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“We call it atmosphere, this indescribable something that still haunts old monuments. You can read history, you can visit a hundred museums containing their handiwork, but nothing can reincarnate their spirit except to walk through rooms in which they have lived and through the scenes that were the background of their lives. It is a marvelous thing, this expression of human ideals in walls and windows."
(John Hays Hammond, Jr., Unpublished letter, 1929)
Climbing a spiral staircase in little light and no railings, I emerge in a room painted burgundy, and dominated by crucifix. The room smells like must and incense. A small sign informs me that Dr. Hammond, the creator of this anachronism, had no particularly strong religious inclination. Jesus looks up at me from under hooded eyelids. Why am I here?
The first bedroom is a hybrid of colonial and late twenties. Tucked away, up a spiral staircase, with a medieval bedchamber next door, it feels awkward and fake. More fake than a medieval castle in Gloucester, Massachusetts. I am told later that Hammond’s wife liked this room, that she preferred a colonial style. I wonder what her reaction was to her husband’s gothic tastes.
I’m lost. I took a staircase to the kitchen, hoping to learn something about Dr. and Mrs. Hammond, but first I had to pass a Buddhist chest housing a skull—a Roman swimming pool—a child’s sarcophagus. Here, the kitchen s bright and airy. Unlike the Great Hall above it, there is a large window that faces the sea. The time period has shifted again, and I am sure the servant appreciated cooking in a modern 1930s kitchen, and not a 1600s facsimile.
Somewhere, wrapped up in all the rooms and narrow staircases and curios, there is a wooden door. It is locked. Behind this door, a posted sign reads, the Hammonds spent most of their time. These are their private rooms. Dr. Hammond requested in his will that they never be shown to the public.
I imagine the rooms, “decorated in a simple 30’s stlye,” filled with John and Natalie Hammond. I imagine for them a quiet evening of newspapers and radio; John tinkering with his latest invention, Natalie with the crossword. Their family life is absent in their magnificent halls and steep sloping stairs. Alls the trinkets of John’s beloved hobbies fill the rooms to the point of claustrophobia. I can read about his love for Columbus, and his passion for the organ. I can see the ancient icons taken from derelict churches and private auctions, hung in the dust. His multitudes of inventions tell me everything I need to know about his career—but I don’t know him.
These rooms, hidden away forever, are the heart of Hammond Castle. They now hold administrative offices.
(John Hays Hammond, Jr., Unpublished letter, 1929)
Climbing a spiral staircase in little light and no railings, I emerge in a room painted burgundy, and dominated by crucifix. The room smells like must and incense. A small sign informs me that Dr. Hammond, the creator of this anachronism, had no particularly strong religious inclination. Jesus looks up at me from under hooded eyelids. Why am I here?
The first bedroom is a hybrid of colonial and late twenties. Tucked away, up a spiral staircase, with a medieval bedchamber next door, it feels awkward and fake. More fake than a medieval castle in Gloucester, Massachusetts. I am told later that Hammond’s wife liked this room, that she preferred a colonial style. I wonder what her reaction was to her husband’s gothic tastes.
I’m lost. I took a staircase to the kitchen, hoping to learn something about Dr. and Mrs. Hammond, but first I had to pass a Buddhist chest housing a skull—a Roman swimming pool—a child’s sarcophagus. Here, the kitchen s bright and airy. Unlike the Great Hall above it, there is a large window that faces the sea. The time period has shifted again, and I am sure the servant appreciated cooking in a modern 1930s kitchen, and not a 1600s facsimile.
Somewhere, wrapped up in all the rooms and narrow staircases and curios, there is a wooden door. It is locked. Behind this door, a posted sign reads, the Hammonds spent most of their time. These are their private rooms. Dr. Hammond requested in his will that they never be shown to the public.
I imagine the rooms, “decorated in a simple 30’s stlye,” filled with John and Natalie Hammond. I imagine for them a quiet evening of newspapers and radio; John tinkering with his latest invention, Natalie with the crossword. Their family life is absent in their magnificent halls and steep sloping stairs. Alls the trinkets of John’s beloved hobbies fill the rooms to the point of claustrophobia. I can read about his love for Columbus, and his passion for the organ. I can see the ancient icons taken from derelict churches and private auctions, hung in the dust. His multitudes of inventions tell me everything I need to know about his career—but I don’t know him.
These rooms, hidden away forever, are the heart of Hammond Castle. They now hold administrative offices.