Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

hungry himself. We are a household!

I wonder if I can get a few more minutes' light by making wicks of

match sticks stuck into the liquid wax. Sometimes that will work.

It was no good- like trying to write by the light of a glowworm. But

the moon has fought its way through the clouds at last and I can see

by that. It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.

Rose is asleep--on her back, with her mouth wide open. Even like that she looks nice. I hope she is having a beautiful dream about a rich

young man proposing to her.

I don't feel in the least sleepy. I shall hold a little mental chat

with Miss Blossom. Her noble bust looks larger than ever against the

silvery window.

I have just asked her if she thinks Rose and I will ever have anything exciting happen to us, and I distinctly heard her say: "Well, I don't know, ducks, but I do know that sister of yours would be a daisy if she ever got the chance!"

I don't think I should ever be a daisy.."

I could easily go on writing all night but I can't really see and it's extravagant on paper, so I shall merely think. Contemplation seems to be about the only luxury that costs nothing.

III

I have just read this journal from the beginning. I find I can read

the speed-writing quite easily, even the bit I did by moonlight last

night. I am surprised to see how much I have written; with stories

even a page can take me hours, but the truth seems to flow out as fast as I can get it down. But words are very inadequate- anyway, my words are. Could any one reading them picture our kitchen by firelight, or

Belmotte Tower rising towards the moon-silvered clouds, or Stephen

managing to look both noble and humble? (it was most unfair of me to

say he looks a fraction daft.) When I read a book, I put in all the

imagination I can, so that it is almost like writing the book as well as reading it- or rather, it is like living it. It makes reading so

much more exciting, but I don't suppose many people try to do it.

I am writing in the attic this afternoon because Topaz and Rose are so very conversational in the kitchen; they have unearthed a packet of

green dye- it dates from when I was an elf in the school play--and are going to dip some old dresses. I don't intend to let myself become the kind of author who can only work in seclusion- after all, Jane Austen wrote in the sitting-room and merely covered up her work when a visitor called (though I bet she thought a thing or two) --but I am not quite Jane Austen yet and there are limits to what I can stand. And I want

to tackle the description of the castle in peace. It is extremely

cold up here, but I am wearing my coat and my wool gloves, which have gradually become mittens all but one thumb; and About, our beautiful

pale ginger cat, is keeping my stomach warm--I am leaning over him to write on the top of the cistern. His real name is Abelard, to go with Heloise (I need hardly say that Topaz christened them), but he seldom gets called by it.

He has a reasonably pleasant nature but not a gushing one; this is a

rare favor I am receiving from him this afternoon.

Today I shall start with:

How WE While Father was in jail, we lived in a London boardinghouse,

Mother not having fancied settling down again next to the fence-leaping neighbor. When they let Father out, he decided to buy a house in the

country.

I think we must have been rather well-off in those days as Jacob

Wrestling had sold wonderfully well for such an unusual book and

Father's lecturing had earned much more than the sales. And Mother had an income of her own.

Father chose Suffolk as a suitable county so we stayed at the King's

Crypt hotel and drove out house-hunting every day- we had a car then; Father and Mother at the front, Rose, Thomas and I at the back. It was all great fun because Father was in a splendid mood goodness knows he didn't seem to have any iron in his soul then. But he certainly had a prejudice against all neighbors; we saw lots of nice houses in

villages, but he wouldn't even consider them.

It was late autumn, very gentle and golden. I loved the quiet-colored fields of stubble and the hazy water meadows. Rose doesn't like the

flat country but I always did- flat country seems to give the sky such a chance. One evening when there was a lovely sunset, we got lost.

Mother had the map and kept saying the country was upside down- and

when she got it the right way up, the names on the map were upside

down. Rose and I laughed a lot about it; we liked being lost. And

Father was perfectly patient with Mother about the map.

All of a sudden we saw a high, round tower in the distance, on a little hill. Father instantly decided that we must explore it, though Mother wasn't enthusiastic. It was difficult to find because the little roads twisted and woods and villages kept hiding it from us, but every few

minutes we caught a glimpse of it and Father and Rose and I got very

excited. Mother kept saying that Thomas would be up too late; he was

asleep, wobbling about between Rose and me.

At last we came to a neglected signpost with To B.rMOT'RG ND a'nz ct, sa orr, on it, pointing down a narrow, overgrown lane. Father turned

in at once and we crawled along with the brambles clawing at the car as if trying to hold it back- I remember thinking of the Prince fighting his way through the wood to the Sleeping Beauty. The hedges were so

high and the lane turned so often that we could only see a few yards

ahead of us; Mother kept saying we ought to back out before we got

stuck and that the castle was probably miles away. Then suddenly we

drove out into the open and there it was- but not the lonely tower on a hill we had been searching for; what we saw was quite a large castle, built on level ground. Father gave a shout and the next minute we were out of the car and staring in amazement.

How strange and beautiful it looked in the late afternoon light! I can still recapture that first glimpse --see the sheer gray stone walls and towers against the pale yellow sky, the reflected castle stretching

towards us on the brimming moat, the floating patches of emerald-green water-weed. No breath of wind ruffled the looking-glass water, no

sound of any kind came to us. Our excited voices only made the castle seem more silent.

Father pointed out the gatehouse- it had two round towers joined

half-way up by a room with stone-mullioned windows. To the right of

the gatehouse nothing remained but crumbling ruins, but on the left a stretch of high, battlemented walls joined it to a round corner tower.

A bridge crossed the moat to the great nail-studded oak doors under the windows of the gatehouse room, and a little door cut in one of the big doors stood slightly ajar- the minute Father noticed this, he was off towards it. Mother said vague things about trespassing and tried to

stop us following him, but in the end she let us go, while she stayed behind with Thomas who woke and wept a little.

How well I remember that run through the stillness, the smell of wet

stone and wet weeds as we crossed the bridge, the moment of excitement before we stepped in at the little door! Once through, we were in the cool dimness of the gatehouse passage. That was where I first felt the castle--it is the place where one is most conscious of the great weight of stone above and around one.

I was too young to know much of history and the past, for me the

castle was one in a fairy tale; and the queer heavy coldness was so

spell-like that I clutched Rose hard. Together we ran through to the

daylight; then stopped dead.

On our left, instead of the gray walls and towers we had been

expecting, was a long house of whitewashed plaster and herring-boned

brick, veined by weather-bleached wood. It had all sorts of odd little lattice windows, bright gold from the sunset, and the attic gable

looked as if it might fall forward at any minute. This belonged to a

different kind of fairy tale--it was just my idea of a "Hansel and Gretel" house and for a second I feared a witch inside had stolen Father. Then I saw him trying to get in at the kitchen door. He came

running back through the overgrown courtyard garden, calling that there was a small window open near the front door that he could put Rose

through to let us in. I was glad he said Rose and not meI would have

been terrified to be alone in the house for a second. Rose was never

frightened of anything; she was trying to scramble up to the window

even before Father got there to lift her. Through she went and we

heard her struggling with heavy bolts.

Then she flung the door open triumphantly.

The square hall was dark and cold and had a horrid moldy smell. Every bit of woodwork was a drab ginger color, painted to imitate the

graining of wood.

"Would you believe anyone could do that to fine old paneling?" exploded Father. We followed him into a room on the left, which had a dark red wallpaper and a large black-leaded fireplace. There was a nice little window looking on to the garden, but I thought it was a hideous room.

"False ceiling," said Father, stretching up to tap it.

"Oh, lord, I suppose the Victorians did their worst to the whole place." We went back to the hall and then into the large room which is now our drawing-room; it stretches the whole depth of the house. Rose and I ran across and knelt on the wide window seat, and Father opened the heavy mullioned windows so that we could look down and see

ourselves in the moat. Then he pointed out how thick the wall was and explained about the Stuart house having been built on to the ruins of the castle.

"It must have been beautiful once- and could be again," he said, staring across to the field of stubble.

"Think of this view in summer, with a wheat field reaching right up to the edge of the moat."

Then he turned and exclaimed in horror at the wallpaper-he said it

looked like giant squashed frogs. It certainly did, and there was a

monstrosity of a fireplace surrounded by tobacco-colored tiles. But

the diamond-paned windows overlooking the garden and full of the sunset were beautiful, and I was already in love with the moat.

While Rose and I were waving to our reflections, Father went off

through the short passage to the kitchen we suddenly heard him shouting

"The swine, the swine!" Just for an instant I thought he had found pigs, but it turned out to be his continued opinion of the people who had spoilt the house. The kitchen was really dreadful. It had been

partitioned to make several rooms- hens had been kept in one of them; there was a great sagging false ceiling, the staircase and the

cupboards were grained ginger like the hall. What upset me most was a bundle of rags and straw where tramps must have slept. I kept as far

away from it as possible and was glad when Father led the way

upstairs.

The bedrooms were as spoilt as the downstairs rooms -false ceilings,

horrid fireplaces, awful wallpapers. But I was very much fetched when I saw the round tower opening into the room which is now Rose's and

mine. Father tried to get the door to it open, but it was nailed up so he strode on across the landing.

"That corner tower we saw from outside must be somewhere about here,"

he said. We followed him into Thomas's little room, hunting for it,

and then into the bathroom. It had a huge bath with a wide mahogany

surround, and two mahogany-seated lavatories, side by side, with one

lid to cover them both. The pottery parts showed views of Windsor

Castle and when you pulled the plug the bottom of Windsor Castle fell out. Just above them was a text left by the previous tenants,

saying:

"Hold thou me up, and I shall be safe." Father sat down on the side of the bath and roared with laughter.

He would never have anything in the bathroom changed so even the text is still there.

The corner tower was between the bath and the lavatories.

There was no door to it and we started to climb up the circular stone stair case inside, but the steps had crumbled so much that we had to

turn back. But we did get high enough to find a way out on to the top of the walls; there was quite a wide walk with a battlemented parapet on each side. From there we could see Mother in the car, nursing

Thomas.

"Don't attract her attention," said Father, "or she'll think we're going to break our necks."

The wall led us to one of the gatehouse towers; and inside it, opening on to the staircase, was the door to the gatehouse room.

"Thank the lord this isn't spoilt," said Father as we went in.

"How I could work in this room!"

There were stone-mullioned windows looking in to the courtyard, as well as the ones at the front overlooking the lane. Father said they were

Tudor;

later in period than the gatehouse itself, but much earlier than the

house.

We went back into the tower and found the steps of the circular stone staircase good enough for us to go up higher -once we were crawling

into the darkness I wished they hadn't been; Father struck matches but there was a dreadful black moment each time one burnt out. And the

cold, rough stone felt so strange to my hands and bare knees. But when at last we came out on the battlemented top of the tower it was worth it all--I had never felt so high in my life. And I was so triumphant

at having been brave enough to come up. Not that I had had any choice; Rose had kept butting me from behind.

We stood looking down on the lane and over the fields stretching far on either side; we were so high that we could see how the hedges cut them up into a patchwork pattern. There were a few little woods and, a mile or so to the left, a tiny village. We moved round the tower to look

across the courtyard garden -and then we all shouted: "There it is!" at the same moment. Beyond the ruined walls on the west side of the

courtyard was a small hill and on the top of it was the high tower we had driven so long in search of. It puzzles me now why we hadn't seen it when we first came through the gatehouse passage. Perhaps the

overgrown garden obstructed the view; or perhaps we were too much

astonished at seeing the house to look in the opposite direction.

Father dived for the staircase. I cried "Wait, wait!" and he turned and picked me up, letting Rose go ahead striking the matches. He

guessed the bottom of the staircase must come out in the gatehouse

passage, but Rose used the last match as we reached the archway on to the walls; so we went back along them to the bathroom and down the nice little front staircase of the house into the hall. Mother was just

coming through the front door to look for us, dragging a cross, sleepy Thomas--he never liked to be left alone in the car. Father showed her the tower on the hill--we could see it easily once we knew where to