Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

Miss Marcy said it was a splendid idea, though it was a pity it meant striking out Topaz's ten shillings.

"Though, of course, it was only potential." While she was putting Stephen's twenty-five shillings on her list, Rose suddenly said:

"Thank you, Stephen."

And because she doesn't bother with him much as a rule, it somehow

sounded important. And she smiled so very sweetly. Poor Rose has been so miserable lately that a smile from her is like late afternoon

sunshine after a long, wet day. I don't see how anyone could see Rose smile without feeling fond of her. I thought Stephen would be

tremendously pleased, but he only nodded and swallowed several

times.

Just then, Father came out on the staircase and looked down on us

all.

"What, a round game?" he said--and I suppose it must have looked like one, with us grouped round the table in the lamplight. Then he came

downstairs saying:

"This book's first-rate. I'm having a little break, trying to guess the murderer. I should like a biscuit, please."

Whenever Father is hungry between meals--and he eats very little at

them, less than any of us--he asks for a biscuit. I believe he thinks it is the smallest and cheapest thing he can ask for. Of course, we

haven't had any real shop biscuits for ages but Topaz makes oatcake,

which is very filling.

She put some margarine on a piece for him. I saw a fraction of

distaste in his eyes and he asked her if she could sprinkle it with a little sugar.

"It makes a change," he said, apologetically.

"Can't we offer Miss Marcy something his Some tea or cocoa, Miss Marcy

?"

She thanked him but said she mustn't spoil her appetite for supper.

"Well, don't let me interrupt the game," said Father.

"What is it ?"

And before I could think of any way of distracting him, he had leaned over her shoulder to look at the list in front of her. As it then

stood, it read:

Earning Capacity for Present Year Mrs. Mortmain nil.

Cassandra Mortmain nil.

Thomas Mortmain nil.

Rose Mortmain nil.

Mr. Mortmain nil.

Stephen Colly 25/- a week.

Father's expression didn't change as he read, he went on smiling; but I could feel something happening to him. Rose says I am always crediting people with emotions I should experience myself in their situation, but I am sure I had a real flash of intuition then.

And I suddenly saw his face very clearly, not just in the way one

usually sees the faces of people one is very used to. I saw how he had changed since I was little and I thought of Ralph Hodgson's line about

"tamed and shabby tigers." How long it takes to write the thoughts of a minute! I thought of many more things, complicated, pathetic and

very puzzling, just while Father read the list.

When he had finished, he said quite lightly: "And is Stephen giving us his wages?"

"I ought to pay for my board and lodging, Mr.

Mortmain, sir," said Stephen, "and for--for past favors; all the books you've lent me-was "I'm sure you'll make a very good head of the family," said Father. He took the oatcake with sugar on it from Topaz and moved towards the stairs.

She called after him: "Stay by the fire for a little while, Mortmain."

But he said he wanted to get back to his book. Then he thanked Miss

Marcy again for bringing him such a good one, and said good night to

her very courteously. We could hear him humming as he went through the bedrooms on his way to the gatehouse.

Miss Marcy made no remark about the incident, which shows what a

tactful person she is; but she looked embarrassed and said she must be getting along.

Stephen lit a lantern and said he would go as far as the road with

her--she had left her bicycle there because of the awful mud in our

lane. I went out to see her off. As we crossed the courtyard, she

glanced up at the gatehouse window and asked if I thought Father would be offended if she brought him a little tin of biscuits to keep there.

I said I didn't think any food could give offence in our house and she said:

"Oh, dear!" Then she looked around at the ruins and said how beautiful they were but she supposed I was used to them. I wanted to get back to the fire so I just said yes; but it wasn't true. I am never used to

the beauty of the castle. And after she and Stephen had gone I

realized it was looking particularly lovely. It was a queer sort of

night. The full moon was hidden by clouds but had turned them silver

so that the sky was quite light. Belmotte Tower, high on its mound,

seemed even taller than usual. Once I really looked at the sky, I

wanted to go on looking; it seemed to draw me towards it and make me

listen hard, though there was nothing to listen to, not so much as a

twig was stirring. When Stephen came back I was still gazing

upwards.

"It's too cold for you to be out without a coat, Miss Cassandra," he said. But I had forgotten about feeling cold, so of course I wasn't

cold any more.

As we walked back to the house he asked if I thought La Belle Dame sans Merci would have lived in a tower like Belmotte. I said it seemed very likely; though I never really thought of her having a home life.

After that, we all decided to go to bed to save making up the fire, so we got our hot bricks out of the oven and wended our ways. But going

to bed early is hard on candles. I reckoned I had two hours of light

in mine, but a bit of wick fell in and now it is a melted mass. (I

wonder how King Alfred got on with his clock-candles when that

happened.) I have called Thomas to see if I can have his, but he is

still doing his homework. I shall have to go to the kitchen-- I have a secret cache of ends there. And I will be noble and have a

companionable chat with Topaz, on the way down. I am back. Something

rather surprising happened. When I got to the kitchen, Heloise woke

and barked and Stephen came to his door to see what was the matter. I called out that it was only me and he dived back into his room. I

found my candle-end and had just knelt down by Heloise's basket to have a few words with her (she had a particularly nice warm-clean-dog smell after being asleep) when out he came again, wearing his coat over his nightshirt.

"It's all right," I called, "I've got what I wanted."

Just then, the door on the kitchen stairs swung to, so that we were in darkness except for the pale square at the window. I groped my way

across the kitchen and humped into the table. Then Stephen took my arm and guided me to the foot of the stairs.

"I can manage now," I said- we were closer to the window and there was quite a lot of the queer, shrouded moonlight coming in.

He still kept hold of my arm.

"I want to ask you something, Miss Cassandra," he said.

"I want to know if you're ever hungry- I mean when there's nothing for you to eat."

I would probably have answered "I certainly am," but I noticed how strained and anxious his voice was. So I said:

"Well, there generally is something or other, isn't there his Of course, it would be nicer to have lots of exciting food, but I do get enough. Why did you suddenly want to know ?"

He said he had been lying awake thinking about it and that he couldn't bear me to be hungry.

"If ever you are, you tell me," he said, "and I'll manage something."

I thanked him very much and reminded him he was going to help us all

with his wages.

"Yes, that'll be something," he said.

"But you tell me if you don't get enough. Good night, Miss

Cassandra."

As I went upstairs I was glad I hadn't admitted that I was ever

uncomfortably hungry, because as he steals Herrick for me, I should

think he might steal food. It was rather a dreadful thought but

somehow comforting.

Father was just arriving from the gatehouse. He didn't show any signs of having had his feelings hurt.

He remarked that he'd kept four chapters of his book to read in bed.

"And great strength of mind it required," he added.

Topaz looked rather depressed.

I found Rose lying in the dark because Thomas had borrowed her candle to finish his homework by. She said she didn't mind as her book had

turned out too pretty to be bearable.

I lit my candle-end and stuck it on the melted mass in the candlestick.

I had to crouch low in bed to get enough light to write by. I was just ready to start again, when I saw Rose look round to make sure that I

had closed the door of Buffer. Then she said:

"Did you think of anything when Miss Marcy said Scoatney Hall was being re-opened? I thought of the beginning of Pride and Prejudice where

Mrs.

Bennet says "Netherfield Park is let at last." And then Mr. Bennet goes over to call on the rich new owner."

"Mr. Bennet didn't owe him any rent," I said.

"Father wouldn't go anyway. How I wish I lived in a Jane Austen

novel!"

I said I'd rather be in a Charlotte Bronte.

"Which would be nicest- Jane with a touch of Charlotte, or Charlotte with a touch of Jane ?"

This is the kind of discussion I like very much but I wanted to get on with my journal, so I just said:

"Fifty per cent each way would be perfect," and started to write determinedly. Now it is nearly midnight. I feel rather like a Bronte

myself, writing by the light of a guttering candle with my fingers so numb I can hardly hold the pencil. I wish Stephen hadn't made me think of food, because I have been hungry ever since; which is ridiculous as I had a good egg tea not six hours ago. Oh, dear --I have just thought that if Stephen was worrying about me being hungry, he was probably

hungry himself. We are a household!

I wonder if I can get a few more minutes' light by making wicks of

match sticks stuck into the liquid wax. Sometimes that will work.

It was no good- like trying to write by the light of a glowworm. But

the moon has fought its way through the clouds at last and I can see

by that. It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.

Rose is asleep--on her back, with her mouth wide open. Even like that she looks nice. I hope she is having a beautiful dream about a rich

young man proposing to her.

I don't feel in the least sleepy. I shall hold a little mental chat

with Miss Blossom. Her noble bust looks larger than ever against the

silvery window.

I have just asked her if she thinks Rose and I will ever have anything exciting happen to us, and I distinctly heard her say: "Well, I don't know, ducks, but I do know that sister of yours would be a daisy if she ever got the chance!"

I don't think I should ever be a daisy.."

I could easily go on writing all night but I can't really see and it's extravagant on paper, so I shall merely think. Contemplation seems to be about the only luxury that costs nothing.

III

I have just read this journal from the beginning. I find I can read

the speed-writing quite easily, even the bit I did by moonlight last

night. I am surprised to see how much I have written; with stories

even a page can take me hours, but the truth seems to flow out as fast as I can get it down. But words are very inadequate- anyway, my words are. Could any one reading them picture our kitchen by firelight, or

Belmotte Tower rising towards the moon-silvered clouds, or Stephen

managing to look both noble and humble? (it was most unfair of me to

say he looks a fraction daft.) When I read a book, I put in all the

imagination I can, so that it is almost like writing the book as well as reading it- or rather, it is like living it. It makes reading so