Hawksmoor

by Peter Ackroyd

  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.

  As I came up into Lime Street the Skie grew dark with the Cold and yet here was an old Woman with a Child on her Back singing Fine writing Inke! Fine writing Inke! and I too might have been a Child againe, so familiarly did it sound. Then there rose that Cry which I have heard all my Life, Have you something to Mend, have you something to Mend? and I passed thro' Leadenhall Street weeping, for I knew I would never more hear it. I walked down St Mary Axe to London Wall, and my Teares fell upon the Mosse as I bent to touch it; then thro' Bishopsgate and down old Bedlam into Moorfields, and here it seemed to me that I heard the Rejoycing of the Mad who have no thought of Time as I do; then thro' Long Alley where I passed the great Musick Shop where the Crowd at the Door were dancing to the latest Tune, and one little Red-faced Blade beat Time upon the Counter as I went on.

  And then I turned into that part called the Great Feeld. Some children in Blew jackets and Kite-Lanthorned Caps ran past me: You will be dead before I return was my Thought as I stared into the Entry of Black Step Lane. With an even Pace I walked forward and at last my Church was rising above me: like the Noise of Thunder it struck even my own Spirit with an air of Greatnesse beyond any thing I had seen before. A man in fur Cap and grey Stockings passed me and looked back in Astonishment, so rapt was I in the sight of the vast Stone; and all the Cryes died away as I mounted the Steps and approached the Porch of Little St Hugh. The Church was above me now and, tho' I was plunged into Shaddowe, I did not move but waited until my Eyes had cleared a little. Then I opened the Door and crossed the Threshold. I walked forward saying, From my first Years Thy Honours have I endured with a troubled Mind, and I stood in the Aisle looking upwards till I could look on more: I had run to the end of my Time and I was at Peace. I knelt down in front of the Light, and my Shaddowe stretched over the World.

  THE SHADOW moved slowly over his face until his mouth and eyes were obscured: only his forehead still caught the sun's rays,, and they illuminated the beads of sweat that had accumulated there before he woke. Even in sleep he knew that he was sick, and he had dreamed that the blood poured from him like coin; he was woken by the sound of an argument in the street below and, as he knelt upright with his hands over his ears, he considered the possibility that he had gone mad. 'But how could I be mad yet?' he said, and smiled at the sound of his own voice just before he heard three knocks upon the door. He dropped his hands and waited, hardly breathing, and it was only when he heard three further knocks that he got up from his bed, walked slowly into the hallway and called out, 'Who's there?'

  'It's only me, Mr Hawksmoor!'

  He opened the door on Mrs West, averting his eyes as he listened to her: 'I thought I heard you call, Mr Hawksmoor. Did you call?' He said nothing and she took a step forward: There was a man came for you last night. I was just putting out the bottles, not that I can hardly bend, and he was ringing and ringing so I said you was out. Was I right? And then I heard you call just now and I thought, you never know do you?

  So I came up.' And all the while she examined his face with open curiosity. 'I thought there might be a reason, Mr Hawksmoor.'

  He smiled, still saying nothing, and was about to close the door upon her when he remembered: 'Oh, Mrs West, I'm about to go away '

  'You need a good rest do you?'

  He looked at her with suspicion. 'That's right. I deserve a rest. So if anyone comes will you tell them?'

  'I'll tell them.' Her hands were clenched, into fists.

  Hawksmoor watched her descend the stairs, leaning heavily against the banister as she did so, and only when she had turned out of sight did he close the door. He walked back into the bedroom and, when he looked down at his arms, he saw long furrows where he had scratched himself in his sleep: and in that moment he was consumed by his hatred for those he worked with. They had not wanted him to succeed, they had tricked him, they had betrayed him, and now they had triumphed over him. He could not breathe and in alarm he crossed over to the window and opened it: it was a cold December day and, as he leaned out, he could feel the heat leaving his body like an exhalation until he became calm again. From this height, the movements of those in the street seemed to him to be marked by a peculiar fatality, as though they were being drawn by a thread which they would never see; and as he stared down at their faces he wondered what a face was, and from what original it had sprung.

  It was time now to join them. He crept down the hallway, pausing only to put on his coat and shoes before walking slowly down the stairs and into the street. A light rain was falling, and he had just reached the corner when he glanced up at the clouds and suddenly decided to turn back; then, as he passed the Red Gates, he noticed his own reflection in the frosted window, beneath a sign for Beers and Spirits. The reflection turned to stare at him before walking on: Hawksmoor passed his hand across his face and then called out, 'Do I know you?' and several passers-by stopped in astonishment as he ran out into the road crying. 'Do I? Do I?' No answer came and, as he tried to follow the retreating figure, the crowds of the city hampered his progress and closed him in. Eventually he retraced his steps to Grape Street: he was so tired now that he no longer cared who might be watching or waiting for him on his return. He lay down upon his bed with his hand covering his eyes, but the sounds of traffic came through the open window and he could not sleep. Then his eyes opened: and that's another thing, he thought, why are churches built in that shape? And he repeated the word -churches, churches, churches, churches, churches -until it meant nothing.

  'Cooee! Cooee!' The voice could have come from somewhere within the room, and on first waking he did not know what he had heard. 'Mr Hawksmoor!'

  He jumped out of bed shouting, 'What is it? What's happened?' and then crouched beside the bedroom door, putting his weight against it in case Mrs West should try to enter.

  'Your front door was open and I didn't know did I? I thought you was going away…'. And then after a pause she asked him, 'Are you decent?'

  She was still just outside his door, and he wanted to pound upon it in his fury. 'Just a minute!' he shouted and he was surprised to find that he was still wearing his coat and shoes. Where had he been as he slept? He opened the door, and hurried past her into the bathroom where he ran cold water from the tap; he was about to splash it over his face, but instead he watched the surface of the rushing water. 'I am going away,' he called out to her, 'Eventually.'

  'Where will you go?'

  'Oh I don't know,' he muttered, 'Where does anyone go?' And he heard her moving about the flat. He came out of the bathroom quietly, to find her peering at the pages of the white notebook which he had pinned against the walls of his front room. He noticed that her hair was still lustrous and was about to stroke it when he realised that she had to move her whole body as she turned from one drawing to the next: 'What happened to your neck?' He tried to conceal his disgust.

  'Oh that's nothing. That's my arthritis. I'm used to it.' She continued to look at the drawings, with the verses and phrases beneath them. 'What are you doing here then? Are these yours?'

  'Mine? No, they're not mine.' He tried to laugh. They're just a story I'm working on. I don't know the ending as yet.'

>   'I like a nice ending.'

  'That's the same as saying, you like a nice death.'

  She was puzzled at this and simply murmured, 'Oh yes?' as she turned to go.

  'But what do you really see in them, Mrs West?' He blocked her passage to the door. 'Do you see anything strange in them?' He was genuinely interested in her reply.

  'Good God, don't ask me. I see nothing.'

  She seemed disturbed. 'Well, don't take it to heart,' he said, 'I was only asking.'

  At the word 'heart' she trembled and the weight of the years was released from her momentarily. 'What sign are you, Mr Hawksmoor?'

  'Sign? I know nothing about signs.'

  'You know, signs. Star signs. I bet you're a Pisces, like me.

  Secretive. Am I right?' He did not answer her but looked once again at the drawings. 'They say we're going to have a good year, when Venus gets into our quarter.'

  He blushed. 'I wouldn't know about that now, would I?'

  She sighed and prepared once more to leave him. 'Well have a nice time, Mr Hawksmoor.' Then she winked at him. 'Once you know where you're going, that is.'

  He traced his name in the dust along the window-sill and then erased it. He turned on the radio but he could hear the voices whispering, 'What wind blew you here? What wind blew you here?' As he sat in the middle of the room sometimes he could see moving shapes, just out of the corner of his eye, but they were as indistinct as shadows on water and when he turned his head to look at them they were gone.

  And as dusk fell he recited one of the verses inscribed in the white notebook: I saw a door which opened on a fire I saw a pit which rose up even higher I saw a child who danced round and round I saw a house which stood beneath the ground I saw a man who is not, nor ever could he be, Hold up your hand and look, for you are he.