Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

because it was the one which gave Simon up irrevocably --the others

didn't have the same tampering-with-fate feeling (but it is always

dreadful when the pictures in front of one's eyes become meaningless, and the real world is there instead and seems meaningless, too). I

certainly wasn't in any mood for writing to Rose, but in the afternoon I forced myself to- it was like making up a letter for a character in a book to write. I told her how pleased I was with the bottle of scent, and put in bits about Hcl and About and the miserable weather- the rain was useful as a lead into: "How lucky it was fine on Midsummer Eve. It was so nice that Simon was here for it--tell him I enjoyed every

minute--" It was glorious writing that--almost like telling him I was glad he had kissed me.

But after I posted the letter I was worried in case he guessed what I meant. And as I walked back from the post-office I had the most

agonizing thought; supposing he had told Rose about kissing me and they had laughed about it his It hurt me so much that I moaned out loud. I wanted to fling myself down in the mud and beat my way into the

ground.

I had just enough sense to know what I should look like after trying, so stayed upright; but I couldn't go on walking. I went and sat on a

stile and tried to turn the thought out of my mind- and then worse

thoughts rushed in on me. I asked myself; if it wasn't wrong of Simon to kiss me when he is in love with Rose --if he was the sort of man who thinks any girl will do to kiss his Of all the agonies, the worst is

when I think badly of Simon; not that I ever do for very long.

After I had been sitting there in the rain for a while, I saw that

there was nothing dreadful in his having kissed me. In spite of his

saying it wasn't due to his missing Rose, it probably was. Anyway, I

think Americans kiss rather easily and frequently--Miss Marcy had some American magazines once and there were pictures of people kissing on

almost every page, including the advertisements. I expect Americans

are affectionate, as a nation.

I would certainly never have been surprised if Neil had kissed me and I wouldn't have thought it meant he was seriously in love. Somehow it

seemed unlike Simon but .. . Then I wondered if he had thought I

expected it, if I had somehow invited a kiss. That made me want to die of shame and yet was comforting because it put Simon in the right if

he had done it out of kindness.

Suddenly I said aloud into the rain: "He won't tell Rose and laugh.

And he didn't do anything wrong--whatever his reasons were, they

weren't wrong. If you love people, you take them on trust."

Then I got off the stile and walked home. And in spite of the

drenching rain, I felt quite warm.

That little glow of comfort lasted me right through the evening but was gone when I woke up next morning. Wakings are the worst times-almost

before my eyes are open a great weight seems to roll on to my heart. I can usually roll it off a bit during the day--for one thing, food helps quite a lot, unromantic as that sounds. I have grown more and more

ravenous as I have grown more and more miserable. Sleep is wonderful, too- I never thought of it as a pleasure before, but now I long for it.

The best time of all is before I fall asleep at night, when I can hold the thought of Simon close to me and feel the misery slip away. I

often sleep in the daytime, too.

Surely it isn't normal for anyone so miserably in love to eat and sleep so well? Am I a freak his I only know that I am miserable, I am in

love, but I raven food and sleep.

Another great luxury is letting myself cry--I always feel marvelously peaceful after that. But it is difficult to arrange times for it, as

my face takes so long to recover;

it isn't safe in the mornings if I am to look normal when I meet Father at lunch, and the afternoons are no better, as Thomas is home by five.

It would be all right in bed at night but such a waste, as that is my happiest time.

Days when Father goes over to read in the Scoatney library are good

crying-days.

On the Wednesday of that first week of mud and misery I went to see

the Vicar; he has a lot of old music and I hoped I might find "Sheep May Safely Graze." The rain stopped for a few hours that morning but it was very cold and damp, and the battered countryside looked rather as I felt. As I sloshed along the Godsend road, planning to be careful not to give myself away to the Vicar, I found myself wondering if it

would be a relief to confess to someone, as Lucy Snowe did in Villette.

The Vicar isn't High Church enough for confessions, and certainly most of me would have loathed to tell him or anybody else one word; but I

did have a feeling that a person as wretched as I was ought to be able to get some sort of help from the Church. Then I told myself that as I never gave the Church a thought when I was feeling happy, I could

hardly expect it to do anything for me when I wasn't. You can't get

insurance money without paying in premiums.

I found the Vicar starting to plan a sermon, wrapped in the collie dog carriage rug. I do love his study; it has old green paneling except

for the wall that is bookshelves from floor to ceiling. His

housekeeper keeps everything very shining and clean.

"Now this is splendid," he said.

"An excuse to stop working-and to light a fire."

He lit it; even to watch it crackling up was cheering. He said he

didn't think he had "Sheep May Safely Graze," but I could look through his music. Most of it is in old calf-bound volumes he bought at a

country-house sale. They have a musty smell, and the printing looks

different from modern music; there is an elaborately engraved page in front of each piece. As one turns the pages, one thinks of all the

people who have turned them in the past and it seems to take one back closer to the composers--I like to think of the Beethoven pieces being played not very many years after he died.

I soon came across "Air From Handel's Water Music"--which was no longer specially valuable to me--but I never found "Sheep May Safely Graze."

Still, looking through the old volumes was soothing, because thinking of the past made the present seem a little less real. And while I was searching, the Vicar got out biscuits and madeira. I never had madeira before and it was lovely- the idea almost more than the taste, because it made me feel I was paying a morning call in an old novel. For a

moment I drew away from myself and thought: "Poor Cassandra!

No, it never comes right for her. She goes into a decline."

We talked of the Cottons and Scoatney and how wonderful every thing was for everybody and how happy we were for Rose.

He was most interested to hear Simon had spent Midsummer Eve with me

and asked lots of questions about it. After that, we got started on

religion, which surprised me rather, as the Vicar so seldom mentions

it--I mean, to our family;

naturally it must come up in his daily life.

"You ought to try it, one of these days," he said.

"I

believe you'd like it."

I said: "But I have tried it, haven't I? I've been to church. It never seems to take."

He laughed and said he knew I'd exposed myself to infection

occasionally.

"But catching things depends so much on one's state of health. You should look in on the church if ever you're mentally run down."

I remembered my thoughts on the way to the village.

"Oh, it wouldn't be fair to rush to church because one was miserable,"

I said --taking care to look particularly cheerful.

"It'd be most unfair not to--you'd be doing religion out of its very best chance."