“But you tell me if you don’t get enough. Good night, Miss Cassandra.” As I went upstairs I was glad I hadn’t admitted that I was ever uncomfortably hungry, because as he steals Herrick for me, I should think he might steal food. It was rather a dreadful thought but somehow comforting.
Father was just arriving from the gatehouse. He didn’t show any signs of having had his feelings hurt.
He remarked that he’d kept four chapters of his book to read in bed.
“And great strength of mind it required,” he added.
Topaz looked rather depressed.
I found Rose lying in the dark because Thomas had borrowed her candle to finish his homework by. She said she didn’t mind as her book had turned out too pretty to be bearable.
I lit my candle-end and stuck it on the melted mass in the candlestick. I had to crouch low in bed to get enough light to write by. I was just ready to start again, when I saw Rose look round to make sure that I had closed the door of Buffer. Then she said:
“Did you think of anything when Miss Marcy said Scoatney Hall was being re-opened? I thought of the beginning of Pride and Prejudice where Mrs.
Bennet says “Netherfield Park is let at last.” And then Mr. Bennet goes over to call on the rich new owner.”
“Mr. Bennet didn’t owe him any rent,” I said.
“Father wouldn’t go anyway. How I wish I lived in a Jane Austen novel!”
I said I’d rather be in a Charlotte Bronte.
“Which would be nicest-Jane with a touch of Charlotte, or Charlotte with a touch of Jane?”
This is the kind of discussion I like very much but I wanted to get on with my journal, so I just said:
“Fifty per cent each way would be perfect,” and started to write determinedly. Now it is nearly midnight. I feel rather like a Bronte myself, writing by the light of a guttering candle with my fingers so numb I can hardly hold the pencil. I wish Stephen hadn’t made me think of food, because I have been hungry ever since; which is ridiculous as I had a good egg tea not six hours ago. Oh, dear —I have just thought that if Stephen was worrying about me being hungry, he was probably 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.
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 BELMOTTE AND THE CASTLE ONLY, 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.