I Capture the Castle

by Dodie Smith

I had never met a butler before and he made me feel self-conscious, but the Vicar knew him and said something normal to him.

Lol at "something normal."

It was a wonderful dinner with real champagne (lovely, rather like very good ginger ale without the ginger). But I wish I could have had that food when I wasn’t at a party, because you can’t notice food fully when you are being polite.

“Tell you another thing that’s wrong over here,” Neil went on, waving his fork slightly. “Look at the way everything’s being handed to your stepmother first. Back home it’d be handed to mother.” “Don’t you care to be polite to the guest?” I said. Dear me, what a superior little horror I must have sounded. “But it is polite — it’s a lot more considerate, anyway. Because the hostess can always show you what to do with the food — if you turn out soup on your plate or take a whole one of anything — don’t you see what I mean?” I saw very clearly and I did think it a wonderfully good idea.

This is actually pretty genius.

The Vicar was watching us across the table. “When this house was built, people used daggers and their fingers,” he said. “And it’ll probably last until the days when men dine off capsules.” “Fancy asking friends to come over for capsules,” I said. “Oh, the capsules will be taken in private,” said father. “By that time, eating will have become unmentionable. Pictures of food will be considered rare and curious, and only collected by rude old gentlemen.”

“And I warn you I’m quite unsnubbable, Mr. Mortmain. When a writer so potentially great as you keeps silent so long, it’s somebody’s duty to find out the reason. Automatically, one’s first guess is drink, but that’s obviously not your trouble. There must be some psychological —” Just then Neil spoke to me. “Quiet, a minute,” I whispered, but I missed the rest of Mrs. Cotton’s speech. Father said: “Good God, you can’t say things like that to me at your own dinner table.” “Oh, I always employ shock tactics with men of genius,” said Mrs. Cotton. “And one has to employ them in public or the men of genius bolt.” “I’m perfectly capable of bolting, in public or out,” said father — but I could tell he wasn’t going to; there was an easy, amused tone in his voice that I hadn’t heard for years.

And anyway, I think we must cure you of this habit of generalizing about America on the strength of two short lecture tours.” Serve father right — he has always talked as if he had brought America home in his trouser pocket.

Naturally I wanted to go on listening, but I saw Mrs. Cotton notice me; so I turned quickly to Neil. “All right now,” I said. “What was it?” he asked. “Did you think you’d broken a tooth?” I laughed and told him what I had been listening to.

I asked him if he liked Rose’s dress — mostly to change the conversation. He said: “Not very much, if you want the honest truth — it’s too fussy for me. But she looks very pretty in it. Knows it, too, doesn’t she?” There was a twinkle in his eye which took off the rudeness. And I must admit that Rose was knowing it all over the place.

“Oh, talk to the Vicar — give me a rest,” he said. “But I shall return to the attack,” said Mrs. Cotton. Her eyes were sparkling and she looked about twice as healthy as anyone normally does.

As we went upstairs, Topaz slipped her arm through mine. “Could you hear?” she whispered. “Is he really enjoying himself? Or was he just putting it on?” I told her I thought it was genuine. “It’s wonderful to see him like that” — but her voice sounded wistful. It is one of her theories that a woman must never be jealous, never try to hold a man against his will; but I could tell that she hadn’t enjoyed seeing someone else bring father to life.

The bathroom was unbelievable — the walls were looking-glass! And there was a glass table with at least half-a-dozen bottles of scent and toilet water on it. (Americans say “perfume” instead of “scent” — much more correct, really; I don’t know why “perfume” should be considered affected in England.) “Simon says this bathroom’s an outrage on the house,” said Mrs. Cotton, “but I’ve no use for antiquity in bathrooms.” “Isn’t it lovely?” I said to Rose. “Glorious,” she said, in an almost tragic voice. I could see she was liking it so much that it really hurt her.

“And Cassandra’s a Reynolds, of course — the little girl with the mousetrap.” “I’m not!” I said indignantly. “I hate that picture. The mouse is terrified, the cat’s hungry and the girl’s a cruel little beast. I refuse to be her.” “Ah, but you’d let the mouse out of the trap and find a nice dead sardine for the cat,” said Simon. I began to like him a little better.

I haven’t the faintest idea what Surrealism is, but I can easily imagine snakes in Mrs. F-C’s ears — and I certainly shouldn’t blame them for coming out.

“Let’s go and talk to them,” he said, “unless you want me to dance with you. I dance like an india-rubber ball.”

She grabbed a wing of chicken and sat there gnawing it. Neil offered me some, but my appetite had gone off.

A wing of chicken

We all went to see them off — the bicycles were somewhere at the back of the house. On the way, we passed through a storeroom where enormous hams were hanging. “Old Mr. Cotton sent us one of those every Christmas,” said Thomas. “Only he was dead last Christmas.” Neil reached up and took the largest ham off its hook. “There you are, Tommy,” he said. “Oh, Thomas, you can’t!” I began — but I didn’t want Neil to call me Great-Aunt Cassandra so I finished up: “Well, I suppose you have.” And I certainly would have fainted with despair if Thomas had refused the ham. In the end, I undertook to bring it home because he couldn’t manage it on his bicycle.

There was a late feeling about the evening — just as there used to be at children’s parties (the few I ever went to) after the first nurse arrived to take a child home.

“If only I could get Simon to shave,” Rose went on. Then her voice went hard. “Anyway, what does it matter? I’d marry him even if I hated him. Cassandra, did you ever see anything as beautiful as Mrs. Cotton’s bathroom?” “Yes, lots of things,” I said firmly. “And no bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate.”

We were restless for ages. I tried to invent something soothing for Miss Blossom to say but I wasn’t in the mood. After a while I heard an owl hooting and calmed myself by thinking of it flying over the dark fields — and then I remembered it would be pouncing on mice. I love owls, but I wish God had made them vegetarian. Rose kept flinging herself over in bed.

I blame father for lots of things but not for that — because it really is agony to talk to her about books. When I was longing for a calm discussion of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, she said “Ah, it’s the overlapping dimensions that are so wonderful. I tried to paint it once, on a circular canvas” — and then she couldn’t remember who Natasha was.

I don't know who Natasha is either, but I've never read it, so I'm probably missing some context, but the painting thing is funny.

Topaz had boiled half the ham. She said it would go further if we didn’t cut it until it was quite cold, but Thomas insisted — he has been very possessive about that ham. We all fanned it with newspapers until the last moment. It was wonderful, of course — ham with mustard is a meal of glory.

Father was sitting on the window-seat polishing his shoes with the curtain. When he got up he was covered with Heloïse’s white hairs from the seat-pad. “Is there no place a man in a dark suit can sit in this house?” he shouted as he went to the hall for the clothes-brush. “Not unless we dye Hel black,” I said. I brushed him; but what with the brush having lost most of its bristles, his suit having lost most of its nap and Heloïse having lost more hairs than seemed believable, the result was poor.

Rose came out of the kitchen with a slice of bread and jam, and passed us without a word — I gathered she and Topaz had had a very sharp row while I was brushing father. We found that the porridge was burnt — than which there can be few less pleasing forms of food; and what with this and Topaz’s mood of gloom, we had a depressing meal. (The boys, of course, had gone off earlier; after a hammy breakfast.)

Where the heck is this "than which" coming from? Is this a typo or am I just reading this entire section wrong?

I felt she would find it better alone and I wanted to write in my journal; I had finished the evening at Scoatney but there were some reflections about life I wanted to record. (I never did record them — and have now forgotten what they were.)

Classic.

“He’s rather like a detective story himself,” said Simon, “‘The Case of the Buried Talent.’ I wish I could solve it. I’d so much like to write about him.” I hadn’t known that he wrote. I asked what sort of things. “Oh, critical essays, mostly — just spare-time work. I’ve only had a few things published. Your father’d be a superb subject — if I could find out what monkey-wrench got thrown into his works.” “It would be even better if you could get the monkey-wrench out,” I said. “Well, finding it’s the first step.”

I was planning to tell Rose encouraging things about him. I was glad to see that he has nice ears, because she values good ears.

Just then he opened his eyes and said: “You don’t like it, do you?” I felt myself blushing. “Like what?” I said. “My beard,” said Simon. “You were wondering how any man could wear one — unless, of course, it has acquired a fascination of horror for you. Which is it?” “As a matter of fact, I’m getting used to it.” He laughed and said that was the ultimate humiliation — everyone did. “Everyone except me,” he added. “I never see myself in a glass without feeling astonished.” “Would it be rude to ask just why you do wear it?” “It would be natural, anyway. I grew it when I was twenty-two, for a bet, and then kept it out of sheer pig-headedness — it looked so wonderfully unsuitable for a Wall Street office; I was with a cousin of my mother’s there and our dislike was mutual. And I think I felt a beard kept me in touch with literature. But it probably has some deep psychological significance — I expect I’m trying to hide an infamous nature from the world.” “Well, it’s quite the nicest beard I ever saw,” I said. “Do you think you’ll ever get rid of it?” For some reason, that made him laugh. Then he said: “Oh, in ten or twelve years, perhaps — say when I’m forty. It’ll be so useful to come down without it one morning, looking twenty years younger.

How odd that beards were so uncommon then.

“Everything about her’s pretty.” He went on to talk of her for quite a quarter of a mile: how different she was from the average modern girl — and because of that he hadn’t understood her, had thought her affected — when what she was, of course, was unique. Everything Rose does is original, apparently, even the way she dances, inventing little steps of her own. And she is so intelligent — he kindly said I was, too, but Rose is a wit (a fact not as yet disclosed to her family).

As a rule, Mrs. Jakes only serves bread-and-cheese but she managed cold sausages as well, and some honey and cake. Neil ate his sausage with honey, which simply fascinated me — but by then almost everything was fascinating me. Cherry brandy is wonderful. But I don’t think my haze of content was all due to the cherry brandy — the glasses are so small. (I had lemonade for my thirst.) It was everything together that was so pleasant — the food out-of-doors, the sunshine, the sky through the chestnut tree, Neil being nice to me and Simon being more than nice to Rose; and, of course, the cherry brandy did help.

Neil is amusing — though it is more the laconic way he says things than what he actually says; sometimes he sounds almost grim and yet you know he is joking. I believe this is called wise-cracking.

Rose went in the back of the car with Simon. Heloïse and I were at the front — part of the time Neil drove with his arm round her. “Gosh, what sex-appeal she has,” he said. Then he told her she was a cute pooch, but would she please not wash his ears? Not that it stopped her; Heloïse can never see a human ear at tongue-level without being a mother to it.

“Oh, Rose, don’t bank on things too much,” I begged. “Simon may not have the faintest idea of proposing — American men are used to being just friends with girls. And they probably think we’re too comic for words — just as Neil thinks the English country is.”

“How on earth are we to return their hospitality? I’ve been wondering ever since we went to Scoatney. Dinner’s impossible — with no dining-room furniture. Could we manage a picnic lunch?” “No, we couldn’t,” said Rose, “we’d only make a mess of it. Leave them alone — let them run after us.” She went off upstairs. Topaz said: “Don’t blame her too much — the first time girls feel their power it often takes them like that.” Then she yawned so much that I left her to finish her nap.

The room smelt damp and earthy. It didn’t feel like anywhere in the castle as we know it now, but as the kitchen did when we saw it first, at sunset. I wondered if Stephen was haunted by the ghosts of ancient hens.

“Well, he wasn’t with Mrs. Cotton, anyway,” I said, “because he was at the British Museum.” “As if that proves anything,” said Topaz, gloomily. “People do nothing but use it for assignations—I met him there myself once, in the mummy room.”

🤢

“Cassandra, he’s going out of his mind. He’s got a sheet of graph paper pinned to his desk and he told me to ask Thomas to lend him some compasses. And when I told him Thomas was asleep he said: ‘Then bring me a goat. Oh, go to bed, go to bed.’ Heavens, does he really want a goat?” “Of course not,” I said laughing. “It’s just an idiotic association of words—you know, ‘Goat and Compasses’; they sometimes call inns that. I’ve heard him make that sort of joke before and very silly I always think it is.” She looked faintly disappointed—I think she had rather fancied hauling some goat in out of the night.

Goat and compasses??

I tried to get her to talk some more — I was ready to enjoy a little exciting anticipation — but she wasn’t forthcoming. And I quite understood; when things mean a very great deal to you, exciting anticipation just isn’t safe.

“I hate that Fox-Cotton woman,” I said. “Well, I warned him to keep his eyes open,” said Topaz. “And of course, her interest really may be only professional. Though I must say I doubt it.” “Do you mean she might make love to him?” I gasped — and for the first time really knew just why I minded his going. “Well, somebody will, sooner or later. But I’d rather it was some nice girl in the village. It’s no use looking horrified, Cassandra. You mustn’t be a dog in the manger.”

Father came home while I was describing our day to Topaz. (Not one word did he say about what he had been doing in London.) He had travelled on the same train as Mrs. Cotton and asked her to dinner on the next Saturday — with Simon and Neil, of course. For once, Topaz really got angry. “Mortmain, how could you?” she simply shouted at him. “What are we to give them — and what on? You know we haven’t a stick of dining-room furniture.” “Oh, give them ham and eggs in the kitchen,” said father, “they won’t mind. And they’ve certainly provided enough ham.” We stared at him in utter despair. It was a good thing Rose wasn’t there because I really think she might have struck him, he looked so maddeningly arrogant. Suddenly he deflated.

It was fascinating watching his head next to hers in the lantern light — his so dark and hers so glowing. I tried and tried to think of some way of leaving them by themselves up there, but there are limits to human invention.

It was only while I was changing that I fully realized what I had let myself in for — I who hate cold water so much that even putting on a bathing-suit makes me shiver. I went down the kitchen stairs feeling like an Eskimo going to his frozen hell.

I could see the full length of the moat because the moon was rising. It was casting the most unearthly light across the green wheat — so beautiful that I nearly forgot the horror of having to bathe. How moons do vary! Some are white, some are gold, this was like a dazzling circle of tin — I never saw a moon look so hard before.

“Where are you, Cassandra?” he called. I called back that I was coming, then put one toe in the water to know the worst. It was a far worse worst than I anticipated, and a brave idea I’d had of getting my going-in agonies over by myself, and swimming towards him, vanished instantly — I felt that a respite of even a few moments was well worth having.

I talked about the beauty of the night. I told him the winning anecdote of how I tried to cross the moat in a clothes-basket after I first heard about coracles.

He did a cautious dive — and came up looking a very surprised man. “Gosh, that was cold,” he shouted. “And after all the sunshine we’ve been having!” As if our moat took any notice of sunshine! It is fed by a stream that apparently comes straight from Greenland.

We swam on our backs, looking up at the sheer, unbroken walls — never had they seemed to me so high. The water made slapping, chuckling noises against them and they gave out a mysterious smell — as when thunder-rain starts on a hot day, but dank and weedy and very much of a night-time smell too.

I was tired by then so I floated and Neil did too; it was lovely just drifting along, staring up at the stars. That was when we first heard the Vicar at the piano, playing “Air from Handel’s Water Music,” one of his nicest pieces — I guessed he had chosen it to suit our swim, which I took very kindly. It came to us softly but clearly; I wished I could have floated on for hours listening to it, but I soon felt cold and had to swim fast again.

“Yes, you are, you’re beginning to shiver — so am I.” He took his arm from my shoulders. “Come on, where do we find towels?” Never has such an innocent question so kicked me in the solar plexus. Towels! We have so few that on wash-days we just have to shake ourselves. “Oh, I’ll get you one,” I said airily; then picked my way across the ruins very slowly, so as to give myself time to think. I knew we had two pink guest-towels in the bathroom — that is, they were meant as guest-towels; they were really tiny afternoon-tea napkins, kindly lent by Miss Marcy. Could I offer those to a large wet man? I could not.

“How do you like Simon without his beard?” Rose called after me. I knew I ought to have spoken about it before but I’d had an embarrassed feeling. “Wonderful!” I shouted. But was it? Of course he looked years and years younger and I was astonished to see how handsome he was. But there was something defenceless about his face, as if strength had gone out of it. Oh, his chin isn’t weak — it wasn’t anything like that. It was just that he had … a lost sort of look. How on earth did Rose get him to shave, I wondered, as I collected Neil’s things. I guessed she had dared him to.

“Yes, very handsome. What happened next?” “I said: ‘That’s wonderful, Simon. I like you a thousand times better. Thank you very, very much for doing it for me.’ And then he asked me to marry him.” I didn’t tell her I’d heard. I shouldn’t like anyone to hear me being proposed to. She went on: “Then — it was queer, really, because I’m sure I didn’t hear you in the tower — I suddenly thought of you. I remembered your saying I wouldn’t know how I felt about him until I’d let him kiss me. And you were right — oh, I knew that I liked him and admired him, but I still didn’t know if I was in love. And there was my chance to find out — with the proposal safe in advance! So I asked him to kiss me. And it was wonderful — as wonderful as —”