I Capture the Castle

by Dodie Smith

I ate half my chocolate and meant to offer the rest to Rose, but Heloïse was lashing her tail so hopefully that I shared with her instead — her gratitude was so intense that I feared she might get in the bath with me.

She gave the dog half her chocolate? 🤨

We ate in the drawing-room, which has been cleaned within an inch of its life. In spite of a log fire, it was icy in there; I have noticed that rooms which are extra clean feel extra cold.

Rose and Topaz are now out searching the hedges for something to put in the big Devon pitchers. Topaz says that if they don’t find anything she will get bare branches and tie something amusing to them — if so, I bet it doesn’t amuse me; one would think that a girl who appreciates nudity as Topaz does would let a bare branch stay bare.

Of course, there didn’t seem any likelihood of his inheriting Scoatney then, but two elder brothers were killed in the war and the other, with his only son, died about twelve years ago, in a car smash.

Car smash.

Am I really admitting that my sister is determined to marry a man she has only seen once and doesn’t much like the look of? It is half real and half pretence — and I have an idea that it is a game most girls play when they meet any eligible young men. They just … wonder. And if any family ever had need of wondering, it is ours. But only as regards Rose. I have asked myself if I am doing any personal wondering and in my deepest heart I am not. I would rather die than marry either of those quite nice men. Nonsense! I’d rather marry both of them than die. But it has come to me, sitting here in the barn feeling very full of cold rice, that there is something revolting about the way girls’ minds so often jump to marriage long before they jump to love. And most of those minds are shut to what marriage really means. Now I come to think of it, I am judging from books mostly, for I don’t know any girls except Rose and Topaz. But some characters in books are very real — Jane Austen’s are; and I know those five Bennets at the opening of Pride and Prejudice, simply waiting to raven the young men at Netherfield Park, are not giving one thought to the real facts of marriage.

I know all about the facts of life. And I don’t think much of them.

There was one dramatic moment when Simon asked me if we owned the castle and I answered: “No — you do!” I hastily added that we had nearly thirty years of our lease to run. I wonder if leases count if you don’t pay the rent. I did not, of course, mention the rent. I felt it might be damping.

I felt, too, that father ought to be in on any form of nourishment that was loose in the house, but I knew it was useless to ask him to come and meet strangers — I was afraid that even if he came down for a biscuit, he would hear voices when he got as far as his bedroom and turn back.

Nourishment that was loose in the house

And then, just when everything was going so swimmingly, Simon Cotton asked the one question I had been praying he wouldn’t ask. He turned to father and said: “And when may we expect the successor to Jacob Wrestling?” I knew I ought to create a diversion by upsetting my cocoa, but I did so want it. And while I was struggling with my greed, father answered: “Never.”

How can a young man like to wear a beard? I wonder if he has a scar?

I can’t write this in the same room with Rose. When I look at her I feel I am watching a rat in a trap that hopes it will get out when I know it won’t. Not that I ever watched a rat in a trap, nor does Rose think she is in one; but this is no moment to be finicky about metaphors.

Topaz has just yelled that she is making cocoa. Oh, comfortable cocoa! Not so good — Topaz has now yelled that it will have to be made with water because the Cottons drank the milk; there was no tea to offer them. Still, any kind of cocoa is good. But it will be agony to know that Rose will think we are having it to celebrate, while Topaz and I know that it is funeral baked meats.

Never have I felt so separate from her. And I regret to say that there were moments when my deep and loving pity for her merged into a desire to kick her fairly hard. For she is a girl who cannot walk her troubles off, or work them off; she is a girl to sit around and glare.

It is rather like her imperviousness to cold; father once said she had a plush-lined skin and there are times when I think she has plush-lined feelings. But they certainly aren’t plush-lined where father himself is concerned.

As it turned out, the potato-cakes were spoilt; because while we were eating them, we had one of those family rows which are so funny in books and on the pictures. They aren’t funny in real life, particularly when they happen at meals, as they so often do. They always make me shake and feel rather sick. The trouble arose because Thomas asked Rose to pass the salt three times and she took no notice, and when he shouted at her, she leaned forward and boxed his ears. Topaz said: “Blast you, Rose, you know Thomas gets ear-ache.” And Rose said: “You would bring that up — I suppose he’ll die and I’ll be responsible.” Father said: “Damnation!” and pushed his chair back on to Heloïse, who yelped. And I said: “I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it,” which was ridiculous. Stephen was the only person who kept calm; he got up quietly to see if Heloïse was badly hurt. She wasn’t, and she came off very well because we gave her most of the potato-cakes. Our appetites came back later when there was nothing worth eating.

That evening of the row was our lowest depths; miserable people cannot afford to dislike each other. Cruel blows of fate call for extreme kindness in the family circle.

(“Just think,” said Rose, “if father hadn’t married Topaz we might be rolling in wealth by now.” And I asked myself if I would rather roll than have Topaz in the family and decided I wouldn’t, which was nice to know.)

And when we woke up yesterday it was more like June than April. Oh, it was the most glorious morning! I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.

We were driving through Godsend and the early sun was striking the moss-grown headstones in the churchyard. I tried to realize that I shall die myself one day; but I couldn’t believe it — and then I had a flash that when it really happens I shall remember that moment and see again the high Suffolk sky over the old, old Godsend graves.

I was careful to avoid her eye until we were well past the park, spending two tactful minutes buttoning a one-buttoned shoe.

It was three years since we had been in London. We never knew it well, of course; yesterday was the first time I ever walked through the City. It was fascinating, especially the stationers’ shops — I could look at stationers’ shops for ever and ever. Rose says they are the dullest shops in the world except, perhaps, butchers’. (I don’t see how you can call butchers’ shops dull; they are too full of horror.)

We said we saw, and went. Rose was furious that no one more important than a clerk had bothered to see us. “It’s not respectful to Aunt Millicent,” she said, indignantly. “Treating us like small fry!” I didn’t mind what kind of fry I was, with four pounds in hand.

The lily-pond was dry in Aunt Millicent’s little flagged garden. I hoped the goldfish had found good homes.

“It does feel queer,” I said when the door was closed and the sunny day shut out. “It only feels cold,” said Rose. “I suppose the clothes’ll be in her bedroom. I wonder if she died there.” I thought it a tactless thing to wonder out loud.

And rows and rows of flat-heeled shoes on wooden trees, which upset me most of all — I kept thinking of them as dead feet.

“People’s clothes ought to be buried with them,” I said. “They oughtn’t to be left behind to be despised.” “I’m not despising them,” said Rose. “Some of these suits are made of wonderful cloth.” But she was bundling them into the trunks in a somehow insulting way. I made myself take them out and fold them carefully, and had a mental picture of Aunt Millicent looking relieved. “She always liked her suits to be well-pressed and brushed,” I said. “As if it mattered to her now!” said Rose.

We bundled the clothes in hurriedly — I am ashamed to say I forgot about Aunt Millicent’s dead feelings.

His hair was oily and his complexion spotty, but his heart was kind.

The pale grey carpets were as springy as moss and the air was scented; it smelt a bit like bluebells but richer, deeper. “What does it smell of, exactly?” I said. And Rose said: “Heaven.”

“That’s how we ought to dress,” she said. We stood there staring at the scent and stockings and things — we saw one woman buy a dozen pairs of silk stockings — until I said: “We’re like Ab when he sees birds fly past the window. At any moment we’ll let out wistful cat noises.” Rose said she felt just like that.

It was extraordinary, I had the most affectionate feelings for all those furs — no horror of them at all, as I had of Aunt Millicent’s clothes, though I knew they must all have been worn by dead people. I thought about it a lot, getting warmer and warmer in the beaver, and I decided that it was like the difference between the beautiful old Godsend graves and the new ones open to receive coffins (which I never can bear to look at); that time takes the ugliness and horror out of death and turns it into beauty.

Oh, I could think of lines that rhymed and scanned but that is all they were. I know now that is all my poems ever were, yet I used to feel I could leap over the moon when I had made one up. I miss that rather.

But before I had gone a couple of yards, the beam of a torch shone out. I saw Rose clearly. She had got beyond the end of the platform and was scrambling up the little embankment, and as she was on all fours she really did look exactly like a bear. There was a wild shout from the people on the platform. Rose topped the embankment and disappeared over into the fields. “Foxearth Farm’s over there,” shouted a woman. “They’ve got three little children.”

How queer to think that the old lady in the black military cloak was the Miss Milly who went to the dancing class! It makes me wonder what I shall be like when I am old.

“Mrs. Cotton’s with them!” I cried, as they came round the last bend of the lane. Father said he would meet them at the gatehouse arch — “It’s not going to be my fault if anything goes wrong this time; I’ve promised Topaz.” Then he looked a bit grim and added: “I’m glad you’re still on the young side to be marketed.”

This last bit seems incredibly creepy.

I bolted back to Rose and Topaz. They had lit a wood fire in the drawing-room and arranged some daffodils. The fire made the room feel more springlike than ever.

That's weird. I would have thought it was the daffodils..

“But I can’t see how anyone could believe that you killed the bear with a pitchfork,” I said. “I didn’t. I only wounded it — badly, I think, but not enough to put it out of action. It came blundering towards me, I stepped aside and it crashed head-first into the river — I could hear it threshing about in the darkness. I picked up a big stone — poor brute, I hated to do it but I had to finish it off. It gave just one groan as the stone hit it and then went down. I held the lantern high; I could see the bubbles coming up. And then I saw the dark bulk of it under the water, being carried along by the current.” “But you didn’t have a lantern,” I said. “He didn’t have a bear,” said Topaz. For a moment I had almost believed him myself — and felt most desperately sorry for the bear. No wonder Mrs. Cotton has been deceived.

“Mother made us go over to compensate the circus owner this morning,” he went on, grinning. “It’s just a midget of a circus — he didn’t have any bears at all, as a matter of fact; but he said he’d be delighted to back our story up — he hoped it might get him a bit of publicity. I tried to buy one of his lions but he wouldn’t sell.” “What did you want a lion for?” I asked. “Oh, they were kind of cute,” he said vaguely.

Miss Marcy shot her a quick glance and Topaz gave her the very faintest nod. I nearly laughed — they were so different, Miss Marcy like a rosy little bird and Topaz tall and pale, like a slightly dead goddess, but just that second they so much resembled each other in their absolute lust to marry Rose off.

Lol forever at "slightly dead goddess."

Early this morning I met Stephen letting out the hens and told him Rose would like him to stop saying “Miss.” I was splendidly brisk; it’s easy to be brisk in the early morning.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No — a journal ought not to cheat. And I feel sure no one but me can read my speed-writing. But I shall hide the book — I always lock it up in my school attaché case and this time I shall take the case out to Belmotte Tower; I have a special place for hiding things there that not even Rose knows of.

Rose had a real crinoline to wear under the dress; only a small one but it made all the difference. We borrowed it from Mr. Stebbins’s grandmother, who is ninety-two. When the dress was finished, he brought her over to see Rose in it and she told us she had worn the crinoline at her wedding in Godsend Church, when she was sixteen. I thought of Waller’s “Go, lovely Rose” — How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair! — though I refrained from mentioning it; the poor old lady was crying enough without that. But she said she had enjoyed the outing.

This is so cute!

It was thrilling when we started to get dressed. There was still some daylight left, but we drew the curtains and brought up the lamp and lit candles, because I once read that women of fashion dress for candlelight by candlelight.

Father came from the bathroom and went through to his bedroom. The next second I heard him shout: “Good God, what have you done to yourself?” He sounded so horrified that I thought Topaz had had some accident. I dashed into Buffer State but stopped myself outside their bedroom door; I could see her from there. She was wearing a black evening dress that she never has liked herself in, a very conventional dress. Her hair was done up in a bun and she had make-up on — not much, just a little rouge and lipstick. The result was astounding. She looked quite ordinary — just vaguely pretty but not worth a second glance. Neither of them saw me. I heard her say: “Oh, Mortmain, this is Rose’s night. I want all the attention to be focussed on her —” I tiptoed back to the bedroom. I was bewildered at such unselfishness, particularly as she had spent hours mending her best evening dress. I knew what she meant, of course — at her most striking she can make Rose’s beauty look like mere prettiness. Suddenly I remembered that first night the Cottons came here, how she tried to efface herself. Oh, noble Topaz!

When they came down Topaz was as white as usual and her silvery hair, which was at its very cleanest, was hanging down her back. She had her best dress on which is Grecian in shape, like a clinging grey cloud, with a great grey scarf which she had draped round her head and shoulders. She looked most beautiful — and just how I imagine the Angel of Death.

The Cottons’ car came, with a uniformed chauffeur, and out we sailed. I was harrowed at leaving Stephen and Thomas behind, but Topaz had arranged they should have a supper with consoling sausages.

Consoling sausages

Father looked very handsome in his evening clothes and he was kind and smiling but I could see he was nervous; at least, I thought I could, but then it struck me how little I know of him, or of Topaz or Rose or anyone in the world, really, except myself.

And just as I was feeling ashamed of ever having thought her bogus, she said in a voice like plum-cake: “Look, Mortmain, look! Oh, don’t you long to be an old, old man in a lamp-lit inn?” “Yes, particularly one with rheumatism,” said father. “My dear, you’re an ass.”

This all went straight over my head.

We called for the Vicar, which made it rather a squash, what with Rose’s crinoline … He is the nicest man — about fifty, plump, with curly golden hair; rather like an elderly baby — and most unholy.

After he’d had a look at us he said: “Mortmain, your women are spectacular.” “I’m not,” I said. “Ah, but you’re the insidious type — Jane Eyre with a touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl. I like your string of coral.”

This is a very strange compliment from a vicar.