she turned as soon as I came in and said good morning. But in a funny tone. Full of spite.
Good morning. I said. It’s nice to hear your voice again.
“Is it? It won’t be. You’ll wish you never heard it.”
That remains to be seen, I answered.
“I’m going to kill you. I realize you’d let me starve to death. Just the thing you would do.”
I suppose I never brought you any food these last days?
She couldn’t answer that one, she just started at me in the old style.
“You’re not keeping
Have some breakfast anyhow, I said.
Well, from that time on she ate normally, but it wasn’t like before. She hardly spoke, if she did it was always sharp and sarcastic, she was so bad-tempered there was no staying with her. If I was ever there more than a minute when it wasn’t necessary she used to spit at me to get out. One day soon after, I brought in a plate of perfectly nice baked beans on toast and she just picked it up and hurled it straight at me. I felt like giving her a good clip over the earhole. About this time I was fed up with the whole thing, there didn’t seem any point in it, I tried everything, but she would keep on holding that evening against me. It was like we had reached a dead end.
Then one day she actually asked for something. I got in the habit of leaving at once after supper before she could shout at me, but this time she said, stop a minute.
“I want a bath.”
It’s not convenient tonight, I said. I wasn’t ready for that.
“Tomorrow?”
Don’t see why not. With parole.
“I’ll give my parole.” She said it in a nasty hard voice. I knew what her parole was worth.
“And I want to walk in the cellar.” She pushed forward her hands, and I tied them up. It was the first time I touched her for days. Well, as usual I went and sat on the steps to the outer door and she walked up and down in the funny way she had. It was very windy, you could hear it down there, just the sound of her feet and the wind above. She didn’t speak for quite a time, I don’t know why but I knew she wanted to.
“Are you enjoying life?” she suddenly came out with.
Not much, I answered. Cautious.
She walked to and fro four or five times more. Then she started to hum music.
That’s a nice tune, I said.
“Do you like it?”
Yes, I said.
“Then I don’t any more.”
Two or three more times she went up and down.
“Talk to me.”
What about?
“Butterflies.”
What about butterflies?
“Why you collect them. Where you find them. Go on. Just talk.”
Well, it seemed odd, but I talked, every time I stopped she said, go on, talk. I must have talked half an hour there, until she stopped and said, that’s enough. She went back inside and I took off the cord and she went straight and sat on her bed with her back to me. I asked her if she wanted any tea, she didn’t answer, all of a sudden I realized she was crying. It really did things to me when she cried, I couldn’t bear to see her so unhappy. I went up close and said, tell me what you want, I’ll buy you anything. But she turned round on me, she was crying all right, but her eyes were blazing, she stood up and walked towards me saying get out, get out, get out. It was terrible. She looked really mad.
The next day she was very quiet. Not a word. I got the planks up and everything ready and sure enough she showed she was all ready when she had had her walk (all in silence that time). So I gagged and corded her and took her upstairs and she had her bath and then she came out and put her hands out at once to be tied again and for the gag.
I always went out of the kitchen first with my hand on her just in case, but there was a step there, I fell over it once myself, perhaps that was it, when she fell it seemed natural, and natural that the brushes and bottles and things she carried in a towel (her hands were done in front, so she always carried things up against her front) should all fall out with a noise on the path. She got up all innocent, bending and rubbing her knees and like a proper fool I knelt down to pick the stuff up. Of course I kept a hand on her dressing-gown, but I took my eyes off her which was fatal.
The next thing I knew was I got a terrible blow on the side of the head. Luckily it missed my head, my shoulder or rather my coat-collar took the force. Anyway I fell sideways, half to try and escape the next attack. I was off balance and couldn’t reach at her arms, though I still held on to her dressing-gown. I could see her with something in her hands, I suddenly knew it was the old odd-jobs axe; I used it in the garden only that morning where a branch came away off one of the old apple trees with the wind the night before. I knew like in a flash I had slipped at last. Left it out on the sill of the kitchen window and she must have spotted it. Just one mistake, and you lose everything.
