Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

"She's a good girl, is Ivy."

Somebody brought the morning papers to the people who were waiting for them. All the notices seemed to be very bad. The poor little author

kept saying again and again, "It isn't that I mind for myself, of course... was And his friends were all very indignant with the critics and said notices didn't mean a thing, never had and never would.

"I suppose you'll be getting notices soon," I said to Stephen.

"Well, not notices exactly, but my name's going to be in print.

There's to be a piece about me under the photograph Leda's getting into the papers--saying how I'm a young actor of great promise.

After this one picture where I keep coming on with goats, I'm to go on a contract and be taught to act. But not too much, they say, because

they don't want to spoil me."

There was actually a note of conceit in his voice.

It was so unlike him that I stared in astonishment--and he must have

guessed why I did, because he flushed and added: "Well, that's what they said;

And you wanted me to do it. Oh, let's get out of this place."

I was glad to go. My relief at being rescued had worn off; and there

seemed to me a stale, weary, unnatural feeling about the

restaurant--the thought that it never closed made me feel exhausted

for it. Most of the people now seemed tired and worried the poor

little author was just leaving looking utterly downcast.

The hospital nurse looked pretty cheerful, though; she was having her second go of poached eggs.

We sat on a bench in Leicester Square for a while, with Heloise lying across both our laps. Her elbows dug into me most painfully;

and I didn't like the feel of the Square at all -it isn't a bit like

most London squares--so I said: "Let's go and have a look at the Thames, now that it's getting light."

We asked a policeman the way. He said: "You don't want to use it for jumping in, do you, miss?" which made me laugh.

It was quite a walk- and Heloise loathed it; but she perked up after we bought her a sausage roll from a coffee stall. We got to Westminster

Bridge just as the sky was red with dawn.

I thought of Wordsworth's sonnet but it didn't fit--the city certainly wasn't "All bright and glittering in the smokeless air"; there was a lurid haze over everything. And I couldn't get the feeling of "Dear God!

the very houses seem asleep" because half my mind was still in the Corner House, which never gets a sleep at all.

We stood leaning against the bridge, looking along the river.

It was beautiful, even though I didn't get any feeling of peace. A

gentle little breeze blew against my face--it was like someone pitying me. Tears rolled out of my eyes.

Stephen said: "What is it, Cassandra? Is it--something to do with me?"

For a second I thought he was harking back to his having kissed me in the larch wood. Then I saw the ashamed expression in his eyes. I

said: "No, of course not."

"I might have known that," he said bitterly.

"I

might have guessed that nothing I've done tonight could matter to

you.

Who are you in love with, Cassandra? Is it Neil?"

I ought to have told him he was talking nonsense, that I wasn't in love with anyone, but I was too tired and wretched to pretend.

I just said: "No. It isn't Neil."

"Then it's Simon. That's bad, that is--because Rose will never let him go."

"But she doesn't love him, Stephen. She admitted it was I found myself telling him about our dreadful quarrel in her bedroom, describing how I had crept out of the flat.

"You and your late trains!" he put in.

"I

knew right well there wasn't one."

I went on pouring it all out. When I told him I had realized how

wrongly I had behaved to Rose, he said:

"Don't you worry about that. Rose is bad."

"Not really bad," I said, and began to make excuses for her, telling him she had wanted to help the family as well as herself. He cut me

short by saying:

"But she's bad, really. Lots of women are."

I said: "Sometimes we're bad without meaning to be."

And then I asked him if he could ever forgive me for letting him kiss me, when I knew I was in love with someone else.

"Oh, Stephen, that was bad! And I let you go on thinking I might get to love you."

"I only did for a day or two--I soon saw I was making a fool of myself.

But I couldn't make it out--why you ever let me, I mean. I understand now. Things like that happen when you're in love with the wrong

person. Worse things. Things you never forgive yourself for."

He was staring straight ahead of him, looking utterly wretched.

I said:

"Are you miserable because you made love to Leda Fox-Cotton his It was her fault, wasn't it his You don't need to blame yourself."

"I'll blame myself as long as I live," he said, then suddenly turned to me.

"It's you I love and always will. Oh, Cassandra, are you sure you couldn't ever get to care for me his You liked it when I kissed

you--well, you seemed to. If we could get married his The glow from

the sunrise was on his face, the breeze was blowing his thick fair

hair. He looked desperate and magnificent, more wonderful even than in any of Leda's photographs of him. The vague expression was gone from

his eyes--I had a feeling it had gone for ever.

"I'd work for you, Cassandra. If I'm any good at acting perhaps we could live in London, a long way from--the others. Couldn't I help you through, somehow--when Simon's married to Rose?"

When he said Simon's name, I saw Simon's face. I saw it as it had

looked in the corridor off the ballroom, tired and rather pale.

I saw the black hair growing in a peak on his forehead, the eyebrows

going up at the corners, the little lines at the sides of his mouth.

When first he shaved his beard I thought he was quite handsome, but

that was only because he looked so much younger and so much less odd; I know now that he isn't handsome-compared with Stephen's, his looks

aren't anything at all.

And yet as my eyes turned to Stephen facing the sunrise, Simon in the darkness of my mind, it was as if Simon's had the living face and

Stephen's the one I was imagining --or a photograph, a painting,

something beautiful but not really alive for me.

My whole heart was so full of Simon that even my pity for Stephen

wasn't quite real--it was only something I felt I ought to feel;

more from my head than my heart. And I knew I ought to pity him all

the more because I could pity him so little. I cried out: "Oh, please, please stop! I'm so fond of you--and so deeply grateful. But I could

never marry you.

Oh, Stephen, dear I'm so very sorry."

"That's all right," he said, staring in front of him again.

"Well, at least we're companions in misfortune," I said.

Then Heloise stood up and put her front paws on the parapet, between

us, and my tears dropped down and made gray spots on her gleaming white head.

XVI am writing this at Father's desk in the gatehouse. If it were the King's desk in Buckingham Palace I could not be more surprised.

It is now half-past nine in the evening. (this time last week I was

talking to Simon in that corridor off the ballroom--it feels like years and years ago.) I mean to work at this journal until I wake Thomas at two o'clock. Last night he kept this watch and I took the second one.

And very dreadful I felt during most of it. I am less upset tonight,

but still get nervous sinkings in my stomach every now and then. Oh,

have we accomplished a miracle-or done something so terrible that I daren face thinking about it his I never finished my last entry--the

memory of my tears falling on Heloise so flooded me with self-pity that I couldn't go on. But there wasn't much more to say about the trip to London.