The next day is a Saturday and at a small lozenge of cleared land in the centre of Parramatta the tribes gather by mid-morning. The natives seat themselves in a large circle. At the front of each group are the elders, propped up apprehensively on plain timber chairs as if they distrust them. In the centre is a table like a catafalque bearing a carcass of roast beef, the head of the beast still attached. Around it potatoes and bread rolls pile up in pale mounds. Encircling the feast are ten or twelve large bowls brimming — I catch the sweet, heady scent of it — with rum punch. The natives, doubtless bewildered by our use of the same word for an alcoholic beverage and a blow to the head, have their own word for punch: bull.
Before the feasting begins Macquarie and I stroll into the circle. A great cry goes up. Standing beside the table, he plunges his hand into a deep rattan basket and brings out a glinting half-moon plate of engraved brass. Like a Magus or an Inca high priest, Macquarie holds the first bronze piece up to the sky. It catches the sun.
‘Whhhooahh,’ booms a collective cry, bending the air.
The natives come forward to receive their breastplates. A soldier helps them to clasp the shining disks around their necks with a heavy bronze chain. They return to their places touching, caressing the trinkets, tilting them this way and that to catch the sun. The two men encountered on the road yesterday — the white-haired elder and the young man with the plaited band — step forward to receive their gifts. To think that loyalty can be purchased for such a pittance. Can it?
When the ceremony is over a group of Aboriginal children in white smocks, supervised by a tall, thin native with a beard neatly trimmed in the European manner, stands angelically before the gathering. Two of them recite the words of Psalm Eight: ‘O Lord, our Lord … how excellent is thy name … in all the Earth! Who has … set … thy glory above the heavens.’ The other children mouth the verses. All hold Bibles.
A young woman in a voluminous lime-green gown leaps up and shouts, ‘Governor, that one — my pickaninny — she read better than them settlers.’
There is a burst of laughter from the natives, the watching soldiers, and Macquarie, who places his hands on his hips and rocks back. He stays in that pose for just a second longer than is necessary, staring up at the blank sky. The young woman, a trifle embarrassed, returns to her seat on the ground, tucking her long legs beneath her.
That evening, as the festivities roll on, the dancing begins. Feet pound the earth, hands slap thighs, ceremonial sticks go click, click, click, as if cutting up time, and in great surges of choral song I catch cries like bird call, shrieks and ecstatic cheers.
I ask the Architect if I might view the sketch he is making in Lycett’s absence. Macquarie stands in the exact centre of the composition, holding one of his brass crescents to the sky, while the natives, gathered around, gaze at this object of veneration wide-eyed.
‘But tell me, where is Bungaree in all of this?’ I ask. ‘Surely the man who is said to be King of the Natives would not allow himself to be absent.’
‘I’ve put that question myself. He was last seen on a grassed strip above the beach at Middle Head, a large fish roasting on a fire and his women gathered around. He was not, I think, invited to this ceremony. He is loved by the Governor and by his own tribe. But that love is not spread widely. It does not seem to extend out here.’
We share a look of regret. He turns to me and shrugs. His green eyes are restless. I let him return to the work that calls him. Calls him, always. I retire to my room alone as the Governor feasts with his men. I sit on the corner of the bed in my nightgown, open the window to the sounds of the ceremony, and my thoughts drift to the absent Bungaree. He has become a ferryman, threading his way between two cultures, in neither one entirely at home. I wonder if I am not becoming, in my own way, a little like him — divided, distanced, unsettled.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A month later the Architect sends word that he desires an urgent appointment. Hawkins brings me his letter in the garden, walking across the lawn as if it were a sponge. He presents it on a silver tray, unopened. The gesture, I believe, is intended ironically, as the letter is from a convict; there is no need for such a formality. ‘Delivered it himself, says it cannot wait.’ Hawkins flexes an eyebrow. I remove my gardening gloves and open the envelope:
Dear Mrs Macquarie,
You may have been apprised of my journey north to the Hunter Valley shortly after our return from the interior. The Governor requested that I visit in order to survey the town of Newcastle and plan a suitable port at the Hunter River’s mouth. In the process a fanciful notion suggested itself to me: that the island called Nobbys standing barely a hundred yards from the mainland be joined to it by a bridge, and the highest point of Nobbys Island be crowned by a lighthouse in the form of a Chinese pagoda. I picture a procession of eaves — nine storeys in all — curling gracefully upwards like the petals of the lotus flower. Why, Nanjing built herself a Temple of Gratitude from gaily coloured tiles. We are closer to Nanjing than London so let us ship a thousand glazed bricks of white and blue!!!
I own that it is a fanciful notion. But I am convinced it has appeal. I would dearly love to show you a sketch. A belief in the power of architecture to raise the spirits, enrich the impoverished; this is surely an interest that we three share. I have an appointment with the Governor this evening and would welcome an opportunity to meet with you beforehand.
I re-read the letter with an eye to hidden, double — multiple — interpretations. Certainly he means to share something of his whimsy, and in doing so he risks censure. Why, I might laugh in his face. But he knows that I will not. He calculates that I will be receptive to his picturesque scheme and he means to make an ally of me. But it is also an advance, if I’m not mistaken, and very subtle — a sharing of his deeper self, his true self. I am certain that Byron won hearts with the self-same stratagem — by spinning a web of fancy with which to entrap those of a fanciful disposition. Ah, but perhaps I study the words too keenly. His intention may be entirely innocent and transparent and he may be simply writing to say he has conceived of a Chinese pagoda at the town of Newcastle and would like to have it built: nothing more. I caution myself not to involve more of myself than is necessary.
I tell Hawkins to make time for a late afternoon interview and request, as the weather is fine, that he prepare tea and cakes to be taken beneath the towering Norfolk pine that stands sentinel between the residence and the harbour.
The autumn sun has lost its heat by the time he arrives and we have a good hour before it dips below Observatory Hill. I hear him come briskly along the sandy path from the gate and turn, shading my eyes. The Architect wears his favourite tailcoat of burgundy velvet and loose cream trousers, but he has of late acquired, I observe, a pair of leather riding boots. I swear that transportation has not lowered his spirits in the slightest. It may be best described, in his particular case, as transplantation.
He carries with him the folio of sketches he is rarely seen without and a copy of an old leather volume. He takes a seat opposite me, rests the folio on his knee and the book upon the folio. I reach for the book as if to snatch it away, then pause, ashamed at my own impetuosity. He hands it to me with an indulgent smile.
‘You know I crave a good romance,’ I say, opening the supple leather cover.
‘I’m afraid you will find no romance here. But you will find edification.’
I leaf through pages and pages of architectural diagrams. Before my eyes float floor plans and elevations of harmonious villas with pedimented temple fronts, rotundas capped by broad bosomy domes, grand loggias, statues of the gods and the graces. And, most of all — columns. Columns of every kind.
‘Captivating,’ I say. ‘Though rather technical. My husband would feast upon it.’
‘Palladio, the author, was an architect from northern Italy,’ he replies.
I incline my head to show he has my full attention and he goes on: ‘Equally well schooled, he was, in the architectu
re of Greece and Rome. And though he died more than two hundred years ago, his treatise on architecture is a treasury for one in my profession. It came with me on the Dromedary and I promised the Governor I would show it to him at our meeting. To explain …’
‘A sort of pattern book and architectural bible combined?’
‘If you like.’ He shrugs.
While I spent my hours aboard the Dromedary reading about the New World, it seems the Architect was dreaming of the Old.
I offer him a seat, pour a cup of tea and pass a china plate with a fat wedge of crumbling lemon cake.
In the time it takes to pour and proffer he has grown impatient. The foot of one leg, draped over the other, bounces up and down, then oscillates from side to side. It puts me in mind of a river otter beating the water with webbed feet.
‘There is something I would like to say,’ he begins abruptly, looking down at his tightly clasped hands. ‘Something about our earlier — our rather heated — exchange. You remember?’
‘How could I forget?’ I stiffen a little at the memory. It is not that I recall it as a fierce affray, but rather more that it presaged the obscure events of that short journey inland: the towering forest, the scent of fear, the native chant, the bewitching of the breastplate ceremony. ‘But surely,’ I go on, ‘we are quite reconciled.’
‘At least it is my hope,’ he lays a hand upon his heart. ‘I have been thinking about the issue at stake. You know I believe we were both right. An architect must build for eternity. But then a city is more than the sum of its monuments.’
‘My point — the reason I felt provoked — is that, how to put it …?’ I rise from the chair, take a few steps towards the harbour, and wend my way back to my seat bearing the thread of a thought. ‘My point is that a little stone bridge over a country rill can rival in beauty a mansion on a manicured estate. Wooden cottages with thriving gardens would make happy homes for hundreds — thousands — of colonists. Architecture, it seems to me, is not only for the buildings to which we raise our eyes. The simple things for simple people are as worthy of your graceful designs as the memorials to future generations.’
He looks at me open-mouthed for a second or two before extending a hand. ‘I am in perfect agreement,’ he says. ‘But I cannot pretend that I am deeply interested in the stone bridge or the wooden cottage when there is …,’ he turns to his folio and takes out a drawing, ‘a Chinese pagoda for your consideration.’
Having politely ignored the offer to shake his hand I take, instead, his drawing.
‘I don’t suppose your friend Palladio was any help with this,’ I say.
‘None at all.’ He shakes his mane — honestly, the man possesses a more attractive head of hair than most women in the colony. ‘The model is William Chambers’ nine-storey pagoda at Kew. It is a curiosity and a marvel. There is not a prideful Londoner who will not, on a spring day, suggest a visit to the gardens to view it.’ He leans forward a little and taps his temple with his finger. ‘Chambers’ design — committed to memory.’
I have some bold notions of my own, I confess. I have raised them with the Governor but they, in truth, require some elaboration on paper before they can be taken seriously. I propose an exchange: I will support his scheme for a Chinese pagoda and in return he must pledge to speak on behalf of my designs.
He gives a volley of sharp, eager nods.
‘Firstly, the Government House on the rise behind us’ — I incline my head backwards as if following the path of a bird overhead — ‘is as humble as … this lemon cake. It is perhaps the best that could be done in the circumstances, with the available ingredients. It is plain. It serves a purpose. But it is at the same time a little dull. And,’ I prod the cake with the tip of the knife, ‘see how it disintegrates.’
He smiles rather mischievously. ‘It has been made poorly, then, by a country cook. You are in need, I think, of a professional.’
‘As a matter of fact, I made the cake myself.’ I throw his mischief back at him.
He coughs. I go on.
‘I am warming to a point that is every bit as daring as your oriental pagoda. Could you, if given an hour or so, draw up a ground plan of a handsome and castellated residence for the Governor and me? Something built of stone — the best stone that can be procured. The residence has grown to answer the needs and the tastes of the four governors before us. It has no unity. It should be done again — harmoniously. The form of the new house, and the disposition of the rooms, will of course be left entirely to your own taste and judgement.’
He rears up a little, blinking rapidly with incomprehension. ‘You say castellated? But I thought it was a cottage with a garden not a castle in an estate that you wanted.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I say impatiently. ‘But I am talking about Government House, the heart of the colony. Surely you cannot object? To echo it, a Gothic fort at Bennelong Point. Then a handsome stable for the Governor’s horses, carriages and stable hands, this also castellated and built of brick. We will fashion a romantic waterside precinct from Dawes Point to the Domain, where Nature will show her charms. When seen from the north shore the castellations and fortifications on their harbourside foreground will recall … I dare not say it.’
‘Please. You must.’
‘Castle Stalker at Appin. A Campbell stronghold for a time.’
The next half hour is spent in a spirit of mutual congratulation as these bare ideas are fleshed, dressed and paraded before our eyes.
I find myself confiding to the Architect that Macquarie, when young, read many romantic histories about Alexander of Macedon marching to India, and Caesar conquering Gaul: great men who would let no mountain, no cataract, no force of arms, stand in their way.
‘Well, his is a personality of comparable force,’ the Architect offers with his hand raised to shield himself from the sun’s last rays. ‘He will not easily let Whitehall stand in the way of his improvements.’
It’s then that I notice the true colour of his eyes: the silver-green of eucalyptus leaf.
‘If you were to build one great — truly great — building in this country, what would it be?’ I inquire. ‘What drift would your ambition take?’
He shoots me a look of surprise, beams, tucks in his chin and cocks his head, as if to say, ‘Here, now, is a chance to shine.’
After a contemplative pause comes the reply. ‘Some measure the greatness of a thing by its size. The Colosseum — I know it only by drawings — is a wonder. But consider its purpose and the want of taste. We are not so very different, you and I. For myself I would prefer a summer house, elegant and simple, its ornament classical, and a garden all around: Mankind and Nature in harmony. Or a pergola to shade you from the sun at the place you like to read.’
Of course it is generally known that I have made the promontory between Farm Cove and Woolloomooloo into a sanctuary. But it is pleasing to me that I have been seen enjoying my solitude by this man. Am I often in his thoughts?
‘There is already a natural pergola in the form of a spreading fig tree,’ I say. ‘I would much prefer a chair of my own beneath it.’
‘Very well then. I shall chisel a seat from the weathered sandstone at the harbour’s edge. And I shall happily carve an inscription at its base: “Mrs Macquarie’s Chair.” It would be an honour.’ I feel a flush of warmth rising to my cheeks.
‘You would … you would undertake such labour to please me?’
‘Why should I not? I spend my waking hours with measurements, proportions and designs. I have never lost my fondness for stone and the working of it.’
That the hands of this man, together with a few tools, could compel such an obdurate thing as stone to submit to his designs for a shaded seat beside the harbour! It is as if he has offered to domesticate a wild beast so that it could sit serenely at my side. I am moved by the ambition of it.
The last light fades from the western sky behind the observatory as Hawkins, with his strangely buoyant gait, comes towards us across the
lawn bearing a tray to retrieve the tea and cake. ‘It is time I went in,’ I say to the Architect. ‘And time, I believe, for your interview.’
‘Do you know, I almost forgot,’ he says brightly. ‘I have been so swept away with our schemes.’ He rises and smacks his coat and trousers to dislodge any fallen crumbs.
‘You will not forget the pagoda,’ he says with an imploring air.
‘If you promise to remember the stables,’ I return.
I watch him walk to the house, skip up the flight of steps and stride briskly along the verandah towards Macquarie’s office, brightly lit with candelabras in preparation for the meeting. The clear autumn night falls, like a stone, from the sky.
When I recall that meeting in fading light beneath the Norfolk pine, I consider it the moment when things between the three of us stood firmly in a state of order and balance. The accord held for some time. But its terms — they would change.
*
Much later I realised that the Architect had circled around my question about his ideal edifice. He did eventually answer it in the most delightful manner possible: with a dream preserved in the aspic of art, not of one ideal building but many.
It is a panorama sketched in pen and ink for depth, detail and volume, and brought to life with gouache. The preliminary sketch may have been completed in the months after our journey inland, but the painting was finished only later, when he was very much alone, and I was lonely without him. His plans were outpaced by events and it was in the end not so much presented as left for me to discover.
I packed the work away with the other canvases and mementos for the journey home. And then, some months after Macquarie’s death, I had it mounted and framed. For a few months it was in the dining room. A few months later it migrated to the hallway. It hangs now above the walnut bureau in my bedchamber. A little like the Architect, it has worked its way towards my heart.
Mrs. M Page 9