Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle
The music started again soon after Rose and Simon joined us.
She turned to Neil and said in a really nice voice: "Will you dance this with me?"
I saw then that she had been right in thinking it was hopeless to be
friends with him--for a moment I thought he would actually refuse to
dance. But in the end he just said "Sure, if you want me to," quite politely but without the flicker of a smile, and they went off
together, leaving me alone with Simon.
We talked first about Rose; he was worried in case so much shopping had tired her.
"I wish we could be married at once and get out of London," he said.
"But both she and Mother insist on waiting for the trousseau."
I had thought myself that Rose seemed a little less alive than usual, but nothing like so tired as he, himself, did.
He was paler than usual and his manner was so quiet. It made me care
for him more than ever--I wanted so terribly to be good to him.
After we had taken a great interest in Rose for a very long time he
asked about Father and we discussed the possibility that he was doing some work and keeping it quiet.
"He was most odd when he stayed in the flat a few weeks ago," said Simon.
"Mother told me he went into the kitchen and borrowed all the cookery books."
I began to have a desperate feeling that time was rushing by and we
weren't talking about anything I could treasure for the future --he was being charming and kind, as he always is, but he hardly seemed to
notice me as a person. I longed to say something amusing but couldn't think of anything, so I tried to be intelligent.
"Do you think I ought to read Proust?" I asked.
Apparently that was more amusing than it was intelligent, because it
made him laugh.
"Well, I wouldn't say it was a duty," he said, "but you could have a shot at it. I'll send you Swann" Way."
Then I talked about his birthday present to me, and he said what a nice letter I had written to thank him.
"I hope you're borrowing all the records you want from Scoatney," he told me.
When he said that I suddenly saw the pavilion, lit by moonlight and
candlelight--and then, by the most cruel coincidence, the band, which had been playing a medley of tunes, began "Lover."
I felt myself blushing violently- never have I known such
embarrassment. I sprang up and ran towards a mirror, some way along
the corridor.
"What's the matter ?" Simon called after me.
"An eyelash in my eye," I called back.
He asked if he could help but I said I could manage, and fidgeted with my handkerchief until the blush died down--I don't believe he ever
noticed it. As I walked back to him he said:
"It's odd how that dress changes you. I don't know that I approve of your growing up. Oh, I shall get used to it." He smiled at me.
"But you were perfect as you were."
It was the funny little girl he had liked- the comic child playing at Midsummer rites; she was the one he kissed. Though I don't think I
shall ever quite know why he did it.
After that I talked easily enough, making him laugh quite a bit--I
could see he was liking me again. But it wasn't my present self
talking at all; I was giving an imitation of myself as I used to be. I was very "consciously naive." Never, never was I that with him before; however I may have sounded, I always felt perfectly natural. But I
knew, as I sat there amusing him while the band played "Lover," that many things which had felt natural to me before I first heard it would never feel natural again.
It wasn't only the black dress that had made me grow up.
Rose and Neil came back when the music stopped; then Neil went off to order us some drinks.
"That was a good tune that last one," she remarked.
"What's it called ?"
"I'm afraid I didn't notice it," said Simon.
"Nor I," I said.
Rose sat down in the opposite alcove and put her feet up.
"Tired?" Simon asked, going over to her.
She said: "Yes, very," and didn't offer to make room for him; so he sat on the floor beside her.
"Would you like me to take you home as soon as we've had our drinks ?"
he asked, and she said she would.
Neil would have stayed on with me, but I said we couldn't keep dancing without shoes in that corridor.
"It does begin to feel like a padded cell," he admitted.
I shall never forget it--the thick carpet, the brocade-covered the
bright lights staring back from the gilt mirrors;
everything was so luxurious--and so meaningless, so lifeless.
When we reached the entrance to the flats Neil said he wouldn't come
up, but he walked along to the lift with us and managed so that he and I were well behind the others.
"This looks like being good-bye for us," he said.
I felt a sadness quite separate from my personal ton of misery.
"But we'll meet again someday, won't we?"
"Why, surely. You must come to America."
"Won't you ever come back here?"
He said he doubted it--then laughed and added:
"Well, maybe I will, when I'm a rich old man."
"Why do you dislike us so, Neil ?"
"I don't dislike you," he said quickly.
"Oh, I don't dislike any thing. But I'm just all wrong over here."
Then the others called that the lift was waiting for me, so we shook
hands quickly. I hated to think it might be years and years before I
saw him again.
There was a message from Stephen for me at the flat --I had quite
forgotten that he was going to telephone me. Rose read aloud:
"For Miss C. Mortmain from Mr. S. Colly. The gentleman asked to say that he was completely at your service if required."
"I do call that a nice message," said Simon.
"Hadn't you better call him back?"
"Oh, leave it till the morning," said Rose, "and let's go to bed.
I've hardly had a chance to talk to you yet."
Just then Topaz came out of her bedroom and said she wanted to speak to me.
"Can't you wait until tomorrow?" asked Rose.
Topaz said she didn't see why she should.
"It's only half-past ten and I came back early on purpose."
"Well, hurry up, anyway," said Rose.
Topaz took me up to the roof-garden.
"You never know if you're going to be overheard in that flat," she said. It was nice on the roof, there were lots of little trees in
tubs, and some pretty garden furniture. No one but us was about. We
sat down on a large swinging seat and I waited for her to say something important;
but, as I might have guessed, she only wanted to talk about Father.
"I hardly had a minute with him when he stayed here," she said.
"My room's too small to share. And Mrs.
Cotton kept him up talking very late both nights."
I asked if she was still worried about them.
"Oh, not in the way I was. Anyway, there's certainly nothing on her side. I see now it's not the man she's interested in, but the famous
man--if he'll oblige her by being one again.
She hopes be will and she wants to have a hand in it. So does
Simon."
"Well, what's wrong with that?" I said.
"You know they mean it kindly."
"Simon does; he's interested in Mortmain's work for its own sake --and for Mortmain's sake. But I think Mrs.
Cotton's just a celebrity collector--she even values me now that she's seen some of the paintings of me."
"She asked you to stay with her before she saw them," I said.
I like Mrs. Cotton; and her kindness to our family has been little
short of fabulous.
"Go on--tell me I'm unjust." Topaz heaved one of her groaning sighs, then added: "I know I am, really. But she gets on my nerves until I could scream. Why doesn't she get on Mortmain's? It's a mystery to
me. Talk, talk, talk--and never did I see such vitality.
I don't believe it's normal for a woman of her age to be so healthy.
If you ask me, it's glandular."
I began to laugh, then saw she was perfectly serious; "glandular" has always been a popular word with Topaz.
"Well, come back to the castle and take a rest," I suggested.
"That's what I wanted to ask you about. Has Mortmain showed the
slightest sign of needing me?"
I tried to think of a tactful way to say "No."
Fortunately, she went straight on: "I've got to be needed,
Cassandra--I always have been. Men have either painted me, or been in love with me, or just plain ill-treated me- some men have to do a lot of ill-treating, you know, it's good for their work; but one way or
another, I've always been needed.
I've got to inspire people, Cassandra--it's my job in life." I told her then that I had a faint hope that Father was working.
"Do you mean I've inspired him just by keeping away from him?" We both roared with laughter. Topaz's sense of humor is intermittent, but good when it turns up. When we had calmed down, she said: "What do you think of Aubrey Fox-Cotton ?"
"Not much," I said.
"Does he need inspiring? He seems to be doing pretty well as it is."
"He could do greater work.
He feels he could."
"You mean, if you both got divorces and married each other ?"
"Well, not exactly," said Topaz. I suddenly felt it was an important moment and wondered what on earth I could say to influence her. It was no use pretending that Father needed her, because I knew she would find out he didn't before she had been home half an hour.
At last I said: "I suppose it wouldn't be enough that Thomas and I need you ?" She looked pleased -then came out with a dreadful Topazism:
"Oh, darling! But can't you see that art comes before the individual?"
Inspiration came to me.
"Then you can't leave Father," I said.
"Oh, Topaz-don't you see that whether he misses you or not, a shock like that might wreck him completely? Just imagine his biographer
writing: "Mortmain was about to start on the second phase of his career, when the faithlessness of his artist-model wife shattered the fabric of his life. We shall never know what was lost to the world
through this worthless young woman " and you never would know, Topaz, because if Father never wrote another line after you left him, you'd
always feel it might be your fault." She was staring at me--I could see I was making a magnificent impression. Luckily it hadn't struck
her that no one will write Father's biography unless he does do some
more work.
"Can't you see how posterity would misjudge you?" I piled it on.
"While if you stick to him, you may be "this girl, beautiful as a Blake angel, who sacrificed her own varied talents to ensure Mortmain's
renaissance."" I stopped, fearing I had overdone it, but she swallowed it all.
"Oh, darling--you ought to write the biography yourself," she gasped.
"I will, I will," I assured her, and wondered if she would consider staying on to inspire me; but I think she only sees herself as an
inspirer of men. Anyway, I didn't need to worry, because she said in
her most double-bass tones:
"Cassandra, you have saved me from a dreadful mistake. Thank you, thank you."
Then she collapsed on my shoulders with such force that I shot off the swinging seat.
Oh, darling Topaz! She calls Mrs.
Cotton's interest in Father celebrity collecting, and never sees that her own desire to inspire men is just another form of it--and a far
less sincere one.
For Mrs.
Cotton's main interests really are intellectual -well,
social-intellectual-while my dear beautiful stepmother's
intellectualism is very, very bogus. The real Topaz is the one who
cooks and scrubs and sews for us all. How mixed people are--how mixed and nice!
As we went down from the roof she said she would come home in ten days or a fortnight--just as soon as Macmorris finished his new portrait of her. I said how very glad I was, though it suddenly struck me how hard it would be to hide my troubles from her.
Talking to her had taken my mind off them, but as we went into the flat it was just as if they were waiting for me there.
Everyone had gone to bed. There was a line of light under Simon's
door. I thought how close to me he would be sleeping and, for some
reason, that made me more unhappy than ever. And the prospect of
seeing him again in the morning held no comfort for me;
I had found out in that glittering corridor off the ballroom that being with him could be more painful than being away from him.
Rose was sitting up in bed waiting for me. I remember noticing how
pretty her bright hair looked against the white velvet headboard.
She said: "I've put out one of my trousseau nightgowns for you."
I thanked her and hoped I wouldn't tear it--it seemed very fragile. She said there were plenty more, anyway.
"Well, now we can talk," I said, brightly-meaning "you can."
I no longer had any intention of questioning her about her feelings for Simon--of course she loved him, of course nothing would stop the
marriage, my coming to London had been an idiotic mistake.
"I don't think I want to tonight," she said.
This surprised me--she had seemed so keen on talking--but I just said:
"Well, there'll be plenty of time tomorrow."
She said she supposed so, hardly sounding enthusiastic; then asked me to put the roses in the bathroom for the night. As I went to get them, she looked down at Simon's card on the bedside table and said: "Chuck that in the wastepaper-basket, will you?"
She didn't say it casually, but with a sort of scornful resentment.
My resolution not to speak just faded away and I said:
"Rose, you don't love him."
She gave me a little ironic smile and said:
"No. Isn't it a pity?"
There it was--the thing I had hoped for! But instead of feeling glad, instead of feeling any flicker of hope, I felt angry--so angry that I didn't dare to let myself speak. I just stood staring at her until she said:
"Well? Say something."
I managed to speak quite calmly.
"Why did you lie to me that night you got engaged ?"
"I didn't. I really thought I was in love. When he kissed me-Oh, you wouldn't understand--you're too young."
I understood, all right. If Stephen had kissed me before I knew that I loved Simon, I might have made the same mistake--particularly if I had wanted to make it, as Rose did. But I went on feeling angry.
"How long have you known?" I demanded.
"Weeks and weeks, now--I found out soon after we came to London; Simon's with me so much more here. Oh, if only he wasn't so in love
with me! Can you understand what I mean? It isn't only that he wants
to make love to me--come minute we're together I can feel him asking
for love. He somehow links it with everything --if it's a particularly lovely day, if we see anything beautiful or listen to music together.
It makes me want to scream. Oh, God--I didn't mean to tell you. I
