Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

say what he means plainly ?"

"Because there's so much that just can't be said plainly. Try

describing what beauty is- plainly- and you'll see what I mean." Then he said that art could state very little- that its whole business was to evoke responses. And that without innovations and experiments such as Father's -all art would stagnate.

"That's why one ought not to let oneself resent them- though I believe it's a normal instinct, probably due to subconscious fear of what we

don't understand."

Then he spoke of some of the great innovations that had been resented at first Beethoven's last quartets, and lots of modern music, and the work of many great painters that almost everyone now admires. There

aren't as many innovations in literature as in the other arts, Simon

said, and that is all the more reason why Father ought to be

encouraged.

"Well, I'll encourage him for all I'm worth," I said.

"Even if I still do resent him a bit, I'll try to hide it."

"You won't be able to," said Simon.

"And resentment will paralyse your powers of perception.

Oh, lord, how am I to get you on his side?

Look--can you always express just what you want to express, in your

journal? Does everything go into nice tidy words? Aren't you

constantly driven to metaphor his The first man to use a metaphor was a whale of an innovator--and now we use them almost without realizing it.

In a sense your father's whole work is only an extension of

metaphor."

When he said that, I had a sudden memory of how difficult it was to

describe the feelings I had on Midsummer Eve, and of how I wrote of the day as a cathedral-like avenue. The images that came into my mind then have been linked with that day and with Simon ever since. Yet I could never explain how the image and the reality merge, and how they somehow extend and beautify each other.

"Was Father trying to express things as inexpressible as that... his

"Something's clicked in your mind," said Simon.

"Can you put it into words ?"

"Certainly not into nice tidy ones--" I tried to speak lightly; remembering Midsummer Eve had made me so very conscious of loving

him.

"But I've stopped feeling resentful. It'll be all right now.

I'm on his side."

After that we talked about what started Father writing again.

I suppose we shall never know if locking him in the tower really did

any good.

Simon thought it was more likely that everything worked together--"Our coming here; Mother's very stimulating, you know. And his reading at

Scoatney may have helped-I strewed the place with stuff that I thought might interest him. I believe he does feel that being shut in the

tower caused some kind of emotional release; and he certainly hands you full credit for telling him to write "The cat sat on the mat."

That started him off--gave him the whole idea of the child learning to read."

Personally, I think what helped Father most was losing his temper. I

feel more and more sure that the cake-knife incident taught him too

much of a lesson, somehow tied him up mentally. Simon thought that was quite a good theory.

"What's his temper like nowadays ?" he asked.

"Well, most of the time he's nicer than I ever remember him. But in spasms, it's terrific.

Topaz is adoring life."

"Dear Topaz!" said Simon, smiling.

"She's the perfect wife for him now that he's working--and he knows it.

But I don't see how life at the castle can be much fun for you this

winter. There'll be a maid at the flat, if you feel like staying there sometimes. Are you sure you don't want to go to college ?"

"Quite sure. I only want to write. And there's no college for that except life."

He laughed and said I was a complete joy to him sometimes so old for my age and sometimes so young.

"I'd rather like to learn typing and real shorthand," I told him.

"Then I could be an author's secretary while I'm waiting to be an author."

He said Topaz would arrange it for me. I know he is leaving money with her for all of us--he made her feel that she ought to take it to shield Father from anxiety. Oh, he is indeed a most gracious and generous

"patron"!

"And you must write to me for anything you want," he added.

"Anyway, I shall be back soon."

"I wonder."

He looked at me quickly and asked what I meant.

I wished I hadn't said it. For weeks now I have feared that having

been hurt so much by Rose may have put him off living in England.

"I just wondered if America might claim you," I said.

He didn't answer for so long that I visualized him gone for ever and

the Fox-Cottons installed at Scoatney as they so much want to be.

"Perhaps I shall never see him again," I thought, and suddenly felt so cold that I gave a little shiver.

Simon noticed it and moved closer, pulling the rug up around us both.

Then he said:

"I shall come back all right. I could never desert

I said I knew he loved it dearly.

"Dearly and sadly. In a way, it's like loving a beautiful, dying woman. One knows the spirit of such houses can't survive very much

longer."

Then we spoke of the autumn--he hoped he would he in time to catch a

glimpse of it in New England.

"Is it more beautiful than this ?" I asked.

"No. But it's less melancholy. So many of the loveliest things in England are melancholy." He stared across the fields, then added quickly--"Not that I'm melancholy this afternoon. I never am, when I'm with you. Do you know this is our third conversation on Belmotte

mound?"

I knew it very well.

"Yes, I suppose it is," I said, trying to sound casual. I don't think I managed it, because he suddenly slipped his arm round me. The still afternoon seemed stiller, the late sunlight was like a blessing. As

long as I live I shall remember that silent minute.

At last he said: "I wish I could take you to America with me. Would you like to come ?"

For a second, I thought it was just a joking remark, but he asked me

again--"Would you--Cassandra?" Then something about the way he spoke my name made me sure that if I said yes, he would ask me to marry him.

And I couldn't do it- though I don't think I fully knew why until

now.

I said, in as normal a voice as I could manage: "If only I were trained already, I could come as your secretary. Though I don't know that I'd care to be away from Father too long this year."

I thought that if I put it that way he wouldn't know I had guessed what was in his mind. But I think he did, because he said very quietly:

"Oh, wise young judge." Then we talked quite ordinarily about a car he is lending to Father and about our all going over to Scoatney whenever we feel like it. I didn't say very much myself--most of my mind was

wondering if I had made a dreadful mistake.

When he got up to go he wrapped the rug tightly round me, then told me to slip out my hand.

"It's not a little green hand this time," he said as he took it in his.

I said, "Simon, you know I'd love to see America if ever the

circumstances were well favorable."

He turned my hand over and kissed the palm, then said: I'll report on them when I come back."

And then he went quickly down the mound. As his car drove along the

lane, a sudden gust of wind sprang up and blew brown leaves from the

hedges and trees, so that a cloud of them seemed to be following him.

I didn't make any mistake. I know that when he nearly asked me to

marry him it was only an impulse--just as it was when he kissed me on Midsummer Eve; a mixture of liking me very much and longing for Rose.

It is part of a follow-my-leader game of second-best we have all been playing--Rose with Simon, Simon with me, me with Stephen, and Stephen, I suppose, with that detestable Leda Fox-Cotton. It isn't a very good game; the people you play it with are apt to get hurt. Perhaps even