for what seemed an interminable journey, during which I
had to change and wait at more and more inhospitable
stations, until I was so numbed with cold I could hardly
think straight. All the rivers wore a rim of lacy ice along
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their shores, and the ponds and lakes turned blank
frozen eyes to the steel grey sky.
At length, the local train I had changed to dragged
itself, grimy and puffing, into the station of Fontaine and
I disembarked and made my way with my luggage to the
tiny booking office and minute waiting room. Here, to
my relief, I found that there was an old-fashioned,
pot-bellied stove stuffed with chestnut roots and glowing
almost red hot. I piled my luggage in the comer and
spent some time thawing myself out, for the heating on
the train had been minimal. There was no sign of
Gideon.
Presently, warmed by the fire and a nip of brandy I
had taken from my travelling flask, I began to feel better.
But half an hour later I began to worry about Gideon’s
absence. I went out onto the platform and discovered
that the grey sky seemed to have moved closer to the
earth and a few snowflakes were starting to fall, huge lacy
ones the size of a half-crown, that augured a snowstorm
of considerable dimensions in the not-too-distant future.
I was just wondering if I should try walking to the village
when I heard the clop of hooves and made out a dogcart
coming along the road, driven by Gideon muffled up in a
glossy fur coat and wearing an astrakhan hat.
“I’m so very sorry, Peter, for keeping you waiting like
this,” he said, wringing my hand, “but we seem to have
one catastrophe after another. Come, let me help you
with your bags and I will tell you all about it as we
drive.”
We collected my baggage, bundled it into the dogcart,
and then I climbed up onto the box alongside Gideon
and covered myself thankfully with the thick fur rug he
had brought. He turned the horse, cracked his whip and
we went bowling down the snowflakes which were now
falling quite fast. The wind whipped our faces and made
our eyes water, but still Gideon kept the horse at a fast
trot.
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“I am anxious to get there before the snowstorm really
starts,” he said. “That is why I am going at this uncivilized pace. Once these snowstorms start up here they can be very severe. One can even get snowed in for days at a
time.”
“It is certainly becoming a grim winter,” I said.
“The worst we’ve had here for fifty years,” said
Gideon.
He came to the village and Gideon was silent as he
guided his horse through the narrow, deserted streets,
already white with settling snow. Occasionally a dog
would run out of an alley and run barking alongside us
for a way, but otherwise there was no sign of life and the
village could have been deserted for all evidence to the
contrary.
“I am afraid that once again, my dear Peter, I shall
have to trespass upon your good nature,” said Gideon,
smiling at me, his hat and his eyebrows white with snow.
“Sooner or later my demands on our friendship will
exhaust your patience.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “Just tell me what the problem
is.”
“Well,” said Gideon, “I was to leave you in charge of
Francois and his wife, who were my uncle’s servants.
Unfortunately, when I went to the house this morning I
found that Francois’s wife, Marie, had slipped on the icy
front steps and had fallen some thirty feet onto the rocks
and broken her legs. They are, I’m afraid, splintered very
badly, and I really don’t hold out much hope for their
being saved.”
“Poor woman, how dreadful,” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” Gideon continued. “O f course, Francois was
nearly frantic when I got there, and so there was nothing
for it but to drive them both to the hospital in Milau,
which took me over two hours, hence the reason I was
late meeting you.”
“That doesn’t matter at all,” I said. “Of course you
had to drive them to the hospital.”
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“Yes, but it creates another problem as well,” said
Gideon. “You see, none of the villagers liked my uncle,
and Franfois and Marie were the only couple who would
work for him. So with both of them in Milau, there is no
one to look after you, at least for two or three days until
Francois comes back.”
“ My dear chap, don’t let that worry you.” I laughed. “I
am quite used to fending for myself, I do assure you. If
I have food and wine and a fire I will be very well found I
promise you.”
“Oh, you’ll have all that,” said Gideon. “The larder is
well stocked, and down in the game room there is a
haunch of venison, half a wild boar, some pheasants and
partridge, and a few brace of wild duck. There is wine
aplenty, since my uncle kept quite a good cellar, and the
cellar is full of chestnut roots and pine logs, so you will
be warm. You will also have for company the animals.”
“Animals, what animals?” I asked, curious.
“A small dog called Agrippa,” said Gideon, laughing,
“a very large and idiotic cat called Clair de Lune, or
Clair for short, a whole cage full of canaries and various
finches, and an extremely old parrot called Octavius.”
“A positive menagerie,” I exclaimed. “ It’s a good
thing that I like animals.”
“Seriously, Peter,” said Gideon, giving me one of his
very penetrating looks, “are you sure you will be alright?
It seems a terrible imposition to me.”
“Nonsense,” I said heartily. “What are friends for?”
The snow was now coming down with a vengeance and
we could see only a yard or two beyond the horse’s ears,
so dense were the whirling clouds of huge flakes. We had
now entered one of the many tributary gorges that led
into the Gorge du Tam proper. On our left the brown
and black cliffs, dappled with patches of snow on sundry
crevices and ledges, loomed over us, in places actually
overhanging the narrow road. On our right the ground
dropped away, almost sheer, five or six hundred feet into
the gorge below where, through the windblown curtains
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of snow, one could catch occasional glimpses of the green
river, its tumbled rocks snow-wigged, their edges crusted
with ice. The road was rough, snow and water worn, and
in places covered with a sheet of ice that made the horse
slip and stumble and slowed our progress. Once a small
avalanche of snow slid down the cliff face with a hissing
sound and thumped onto the road in front of us, making
the horse shy so badly that Gideon had to fight to keep
control
, and for several hair-raising minutes I feared that
we, the dogcart and the terrified horse might slide over
the edge of the gorge and plunge down into the river
below. But eventually Gideon got it under control and
we crawled along our way.
At length the gorge widened a little, and presently we
rounded a corner and there before us was the strange
bulk of Gideon’s uncle’s house. It was a very extraordinary edifice and I feel I should describe it in some detail.
To begin with, the whole thing was perched up on top of
a massive rock that protruded from the river far below so
that it formed what could only be described as an island,
shaped not unlike an isosceles triangle, with the house on
top. It was connected to the road by a massive and very
old stone bridge. The tall outside walls of the house fell
straight down to the rocks and river below, but as we
crossed the bridge and drove under the huge arch,
guarded by thick oak doors, we found that the house was
built round a large center courtyard, cobblestoned and
with a pond with a fountain in the middle. This last
depicted a dolphin held up by cherubs, the whole thing
polished with ice and with icicles hanging from it. All the
many windows that looked down into the court were
shuttered with a fringe of huge icicles hanging from
every cornice. Between the windows were monstrous
gargoyles depicting various forms of animal life, both
known and unknown to science, each one seeming more
malign than the last and their appearance not improved
by the ice and snow that blurred their outlines so that
they seemed to be peering at you from some snowy
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ambush. As Gideon drew the horse to a standstill by the
steps that led to the front door, we could hear the barking
of the dog inside. My friend opened the front door with a
large rusty key and immediately the dog tumbled out,
barking vociferously and wagging its tail with pleasure.
The large black-and-white cat was more circumspect and
did not deign to come out into the snow but merely
stood, arching its back and mewing, in the doorway.
Gideon helped me carry my bags into the large marble
hall, where a handsome staircase led to the upper floors
of the house. All the pictures, mirrors and furniture were
covered with dust sheets.
“I am sorry about the covers,” said Gideon, and it
seemed to me that as soon as he entered the house he
became increasingly nervous and ill at ease. “I meant to
remove them all this morning and make it more habitable for you, but what with one thing and another I did not manage it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, making a fuss over the dog and
cat, who were both vying for my attention. “I shan’t be
inhabiting all of the house, so I will just remove the
sheets in those parts that I shall use.”
“Yes, yes,” said Gideon, running his hands through his
hair in a nervous fashion. “Your bed is made up . . . the
bedroom is the second door on the left as you reach the
top of the stairs. Now, come with me and I’ll show you
the kitchen and cellar.”
He led me across the hall to a door that was hidden
under the main staircase. Opening this he made his way
down broad stone steps that spiralled their way down
into gloom. Presently we reached a passageway that led
to a gigantic stone-flagged kitchen and, adjoining it,
cavernous cellars and a capacious larder, cold as a
glacier, with the carcasses of game, chicken and duck,
and legs of lamb and saddles of beef hanging from hooks
or lying on the marble shelves that ran around the walls.
In the kitchen was a great range, each fire carefully laid,
and on the great table in the center had been arranged
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various commodities that Gideon thought I may need:
rice, lentils as black as soot, potatoes, carrots and other
vegetables in large baskets, pottery jars of butter and
preserves, and a pile of freshly baked loaves. On the
other side of the kitchen, opposite to the cellars and
larder, lay the wine store, approached through a heavy
door, bolted and padlocked. Obviously Gideon’s uncle
had not trusted his staff when it came to alcoholic
beverages. The cellar was small, but I saw at a glance that
it contained some excellent vintages.
“Do not stint yourself, Peter,” said Gideon. “There
are some really quite nice wines in there and they will be
some small compensation for staying in the gloomy place
alone.”
“You want me to spend my time in an inebriated
state?” I laughed. “I would never get the books valued.
But don’t worry, Gideon; I shall be quite alright. As I
told you before, I like being on my own, and here I have
food and wine enough for an army, plenty of fuel for the
fire, a dog and a cat and birds to keep me company and a
large and interesting library. What more could any man
want?”
“The books, by the way, are mainly in the Long
Gallery, on the south side of the house. I won’t show it to
you— it’s easy enough to find— but I really must be on
my way,” said Gideon, leading the way up into the hall
once more. He delved into his pocket and produced a
huge bunch of ancient keys. “The ‘keys of the Kingdom,’ ” he said with a faint smile. “I don’t think anything is locked, but if it is, please open it. I will tell Francois that he is to come back here and look after you
as soon as his wife is out of danger, and I myself will
return in about four weeks’ time. By then you should
have finished your task.”
“Easily,” I said. “In fact, if I get it done before then I
will send you a telegram.”
“Seriously, Peter,” he said, taking my hand, “I am
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really most deeply in your debt for what you are doing. I
shall not forget it.”
“Rubbish, my friend,” I said. “It gives me great
pleasure to be of service to you.”
I stood in the doorway of the house, the dog panting by
my side, the cat arching itself round my legs and purring
loudly, and watched Gideon get back into the dogcart,
wrap the rug around himself and then flick the horses
with the reins. As they broke into a trot and he steered
them towards the entrance to the courtyard, he raised his
whip in salute. He disappeared through the archway and
very soon the sound of the hoof beats were muffled by
the snow and soon faded altogether. Picking up the
warm silky body of the cat and whistling to the dog who
had chased the dogcart to the archway, barking exuberantly, I went back into the house and bolted the front door behind me.
I decided that the first thing to do was to explore the
house and ascertain where the various books were that I
had come to work with, and thus to make up my mind
which rooms I needed to open up. On a t
able in the hall I
had spotted a large six-branched silver candelabra
loaded with candles and a box of matches lying beside it.
I decided to use this in my exploration since it would
relieve me of the tedium of having to open and close
innumerable shutters. So, lighting the candles and accompanied by the eager, bustling dog whose nails rattled on the bare floors like castanets, I started off. The whole
of the ground floor consisted of three very large rooms
and one smaller one, which comprised the drawing
room, the dining room, a study and then this smaller
salon. Strangely enough, this room— which I called the
blue salon as it was decorated in various shades of blue
and gold— was the only one that was locked, and it took
me some time to find the right key for it. This salon
formed one end of the house and so it was a long, narrow
shoebox shape, with large windows at each end. The
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Gerald Durrell
door by which you entered was midway down one of the
longer walls and hanging on the wall opposite was one of
the biggest mirrors I have ever seen. It must have been
fully nine feet high, stretching from floor level to almost
the ceiling, and some thirty-five feet in length. The
mirror itself was slightly tarnished, which gave it a
pleasant bluish tinge, like the waters of a shallow lake,
but it still reflected clearly and accurately. The whole was
encompassed in a wide and very ornate gold frame,
carved to depict various nymphs and satyrs, unicorns,
griffons and other fabulous beasts. The frame in itself
was a work of art. By seating oneself in one of the
comfortable chairs that stood one on each side of the
fireplace, one could see the whole room reflected in this
remarkable mirror, and although the room was somewhat narrow, this gave one a great sense of space. Owing to the size, the convenience and— I must admit— the
novelty of the room, I decided to make it my living room,
and so in a very short space of time I had the dust covers
off the furniture and a roaring blaze of chestnut roots in
the hearth. Then I moved in the cage of finches and
canaries and placed them at one end of the room
together with Octavius, the parrot, who seemed pleased
by the change, for he shuffled his feathers, cocked his
head to one side and whistled a few bars of the “Marseillaise.” The dog and cat immediately stretched out in front of the blaze and fell into a contented sleep. Thus,
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 40