Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle
"Perhaps it's better than heavy resignation," I suggested, trying to be comforting.
"He was shockingly bad-tempered when we were little- when he was writing. You know about Mother and the cake knife
Topaz looked suddenly hopeful.
"He can massacre me if it'll really help him," she said. Then the light died out of her eyes.
"But I'm no good to him. It's that woman who's started him."
"Gracious, we don't know if anything's started him," I said.
"We've had so many false alarms. Where did he get the money to go to London ?"
She said she had given him five pounds of the Vicar's rug money.
"Though I didn't think he'd spend it on seeing her." Then she added nobly: "I suppose I oughtn't even to mind that, if she stimulates him."
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.) "I shall go and dig until I find peace," said Topaz, when we had done the washing-up and made the beds.
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.) As I settled myself down on
Belmotte mound, I saw Rose going along the lane with Mrs.
Stebbins's crinoline; Stephen had brought word that the old lady was
fretting for it. He had refused to take it back for Rose because he
said he'd feel embarrassed. Rose had it over her shoulder; she did
look peculiar.
I decided to think a little before I began writing, and lay back
enjoying the heat of the sun and staring up at the great blue bowl of the sky. It was lovely feeling the warm earth under me and the
springing grass against the palms of my hands while my mind was drawn upwards. Unfortunately my thoughts will never stay exalted for very
long, and soon I was gloating over my new green dress and wondering if it would suit me to curl my hair. I closed my eyes, as I usually do
when I am thinking very hard. Gradually I slid into imagining Rose
married to Simon--it doesn't seem to matter when you imagine about
other people, it only stops things happening when you do it about
yourself. I gave Rose a lovely wedding and got to where she was alone with Simon at a Paris hotel--she was a little frightened of him, but I made her enjoy that.
He was looking at her the way he did at dinner when he raised his glass to I opened my eyes. He was there, the real Simon Cotton, looking at
me.
I hadn't heard a sound. One second I had seen him in the Paris hotel, brilliantly clear yet somehow tiny and far away, rather as one sees
things in a convex mirror; the next instant he was like a giant against the sky. I had been lying with the sun on my eyelids so that for a
minute nothing was the right color. The grass and sky were bleached
and his face looked ashen. But his beard was still black.
"Did I startle you?" he asked, smiling.
"I had a bet with myself I'd get up the hill without your hearing.
Oh--you weren't asleep, were you ?"
"Not quite so early in the day," I said, sitting up blinking. He sat down beside me. It was the queerest feeling--changing the man I had
imagined to the real man. I had made him so fascinating, and of course he isn't really- though very, very nice; I know that now.
He and Neil had driven down just for the day; Neil had dropped him at the end of our lane and gone on to Scoatney -which sounded as if he
weren't very interested in us.
"I'm sorry to have missed your sister," said Simon, "but Mrs. Mortmain hopes she'll be back soon."
I said I was sure she would, though I really thought she would be gone at least an hour, and wondered if I could be interesting enough to
keep him talking as long as that. I asked him if they were having a
good time in London.
"Oh, yes--I love London. But it seems a waste not to be here in this weather." He leaned back on his elbow, gazing across the fields.
"I never knew the English spring could be so dazzling."
I said it astonished one every year.
"Well, after next week we'll be back here for some time--that is, Neil and I will; Mother's absorbed in her new apartment--flat, as I keep
forgetting to call it. Leda and Aubrey are helping her to choose the
furniture. Oh, that reminds me"--he took an envelope from his
pocket--"I ought to have left this at the castle.
It's for that nice boy Stephen; his fare to London, from Leda."
"I'll give it to him," I said. I wondered if Stephen had written saying he could go, or if she had just sent the money to tempt him.
Simon handed me the envelope.
"Tell me about him," he said.
"How does he come to speak so differently from the other village boys
?"
Of course Stephen speaks just as we do--except that he chooses rather humble words. I explained about him.
"I wonder what he'll make of Leda," said Simon.
"She wants to pose him with some casts of Greek sculpture.
She'll have him in a tunic if he's not careful, or out of it. He
certainly has a marvelous head--perhaps he'll end in Hollywood."
I shut the envelope in my journal so that it wouldn't blow away.
"What's that? Lessons ?" asked Simon.
"Heavens, no, I left school long ago."
"I do apologize," he said, laughing.
"I still think of you as that little girl in the bath. Is it a story his Read me a bit."
I told him it was my journal and that I had just finished the party at Scoatney.
"Do I come in it his I'll give you a box of candy if you'll let me read a page."
"All right," I said.
He grabbed the exercise book. After a second or two he looked up from it.
"You've swindled me. Is it your own private code ?"
"More or less--though it did begin as real speed-writing. It changed by degrees. And I got it smaller and smaller, so as not to waste
paper."
He turned the pages and guessed a word here and there but I could see I was safe. After a minute or two he said:
"I was reading the journal in Jacob Wrestling again yesterday-I
happened to pick up a first edition. It's odd to remember how obscure I found that part when I read it at sixteen. By the time I came to do it in college it seemed perfectly intelligible."
"The only part that still puzzles me is the ladder chapter--you know, where it's printed so that it actually looks like a ladder, with a
sentence for every rung. Father won't answer questions about that."
"Maybe he can't. I've always believed it's the description of some mystical experience. Of course you know the theory that each rung
leads to the next, even though the sentences seem so unconnected?"
"Indeed I don't," I said.
"Dear me, it's so extraordinary to hear of people having theories about Father's work and studying it in college thousands of miles away. It
must be more important than we realize."
"Well, it's one of the forerunners of postwar literature. And your Father's a link in the chain of writers who have been obsessed by
form. If only he'd carried his methods further!"
"But didn't you say he couldn't? That Jacob Wrestling was corn
complete in itself, as far as he was concerned--that it couldn't have a successor ?"
He looked at me quickly.
"Fancy your remembering that! Do you know, I'm ashamed to say that didn't mean very much it was an effort to be tactful when I knew I'd
put my foot in it."
I told him I'd guessed that, which made him laugh.
"You nasty noticing child! But I don't think your father spotted me.
And in one way, what I said's true, you know --he can't exactly develop his Jacob Wrestling method, because other writers have gone far ahead of him on rather similar lines;
James Joyce, for instance.
He'd have to take an enormous jump over intervening work and he hasn't even kept in touch with it.
I wonder if that could be what's stopping him writing, that the next
rung of the ladder-since we're talking of ladders- has been used by
others. How's that for a theory? Or am I just trying to rationalize
my phoniness that first evening ?"
"Well, it's a nice change from the theory that he can't write because he went to jail," I said.
"That's fantastic, of course--why, the reports of the case read like something in Gilbert and Sullivan. And Mother says his description of his life in prison was even funnier."
"You mean he actually told her ?" I gasped never have I heard him mention one word about his life in prison.
"She asked him point-blank- I must say I wouldn't have dared.
She says he looked for a second as if he were going to strike her and then launched cheerfully into a half-hour monologue. Oh, I'm sure
prison isn't the root of the trouble."
I said I had never believed it myself.
"But it is queer that he's never written a thing since he came out."
"It certainly is. Of course he ought to be psychoanalyzed."
I suppose no normally intelligent person living in the
nineteen-thirties can fail to have some faint inkling of what
psychoanalysis is, but there are few things about which I know less. I asked Simon to explain it to me.
"Good Lord, that's a tall order," he said, laughing.
"And I've only the haziest layman's idea of it myself. But let's see, now: I think a psychoanalyst would say the trouble lay much further
back than those few months in prison--but that prison might have
brought it to the surface. He'd certainly explore that period
thoroughly-make your Father remember every detail of it; in a way, he'd have to be put back in prison."
"You don't mean physically ?"
"No, of course not. Though--let me think now-yes, I suppose it's just conceivable that if the trouble did arise in prison, another period of imprisonment might resolve it. But it's very farfetched-and quite
unworkable anyhow, because if he consented to imprisonment, he wouldn't really feel imprisoned; and no psychoanalyst would dare to imprison him without his consent."
"No psychoanalyst would ever get within miles of him. The very mention of psychoanalysis always annoys him--he says it's all rubbish."
"Well, it sometimes is," said Simon, "but not always. The fact that he's prejudiced against it might be symptomatic. By the way, I suppose you're sure he isn't working on something secretly ?"
"I don't see how he could be--we can see right into the gatehouse, there are windows back and front, and he hardly goes near his desk. He just sits reading his old detective stories. He did raise our hopes a few weeks ago- Topaz saw him writing. But it turned out to be a
crossword puzzle."
"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." He lay back on the grass with his eyes closed, thinking. I took the opportunity to have a good look at
him. It was queer to notice how young his skin looked, contrasted with the beard. I had been liking him better and better all the time we had been talking and 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. People do look different with their eyes closed, their features seem so much more sculptured. Simon's mouth is very sculptured- an
interesting mouth. I heard myself telling Rose: "Do you know, I think he might be quite an exciting sort of man ?"
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 x."...."
He laughed and said that was the ultimate humiliation -every one 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 pigheadedness-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.
Does your sister hate it ?"
I wondered if I said "Yes," whether he would shave it off to please Rose. And I suddenly wasn't sure that I wanted it to go.
"You must ask her yourself," I said, laughing.
He looked at his watch and said he was afraid he couldn't wait any
longer for her.
"Neil's picking me up at the Godsend inn at a quarter after twelve. Be a nice companionable child and walk to the village with me."
He got up and held out his hand to pull me to my feet. Then he looked up at Belmotte Tower.
"I meant to ask you to show me over that," he said, "but there's no time now. It's more impressive than ever, at close quarters."
"Have you got used to it belonging to you yet ?" I asked.
"But it doesn't--well, not for a little matter of around thirty years.
Anyway, it takes me all my time to realize that Scoatney does."
As we walked down the mound I told him how I had imagined his first
glimpse of Scoatney, that night back in March.
"Large as it is, it had shrunk," he said.
"Do you mean you'd seen it before ?"
"Oh, yes, when I was seven. Father brought me over with him when he patched up the row with my grandfather--which unfortunately, broke out again when Father became an American citizen."
"Did you know Scoatney was going to be yours then ?"
