The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

by Gerald Durrell

  ‘I can tell you, my dear boy, I was never so glad in my life to be quit of a house. I truly believe the old man to have been evil and would not be surprised to learn that he practised witchcraft and was trying to involve that nice young lad in his foul affairs. However, I have no proof of this, you understand, so that is why I would not wish to repeat it. I should imagine that the uncle is now dead, or, if not, he must be in his nineties. As to the boy, I later heard from friends in Paris that there were rumours that his private life was not all that it should be, some talk of his attachment to certain women, you know, but this was all circumstantial, and in any case, as you know dear boy, foreigners have a different set of morals to an Englishman. It is one of the many things that sets us apart from the rest of the world, thank God.’

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

  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 and 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. Gideon was there to meet me as he had promised he would. He seemed in great spirits and greeted me as if I was 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, covered with the delicate green leaves of spring. Occasionally there would be a gap in the trees and high banks and I would see the silver gleam of the Loire between the trees. I realized that we were driving parallel to the great river. Once we passed the massive stone gateposts and wrought-iron gates that guarded the drive 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. 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-coloured stone, and I saw that the same motif had been carried out most skilfully 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 when Shakespeare was a young man. The green sward 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 green sward 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-coloured walls glowed and the light gave a soft and delicate patina to the blueish slate of the roofs of the main house and its two turrets.

  It was surrounded by a wide veranda of great flag stone, 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 colours that seemed to merge with the tails of the peacocks that trailed amongst them. It was a breath-taking 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 river bank was also beautifully kept, for every tree looked as if it were freshly groomed, the emerald lawns combed each morning, and the peacocks, trailing their glittering tails amongst the massive trees, as if they had just left the careful hands of Fabergé. Combine this with a fine cellar and a kitchen ruled over by a red balloon of a chef whose deft hands would conjure up the most delicate and aromatic of meals, and you had a close approach to an earthly paradise.

  The morning 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 went swimming or else for a ride round the park, for he possessed a small stable of very nice horses. In the evenings, after dinner, we would sit on the still sun-warmed terrace and talk, our conversation made warm and friendly by 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 me. I like to think not; 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 the most 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 forcibly that all my friends were of a different age group, 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 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 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 humour. 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 green sward 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. 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 flipped his cigar butt over the balustrade into the flower bed where it lay gleaming like a monstrous red glow worm, and 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. 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. 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 unsavoury topic of conversation, so let’s have some more wine and talk of something pleasant.’

  ‘If he is unsavoury, then he is in contrast to the rest of your relatives you have told me about,’ I said lightly, hoping that 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 that 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 I could be free of him. For ten years I lived in purgatory with that corrupt old swine. For ten years not a day or a 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. I was 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 you with 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 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. I felt most guilty since I felt it was due to my insistence that he talk about his uncle who had 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. 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. Surely, I thought to myself, it could not be the death of his uncle that was affecting him so. If anything I would have thought he would have been glad. But my friend had lost weight, his handsome face was gaunt and white and he had dark circles under his eyes that seemed suddenly to have lost all their sparkle and lustre. When I poured him out a glass of his favourite 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.’

  ‘Dear old Peter,’ he said, giving me a shadow of his normally effervescent smile. ‘Please don’t act like an English nanny, and take that worried look off your face. I am not sickening for anything. It’s just that I have had rather a hard time these last few weeks and I’m suffering from reaction. However, it’s all over now, thank God. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner, but before then I would be grateful if I could have a bath, my dear chap.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said immediately, and went to ask Mrs Manning to draw a bath for my friend, and to take his baggage up to the guest room.

  He went upstairs to bathe and change, and very shortly I followed him. Both my bedroom and the guest room had their own bathrooms, for there was sufficient room on that floor to allow this little luxury. I was just about to start undressing in order to start my own ablutions when I was startled by a loud moaning cry, almost a strangled scream, followed by a crash of breaking glass which appeared to emanate from Gideon’s bathroom. I hastened across the narrow landing and tapped on his door.

  ‘Gideon?’ I called. ‘Gideon, are you all right . . . can I come in?’

  There was no reply and so, greatly agitated, I entered the room. I found my friend in his bathroom, bent over the basin and holding on to it for support, his face, the ghastly white of cheese, sweat streaming down it. The big mirror over the basin had been shattered and the fragments, together with a broken bottle of what looked like hair shampoo, littered the basin and the floor around.

  ‘He did it . . . he did it . . . he did it . . .’ muttered Gideon to himself, swaying, clutching hold of the basin. He seemed oblivious of my presence. I seized him by the arm and helped him into the bedroom where I made him lie down on the bed and called down the stairs for Mrs Manning to bring up some brandy and look sharp about it.

  When I went back into the room Gideon was looking a little better, but he was lying there with his eyes closed, taking deep, shuddering breaths like a man who has just run a gruelling race. When he heard me approach the bed he opened his eyes and gave me a ghastly smile.

  ‘My dear Peter,’ he said, ‘I do apologize . . . so stupid of me . . . I suddenly felt faint . . . I think it must be the journey and lack of food, p
lus your excellent wine . . . I fear I fell forward with that bottle in my hand and shattered your beautiful mirror . . . I’m so sorry . . . of course I will replace it.’

  I told him, quite brusquely, not to be so silly and, when Mrs Manning came up the stairs with the brandy, I forced him to take some in spite of his protests. While he was drinking it, Mrs Manning cleaned up the mess in the bathroom.

  Ah. That’s better,’ said Gideon at last. ‘I feel quite revived now. All I want is a nice relaxing bath and I shall be a new man.’

  I felt that he ought to have his food in bed, but he would not hear of it, and when he descended to the dining-room half an hour later I must say he did look better and much more relaxed. He laughed and joked with Mrs Manning as she served us and complimented her lavishly on her cooking, swearing that he would get rid of his own chef, kidnap Mrs Manning and take her to his château in France to cook for him. Mrs Manning was enchanted by him, as indeed she always was, but I could see that it cost him some effort to be so charming and jovial. When at last we had finished the pudding and cheese and Mrs Manning put the decanter of port on the table and, saying good night, left us, Gideon accepted a cigar. Having lit it he leant back in his chair and smiled at me through the smoke.

  ‘Now, Peter,’ he began, ‘I can tell you something of what’s been happening.’

  ‘I am most anxious to know what it is that has brought you to this low ebb, my friend,’ I said seriously.

  He felt in his pocket and produced from it a large iron key with heavy teeth and an ornate butt. He threw it on the table where it fell with a heavy thud.

  ‘This was one of the causes of the trouble,’ he said, staring at it moodily. ‘The key to life and death, as you might say.’