I Capture the Castle

by Dodie Smith

While I was lying awake re-swimming the moat

Love this

“I’ve the evidence of my eyes and ears. Have you watched them together? 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.

“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.

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

Things like this are why I love epistolary novels.

Here I am on the bedroom window-seat with a glass of milk and a now-eaten banana.

And another example immediately after!

Darling Cassandra, I promise you shall never make any more longing cat noises once I am a married woman.

P.S. I have a bathroom all to myself and there are clean peach-coloured towels every single day. Whenever I feel lonely, I go and sit in there till I cheer up.

That is the first letter I ever had from her, as we haven’t been separated since we were very small, when Rose had scarlet fever. It doesn’t sound quite like her, somehow — for one thing, it is much more affectionate; I don’t think she has ever called me “darling” before. Perhaps it is because she is missing me. I do call it a sign of a beautiful nature if a girl who is in love and surrounded by all that splendour is lonely for her sister.

I meant to copy in a letter from Topaz but it is pinned up in the kitchen, most of it being instructions for cooking — about which I am more ignorant than I had realized. We used to manage quite well when she was away sitting for artists, because in those days we lived mostly on bread, vegetables and eggs; but now that we can afford some meat or even chickens, I keep coming to grief. I scrubbed some rather dirty-looking chops with soap which proved very lingering, and I did not take certain things out of a chicken that I ought to have done.

Her letter looks as if it had been written with a stick — she always uses a very thick, orange quill pen. There are six spelling mistakes. After the helpful cooking hints, she mentions the theatre first-night they went to and says the play was not “significant” — a word she has just taken up. Aubrey Fox-Cotton’s architecture is significant, but Leda Fox-Cotton’s photographs are not — Topaz doubts their ultimate motivation. Ultimate with two l’s. Dear Topaz! Her letter is exactly like her — three quarters practical kindness and one quarter spoof. I hope the spoof means she is feeling happier; there has been less and less of it since she has been worrying about father. It must be months since she played her lute or communed with nature.

I longed to call after him: “Father, really! Are you going queer in the head?” But it struck me that if a man is going queer in the head, he is the last person to mention it to. That sentence has brought me up with a bang. Do I really believe my father is going insane? No, of course not. I even have a faint, glorious hope that he may be working — he has twice asked for ink. But it is slightly peculiar that he took my coloured chalks — what was left of them — and an ancient volume of Little Folks; also that he went for a walk carrying an out-of-date Bradshaw railway guide.

It is really a very good thing that he seems to have lost interest in me because, feeling like this, I might not have been brisk with him. Feeling like what, Cassandra Mortmain? Flat? Depressed? Empty? If so, why, pray? I thought if I made myself write I should find out what is wrong with me, but I haven’t, so far. Unless —— could I possibly be jealous of Rose? I will pause and search my innermost soul. . . . . . I have searched it for a solid five minutes. And I swear I am not jealous of Rose; more than that, I should hate to change places with her.

And I still wouldn’t like it. Oh, I’d love the clothes and the wedding. I am not so sure I should like the facts of life, but I have got over the bitter disappointment I felt when I first heard about them, and one obviously has to try them sooner or later. What I’d really hate would be the settled feeling, with nothing but happiness to look forward to.

Of course no life is perfectly happy — Rose’s children will probably get ill, the servants may be difficult, perhaps dear Mrs. Cotton will prove to be the teeniest fly in the ointment. (I should like to know what fly was originally in what ointment.)

I daresay I am being very silly but there it is! I DO NOT ENVY ROSE. When I imagine changing places with her I get the feeling I do on finishing a novel with a brick-wall happy ending — I mean the kind of ending when you never think any more about the characters. . . . . .

I suddenly know what has been the matter with me all week. Heavens, I’m not envying Rose, I’m missing her! Not missing her because she is away now — though I have been a little bit lonely — but missing the Rose who has gone away for ever.

Yesterday I instantly remembered that it was Midsummer Eve, my very favorite day, and lay awake looking forward to it and planning my rites on the mound.

We first held the rites when I was nine — I got the idea from a book on folklore. Mother thought them unsuitable for Christian little girls (I remember my astonishment at being called a Christian) and she was worried in case our dresses caught alight when we danced round our votive fire. She died the following winter and the next Midsummer Eve we had a much bigger fire; and while we were piling more wood on, I suddenly thought of her and wondered if she could see us. I felt guilty, not only because of the fire, but because I no longer missed her and was enjoying myself.

He shoved everything into the bag, hung it on his bicycle and rode off full-tilt, mangling the corner of a flower-bed. At the gatehouse, he suddenly braked, flung himself off and dashed up the tower stairs, leaving the bicycle so insecurely placed that it slid to the ground. By the time I had run across and picked it up, he was coming down carrying the willow-pattern plate. He pushed it into the carpet-bag, then started off again — pedalling frantically, with the bag thumping against his knees. At the first bend of the lane he turned his head sharply and shouted: “Good-bye” — very nearly falling off the bicycle. Then he was gone. Never have I known him so spasmodic — or have I? Wasn’t he rather like that in the days when his temper was violent?

I sincerely hope we learn wtf is up with this dude.

Once I got used to the idea of being by myself for so long I positively liked it. I always enjoy the different feeling there is in a house when one is alone in it, and the thought of that feeling stretching ahead for two whole days somehow intensified it wonderfully.

While I was hanging my bathing-suit out of the bedroom window, I had a sudden longing to lie in the sun with nothing on. I never felt it before — Topaz has always had a monopoly of nudity in our household — but the more I thought of it, the more I fancied it.

It was beautifully private. That tower is the best-preserved of them all; the circle of battlements is complete, though there are a few deep cracks — a marigold had seeded in one of them. Once I lay down flat I couldn’t even see the battlements without turning my head. There was nothing left but the sun-filled dome of the cloudless sky.

What a difference there is between wearing even the skimpiest bathing-suit and wearing nothing! After a few minutes I seemed to live in every inch of my body as fully as I usually do in my head and my hands and my heart. I had the fascinating feeling that I could think as easily with my limbs as with my brain — and suddenly the whole of me thought that Topaz’s nonsense about communing with nature isn’t nonsense at all. The warmth of the sun felt like enormous hands pressing gently on me, the flutter of the air was like delicate fingers. My kind of nature-worship has always had to do with magic and folklore, though sometimes it turned a bit holy. This was nothing like that. I expect it was what Topaz means by “pagan.” Anyway, it was thrilling.

When I looked out across the courtyard a few minutes later he was high on the curtain walls with one leg pointing to heaven, doing some strenuous washing. It gave me the idea of washing my hair.

One of the nicest sights I know is Heloïse smelling a bluebell with her long, white, naked-looking nose. How can people say bull-terriers are ugly? Heloïse is exquisite — though she has put on a bit too much weight, these last opulent weeks.

The bedstead was there when we first came — a double one, rather fancy, now a mass of rusty iron. Father meant to have it moved but when he saw it with the cow-parsley growing through it, stretching up to the light, he took a fancy to it. Rose and I found it useful to sit on — mother was always complaining because our white knickers got marked with rust rings from its spirals. “It’s pure Surrealist,” said Simon, laughing. “I can never understand why there are so many derelict iron bedsteads lying about in the country.” I said it was probably because they last so long, while other rubbish just moulders away. “What a logical girl you are — I could never have worked that out.”

I knew just what he meant. “I used to try to, but they always seemed like figures in tapestry, not human men and women. It’s so far back. But it must mean something to you that one of your ancestors built the tower. It’s a pity the de Godys name died out.” “I’d call my eldest son ‘Etienne de Godys Cotton,’ if I thought he could get by with it in England — would you say he could? It’d certainly slay any American child.” I said I feared it would slay any child in any country.

One thing he said was that he would never get used to the miracle of the long English twilight. It had never before struck me that we have long twilights — Americans do seem to say things which make the English notice England.

Walking down Belmotte was the oddest sensation — every step took us deeper into the mist until at last it closed over our heads. It was like being drowned in the ghost of water.

We had to go very slowly because of rabbits — Heloïse kept trying to go headfirst through the windscreen after them. One poor creature ran in front of us for such a long time that Simon finally stopped the car and turned the headlights off, so that it could summon up the strength of mind to dive into a ditch. While we waited he lit a cigarette, and then we leaned back looking up at the stars and talking about astronomy, and space going on for ever and ever and how very worrying that is.

Then the record changed all by itself — Simon called me away from the window to watch it, and told me about the next piece, “La Cathédrale Engloutie.” You hear the drowned cathedral rise with its bells ringing, then sink into the sea again. “Now you know why I said Debussy could have composed the castle in the mist,” Simon told me.

“Well, Debussy’s certainly made a hit with you,” said Simon, “though I’m not sure you wouldn’t outgrow him. You’re the kind of child who might develop a passion for Bach.” I told him I hadn’t at school. The one Bach piece I learnt made me feel I was being repeatedly hit on the head with a teaspoon.

The next thing I remember quite normally is the sound of Simon laughing. It was the kindest, most gentle laugh but it startled me. “You astonishing child,” he said. I asked what he meant. “Only that you kiss very nicely.” Then he added teasingly, “You must have had quite a lot of practice.”

Wow what an absolute creep.

Oh, I told myself that he belonged to Rose, that I could never win him from her even if I were wicked enough to try, which I never would be. It made no difference. Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return — that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth. And then I happened to catch sight of Miss Blossom’s silhouette and heard her say: “Well, you just hang on to that comforting bit of high-thinking, duckie, because you’re going to need it.” And in some strange, far-off way I knew that was true — yet it still made no difference. I fell asleep happier than I had ever been in my life.

Everything in the least connected with him has value for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me — and I long to mention it myself, I start subjects leading up to it, and then feel myself going red. I keep swearing to myself not to speak of him again — and then an opportunity occurs and I jump at it.

I thought of the chance I missed on May Day when Simon and I walked to the village together. If only I could have been more fascinating! But I decided my fascination would have been embarrassing — I know Simon didn’t care much for Rose’s until he had fallen in love with her beauty; after that, of course, he found the fascination fascinating.

Of course I always pretend that she isn’t in love with Simon, merely after his money. Poor Rose! It is extraordinary how fond I can feel of her really, not to mention guilty towards her — and yet hate her like poison in my imaginings.

Well now I'm definitely seeing how every review mentions coming to hate the narrator Pattaya through the book..

I asked myself if it wasn’t wrong of Simon to kiss me when he is in love with Rose — if he was the sort of man who thinks any girl will do to kiss? Of all the agonies, the worst is when I think badly of Simon; not that I ever do for very long.

Jesus.

Anyway, I think Americans kiss rather easily and frequently — Miss Marcy had some American magazines once and there were pictures of people kissing on almost every page, including the advertisements.

Yeah but kissing because it is literally your job and kissing your fiancee's sister for grins are VERY DIFFERENT, CASSANDRA.

That little glow of comfort lasted me right through the evening but was gone when I woke up next morning. Wakings are the worst times — almost before my eyes are open a great weight seems to roll on to my heart. I can usually roll it off a bit during the day — for one thing, food helps quite a lot, unromantic as that sounds. I have grown more and more ravenous as I have grown more and more miserable. Sleep is wonderful, too — I never thought of it as a pleasure before, but now I long for it. The best time of all is before I fall asleep at night, when I can hold the thought of Simon close to me and feel the misery slip away. I often sleep in the daytime, too. Surely it isn’t normal for anyone so miserably in love to eat and sleep so well? Am I a freak? I only know that I am miserable, I am in love, but I raven food and sleep.

This seems like depression but not quite.

Another great luxury is letting myself cry — I always feel marvellously peaceful after that.

Okay yeah still a lot of signs of depression, minus the "being in love" of it all

As I sloshed along the Godsend road, planning to be careful not to give myself away to the Vicar, I found myself wondering if it would be a relief to confess to someone, as Lucy Snowe did in Villette. The Vicar isn’t High Church enough for confessions, and certainly most of me would have loathed to tell him or anybody else one word; but I did have a feeling that a person as wretched as I was ought to be able to get some sort of help from the Church. Then I told myself that as I never gave the Church a thought when I was feeling happy, I could hardly expect it to do anything for me when I wasn’t. You can’t get insurance money without paying in premiums.

And while I was searching, the Vicar got out biscuits and madeira. I never had madeira before and it was lovely — the idea almost more than the taste, because it made me feel I was paying a morning call in an old novel. For a moment I drew away from myself and thought: “Poor Cassandra! No, it never comes right for her. She goes into a decline.”

He was most interested to hear Simon had spent Midsummer Eve with me and asked lots of questions about it. After that, we got started on religion, which surprised me rather, as the Vicar so seldom mentions it — I mean, to our family; naturally it must come up in his daily life.

“How the intelligent young do fight shy of the mention of God! It makes them feel both bored and superior.” I tried to explain: “Well, once you stop believing in an old gentleman with a beard … It’s only the word God, you know — it makes such a conventional noise.” “It’s merely shorthand for where we come from, where we’re going, and what it’s all about.” “And do religious people find out what it’s all about? Do they really get the answer to the riddle?” “They get just a whiff of an answer sometimes.”

If any — well, unreligious person, needed consolation from religion, I’d advise him or her to sit in an empty church. Sit, not kneel. And listen, not pray. Prayer’s a very tricky business.” “Goodness, is it?” “Well, for inexperienced pray-ers it sometimes is. You see, they’re apt to think of God as a slot-machine. If nothing comes out they say ‘I knew dashed well it was empty’ — when the whole secret of prayer is knowing the machine’s full.” “But how can one know?” “By filling it oneself.” “With faith?” “With faith. I expect you find that another boring word. And I warn you this slot-machine metaphor is going to break down at any moment. But if ever you’re feeling very unhappy — which you obviously aren’t at present, after all the good fortune that’s come to your family recently — well, try sitting in an empty church.” “And listening for a whiff?”

We both laughed and then he said that it was just as reasonable to talk of smelling or tasting God as of seeing or hearing Him. “If one ever has any luck, one will know with all one’s senses — and none of them. Probably as good a way as any of describing it is that we shall ‘come over all queer.’” “But haven’t you already?” He sighed and said the whiffs were few and far between. “But the memory of them everlasting,” he added softly.

This vicar is a much more interesting character than I anticipated him being.

I could hear rain still pouring from the gutters and a thin branch scraping against one of the windows; but the church seemed completely cut off from the restless day outside — just as I felt cut off from the church. I thought: “I am a restlessness inside a stillness inside a restlessness.”

But the next morning, the weight on my heart was the worst I had ever known. It didn’t move at all while I got our breakfasts, and by the time Stephen and Thomas had gone and father had shut himself in the gatehouse, it was so bad that I found myself going round leaning against walls — I can’t think why misery makes me lean against walls, but it does.

I had a look at myself in Miss Marcy’s dressing-table glass and I looked awful — my hair was in rats’-tails, my face was dirty and my expression simply maudlin. For no reason at all, I grinned at myself. Then I began to think: “Who am I? Who am I?” Whenever I do that, I feel one good push would shove me over the edge of lunacy; so I turned away from the glass and tried to get my mind off myself — I did it by taking an interest in Miss Marcy’s room.