Secret Passage
An anecdote told to me by grandmother on a rainy Saturday afternoon over tea and sandwiches:
"You must have been about five," grandmother Emily said, "when you began to discover the secret parallel world of the great house. Of course, you did this so gradually and methodically that nobody realized at first what a spell it must have held over you. All those barely visible doors opening and closing; people working and living in hidden rooms. The short, narrow corridor connecting the servant's staircase with the great hallway.
Your nanny, that nice Scottish lady with the large nose and the deep voice - I believe her name was Miss McDoogal, wasn't it? - later told me she thought the whole affair had an awful lot to do with you finally receiving you glasses. You have no idea, puffin, how much that first clear grasp of your surroundings changed you. Within days, you turned from intelligent, but somewhat overly concentrated, overly hesitant child to a miniature version of Marco Polo. Perfectly fascinated by what you saw, perfectly determined to take exploration just one step further.
Our mistake probably lay in underestimating the effect this would have on your usual afternoon drowsiness. So one day - Nanny McDoogal had just put you to bed and had gone to fetch your favourite book of fairy tales - you used the opportunity for a quite challenging expedition.
From the nursery's servant entry to the staircase and then all the way down to the staff's dining room. Lord knows how you managed to stray that far without getting noticed. There must have been at least twenty-five different people in your parents' employ; butler, under-butler, housekeeper, maids, kitchen staff. The scullery maid who discovered you sitting on the floor in nothing but your socks and pyjamas later swore you had a remarkably good idea of where you were headed and only failed to pick the right door.
'But I want to say hello to Mr. Beedle and ask if I can see where he cooks dinner.' That's about what you said to her when she wrapped you in an overcoat and gave you a cupcake. All your protest helped little. You were lifted up and carried back to your quarters. Your nanny, who had already alarmed the whole household by then, didn't know whether to feel relieved and amused or to be angry. Her professional instincts, though, must have told her your curiosity was not to be taken lightly, because a couple of days later she took you on a supervised tour through the house's 'unseen' rooms.
Investigative minds need to be guided, not tied down, as she used to say. And this strategy would have worked perfectly well if it hadn't been for the questions you asked once the big tour was finished. Very innocent, but at the same time quite understandable. They upset your mother. Poor Miss McDoogal probably was forced to perform the most complicated diplomatic act of her entire career, simply because there is no good way of informing a sheltered five-year-old about the realities of his life style.
I doubt it's such an act of criminal insanity you feel perfectly happy in your current surroundings, Rudolph. Three rooms, the most unique gentleman's gentleman as the one and only servant. Maybe I'm turning socialist in my old age."
"You must have been about five," grandmother Emily said, "when you began to discover the secret parallel world of the great house. Of course, you did this so gradually and methodically that nobody realized at first what a spell it must have held over you. All those barely visible doors opening and closing; people working and living in hidden rooms. The short, narrow corridor connecting the servant's staircase with the great hallway.
Your nanny, that nice Scottish lady with the large nose and the deep voice - I believe her name was Miss McDoogal, wasn't it? - later told me she thought the whole affair had an awful lot to do with you finally receiving you glasses. You have no idea, puffin, how much that first clear grasp of your surroundings changed you. Within days, you turned from intelligent, but somewhat overly concentrated, overly hesitant child to a miniature version of Marco Polo. Perfectly fascinated by what you saw, perfectly determined to take exploration just one step further.
Our mistake probably lay in underestimating the effect this would have on your usual afternoon drowsiness. So one day - Nanny McDoogal had just put you to bed and had gone to fetch your favourite book of fairy tales - you used the opportunity for a quite challenging expedition.
From the nursery's servant entry to the staircase and then all the way down to the staff's dining room. Lord knows how you managed to stray that far without getting noticed. There must have been at least twenty-five different people in your parents' employ; butler, under-butler, housekeeper, maids, kitchen staff. The scullery maid who discovered you sitting on the floor in nothing but your socks and pyjamas later swore you had a remarkably good idea of where you were headed and only failed to pick the right door.
'But I want to say hello to Mr. Beedle and ask if I can see where he cooks dinner.' That's about what you said to her when she wrapped you in an overcoat and gave you a cupcake. All your protest helped little. You were lifted up and carried back to your quarters. Your nanny, who had already alarmed the whole household by then, didn't know whether to feel relieved and amused or to be angry. Her professional instincts, though, must have told her your curiosity was not to be taken lightly, because a couple of days later she took you on a supervised tour through the house's 'unseen' rooms.
Investigative minds need to be guided, not tied down, as she used to say. And this strategy would have worked perfectly well if it hadn't been for the questions you asked once the big tour was finished. Very innocent, but at the same time quite understandable. They upset your mother. Poor Miss McDoogal probably was forced to perform the most complicated diplomatic act of her entire career, simply because there is no good way of informing a sheltered five-year-old about the realities of his life style.
I doubt it's such an act of criminal insanity you feel perfectly happy in your current surroundings, Rudolph. Three rooms, the most unique gentleman's gentleman as the one and only servant. Maybe I'm turning socialist in my old age."