Foundations of Fear

by David G. Hartwell

  I had listened with great interest to Edward’s account, and I resolved to ask Gideon about his uncle if I got the chance.

  So I prepared myself for my trip to France with, I must admit, pleasurable anticipation, and on April the fourteenth I embarked on the train to Dover, thence uneventfully (even to mal de mer) to Calais. I spent the night in Paris, sampling the delights of French food and wine, and the following day I embarked once more on the train. Eventually, I arrived at the bustling station at Tours, and Gideon was there to meet me, as he had promised he would. He seemed in great spirits and greeted me as if I were an old and valued friend, which, I confess, flattered me. I thanked him for coming to meet me, but he waved my thanks away.

  “It’s nothing, my dear Peter,” he said. “I have nothing to do except eat, drink and grow fat. A visit from someone like you is a rare pleasure.”

  Outside the station we entered a handsome brougham drawn by two beautiful bay horses, and we set off at a spanking pace through the most delicious countryside, all green and gold and shimmering in the sunlight. We drove for an hour along roads that got progressively narrower and narrower, until we were travelling along between high banks emblazoned with flowers of every sort, while overhead, the branches of the trees on each side of the road entwined branches covered with the delicate green leaves of spring. Occasionally, there would be a gap in the trees and high banks, and I could see the silver gleam of the Loire between the trees and realized that we were driving parallel to the great river. Once, we passed the massive stone gateposts and huge wrought iron gates that guarded the wide paths up to an immense and very beautiful château in gleaming pinky-yellow stone. Gideon saw me looking at it, perhaps with an expression of wonder, for it did look like something out of a fairy tale, and he smiled.

  “I hope, my dear Peter, that you do not expect to find me living in a monster like that? If so, you will be doomed to disappointment. I am afraid that my château is a miniature one, but big enough for my needs.”

  I protested that I did not care if he lived in a cow shed: for me the experience of being in France for the first time and seeing all these new sights, and with the prospect of a fascinating job at the end of it, was more than sufficient.

  It was not until evening, when the mauve tree shadows were stretched long across the green meadows that we came to Gideon’s establishment, the Château St. Claire. The gateposts were surmounted by two large, delicately carved owls in a pale honey-colored stone, and I saw that the same motif had been carried out most skillfully in the wrought iron gates that hung from the pillars. As soon as we entered the grounds, I was struck by the contrast to the countryside we had been passing through, which had been exuberant and unkempt, alive with wild flowers and meadows, shaggy with long rich grass. Here the drive was lined with giant oak and chestnut trees, each the circumference of a small room, gnarled and ancient, with bark as thick as an elephant’s hide. How many hundred years these trees had guarded the entrance to the Château St. Claire, I could not imagine, but many of them must have been well-grown trees when Shakespeare was a young man. The greensward under them was as smooth as baize on a billiard table, and responsible for this were several herds of spotted fallow deer, grazing peacefully in the setting sun’s rays. The bucks, with their fine twisted antlers, threw up their heads and gazed at us without fear as we clopped past them and down the avenue. Beyond the greensward I could see a line of gigantic poplars and, gleaming between them, the Loire. Then the drive turned away from the river and the château came into sight. It was, as Gideon had said, small but perfect, as a miniature is perfect. In the evening sun its pale straw-colored walls glowed and the light gave a soft and delicate patina to the bluish slate of the roofs of the main house and its two turrets. It was surrounded by a wide verandah of great flagstone, hemmed in by a wide balustrade on which were perched above thirty peacocks, their magnificent tails trailing down towards the well-kept lawn. Around the balustrade, the flower beds, beautifully kept, were ablaze with flowers in a hundred different colors that seemed to merge with the peacocks’ tails which trailed amongst them. It was a magnificent and breathtaking sight. The carriage pulled up by the wide steps, the butler threw open the door of the brougham, and Gideon dismounted, took off his hat and swept me a low bow, grinning mischievously.

  “Welcome to the Château St. Claire,” he said.

  Thus for me began an enchanted three weeks, for it was more of a holiday than work. The miniature but impeccably kept and furnished château was a joy to live in. The tiny park that meandered along the riverbank was also beautifully kept, for every tree looked as if it were freshly groomed; the emerald lawns looked as if they were combed each morning; and the peacocks, trailing their glittering tails amongst the massive trees, looked as if they had just left the careful hands of Fabergé. Combined with a fine cellar and a kitchen ruled over by a red balloon of a chef whose deft hands could conjour up the most delicate and aromatic of meals, you had a close approach to an earthly paradise. The mornings would be spent sorting and cataloguing the books (and a most interesting collection it was), and then in the afternoon Gideon would insist that we go swimming or for a ride round the park, for he possessed a small stable of very nice horses. In the evenings, after dinner, we would sit out on the still sun-warmed terrace and talk, our conversation made warm and friendly with the wine we had consumed and the excellent meal we had eaten. Gideon was an excellent host, a brilliant raconteur and this, together with his extraordinary gift for mimicry, made him a most entertaining companion. I shall never know now, of course, whether he deliberately exerted all his charm in order to ensnare my liking and friendship. I like to think not; I like to think that he quite genuinely liked me and my company. Not that I suppose it matters now. But certainly, as day followed day, I grew fonder and fonder of Gideon. I am a solitary creature by nature, and I have only a very small circle of friends—close friends—whom I see perhaps once or twice a year, preferring, for my part, my own company. However, my time spent at the château with Gideon had an extraordinary effect upon me. It began to dawn upon me that I had perhaps made myself into too much of a recluse. It was also borne upon me most forceably that all my friends were of a different age group; they were all much older than I was. Gideon, if I could count him as a friend (and by this time, I certainly did), was the only friend I had who was, roughly speaking, my own age. Under his influence I began to expand. As he said to me one night, a slim cigar crushed between his strong white teeth, squinting at me past the blue smoke, “The trouble with you, Peter, is that you are in danger of becoming a young fogey.” I had laughed, of course, but on reflection I knew he was right. I also knew that when the time came for me to leave the château, I would miss his volatile company a great deal, probably more than I cared to admit, even to myself.

  In all our talks Gideon discussed his extensive family with me with a sort of ironic affection, telling me anecdotes to illustrate their stupidity or their eccentricity, never maliciously but rather with a sort of detached good humor. However, the curious thing was that he never once mentioned his uncle, the Marquis, until one evening. We were sitting out on the terrace, watching the white owls that lived in the hollow oaks along the drive doing their first hunting swoops across the greensward in front of us. I had been telling him of a book which I knew was to be put up for sale in the autumn and which I thought could be purchased for some two thousand pounds, a large price, but it was an important work and I felt he should have it in his library, as it complemented the other works he had on the subject. Did he want me to bid for him? He had flipped his cigar butt over the balustrade into the flower bed, where it lay gleaming like a monstrous red glowworm, and he chuckled softly.

  “Two thousand pounds?” he said. “My dear Peter, I am not rich enough to indulge my hobby to that extent unfortunately. If my uncle were to die now it would be a different story.”

  “Your uncle?” I queried cautiously. “I did not know you had any uncles.”

  “Only one
, thank God,” said Gideon, “but unfortunately he holds the purse strings of the family fortunes and the old swine appears to be indestructible. He is ninety-one and when I last saw him, a year or two back, he did not look a day over fifty. However, in spite of all his efforts I do not believe him to be immortal, and so one day the devil will gather him to his bosom, and on that happy day I will inherit a very large sum of money and a library that will make even you, my dear Peter, envious. But until that day comes I cannot go around spending two thousand pounds on a book. But waiting for dead men’s shoes is a tedious occupation, and my uncle is an unsavory topic of conversation, so let’s have some more wine and talk of something pleasant.”

  “If he is unsavory, then he is in contrast to the rest of your relatives you have told me about,” I said lightly, hoping he would give me further information about his infamous uncle.

  Gideon was silent for a moment.

  “Yes, a great contrast,” he said, “but as every village must have its idiot, so every family must have its black sheep or its madman.”

  “Oh, come now, Gideon,” I protested, “surely that’s a bit too harsh a criticism?”

  “You think so?” he asked and in the half light I could see that his face was shining with sweat. “You think I am being harsh to my dear relative? But then you have not had the pleasure of meeting him, have you?”

  “No,” I said, worried by the savage bitterness in his voice and wishing I had let the subject drop since it seemed to disturb him so much.

  “When my mother died, I had to go and live with my ‘dear’ uncle for several years until I inherited the modest amount of money my father left me in trust and then I could be free of him. But for ten years I lived in purgatory with that corrupt old swine. For ten years not a day or night passed without my being terrified out of my soul. There are no words to describe how evil he is, and there are no lengths to which he will not go to achieve his ends. If Satan prowls the earth in the guise of a man, then he surely inhabits the filthy skin of my uncle.”

  He got up abruptly and went into the house, leaving me puzzled and alarmed at the vehemence with which he had spoken. I did not know whether to follow him or not. But presently he returned carrying the brandy decanter and two glasses. He sat down and poured us both a generous amount of the spirit.

  “I must apologize, my dear Peter, for all my histrionics, for inflicting on you melodrama that would be more in keeping in the Grande Guignol than on this terrace,” he said, handing me my drink. “Talking of my old swine of an uncle always has that effect on me, I’m afraid. At one time I lived in fear because I thought he had captured my soul . . . you know the stupid ideas children get? It was many years before I grew out of that. But it still, as you can see, upsets me to talk of him, so let’s drink and talk of other things, eh?”

  I agreed wholeheartedly, and we talked pleasantly for a couple of hours or so. But that night was the only time I saw Gideon go to bed the worse for liquor, and I felt most guilty since I felt it was due to my insistence that he talked to me about his uncle who had obviously made such a deep, lasting and unpleasant impression on his mind.

  Over the next four years I grew to know Gideon well. He came to stay with me whenever he was in England and I paid several delightful visits to the Château St. Claire. Then for a period of six months I heard nothing from him, and I could only presume that he had been overcome by what he called his “travel disease” and had gone off to Egypt or the Far East or even America on one of his periodic jaunts. However, this coincided with a time when I was, myself, extremely busy and so I had little time to ponder on the whereabouts of Gideon. Then one evening, I returned home to Smith Street dead tired after a long journey from Aberdeen and I found awaiting me a telegram from Gideon:

  ARRIVING LONDON MONDAY THIRTY CAN I STAY STOP UNCLE PUT TO DEATH I INHERIT LIBRARY WOULD YOU CATALOGUE VALUE MOVE STOP EXPLAIN ALL WHEN WE MEET REGARDS GIDEON.

  I was amused that Gideon, who prided himself on his impeccable English, should have written “put to death” instead of “died” until he arrived and I discovered that this is exactly what had happened to his uncle, or at least, what appeared to have happened. Gideon arrived quite late on the Monday evening, and as soon as I looked at him I could see that he had been undergoing some harrowing experience. But surely, I thought, it could not be the death of his uncle that was affecting him so. If anything, I would have thought he would be glad. But my friend had lost weight, his handsome face was gaunt and white and he had dark circles under his eyes, which themselves seemed to have suddenly lost all their sparkle and luster. When I poured him a glass of his favorite wine he took it with a hand that trembled slightly and tossed it back in one gulp as if it had been mere water.

  “You look tired Gideon,” I said. “You must have a few glasses of wine and then I suggest an early dinner and bed. We can discuss all there is to be discussed in the morning.”