Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

"Nonsense, duckie--it's perfectly simple.

You lose yourself in something beyond yourself and it's a lovely

rest."

I saw that, all right. Then I thought: "But that's how Miss Marcy cured her sorrow, too- only she lost herself in other people instead of in religion." Which way of life was best--hers or the Vicar's?

I decided that he loves God and merely likes the villagers, whereas she loves the villagers and merely likes Godand then I suddenly wondered if I could combine both ways, love God and my neighbor equally. Was I

really willing to?

And I was! Oh, for a moment I truly was! I saw myself going to church regularly, getting myself confirmed, making a little chapel with

flowers and candles- and being so wonderful to everyone at home and in the village, telling stories to the children, reading to the old people (i daresay tact could disguise that one was doing good works to them).

Would I be sincere or just pretending? Even if it began as pretence,

surely it would grow real before very long?

Perhaps it was real already--for the very thought of it rolled the

weight of misery off my heart, drove it so far away that, though I saw it still, I no longer felt it.

And then a most peculiar thing happened: I found myself seeing the new road that skirts King's Crypt -wide, straight, with plenty of room for through-traffic. And then I saw the busy part of the town, with its

tangle of narrow old streets that are so awful for motorists on market days, but so very, very beautiful.

Of course, what my mind's eye was trying to tell me was that the Vicar Miss Marcy had managed to by-pass the suffering that comes to

people--he by his religion, she by her kindness to others.

And came to me that if one does that, one is liable to miss too along with the suffering- perhaps, in a way, life itself.

Is that why Miss Marcy seems so young for her age- why the Vicar, in of all his cleverness, has that look of an elderly baby his I said aloud:

"I don't want to miss anything."

And then misery came rushing back like a river that has been dammed up.

I tried to open my heart to it, to welcome it as a part of my life's

experience,.

and at first that made it easier to bear. Then it got worse than ever before- it was physical as well as mental, my heart and ribs and

shoulders and chest, even my arms, ached. I longed so desperately for someone to comfort me that I went and laid my head on Miss Blossom's

bust I thought of it as soft and Motherly, under a royal-blue satin

blouse, and imagined her saying: "That's right--go through it, not round it, duckie. It's the best way for most of us in the end."

And then a different voice spoke in my head, a bitter, sarcastic

voice--my own at its very nastiest. It said:

"You've sunk pretty low, my girl, clasping a dressmaker's dummy.

And aren't you a bit old for this Miss Blossom nonsense?" Then, for the first time in my life, I began to wonder how I "did" Miss Blossom.

Was she like Stephen's mother, but not so humble--or nearer to a

charwoman of Aunt Millicent's? Or had I taken her from some character in a book his Suddenly I saw her more vividly than ever before,

standing behind the bar of an old-fashioned London pub. She looked at me most reproachfully, then put a sealskin jacket over her blue blouse, turned off all the lights, and went out into the night closing the door behind her. The next second, her bust was as hard as a board and smelt of dust and old glue.

And I knew she was gone for ever.

Luckily, Heloise came in then or I should have cried myself into a

state beyond recovery before tea-time. You can't cry on Heloise; she

thumps her tail sympathetically, but looks embarrassed and moves away.

Anyhow, I had to get her long-overdue dinner.

I haven't been able to bear looking at Miss Blossom since then.

It isn't only that she is now nothing more than a dressmaker's

dummy--she makes me think of the corpse of a dressmaker's dummy.

Religion, good works, strong drink- oh, but there is another way of

escape, a wicked one, far worse than drink.

I tried it on my birthday a week ago.

When I woke up that morning the sun was shining--the first time for

over a fortnight. I had barely taken this in when I heard music just

outside my bedroom door. I sprang up and dashed out to the landing,

and there on the floor was a small portable wireless, with a card on it saying: "Many happy returns from Stephen." That was what he had been saving up for! That was why he had posed for Leda Fox-Cotton!

I yelled out: "Stephen, Stephen!"

Thomas shouted from the hall.

"He's gone off to work early-I think he felt embarrassed about being thanked.

It's quite a good little wireless. Get dressed quickly and we'll play it over breakfast."

He came bounding upstairs and had carried the wireless off before I had so much as turned the dials. I was just going to tell him to bring it back when I thought, "Heavens, what does it matter ?" The early morning weight had descended on my heart.

While I dressed, I worked it out that only two weeks and two days

before, owning a wireless would have made me deliriously happy; and now it didn't mean a thing. Then it struck me that I could at least do my suffering to music.

When I got down, I found that Stephen had set the breakfast table for me and put flowers on it.

"And there's my present," said Thomas.

"I

haven't wrapped it up because I'm just in the middle of it." It was a book on astronomy, which he is very much interested in; I was glad he had chosen some thing he wanted himself, because though he gets a

little pocket money now, it will take a long time to make up for all

the years he didn't have any.

Father came down then; of course he hadn't remembered my birthday.

"But Topaz will," he said, cheerfully.

"She'll send you something from me." He was horrified to see the wireless --he has always said that being without one is one of the few pleasures of poverty; but he got interested during breakfast.

Only he couldn't bear the music or voices- what he liked were the

atmospherics.

"I suppose you wouldn't care to lend it to me for an hour or so ?"

he said, after Thomas had gone off to school.

"These noises are splendid."

I let him take it. All that really mattered to me was whether or not

Simon would send me a present.

The parcel-post came at eleven. There was a dressing-gown from Topaz, a Shakespeare from Father (so tactful of Topaz to remember how he hates lending me his), a nightgown -real silk- from Rose, six pairs of silk stockings from Mrs. Cotton, and a big box of chocolates from Neil.

Nothing from Simon.

Nothing from Simon, indeed! I was still sitting numbed with

disappointment when a motor horn hooted in the lane. The next minute a van drew up and the driver plonked a crate down on the drawbridge. I

yelled up asking Father to come down and between us we prized the lid off. Inside was a wireless and a gramophone combined--oh, the most

wonderful thing! When shut, it is like a fat suitcase, with a handle

to carry it by. The outside is a lovely blue, like linen but shiny.

There was a record case to match.

Nobody ever had such a glorious present.

Simon had enclosed a note saying:

Dear Cassandra, I wanted to send you an electric one, but remembered

you've no electricity. The radio works from batteries that can be

re-charged at the garage in Scoatney, but the phonograph is only the

old-fashioned type that has to be wound up--still, it's better than

nothing.

I am sending you the Debussy you liked, but couldn't get the Bach

record I played to you. Borrow anything you want from Scoatney until