Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

He turned to her quickly, but just then Heloise walked through the

green sheets and upset a clothes-horse, which created a diversion.

I helped it on by calling, "Hcl, Hcl," and explaining Heloise was sometimes called that for short--which went well, though a worn-out

joke to the Mortmain family. But I couldn't forget the shadow. It is

nonsense, of course--I never saw anyone with kinder eyes.

But Rose is very superstitious. I wonder if the younger brother has

any money. He was as nice to Rose as Simon Cotton was. And quite a

bit nice to 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.

After we had all been talking for twenty minutes or so, Topaz came down wearing her old tweed coat and skirt.

She rarely wears tweeds even in the daytime and never, never in the

evening-they make her look dreary, just washed-out instead of

excitingly white so I was most astonished; particularly as the door of her room was slightly open and she must have known who had arrived.

I have refrained from asking her why she made the worst of herself.

Perhaps she thought the tweeds would give our family a county air.

We introduced the Cottons and she talked a little but seemed very

subdued--what was the matter with her last night? After a few minutes she began to make cocoa--there was no other drink to offer except

water; I had even used the last of the tea for Thomas and very dusty it was.

We never rise to cocoa in the evening unless it is a special occasion

-like someone being ill, or to make up a family row-and I hated to

think that Thomas and Stephen seemed likely to miss it; they were still away getting horses from Four Stones to pull the car out.

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. Suddenly, the back door burst open and in he came--it had

started to rain heavily again and it is quicker to rush across the

courtyard than go carefully along the top of the walls. He was freely damning the weather and the fact that his oil-stove had begun to smoke, and as he had his rug over his head, he didn't see the Cottons until he was right in the midst of things.

Topaz stopped mixing cocoa and said very distinctly and proudly: "This is my husband, James Mortmain."

And then a wonderful thing happened. Simon Cotton said:

"But--oh, this is a miracle! You must be the author of Jacob

Wrestling."

Father stared at him with a look in his eyes that I can only describe as desperate. At first I thought it was because he had been cornered

by strangers. Then he said: "Why, yes . " in a curious, tentative way and I suddenly realized that he was terribly pleased, but not quite

believing. I can imagine a shipwrecked man, catching sight of a ship, looking like Father did then. Simon Cotton came up and shook hands and introduced his brother, saying:

"Neil, you remember Jacob Wrestling?"

Neil said: "Yes, of course, he was splendid" -by which I knew that he thought Jacob Wrestling was the name of a character in the book,

instead of meaning Jacob wrestling with the angel, as it really does.

Simon began to talk of the book as if he had only just put it down,

though I gathered gradually that he'd studied it in college, years ago.

At first Father was nervous and awkward, standing there with his rug

clutched round him, but he got easier and easier until he was doing

most of the talking, with Simon just getting in word occasionally. And at last Father flung the rug off as it it were hampering him and

strode over to the table saying:

"Cocoa, cocoa!"--it might have been the most magnificent drink in the world; which, personally, I think it is.

While we drank it conversation became more general.

Father chaffed us about our green hands and Neil Cotton discovered the dinner dish in the bath and thought it very funny that I had been

sitting on it. All the time, Rose got nicer and nicer, smiling and

gentle. She sat by the fire, nursing About, who is nearly the same

color as her hair, and the Cottons kept wandering over to stroke him. I could see they were fascinated by everything-when Heloise jumped up to sleep on the warm top of the copper, Neil said it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen in his life. I didn't say very much myself pounds

Father and the Cottons did most of the talking--but the Cottons seemed to think everything I did say was amusing.

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."

He didn't say it angrily or bitterly. He just breathed it. And I

don't suppose anyone but me saw that he somehow deflated; the carriage of his head changed and his shoulders sagged.

But almost before I had taken this in, Simon Cotton said:

"There couldn't be, of course, when one comes to think of it."

Father shot a look at him and he went on quickly:

"Certain unique books seem to be without forerunners or successors as far as their authors are concerned. Even though they may profoundly

influence the work of other writers, for their creator they're

complete, not leading anywhere."

Topaz was watching Father as anxiously as I was.

"Oh, but surely--" she began protestingly. Father interrupted her.

"Do you mean that the writers of such books are often one-book men ?"

he asked, very quietly.

"Heaven forbid," said Simon Cotton.

"I

only mean that I was wrong to use the word "successor." The originators among writers are perhaps, in a sense, the only true

creators who dip deep and bring up one perfect work; complete, not a

link in a chain. Later, they dip again for something as unique. God

may have created other worlds, but he obviously didn't go on adding to this one."

He said it in a rather stately, literary way but quite sincerely and

yet I didn't feel it was sincere. And I didn't feel it meant very

much. I think it was really a kind and clever way of sliding over a

difficult moment; though, if so, he must have been very quick to

realize how difficult the moment was. The odd thing was that Father

seemed so impressed. He jerked his head as if some idea had just

struck him, but he didn't answer it was as if he wanted to think for a minute. Then Simon Cotton asked him a question about the third dream

in Jacob Wrestling and he came to life again I haven't seen him so

alive since the year he married Topaz. And he didn't talk only about

himself; after he had answered the question he drew us all in,

particularly Rose he kept saying things which made the Cottons turn to her, which they seemed very glad to do.

Neil Cotton didn't talk as much as his brother. Most of the time he

sat on the copper with Heloise. He winked at me once in a friendly

way.

At last Thomas came in to say the horses were waiting. (there was

enough cocoa left for him but none for Stephen, who had stayed with the horses. Luckily I had saved half mine and put it by the fire to keep