Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

Topaz was on Simon's right, Mrs.

Fox-Cotton on his left. Rose was between the Vicar and Mr.

Fox-Cotton--I wished she could have been next to Simon, but I suppose married women have to be given precedence. I have an idea that Neil

just may have asked for me to be next to him, because he told me I

would be, as we went in. It made me feel very warm towards him.

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. And I was a little bit nervous --the knives and forks were so complicated. I never expected to feel ignorant about

such things--we always had several courses for dinner at Aunt

Millicent's -but I couldn't even recognize all the dishes. And it was no use trying to copy Neil because his table manners were quite strange to me. I fear he must have seen me staring at him once because he

said: "Mother thinks I ought to eat in the English way- she and Simon have gotten into it --but I'm darned if I will."

I asked him to explain the difference. It appears that in America it

is polite to cut up each mouthful, lay down the knife on your plate,

change your fork from the left to the right hand, load it, eat the

fork-full, change the fork back to your left hand, and pick up the

knife again-and you must take only one kind of food on the fork at a

time; never a nice comfortable podge of meat and vegetables together.

"But that takes so long," I said.

"No, it doesn't," said Neil.

"Anyway, it looks terrible to me the way you all hang on to your knives."

The idea of anything English people do looking terrible quite annoyed me, but I held my peace.

"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.

"Well, perhaps I could even get used to changing my fork from hand to hand," I said, and had a go at it. I found it very difficult.

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."

Mrs. Fox-Cotton spoke to Neil then and he turned to talk to her;

so I got a chance to look round the table. Both Father and the Vicar

were listening to Mrs. Cotton; Aubrey Fox-Cotton was monopolizing

Topaz. For the moment, no one was talking to either Rose or Simon. I

saw him look at her. She gave him a glance through her eyelashes and

though I know what Topaz means about it being old fashioned, it was

certainly a most fetching glance-perhaps Rose has got into better

practice now. Anyway, I could see that Simon wasn't being put off by

it this time. He raised his glass and looked at her across it almost

as if he were drinking a toast to her. His eyes looked rather handsome above the glass and I suddenly had a hope that she could really fall in love with him, in spite of the beard. But heavens, I couldn't She

smiled--the faintest flicker of a smile nand then turned and spoke to the Vicar. I thought to myself: "She's learning"--be cause it would have been very obvious if she had looked at Simon any longer.

I had a queer sort of feeling, watching them all and listening;

perhaps it was due to what Father had been saying a few minutes before.

It suddenly seemed astonishing that people should meet especially to

eat together--because food goes into the mouth and talk comes out. And if you watch people eating and talking --really watch them- it is a

very peculiar sight: hands so busy, forks going up and down,

swallowings, words coming out between mouthfuls, jaws working like

mad. The more you look at a dinner party, the odder it seems- all the candlelit faces, hands with dishes coming over shoulders, the owners of the hands moving round quietly taking no part in the laughter and

conversation. I pulled my mind off the table and stared into the

dimness beyond, and then I gradually saw the servants as real people, watching us, whispering instructions to each other, exchanging

glances.

I noticed a girl from Godsend village and gave her a tiny wink--and

wished I hadn't, because she let out a little snort of laughter and

then looked in terror at the butler. The next minute my left ear heard something which made my blood run cold--an expression I have always

looked down on, but I really did get a cold shiver between my

shoulders:

Mrs. Cotton was asking Father how long it was since he had published

anything.

"A good twelve years," he said in the blank voice which our family accepts as the close of a conversation. It had no such effect on Mrs.

Cotton.

"You've thought it best to lie fallow," she said.

"How few writers have the wisdom to do that." Her tone was most understanding, almost reverent. Then she added briskly: "But it's been long enough, don't you think ?"

I saw Father's hand grip the table. For an awful second I thought he

was going to push his chair back and walk out--as he so often does at home if any of us annoy him. But he just said, very quietly:

"I've given up writing, Mrs. Cotton. And now let's talk of something interesting."

"But this is interesting," she said. I sneaked a look at her. She was very upright, all deep blue velvet and pearls-I don't think I ever saw a woman look so noticeably clean.

"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. He went on banteringly, "Tell me, are you unique or has the American club woman become more menacing

since my day?" It seemed to me a terribly rude thing to say, even in fun, but Mrs. Cotton didn't appear to mind in the least. She just

said smilingly, "I don't happen to be what you mean by a club woman.

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.