Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

Oh, darling, do you remember how we stood watching the woman buying a whole dozen pairs of silk stockings and you said we were like cats

making longing noises for birds? I think it was that moment I decided I would do anything, anything, to stop being so horribly poor.

It was that night we met the Cottons again. Do you believe one can

make things happen? I do. I had the same sort of desperate feeling

the night I wished on the angel--and look what that did! He is an

angel, all right, not a devil. It's so wonderful that I can be in love with Simon as well as everything else.

Darling Cassandra, I promise you shall never make any more longing cat noises once I am a married woman. And there are other things besides

clothes that I can help you with, you know. I have been wondering if

you would like to go to college (did you know Thomas is to go to

Oxford?) Personally, I think it would be dreary but you might enjoy it as you are so intelligent. My marriage is going to help us all, you

know--even Father. Being away from him has made me more tolerant of

him. Both Simon and Mrs.

Cotton say he really was a great writer. Anyway, it doesn't matter any more that he can't earn any money. Give him my love--and to Thomas and Stephen. I will send them all postcards. This letter is private to

you, of course.

I do wish you were here- I miss you at least a hundred times a day.

I felt so sad being in that shop without you. I shall go back and get you that scent when I have extracted more money from Topaz --it's

called "Midsummer Eve" and you shall have it in time for your goings-on on Belmotte.

Heavens, I'm using pages and pages of Mrs.

Cotton's elegant notepaper, but it feels a bit like talking to you. I meant to tell you all about the theatres but I mustn't start now--it's later than I thought and I have to dress for dinner.

Love and please write often to your Rose.

P.s. I have a bathroom all to myself and there are clean peach-colored 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.

Fancy thirty-five guineas for a suit! That is thirty-six pounds

fifteen shillings; I do think shops are artful to price things in

guineas.

I didn't know clothes could cost so much--at that rate, Rose is right when she says a thousand pounds won't buy so very many;

not when you think of all the hats and shoes and underclothes. I had

imagined Rose having dozens and dozens of dresses--you can get such

beauties for two or three pounds each; but perhaps it gives you a

glorious, valuable feeling to wear little black suits of fabulous

price--like wearing real jewelry. Rose and I always felt superb when

we wore our little real old chains with the seed-pearl hearts.

We howled like anything when they had to be sold.

A thousand pounds for clothes--when one thinks how long poor people

could live on it! When one thinks how long we could live on it, for

that matter! Oddly, I have never thought of us as poor people--I mean, I have never been terribly sorry for us, as for the unemployed or

beggars; though really we have been rather worse off, being

unemployable and with no one to beg from.

I don't believe I could look a beggar in the face if my trousseau had cost a thousand pounds ...... Oh, come, Mrs.

Cotton wouldn't give the thousand pounds to beggars if she didn't spend it on Rose, so Rose might as well have it. And I shall certainly be

delighted to accept clothes from Rose. I ought to be ashamed--being

glad the riches won't be on my conscience, while only too willing to

have them on my back.

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.

Even keeping the house clean is more complicated than I expected - I

have always helped with it, of course, but never organized it.

I am realizing more and more how hard Topaz worked.

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 like'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.

She finishes by saying she will come home instantly if Father shows

signs of missing her. Unfortunately, he doesn't; and he is far less

irritable than when she was here--though not conversational.

We only see each other at meals; the rest of the day he either walks or shuts himself in the gatehouse (when he leaves it, he now locks the

door and takes the key). I regret to say that he is re-reading Miss

Marcy's entire stock of detective novels.

And he has spent one day in London. While he was gone I told myself it was absurd the way we had all been hypnotized by him not to ask

questions, so when he came back I said cheerfully: "How was the British Museum ?"

"Oh, I haven't been there," he answered, quite pleasantly.

"Today I went to was He broke off, suddenly staring at me as if I were some dangerous animal he had only just noticed;

then he walked out of the room. 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 his 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 colored chalks-what was left of them--and an ancient volume of Little Follggness;

also that he went for a walk carrying an out-of-date Bradshaw railway guide.

His manner is usually normal. And he has been most civil about my

cooking--which is certainly a sign of control.

How arrogant I used to be! I remember writing in this journal that I

would capture Father later--I meant to do a brilliant character sketch.

Capture Father! Why, I don't know anything about anyone! I shouldn't

be surprised to hear that even Thomas is living a double life--though he does seem all homework and appetite. One nice thing is being able

to give him enough to eat at last; I crowd food on to his plate.

And Stephen? No, I can't capture Stephen.