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Authors: Jonathon Safran Foer
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daylight and need only to be consulted once about, well, not so much time as the phase of the day. Sir Henry Bromley is too eager, having risen well before four in the morning to get his posse on the road.
So here they are, a motley team, some adorned in butcher’s smocks with big tool pouches in front containing awls and spikes, boring-tools of all kinds, and little listening tubes with funnel ends. Some of them have teak mallets with which to tap on hollow-looking panels. They also have with them kindling to test the chimneys with, knowing full well that a lit fire in a fake chimney soon proves the case. Hargreaves is among them, but dragging a leg—he too from a fall on ice—but this time he kowtows to Sir Henry, who can make or break him depending on the skill with which he exposes the priests. They do not even recall who tipped them off about priests at Hindlip, but the word is out; perhaps it has always been out inasmuch as there has almost never been a time when priests were not at Hindlip.
Joseph Cornell
THE CALIPH OF BAGDAD
c. 1954
20.4375 x 13.75 x 4.5 in.
Box Construction
The rumor and the event match each other, but to no advantage for the poursuivants, who have found no one at all during their previous searches. As it happens, Thomas Habington is not at home when the inquisitorial rabble arrive at the main door, but his return prompts some lively exchanges between him and Bromley.
“Do not brandish your proclamation, man,” he bellows at Bromley. He speaks as a man who has already been in the Tower once. “I take your word for it. I will gladly die at my own front gate if you find any priests in here. Lurking under my roof! You will as soon find fish folded in among the tablecloths. We are who we are, Sir Henry.” His vehemence cuts no ice; Bromley has seen it all before, the bluster and the indignation—he would cavort in the same fashion if he were hiding Jesuits. It goes with the suit, and Habington is not a “bad” man, just a misguided rebel with a taste for punishment: hence his impassioned cry about dying at his front door. There is no need for emotion, Bromley knows; either the priests are here or they are not, and he does not intend to go until the house has been ransacked, and indeed made to pay. It will take three days, he estimates, with his men rampaging around upstairs and downstairs, ignoring the protests of the Habington family and enigmatic visitors such as Mrs. Perkins, whom he has met before. The grinding, drilling, boring, go on all day, with naps taken in the big public rooms, nothing provided by way of food, but the kitchen raided until the staff feel demented, unable to function according to the strict rules of the house. That they mean to spend the night appalls Anne Vaux, who detects in their behavior a new resolve: Gone are the days of the lazy, casual, gentlemanly search; this is the work of plebeians eager for profit, and she works on her disdain, doing her best with stare and sniff to embarrass those who seem intent on taking the house apart.
“I actually turned people away,” Habington is telling them; then, as he thinks better of it (priests, plotters; who else?) adds, “old friends who wanted to stay the night. I have a wife with child; I am far too busy for visitors. That includes you all.”
“Quite so,” Bromley says, himself doing nothing in the way of search; his servants do that for him. “I am not accusing you of being inhospitable, sir, or of uxorial coarseness. Oh no. I await only the conclusion of this business and will be happy to acquit you of any charges if we find nothing amiss. We have to be thorough, though, as your pig-scraper does, and your steeplejack. We cannot afford to skimp matters, sir. The national safety is at stake. As my father always said—”
But no one listens; he has been here before, with the same quotations, although a smaller crew. They intend to spend the night, sprawled anywhere soft, belching and grunting, drinking
So here they are, a motley team, some adorned in butcher’s smocks with big tool pouches in front containing awls and spikes, boring-tools of all kinds, and little listening tubes with funnel ends. Some of them have teak mallets with which to tap on hollow-looking panels. They also have with them kindling to test the chimneys with, knowing full well that a lit fire in a fake chimney soon proves the case. Hargreaves is among them, but dragging a leg—he too from a fall on ice—but this time he kowtows to Sir Henry, who can make or break him depending on the skill with which he exposes the priests. They do not even recall who tipped them off about priests at Hindlip, but the word is out; perhaps it has always been out inasmuch as there has almost never been a time when priests were not at Hindlip.
Joseph Cornell
THE CALIPH OF BAGDAD
c. 1954
20.4375 x 13.75 x 4.5 in.
Box Construction
The rumor and the event match each other, but to no advantage for the poursuivants, who have found no one at all during their previous searches. As it happens, Thomas Habington is not at home when the inquisitorial rabble arrive at the main door, but his return prompts some lively exchanges between him and Bromley.
“Do not brandish your proclamation, man,” he bellows at Bromley. He speaks as a man who has already been in the Tower once. “I take your word for it. I will gladly die at my own front gate if you find any priests in here. Lurking under my roof! You will as soon find fish folded in among the tablecloths. We are who we are, Sir Henry.” His vehemence cuts no ice; Bromley has seen it all before, the bluster and the indignation—he would cavort in the same fashion if he were hiding Jesuits. It goes with the suit, and Habington is not a “bad” man, just a misguided rebel with a taste for punishment: hence his impassioned cry about dying at his front door. There is no need for emotion, Bromley knows; either the priests are here or they are not, and he does not intend to go until the house has been ransacked, and indeed made to pay. It will take three days, he estimates, with his men rampaging around upstairs and downstairs, ignoring the protests of the Habington family and enigmatic visitors such as Mrs. Perkins, whom he has met before. The grinding, drilling, boring, go on all day, with naps taken in the big public rooms, nothing provided by way of food, but the kitchen raided until the staff feel demented, unable to function according to the strict rules of the house. That they mean to spend the night appalls Anne Vaux, who detects in their behavior a new resolve: Gone are the days of the lazy, casual, gentlemanly search; this is the work of plebeians eager for profit, and she works on her disdain, doing her best with stare and sniff to embarrass those who seem intent on taking the house apart.
“I actually turned people away,” Habington is telling them; then, as he thinks better of it (priests, plotters; who else?) adds, “old friends who wanted to stay the night. I have a wife with child; I am far too busy for visitors. That includes you all.”
“Quite so,” Bromley says, himself doing nothing in the way of search; his servants do that for him. “I am not accusing you of being inhospitable, sir, or of uxorial coarseness. Oh no. I await only the conclusion of this business and will be happy to acquit you of any charges if we find nothing amiss. We have to be thorough, though, as your pig-scraper does, and your steeplejack. We cannot afford to skimp matters, sir. The national safety is at stake. As my father always said—”
But no one listens; he has been here before, with the same quotations, although a smaller crew. They intend to spend the night, sprawled anywhere soft, belching and grunting, drinking
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