Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

woman.

I tried and tried to think who it was but I fell asleep without

remembering.

In the very early morning I woke up and thought "Samson and

Delilah"--it was as if someone had spoken the words in my ear.

Of course, it was Samson's hair that got cut, not his beard, so the

story didn't quite fit. But I did think Rose would rather fancy her

self as Delilah.

I sat up and peered across at her, wondering what she was dreaming.

While I watched, it grew light enough to see her bright hair stretched across the pillow and the faint pink flush on her cheeks.

She was looking particularly beautiful--though no one could say Aunt

Millicent's nightgown was becoming. It's strange how different Rose

seems with her eyes closed--much more childish and gentle and serene. I felt so very fond of her. She was sleeping deeply and peacefully,

though in a most uncomfortable position with one limp arm hanging out of the iron bedstead- you have to lie on the extreme outside to avoid the worst lumps in the mattress. I thought what a different bed she

was certain to come by. I was terribly happy for her.

XII am sitting on the ruins beyond the kitchen-where I sat with Neil, three weeks ago all but a day, after swimming the moat. How different it is now, in the hot sunshine! Bees are humming, a dove is cooing,

the moat is full of sky. Heloise has just gone down to take a drink

and a swan is giving her a glance of utter disdain.

Abelard went into the tall green wheat a few minutes ago, looking

rather like a lion entering the jungle.

This is the first time I have used the beautiful manuscript book Simon gave me- and the fountain pen which came from him yesterday.

A scarlet pen and a blue and gold leather-bound book-what could be more inspiring? But I seemed to get on better with a stump of pencil and

Stephen's fat, shilling exercise book .... I keep closing my eyes and basking--that is, my body basks; my mind is restless. I go backwards

and forwards, recapturing the past, wondering about the future--and,

most unreasonably, I find myself longing for the past more than for the future. I remind myself of how often we were cold and hungry with

barely a rag to our backs, and then I count the blessings that have

descended on us; but I still seem to fancy the past most. This is

ridiculous. And it is ridiculous that I should have this dull, heavy, not exactly unhappy but--well, no kind of feeling when I ought to be

blissfully happy.

Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with

me.

It is just a week since Rose and Topaz went to London. Mrs.

Cotton asked me, too--they are staying at her Park Lane flat-but

someone had to be here to look after Father and Thomas and Stephen;

besides, if I had accepted she might have felt she had to buy clothes for me, as well as give Rose her trousseau. She is wonderfully

generous and wonderfully tactful. Instead of pressing money on us to

pay our way here, she insisted on buying the beaver-lined coat for two hundred pounds.

As for the trousseau, she said to Rose: "My dear, I always longed for a daughter to dress- let me have my share of your happiness."

I was rather surprised that Topaz agreed to go to London, but the night before they left we had an illuminating talk. I came up from the

kitchen with some things I had been ironing for her and found her

sitting on her bed beside a half-filled suitcase, staring at nothing.

"I'm not going," she said, her voice quite baritone with tragedy.

"Good heavens, why not?" I asked.

"Because my motives are all wrong. I've been telling myself that it'd be good for Mortmain to be here without me for a bit, and that I ought to see some of my friends- renew my artistic interests, make myself

more stimulating. But the real truth is that I want to keep an eye on that woman and be sure she doesn't see him when he comes up to London.

And that's despicable. Of course I'm not going."

"Well, I don't see how you can cry off now," I told her.

"And you can always put things straight with your conscience by not keeping an eye on Mrs. Cotton. Topaz, do you really think that

Father's in love with her his You haven't a scrap of evidence."

"I've the evidence of my eyes and ears. Have you watched them together his He listens to her as if he liked it, and he not only listens, he

talks. He talks more to her in an evening than he's talked to me all

this last year."

I pointed out that he doesn't talk much to any of us.

"Then why doesn't he? What's wrong with us?

I'd begun to think he was temperamentally morose--that he just couldn't help it--but after seeing him turn on his charm for the Cottons! Heaven knows I didn't expect an easy life when I married him--I was prepared even for violence. But I do loathe morosity."

It was no moment to tell her there is no such word;

anyway, I rather liked it.

"Perhaps Mrs. Cotton will go back to America with Neil," I suggested comfortingly.

"Not she. She's taken the flat for three years.

Oh lord, what a fool I am- how can I stop her meeting him, even if I do stay with her his There are thousands of places they can go.

He'll probably renew his interest in the British Museum."

I must say it was a bit suspicious--he hadn't been to London once while Mrs. Cotton was at Scoatney.

"In that case, you might as well go," I said.

"I mean, it doesn't matter your motive being to spy, if you know very well that you can't."

"That's true." She heaved a sigh that was almost a groan and sounded very histrionic, then began to pack her shroud like night gowns.

Suddenly she strode to the window and stood looking at Father's light in the gatehouse.

"I wonder!" she said sepulchrally.

I obligingly asked her what.

"If I shall ever come back. I've got my cross-roads feeling--I've only had it three or four times in my life. That night in the Cafe Royal

when Everard hit the waiter-was She stopped dead.

"Why did he do that?" I asked with the utmost interest. Everard was her second husband, a fashion artist; her first was called Carlo and

had something to do with a circus. Rose and I have always longed to

know about them.

It wasn't any good. She turned a faintly outraged stare on me and

murmured foggily: "Let the dead bury their dead." As far as I know, Everard is alive and kicking and I never have seen how the dead can go burying anyone.

Nothing of great importance to me happened between the night of the

engagement and Rose and Topaz going to London. Of course, we went to

Scoatney several times but Neil wasn't there. He went off to see the

Derby and other races; it seemed a pity that he had to go to them

alone. After thinking about it a lot, I wrote him a little note. I

can remember it word for word:

DEAR NEIL,

I am sure you will be glad to know that Rose really is in love with

Simon. When I talked to you last, I was afraid she might not be- so

you were justified in calling me a liar, but I am not one now. Rose

told me herself and she is very truthful. To prove this, I will tell

you she admitted most honestly that she would have married him even if she had not been in love. I don't think I quite believe that, but

anyway, please do not count it against her, as she is a girl who finds poverty very hard to bear and she has been bearing it for years. And

as she fell in love with him at the psychological moment, everything

has come right.

I hope you are having a nice time in London.

With love from your future sister-in-law

CASSANDRA

I thought it would be all right to put "with love" in a relation like way--though I am not quite sure if Rose's marriage really will make me his sister-in-law. Perhaps I shall only be Simon's.

I must now go indoors--partly because the sun is too hot and partly so that I can copy in Neil's reply.

Here I am on the bedroom window-seat with a glass of milk and a

now-eaten banana.

Neil wrote back:

DEAR CASSANDRA,

It was nice of you to write that letter and what you say is probably

right. I guess I was being unreasonable and certainly very rude. I

apologize again.

Mother's apartment is so full that I have moved to a hotel, so I have not seen much of them all, but I joined them at a theatre last night

and everyone seemed very happy. It was an opening night and the

photographers made a rush at Mrs. Mortmain, who looked stunning.

I hope I see you before I go back home.

Maybe we can swim the moat again. How are the swans?

I shall be tickled to death to have you for a sister-in-law.

Love from

NEIL

I wish he weren't going back to America. He is hoping to get a

partnership in a ranch, Simon told me; somewhere in a California

desert. Deserts do not seem to be deserted in America.

This morning I had a letter from Rose which I will now copy in.

DEAR CASSANDRA

I am sorry not to have written before but we have been very busy.

Getting a trousseau is quite hard work. I think you would be surprised at the way we do it. We hardly go to real shops at all but to large

beautiful houses. There are drawing-rooms with crystal chandeliers and little gilt chairs all round and you sit there and watch the manniquins (can't spell it) walk past in the clothes. You have a card and a

pencil to mark down what you like. The prices are fabulous- quite

plain dresses cost around twenty-five pounds. My black suit will be

thirty-five- more, really, because everything is in guineas, not

pounds. At first I had a frightened sort of feeling at so much being

spent but now it seems almost natural.

I believe my whole trousseau is to cost up to a thousand pounds- and

that will not mean very many things, really, not at the prices we are paying.

But things like fur coats and jewelry will come after I am married.

I already have my engagement ring, of course, a square emerald.

Lovely.

I expect you will wish I would describe everything we have bought but I haven't the time and I also feel embarrassed at having so much when you have so little. But you are to have a most beautiful bridesmaid's

frock- you are to come up to be fitted for it--and I think the

ready-made clothes I am wearing now can be altered for you, once I get my trousseau. And when I am married we will shop like mad for you.

Here is some news that will interest you specially. We dined with the Fox-Cottons and saw Stephen's photographs and, my dear, he looks like all the Greek gods rolled into one. Leda is sure he could get a job

on the pictures, quite seriously. I said it was a scream to think of

him acting and she got quite annoyed. You had better look after your

property. I'm joking- don't do anything silly. I intend to find

someone really exciting for you.

I don't like the Fox-Cottons much. Aubrey makes an awful fuss of

Topaz--he has taken her out several times. She is a conspicuous

person.

She knew some of the manaquins at a dress-show-I could have died. And she knew the photographers at a first-night we went to. Macmorris was there--he looks like a very pale monkey. He wants to paint her again.

Her clothes seem wildly eccentric now we are with well-dressed

people--it's funny to think I used quite to envy them.

I thought of you yesterday. I was out by myself and I went into that

shop where the furs were stored--the clothes there look stodgy after

the ones I've been seeing but they do have nice gloves and things. I