‘Surely such are the dwellings of the wicked, and this is the place of him that knoweth not God.’
JOB 18:21
Although the address was correct, I had some difficulty in finding the House. Off the main boulevard, a narrow dog’s-leg led between tall hedges, hiding tall, angular chalets that the French call pavillons, and the further I followed the allée the narrower it became, until it was only just wide enough to take a motor vehicle. In fact the road here was not tarmac, and tufts of grass grew up through the sandy gravel, suggesting that no car had passed this way for a very long time.
The allée swung left and then sharp right, and stopped again at a set of tall portal gates that had once been magnificent, no doubt, but now showed long neglect. The dark green paint was cracked and flaking, revealing mottled orange rust underneath. On a red brick pillar hung a sign, with a white No.4 on a chipped blue enamel background. The gates were chained together and padlocked, and I searched in vain for a way in which I could request entry. To one side, the gate had a smaller gate within it, just wide enough to admit a person on foot. It was bolted but, to my relief, not locked, and it creaked loudly as I pushed it open. A driveway, overgrown until it was little more than a wide track, lay in front of me, flanked by huge rhododendron bushes, the buds just turning pink, and I had to continue for several yards in the bright spring sunshine before rounding a bend and seeing the House for the first time.
Initially, I was disappointed. The gates, the shrub-lined drive…I suppose I was expecting to see a small but impressive château set in an extensive park; silly really, because this was still deep in the suburbs of Paris. Instead, I saw a three-storey stone house with steeply pitched, almost Gothic roofs, hidden by the hedges of neighbouring gardens. Close up, I could see that the building was bigger than it first appeared, being as deep as it was wide. Its most impressive features were the huge stained glass windows that reached up two floors either side of the arched double entry doors. The sun, now high in the sky, bathed the whole façade in sparkling light, and, though there was little warmth in it, seemed to give the whole house a bright and welcoming look. Had it been otherwise, I think I would have turned and walked away, since I was still far from sure that I was doing the right thing and feeling suddenly uneasy about the whole idea.
Would to God I had followed that intuition.
And so I stepped up to the old oak doors and pulled down hard on the metal handle that ran in brackets up the stone wall to the right. If a bell rang, I certainly didn’t hear it, buried as it must have been in the depths of the House.
Above the door was a bronze plate with an inscription in Latin: Taceant colloquia. Effugiat risus. Hic locus est ubi Mors gaudet succurrere Vitae. I struggled with it and then gave up. What sort of a ‘tutor’ couldn’t even read the sign above his pupil’s house?
Later, when I did get around to translating it – Let idle talk be silenced. Let laughter be banished. Here is the place where Death delights to succour Life – I felt I’d missed another warning sign.
I could not be sure if anyone knew I was there, and again that uneasy feeling swept over me. I forced myself to wait long seconds but heard no movement within. With something approaching relief, I stepped down from the door and began to retrace my steps towards the gate. When I think now how close I came to getting away… I should have followed my instinct even though there was no logic in it.
‘Vous désirez, monsieur?’
A male voice, hoarse and rough, sounded behind me and, turning, I came face to face with the strangest man. Standing in the open door was an old guy somewhere in his fifties, very tall and slim, in a rangy sort of way, his skin deeply lined, with iron-grey crew-cut hair against a brownish, weatherbeaten face. A huge white nicotine-stained moustache hung beneath a hawkish nose, high cheekbones and deep-set, half-closed eyes.
He was dressed in what appeared to be riding breeches over tall, brown riding boots, with a white long-sleeved shirt buttoned down one side. A Cossack! My mind flicked back to the mention of Russian in the job advertisement.
With some reluctance, I turned and walked back towards him.
‘Vous désirez?’ he asked again, and I caught a whiff of tobacco and saddle soap.
‘La situation, monsieur…l’emploi…dans le journal…’
He looked at me narrowly, his deep-set eyes squinting into the sunlight. After what seemed an age, he receded into the House with an abrupt, ‘Entrez! Attendez ici.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, he added,‘S’il vous plaît, monsieur.’
He disappeared, leaving me to gaze in wonderment at the scene. In front of me was a great hall with a double staircase forming a neat horseshoe up to the landing of the next floor. The sunshine streamed through the huge stained glass windows behind me, throwing a kaleidoscope of multicoloured light upon the black and white tessellated floor. To the left and right front, wide red-carpeted steps curved upwards, and either side of them were dark passages leading deep inside the House.
The sight took my breath away and, at the same time, made my uneasiness recede. The colours, the glowing warmth of the carpets, offset the cold austerity of the black and white marble floor and the heavy dark oak of the stair rails and wall panelling. A feeling of great relief came over me; a feeling of calmness and security quite unlike the taut nervousness with which I had been living for the past few weeks.
I stood rooted to the spot, trying to take it all in and get a grip on my emotions, so preoccupied that I failed to notice the return of my host. His sudden voice startled me.
‘Veuillez me suivre, monsieur. Par ici…’
He led me to the left, through tall oak double doors and into a high book-lined room; he pointed at a leather sofa behind a low table, turned abruptly, and was gone. I approached the seat but did not sit down and just gazed around me at the hundreds of leather-bound books that reached up to a mezzanine floor, halfway up the double-storeyed room. On the low table stood a strange silver vase-like object which I eventually decided was a samovar, since around it hung small, thick drinking glasses. In spite of the spring weather, a coal fire burned in the grate of the marble fireplace and gave the room a cosier feel. I tried to read some of the titles on the book spines but most of them were in Russian script.
Turning back to face the door, I saw that a short, slim girl had entered the room and had been waiting patiently behind me. She held out her hand for me to shake.
‘I’m Anya,’ she said, with a broad and attractive smile. Her small, rather elfin face was framed by dark hair swept up on to the top of her head in a sort of loose bun, and I glimpsed something strange and indefinable about her eyes.
‘I’m the Grand Duchess’s secretary,’ she continued, ‘and I’m to interview those people who reply to our advertisement.’
I continued to look at this ‘Anya’ and suddenly understood what it was that was unusual about her eyes: her irises were different colours – one brown, one green.
Caught out staring, I offered lamely, ‘Er, yes, it’s about the job…er, post…’
She sat down, and motioned for me to do the same. There followed a long conversation about me, my qualifications, my background, education, etc. It seemed quite thorough, but I had the strangest feeling that she was just going through the motions. It made it easier for me to hedge about certain aspects of my CV and particularly about my immigration status. To my great relief, she didn’t ask to see my passport or enquire whether I had any written references. She was very relaxed and easy to talk to and, in spite of her Slavic-sounding name, spoke excellent French, with perhaps a hint of a Belgian accent; maybe she was from the north.
Presently, Anya served me my first taste of Russian tea from the samovar that I had earlier admired, and must have picked up on my reaction to it, because she laughed and said, ‘Yes, it’s something of an acquired taste! Like our cigarettes.’
She left me to persevere with the tea while she made her report to the Grand Duchess, who it seemed lived upstairs and, being very old, seldom left her suite. It didn’t seem very long before she returned, smiling, and told me that the post was mine. Naturally, I was a little surprised, and it crossed my mind that there might not have been that many candidates.
I looked at Anya and decided that she was really quite attractive, even with her old-style bun, lack of make-up and rather frumpish long dress. Suddenly, she smiled broadly and gave a sort of throaty laugh that somehow belied the serious rôle she had earlier assumed.
‘But…’ She paused; then, smiling again, ‘But you should listen carefully to what I am about to say before you accept.’
The smile vanished and was replaced by a frown and a very direct look.
‘There are several factors that you should consider carefully.’
She paused again, apparently for effect.
‘The first concerns your pupil. Her Imperial Highness Natalya is seventeen years old. She is very intelligent. She has always been educated by private tutors here in this House because she suffers from a hereditary illness that makes it impossible, and undesirable, that she should leave the confines of the House and grounds.
‘Secondly, because the Grand Duchess requires it, we – all of us here – live according to her wishes. What that means is simply that we dress, behave and live in a manner compatible with the era of her youth. For example, though we have electricity here, it is not in use. We have oil lamps, candles, coal fires. There are no televisions and no radios. You would be required to conform to these rules. As the Princess’s tutor, you will be responsible for her study of the English language, but also for more general education related to those studies.
‘You will be considered as a valued member of the household and not as domestic staff. You will eat here in this room with me or, on rare occasions, in the great dining room with the Grand Duchess and her senior staff and companions – we have a doctor, a lawyer and a priest in attendance several days each week.
‘I will show you your quarters in a moment. One thing I really need to explain to you is that, during the period of your contract – which is renewable – you will have a great deal of free time and you will have all the facilities of the House at your disposal, but you are requested not to leave – that is, not to go outside the confines of these grounds.’
She paused to allow the seriousness of this piece of information to sink in.
‘You will find us odd at first, Nicholas – I may call you that?’
I nodded.
‘We live in a rather quaint, old-fashioned way, but it has its merits when you get used to it. Your salary will be saved for you and paid as a lump sum when your contract terminates.’ She looked up at me. ‘I do hope you accept, Nicholas; it really is a unique opportunity to meet some interesting people and live a different lifestyle for a while. The Princess Natalya is an exceptional person. She bears her illness bravely. Do you have any questions for me, Nicholas?’
Again, that warm smile.
‘Er, yes, actually, Anya. You said “Princess”?’
‘Yes. She is the Grand Duchess’s niece and she has royal rank – you know, from Russia.’
I took that in slowly and then asked the obvious question. ‘The illness that prevents the Princess from leaving the House – what is it, exactly?’
The answer was immediate. ‘Oh, it’s nothing you could catch, Nicholas. Really, it’s not that sort of illness.’
I noticed the easy use now of my first name. ‘So what sort of illness is it?’ I persisted.
‘Well, to be frank, no one seems to know exactly. It comes and goes. Sometimes she seems fine for weeks and then she’s confined to her room for days on end…’
‘I still don’t quite understand…’ I said, trying not to sound too obtuse.
Anya sighed. ‘Well, it’s a disorder of the mind…a sort of severe depression that overcomes her and changes her personality. Sometimes it’s hard to know which symptoms are caused by the illness and which are caused by the treatment…which is sedation mainly, I believe. She’s been seen by all sorts of specialists, professors, psychiatrists, and no one seems to know how to cure it. But it won’t be a problem for you, Nicholas. We get a warning when it’s about to happen and then Dr Voikin looks after her. Now, let me show you your quarters before you finally decide.’
She led me back to the great entrance hall and up the grand, red-carpeted stairs on the left side of the horseshoe and then along a wide passage to a door on the left. ‘The whole of the left wing on this first floor is yours. It includes this schoolroom.’ She pointed into a large room overlooking the front grounds of the House. ‘And this is your sitting room.’ We crossed an adjoining room, with a sofa and corner fireplace. ‘And this is your bedroom.’ We entered another small room with a double bed and wardrobe. I noticed a jug and ewer on a stand and a small bedside table with a candlestick. ‘You see, Nicholas, it’s self-contained, as they say. This door connects with the sitting room and then the schoolroom, and this door is to the main passageway; the bathroom is just across the corridor.’
During this monologue, I made general noises of approval, all the while thinking it a far cry from sleeping on the floor at Bruno’s.
Anya seemed to be getting more animated and enthusiastic as we went along. ‘Now,’ she said archly, ‘I’ll introduce you to the staff.’
Leaving the bedroom by the corridor door, she led me to a dark-painted door right at the end of the passage. Here, at the back of the House, the narrow, winding stairs were uncarpeted and the painted walls a dirty cream. Carefully we descended, first to the ground-floor landing, and then a further four or five steps to a sort of semi-basement. It was a huge, stone-flagged room lit only above head height by ground-level windows and a big fire in a sort of walk-in stone fireplace.
At the window side, facing the back garden, were cookers and a great sink with slate worktops and, behind them, walls hung with copper kitchen utensils. Opposite, the fireplace had a few battered leather armchairs and a huge, scrubbed wooden table with benches either side.
Gathered in the middle of this room were the ‘staff’ in whose company I was about to spend several months of my life.