We thought only to stay at an hotel, and Mr. Caspian or Captain Winston would have telegraphed, but Peter Storm said no, there was a nicer plan. For a surprise to us, Marcel Moncourt—our great Marcel!—had asked a man he knew to let us dispose at his house—I mean, of his house. The man was away, but he was of those who will have all things ready for the notice of a moment, if he drops down from the sky upon his servants.
But, my child, it is a wonderful house! Not old, quite new, like the Palace of Aladdin. All that misses is a roc's egg, hanging up in the great hall, unless it is there, disguised in a chandelier from Venice.
Some servants are kept to be ready whatever happens. They are Japanese, which makes even more the fairy-tale effect. Peter Storm gives them orders, for that was arranged with our Marcel, it seems, before we started. We owe this experience to Marcel; but then, we owe Marcel to Mr. Storm; and I think it annoys Mr. Caspian very, very much that it is thanks to Peter we are here. He would like always to be the important one, and he feels it should be his right to be of importance, because (now this is one of the strange things!) the fairy palace was built by a cousin of his—the cousin from whom came all his money. That is really odd, but it is not yet the mysterious part. Now I have just come to it.
From Peter I have heard nothing except what I told you: that the house belongs to a friend of Marcel Moncourt's, who is always away since he owned it and will not let but will lend his place sometimes. From Mr. Caspian I have this story which I write for you.
His cousin, an old man named Stanislaws—only a cousin through a marriage—built the house for his son. It was to be a surprise birthday present, and it must be so beautiful, with many features and furnishings of other countries, that this young man would consent to settle in it. He liked to wander over the world, and his poor father thought if he could give him in one house all the things he loved the best in far-off lands he might be satisfied. That was pathetic, don't you find? To have the house ready in time the old Stanislaws offered a great sum to an architect who must put that work in front of all other engagements. He did so, but trying to keep his contracts with every one gave him in the end an illness many people in this country have, called nervous prostration. I suppose it is an American disease, as one does not have it elsewhere. That was the first bad luck of the house, but not the last. When it was finished, before even it was named, the old Stanislaws died in a sad way—a way Mr. Caspian said I would not like to hear of; and the son died, too. Mr. Caspian thought the house would come to him with everything else; but no, it had been given by the young Stanislaws to some friend. This friend kept away, and would not even let his name be known; so Mr. Caspian fought to get the place for himself, claiming through the law there must be something wrong. He had hope, for he wished to live there, not liking the west, where the old Stanislaws home was. But the case came out against him in the end. A lawyer in New York proved that the house had been legally given, and nothing could be done. Since then it is Marcel Moncourt who pays the servants and acts for the owner, but Mr. Caspian is sure the place is not his.
Well, here we are in it, anyhow, and shall be till to-morrow, for we are seeing the neighbourhood to-day, and to-night motoring to a dance at Piping Rock, where there is a country club very rich and celebrated. Now, is it not mysterious: a house without a name, belonging to a nameless man? Figure to yourself, we eat this man's food, for we are not allowed to pay, and we know not whom to thank! Last night when we arrived we were shown to our rooms by a Japanese butler. Each room has its bath, and not only that, but its own little salon. (My suite is French, Molly's and Captain Winston's is English of the Elizabeth time; and there are rooms Spanish, Italian, Egyptian, Chinese, Russian, and Greek.) We bathed and dressed, and went down to dine in a circular dining-room with inlaid marble walls, and doors of carved, open-work bronze that have transparent enamel, like iridescent shell let into the openings. It is the first house I have seen big enough to make the Goodrich family look small, and the girls screamed with admiration in the dining-room; but Peter Storm laughed at the whole house. He said he would like as much to live in the Museum at Athens.
Afterward in the garden Mr. Caspian spoke of that, and said it was "bad taste," because Mr. Storm could never have been to the Museum of Athens, and "a man of his stamp" was no judge. It was only an impertinence of him to pretend, and an accident that he should have climbed up for a while from his position to ours.
That divided me between a laugh and a snap! Because Mr. Caspian is a little man without distinction, and Peter—but already you know from my letters what he is like.
"I thought," said I, "you were socialist, and for you one man was worth another."
"I am not that now," he hurried to tell me. "Since I came into so much responsibility I am broader."