Hawksmoor (33 page)

He left the office at last, and went back to Grape Street. He sat in his room and turned on the television: there was a man playing patience in a darkened alcove, and Hawksmoor leaned forward eagerly to scan that darkness, looking beyond the actor and examining the chair, the velvet curtain, the vase of dusty flowers. Then, with the television still on, he walked into the next room, lay down upon his bed, and did not wake up when the morning light lay in a band across his face.

THE RAYES of the Morning did not rouse me, and when I woke I scarce knew in what House or Place or Year I found my self. And tho' I resolved to walk out my Wretchednesse I only reached the Corner when I returned exceeding weary: there was a light Rain, also, which frighted me for if a Cold grows inveterate you may reckon it the beginning of a mortal Distemper. So thus uneasy I returned to my Closet, where I fell to thinking on the shape of my new Church which even then rose above the Mire and Stink of this City.

I went to bed at Eight of the Clock but between One and Two, after I had slept but four hours, I came to Vomiting: whether from my Distemper, or from the pannick Fright which comes to me in the Night, I am not certain. I drank a Spoonful or two of Cherry Brandy, which put me to Sleep until Nat Eliot woke me at Seven. But then I fell to Vomiting againe and, as all the while my Urine was as red as Blood, I lay sighing upon my Bed and saying: What will become of me? What will become of me?

Then with much Trembling I writ in my own Hand to the Reptile Knight: Sir John, pray do me the Favour to tell the Board that I did intend to be up at the Yard today, to speak of those matters concerning the Church of Little St Hugh in Black Step Lane, but that being pritty sick I would wish to stay a Day or two longer to hasten my Recovery.

Your most humble Servant to command etcetera. I called for Nat to run with the Letter to Whitehall, and he enters all of a hot Sweat: Another man came, says he, but I denied him to you. I let no one visit you as you ordered me, and when he says Is your Master withinne? I replied Yes, he is in but he is just sat down to Breakfast and can on no account be roused at this time; and then sometimes I tell them you are Sick, so I vary my Tricks with the Wind. I am a true Barricadoe to all who come!

He was scratching all over like a Wherry-man as he spoke: What Company do you keep in your Clothes, sir, I cried, that they must needs Bite you?

They are my Friends, he replied, since they never leave me.

Then why so melancholy at it? Your Face is as long as my Pencil and not so useful.

They are my only Friends. Then he stops short, growing uneasy at his own Words, and lookd down upon the Floor. And that, I said to my self, is the manner in which I will allways remember you, my boy Nat: looking down in Perplexity after a sudden Pause. But he ceases stirring his Foot in the Dust and asks: What is a hyena, Master?

It is an Animal which laughs and imitates Humane voices.

Good, good, he said as he rushed out of the Door with my Letter.

I know well enough why it is that they come to Visit me: they wish to see me in my Sicknesse so that they can triumph over me. Even still they suspect me and in the Office they murmur against me for the late death of Walter; their Suspicions are encreased by my Solitar inesse, yet why should I suffer them to speak to me when I become confused and Tonguetied in their Company? But to leave the Passions and to go on with the Facts: Walter hanged himself on the Door of his Bed Chamber; it was on a Sunday, the week following my Visit to him, between Nine and Ten in the Morning and he was not discovered by the sluttish Mistress of the House until the evening. He had only his Shirt and there he hung until between Seven and Eight at Night when the Coroner, being brought to see him, pronounced that he was not Compos Mentis. I was pritty composed: I told the impan nelled Jury that in his Ravings he had confessed to the Murther of Mr Hayes, but that I did not beleev him until this Self-murther. Thus once again did I kill two Birds; I was a good Joyner and worked in Wood and then I became a good Plaisterer and worked with Stucco: the death of Yorick Hayes has been laid to Walter, so putting me out of the Road of eager Inquirers, and Walter has despatched himself, so saving me the Labour. I would willingly have transmitted to him in succession all the Secrets of my Art but he watched me, pursewed me, threatened me, betrayed me. And if he is quite undone now, why should I feel Guiltinesse: if a Dog should by chance Bark at me, should I not tread upon its Taile?

At about Eleven at Night, Walter was buried stark Naked in the open Ground: I would have preferred him to be beneeth Little St Hugh, but it is no great Matter. There is a Mist in Humane affairs, a small thin Rain which cannot be perceeved in single Drops of this Man or that Man but which rises around them and obscures them one from another, yet it takes Form in the Fabrick of my new built Church.

When I look up from my Bed as if to gaze at my Ceeling, I see its Tower and feel the Wind blowing about my Face; when I touche the Hand or Arm of another, as it may be Nat, I feel its Stone rough upon the Stroak; when I am Hot, in my Mind I enter its Aisles and I am cool againe. I am sensible of the Malice which this Work has drawn upon me, but why should I murmur or repine at these Injuries: let it be Interest, Folly or Malice they act by, they are their own Enemies and not mine for, like Basilisks desirous to infect a Looking-glass, they kill themselves by Repercussion of Vapours. I have complected my Business, and I bid the World go whistle as I see before me the unbroken Stone and the pattern of Stone.

I have finished six Désignes of my last Church, fastned with Finns on the Walls of my Closet so that the Images surround me and I am once more at Peece. In the first I have the Detail of the Ground Plot, which is much like a Prologue in a Story; in the second there is all the Plan in a small form, like the disposition of Figures in a Narrative; the third Draught shews the Elevation, which is like the Symbol or Theme of a Narrative, and the fourth displays the Upright of the Front, which is like to the main part of the Story; in the fifth there are designed the many and irregular Doors, Stairways and Passages like so many ambiguous Expressions, Tropes, Dialogues and Metaphoricall speeches; in the sixth there is the Upright of the Portico and the Tower which will strike the Mind with Magnificence, as in the Conclusion of a Book.

There is also a Narrative which is hidden so that none may see it, and in a retired Place have I put the effigy of Friar Bacon who made the brazen Head that spake Time is. Nor shall I leave this Place once it is completed: Hermes Trismegistus built a Temple to the Sunne, and he knew how to conceal himself so that none could see him tho' he was still withinne it. This shall now suffice for a present Account, for my own History is a Patern which others may follow in the far Side of Time. And I hugg my Arms around my self and laugh, for as if in a Vision I see some one from the dark Mazes of an unknown Futurity who enters Black Step Lane and discovers what is hidden in Silence and Secresy. I will break off now And now I break. In the space of these last seven Nights I have had wild frightfull Dreames, and there is a new Smell in my Nose like that of burnt Raggs. I know that some Alteration has come upon me, for I seem to hear Spirits who speak with a Low-sunk Voyce as many Persons have in Colds. Yet they are without any Hoarseness, being very clearly discernable, and they say, What Wind blew you hither Nick, Nick? Do you know us Nick, Nick? and when I cry O God Yes they go on, When are we Nick, Nick? and the Question becomes a Roaring in my Ears.

I do not fear Death for the Pain of it, being perswaded that I have endur'd as great Pains in this Life as I should find in Death; and yet it may also be that I cannot die. You may scorn this, but there have been Wonders just as great: I took my first Walk, about Eleven yesterday morning, and there by Hogg Lane I met with my own Apparition with Habit, Wigg, and everything as in a Looking-glass. Do I know you? I call'd out, much to the Bewilderment of those who passed by, but the Thing did not answer me and walked quickly away. I was much surprized but I was not affrighted. Then on this very Morning in my own Chamber I saw an Image again before me -a species of such a Body as my own, but in a strange Habit cut like an Under-garment and the Creature had no Wigg. The Back of it was always towards me and as I turned my Head it turned away equally so that I could not see its Face: my Night-gown was dark with Sweat, as if a Shaddowe had passed over it, and I must have cried out some thing for Nat was calling Master! Master! Open the Door and let me in!

Have a little Patience and I will let you in immediately, I replied and, keeping my Eyes fixed on the Image which did not move, I went across to the Door.

You will have Mrs Best afflicted if you call so loud, says Nat hurrying into the Room.

I nodded towards the Image: I have this morning, Nat, vomited up an abortive Child.

Oh well, says he not knowing what it signified, shall I bring you water to wash your Mouth? Mrs Best says For God's sake hold your Tongue, can you not see I have some thing with me? And I pointed at the Image, which still sat with its Back to me but which now bent forward and a Sigh rose like Smoak out of its Mouth, like Smoak out of a Lamp. I know not, Nat, I said, but it seems to be Real.

And Nat heard or saw something for thereupon he began to look Red and was seiz'd with violent Tremblings: Good God, he cried out, let me see nothing! And then the cold Sweat ran from his Face as he stumbled towards the Stairway. But I murmured my own Words as the Image began to fade: I am ready now for my approaching Change.

I am cut down out of Time and I turn and turn about upon my Bed: what says Mr Andrewes his Almanack for this month, Nat? And he reads to me from News of the Starres: in this month Mars is in Scorpio, Master, and if he is not bitten he will continue direct in Motion until the sixth Day. From thence he becomes retrograde, which means backwards Leave off your Commentaries, Nat!

– all the month after and is in square to Venus the second Day. Nat blushes at the mention of Venus and then goes on: at present, Master, the Starres do not favour Building and London labours under weighty Pressures and Difficulties not yet accommodated. I must take this to Mrs Best who has the Lumbago and is still troubled about the Loins Nat, Nat see if there are Prognostications of Plotting and other scurvey Désignes.

He pores upon the Pages and then comes to a Stop: Yes, here in the Starry Messenger it is said that there are some Spirits at work and Danger at Home. Then he bends his Head again: and, look, here in Poor Robin's Vox Stellarum there is a Rhyme full of Meaning. Up he gets with a grave Look and begins to recite, holding the Page before him: I saw a church Tower twelve yards deep I saw Dust made of Men's teares that weep I saw a Stone all in a Flame of Fire I saw a Stairway big as the Moon and higher I saw the Sunne red even at midnight, I saw the Man who saw this dreadful Sight.

What is the answer, Master? I cannot fathom it.

There is no Answer, Nat, for there is no End to this Rhyme.

And then I slept, and now in my long Sicknesse 1 am lifted above the poor Globe of this time-broken World: the rebels have come as far as Lancaster, a Fire last night in Tower Hill, a Dog howling by Moon- night and now I no longer have Fitts when I drink my Brandy, Hannover's troops are assembling at Warrington, the Clowds beneeth me, the Rebels are cut to peeces at Preston, and I cannot hinder the Cold from passing through all the Cloaths I put on my Bed and my Lord Warrington is killed in this Action as my Hand touches the Sheets and their Voices eccho as I try to hide myself withinne the Rocks in an area foresaken of Men and Nat calls as my Fever mounts and then breaks and as I sweat the Snow falls and the Rebels are come into London as Prisoners and I open my Eyes and now there is Frost Fayre upon the Thames.

And on this Day my Feaver abated: I rose from my Bed calling Nat, Nat where are you? but he had gone I knew not wither, and I was alone. I had been woken by the firm Resolution to visit my new completed Church, so I dressed with all Haste and yet with Care: the cold Winde had left Ice upon the Windows, and I wrapt my self up in my dubble-buttoned Coat tho' it was spotted with Tallow. As I came out into the Street a Chair-man gave a Blow to my Knees with his Pole which sent me cursing back into the Doorway and, Lord, the Coaches and Carts so shook the Ground that it was as like a natural Tremour or Convulsion of the Earth: and how many Dayes and Nights, thought I, have I laid in my fiery Feaver? What Time is this? There were some Prentices rolling along a Foot-ball in the Street beside me but when I called out to them What a Clock is this? they made no Answer, as if I were a man invisible and not to be heard. And yet some Labourers seemed to be returning home with Planks and Ladders, which suggested to me that I had risen at the close of Day, but I knew not. I walked by Leicester Feelds and heard the Mountebank calling What do you have? What do you have? I have that, thought I, which your Drops will not cure. Make way there, says some Fellow pushing a Wheelbarrow, will you have your Guts squeezed out? and I stepped back into a Crowd of common Women with their ragged Handkerchiefs, blew Aprons, and their Faces, like mine own, descended from some unknown Original. I walked down Cranborn Street, where the Cooks stood dripping at their Doors, and then into Porters Street, where the Nuts and Oysters were piled high in Shops that ran upon Wheels. All this shall pass, and all these Things shall fall and crumple into the Dust, but my Churches shall survive. From there I walked into Hogg Lane, where a Rag-seller laid hold of my Arm and asked me, What do you lack, sir? I? I lack the World, for I move like a Ghost through it.

The Noises of the City so confused me, and left me so Weak, that I could barely stand but coach'd it quite up into Fenchurch Street where a Cart, overturn'd upon the Road, forced me to alight. Once more I could hear the Cryes around me: Buy my dish of great Eeles, one call'd and to its Echoe another took up the Plaint of Any Kitchin stuff need you, my Maides? and I murmur'd these to my self as I trod upon the Stones.