The Inexplicable Stairs (By Padraic Feehily

By Padraic Feehily

Entering Nelson’s shop in Sligo at the corner of Castle Street and Market Street was a journey back to the Victorian era. The pine shelves and compact square drawers sloping and tilting their way up to the lofty floor. The equipage for the sporting man standing side-by-side with an assorted arrangement of paraphernalia from another age. Viewing to one’s right the appealing glass display cases where young couples gazed in hope and admiration at the sparkling selection of engagement and wedding rings foreseeing a shared future together.

Nelsons’ was the home of craftsmen of the highest merit. Here in 1882, the magnificent Mayoral Chain was commissioned and made by the firm’s silversmiths. However, for a young lad entering the premises, the star attraction was of a more practical nature: it stood to one’s left upon entering, it was the imposing spiral stairs serving its purpose effectively since 1828.

Luckless at school and finding my true vocation in the aroma of sawdust, I took up the carpenter’s trade by securing an apprenticeship at fifteen years of age. Thus began a lifelong love affair with all things made of wood.

On occasion, I would be sent from the workshop to Nelson’s for special items of hardware. They were occasions to treasure, an opportunity once again to view what had become the workplace of my imagination. The stairs had become an intrinsic part of my “mental” world, every visit was used to penetrate into the secrets of its construction as a functioning unit. Studying each component part, striving as it were to comprehend each critical purpose in the geometry and structural integrity of this wondrous object.

The stairs gave vertical access to clock and watch repairs on the first floor. All inquiries, deposit of goods and collections required staff to climb and descend the spiral masterpiece numerous times in the day whilst beneath their feet, the steps shook and vibrated to the complete unconcern of the staff.

I traced the general outlines of the stairs at every opportunity. Testing my limited knowledge of structural principles; attempting to ascertain its lines of tension and compression. With practice, I intuited that standard joinery methods used to connect or join the steps to the centre part would, over time, become loose due to the constant vibration from usage as the stairs were of the open string type with no vertical support at its extremities. Thus the conundrum - how was it working perfectly after one hundred and forty years!

Nelson’s emerged and blossomed in the early nineteenth century followed by consolidation in the next century. Imperceptible changes came in with new business where profit was king. Time came for the family to gracefully leave the arena. Down came the rustic pilasters, the lamb’s tongue mullion windows and scrolled corbel brackets; away the rich ornamentation and classical detail, the elongated entablature with the hand painted legend - Francis Nelson; all from a more refined age. Making way for modernity.

The builders were contracted; it was to be a complete change of style; the internal layout was gutted. The builder, a neighbour, allowed me in. Amid the dust and rubble, I searched out the object of my lasting fascination and there it was: reclining on its side, removed from its station but perfect in all its parts. It had survived intact.

An examination of the stairs in its horizontal position revealed the secret of its unique construction: the centre part was hollow, a composite ribbed circle. The arrangement allowed the steps to penetrate to the centre of the cylinder. This system allowed the steps to vibrate beyond the exit curve of the post. An ingenious method of allowing opposing forces to cancel each other out.

Assurances from the contractor regarding the future of the stairs brought a deep feeling of contentment. I left the remains of the old shop confident in the knowledge that I had entered further into the hidden realms of the world of timber.

The history of the stairs is a progression from the simple ladder to the elaborate circular or elliptical marble staircases found in luxury hotels or grand mansions. Nearer to home, we have the free-standing marble stairs in Westport House (believed to support 300 people) built by Italian craftsmen in the nineteenth century and, who can forget the forward staircase in the film “Titanic” entering into the first class accommodation; it was the ship’s crowning glory.

In September 1852, the Sisters of Loretto, after months of struggles and fears, broken axles and wheels, sights

of dry white bones and suffering hot days, arrived in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Great women permeated by the love of God, the qualities necessary to brace the hardship of a country still raw and unsettled in the Southwest of the United States.

It soon became evident that if the Sisters were to fulfil the wishes of the inviting bishop they would need a convent and a school. Mexican carpenters began to build for the Sisters. Completed, the school was called the Loretto Academy of our Lady of Light. Plans were made next for a chapel; it was to be in the Gothic style. French and Italian masons went to work on the new structure.

The chapel work progressed with some financial worries and a maximum of faith on the part of the Sisters. It was not until the building was near completion that dreadful mistakes became obvious. The chapel was magnificent and the choir loft was wonderful but there was no connecting link between the two. There was no stairway and, because the loft was exceptionally high, it was impossible for the stairs to be constructed in the standard way. The Mother Superior called in many carpenters to attempt the challenge but each in turn measured and measured again and shook their heads sadly saying, “It cannot be done, Mother”. It looked as if there were only two alternatives; use a ladder to get to the choir loft which seemed impractical, or to tear the whole thing down and rebuild it differently. A heart-breaking task to consider.

Confronted with a dilemma, the Sisters decided to make a novena to their patron - Saint Joseph. On the last day of the novena, a greyhaired man came up to the convent with a donkey and a tool chest. Approaching the Mother Superior, he asked if he might try to help the Sisters by building a stairway! The Superior gave her consent gladly and he set to work. According to the resident Sisters at the time, his tool box consisted of a few very basic implements. It took the carpenter eight months to complete that work but when the Mother Superior went to pay him he had vanished. She went to the local timber yard to pay for the timber at least. They knew nothing of it. To this day there is no record in the convent that the job was ever paid for.

The winding stairs that the old man left for the Sisters is a masterpiece of beauty and wonder. It makes two complete 360º degree turns. There is no supporting centre post that most spiral stairs have; it hangs there with all the weight on the base. Some architects have said that by all the laws of gravity it should have crashed to the floor when anyone stepped on it and yet it has been used daily for one hundred and sixty years.

The stairway (legend says) was put together with wooden pegs only – there were no nails and at the time it was built, it had no banisters or hand rail. They were added later. Architects from all over the world, without exception cannot understand how it was constructed and how it has remained so sturdy.

Many experts have tried to identify the wood and where it came from. The only agreement being; it didn’t come from New Mexico. Where the old carpenter got the wood is a mystery. One of the most baffling things about the stairs is the perfection of the curve of the strings (sides) as they are made up of several pieces: nine spliced together on the outside string and seven on the inside. Yet throughout its length, the strings maintain a perfect curve. How this was done in the 1870s by a single individual in an out-of-way place with only the most primitive tools has never been explained.

Many experts have tried to identify the wood and surmise where it came from. Here again it’s established that the timber did not come from New Mexico; where the old carpenter got the wood is a mystery.

The Church is always cautious about making statements concerning things of a supernatural nature. Following this same position, the sisters and priests of Santa Fe have refrained from saying anything definite about the stairs. The community annals and the archdiocesan archives are silent on the subject other than to tell us that the Chapel of Our Lady of Light was dedicated on April 25th, 1878.

Everyone who sees this beautiful piece of work is amazed at its wonder and beauty, but no one can satisfactorily explain how it got there and how it stays there. It is truly an inexplicable wonder.