Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

I shall never forget it--the thick carpet, the brocade-covered the

bright lights staring back from the gilt mirrors;

everything was so luxurious--and so meaningless, so lifeless.

When we reached the entrance to the flats Neil said he wouldn't come

up, but he walked along to the lift with us and managed so that he and I were well behind the others.

"This looks like being good-bye for us," he said.

I felt a sadness quite separate from my personal ton of misery.

"But we'll meet again someday, won't we?"

"Why, surely. You must come to America."

"Won't you ever come back here?"

He said he doubted it--then laughed and added:

"Well, maybe I will, when I'm a rich old man."

"Why do you dislike us so, Neil ?"

"I don't dislike you," he said quickly.

"Oh, I don't dislike any thing. But I'm just all wrong over here."

Then the others called that the lift was waiting for me, so we shook

hands quickly. I hated to think it might be years and years before I

saw him again.

There was a message from Stephen for me at the flat --I had quite

forgotten that he was going to telephone me. Rose read aloud:

"For Miss C. Mortmain from Mr. S. Colly. The gentleman asked to say that he was completely at your service if required."

"I do call that a nice message," said Simon.

"Hadn't you better call him back?"

"Oh, leave it till the morning," said Rose, "and let's go to bed.

I've hardly had a chance to talk to you yet."

Just then Topaz came out of her bedroom and said she wanted to speak to me.

"Can't you wait until tomorrow?" asked Rose.

Topaz said she didn't see why she should.

"It's only half-past ten and I came back early on purpose."

"Well, hurry up, anyway," said Rose.

Topaz took me up to the roof-garden.

"You never know if you're going to be overheard in that flat," she said. It was nice on the roof, there were lots of little trees in

tubs, and some pretty garden furniture. No one but us was about. We

sat down on a large swinging seat and I waited for her to say something important;

but, as I might have guessed, she only wanted to talk about Father.

"I hardly had a minute with him when he stayed here," she said.

"My room's too small to share. And Mrs.

Cotton kept him up talking very late both nights."

I asked if she was still worried about them.

"Oh, not in the way I was. Anyway, there's certainly nothing on her side. I see now it's not the man she's interested in, but the famous

man--if he'll oblige her by being one again.

She hopes be will and she wants to have a hand in it. So does

Simon."

"Well, what's wrong with that?" I said.

"You know they mean it kindly."

"Simon does; he's interested in Mortmain's work for its own sake --and for Mortmain's sake. But I think Mrs.

Cotton's just a celebrity collector--she even values me now that she's seen some of the paintings of me."

"She asked you to stay with her before she saw them," I said.

I like Mrs. Cotton; and her kindness to our family has been little

short of fabulous.

"Go on--tell me I'm unjust." Topaz heaved one of her groaning sighs, then added: "I know I am, really. But she gets on my nerves until I could scream. Why doesn't she get on Mortmain's? It's a mystery to

me. Talk, talk, talk--and never did I see such vitality.

I don't believe it's normal for a woman of her age to be so healthy.

If you ask me, it's glandular."

I began to laugh, then saw she was perfectly serious; "glandular" has always been a popular word with Topaz.

"Well, come back to the castle and take a rest," I suggested.

"That's what I wanted to ask you about. Has Mortmain showed the

slightest sign of needing me?"

I tried to think of a tactful way to say "No."

Fortunately, she went straight on: "I've got to be needed,

Cassandra--I always have been. Men have either painted me, or been in love with me, or just plain ill-treated me- some men have to do a lot of ill-treating, you know, it's good for their work; but one way or

another, I've always been needed.

I've got to inspire people, Cassandra--it's my job in life." I told her then that I had a faint hope that Father was working.

"Do you mean I've inspired him just by keeping away from him?" We both roared with laughter. Topaz's sense of humor is intermittent, but good when it turns up. When we had calmed down, she said: "What do you think of Aubrey Fox-Cotton ?"

"Not much," I said.

"Does he need inspiring? He seems to be doing pretty well as it is."

"He could do greater work.

He feels he could."

"You mean, if you both got divorces and married each other ?"

"Well, not exactly," said Topaz. I suddenly felt it was an important moment and wondered what on earth I could say to influence her. It was no use pretending that Father needed her, because I knew she would find out he didn't before she had been home half an hour.

At last I said: "I suppose it wouldn't be enough that Thomas and I need you ?" She looked pleased -then came out with a dreadful Topazism:

"Oh, darling! But can't you see that art comes before the individual?"

Inspiration came to me.

"Then you can't leave Father," I said.

"Oh, Topaz-don't you see that whether he misses you or not, a shock like that might wreck him completely? Just imagine his biographer

writing: "Mortmain was about to start on the second phase of his career, when the faithlessness of his artist-model wife shattered the fabric of his life. We shall never know what was lost to the world

through this worthless young woman " and you never would know, Topaz, because if Father never wrote another line after you left him, you'd

always feel it might be your fault." She was staring at me--I could see I was making a magnificent impression. Luckily it hadn't struck

her that no one will write Father's biography unless he does do some

more work.

"Can't you see how posterity would misjudge you?" I piled it on.

"While if you stick to him, you may be "this girl, beautiful as a Blake angel, who sacrificed her own varied talents to ensure Mortmain's

renaissance."" I stopped, fearing I had overdone it, but she swallowed it all.

"Oh, darling--you ought to write the biography yourself," she gasped.

"I will, I will," I assured her, and wondered if she would consider staying on to inspire me; but I think she only sees herself as an

inspirer of men. Anyway, I didn't need to worry, because she said in

her most double-bass tones:

"Cassandra, you have saved me from a dreadful mistake. Thank you, thank you."

Then she collapsed on my shoulders with such force that I shot off the swinging seat.

Oh, darling Topaz! She calls Mrs.

Cotton's interest in Father celebrity collecting, and never sees that her own desire to inspire men is just another form of it--and a far

less sincere one.

For Mrs.

Cotton's main interests really are intellectual -well,

social-intellectual-while my dear beautiful stepmother's

intellectualism is very, very bogus. The real Topaz is the one who

cooks and scrubs and sews for us all. How mixed people are--how mixed and nice!

As we went down from the roof she said she would come home in ten days or a fortnight--just as soon as Macmorris finished his new portrait of her. I said how very glad I was, though it suddenly struck me how hard it would be to hide my troubles from her.

Talking to her had taken my mind off them, but as we went into the flat it was just as if they were waiting for me there.

Everyone had gone to bed. There was a line of light under Simon's

door. I thought how close to me he would be sleeping and, for some