. 9 .
WHEN I RETURNED to the house I inquired about a coach that could take me to London. Urgent family business, I said, required my immediate attention there. I had to admire the way in which Egremont’s people remained perfectly composed as I made my request and told my lie. I was sure that word of my disgrace had preceded my arrival.
I went to my room and began to pack; word was brought to me that the coach would not leave until the morning. I debated as to what to do. I could go to the village and spend the night at the inn, although the expense was nothing I had counted on. I could remain in my room and say I had a headache. Going to the village would make it seem that I was slinking away. Pleading a headache was hardly any better, but it seemed somehow preferable.
As the hours passed and I thought about my situation, my head did begin to ache; I consoled myself by considering that I would be telling the truth when I offered my excuse.
I passed a miserable afternoon, perhaps the worst in my life except for that afternoon when I arrived at my father’s too late to ask for his forgiveness. As I stood before the window and looked out upon Petworth Park, the colors seemed richer than any I had ever seen, as if Nature had reserved some special pigment for this place only. I felt a mixture of shame and outrage and sorrow that I cannot express. To think that my love for you, the finest feeling in my nature, should be hurled back at me in contempt filled me with sorrow and rage. All my usual complaints welled up in my breast with more than usual force: Why must I be despised for a mode of love honored by the greatest minds of antiquity and sanctified by our affection for each other? Why should I feel shame for the best and truest parts of my nature?
I passed two or three hours in these gloomy cogitations, pacing back and forth in front of the window until my shins ached. I did not know where I would go and how I would live. I did not feel, like Adam, that the world was all before me after my expulsion from Paradise.
I tried to write, I tried to read, but all to no avail. Just after three o’clock there came a deferential knock on the door. It was one of the chief servants. He handed me a folded piece of paper and a sealed envelope. “My lord and Mrs. Spencer send these to you with their compliments.” His eyes met mine for a moment before he bowed, and I thought I saw something, either respect or contempt, that I had not seen before.
The note read as follows:
Grant,
My behaviour this morning was inexcusable. Pray forgive me.
Egremont
I opened the envelope and found a letter in a graceful feminine hand:
My dear Charles,
Word has come that you are planning to leave us. I have not yet had the opportunity to know you well, but my heart tells me you are a gentleman. As you are a gentleman you had no choice but to make your plans to depart, but I beg you to reconsider your decision in light of Egremont’s note of apology. Although you would be well within your rights to do so, please do not bring shame upon an old nobleman by departing prematurely. Egremont forgets himself more often than he did in the past. I hope you will forgive him his outburst and remain here with us so that I may get to know you better. I should very much like us to be friends.
Elizabeth Spencer
On first reading these missives I felt overwhelmed by joy, like a man given a reprieve at the foot of the gallows. But then I was half ashamed. I realized that the injury remained in the eyes of the world and that mere words written to my private eye could do nothing to eradicate the calumny. Then I thought further. I am, dear David, what the world calls a sodomite. It is a vile word, used to hurt, but call it what you will, it is one of the words the world uses to describe my nature. By leaving, I reflected, I would say to the world that I was ashamed of my nature.
For about an hour I went back and forth as I tried to look at the thing from all sides. The more I thought, the more of a muddle I found myself in, as my feelings and logic did battle with each other. But every so often we are all blessed by moments of grace. Such a blessing fell upon me that afternoon. I can recall what happened, but I can hardly explain it. I was standing before the window looking out at the view, which had seemed to promise so fair a day in the morning. I was in an agony of confusion. But then the beauty of the place and the vista came over me with an almost palpable force. It poured a living balm into my wounded soul. I felt calm. Hardly knowing what I did, I went to the fireplace and burnt the two notes. I took up my pen and wrote to Egremont.
My honoured lord,
The fault was entirely mine this morning. Your note was unnecessary, but appreciated. I will remain forever in your debt for the kindness and hospitality you have shown a poor young scholar.
Your humble servant,
Charles Grant
And then I wrote to Mrs. Spencer:
Dear Mrs. Spencer,
Thank you for your kind note. The hospitality at Petworth is incomparable, and I will be delighted to remain here for a while longer. As the fault this morning was entirely mine, Lord Egremont was well within his rights when he lost his temper. But I very much appreciate his condescension to a penniless young scholar with no great prospects. I do not know what role you have played in this small matter, but I sense that your kind hand was involved. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Hoping to become your friend as well, I remain,
Your servant,
Charles Grant
I put both notes in envelopes and called for a servant, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. A small voice, it is true, called out that I had been a coward and chided me for allowing myself to be bought by mere promises, but in general I felt at peace.
I went down to dinner at the usual time. At Petworth the custom is to gather just outside the dining room and await the arrival of Egremont. Guests begin to congregate five or ten minutes before the appointed hour. At seven the doors are flung open and Egremont takes Mrs. Spencer’s arm and leads her in. Egremont’s son and his wife make a great show of going in next, while the rest follow, with those of us, like myself, who are conscious of being outsiders to the ranks of the blessed hanging back and going in last.
As we waited, everyone was most cordial to me. When Egremont and Mrs. Spencer arrived, they paused for a moment before me. I bowed and said my greetings. Egremont took me by the hand and said, in a voice that all could hear, that I was “a damn fine fellow.” Mrs. Spencer also took me by the hand and said that she was very glad I was able to prolong my stay. She held my eyes for a moment or two longer than is customary and applied more pressure than is usual. There is a wealth of feeling in her eyes that I have never seen elsewhere. Her eyes, one suspects, have seen much; they express a kind of world-weariness on that account. But there is also an almost childlike sparkle of joy and laughter there, and it was this aspect that predominated as she took my hand. “I am so very glad to know that you will be remaining with us,” she said.
Everyone standing around us marked, of course, these exchanges, and I saw that they were intended to let all those assembled know that I was in the good graces of my host and hostess. I found myself seated next to Turner, who had grabbed me by the arm and steered me into a seat next to his. “We are in luck, sir,” he said as we sat down. He gave me a conspiratorial wink and nodded behind him. He spoke in a low whisper. “This is the best seat at the table. The steward stands directly behind. One can get a third glass without attracting attention.”
As the first glass of wine was poured Mr. Gedding rose and proposed my lord’s health in more words than were necessary for the task. But he is, as I might have mentioned earlier, the member for Pulborough and, like most members, is enamored of the sound of his own voice. When at length he sat down, His Lordship rose, somewhat piqued, I thought, at the fulsome praise he had been forced to endure.
“You are too kind, Mr. Gedding, but I thank you for your gracious and eloquent words. Let me propose, in turn, a simple toast: to your health, ladies and gentlemen.” He paused for a moment and looked round the tab
le. I fancied he held my eye for a moment longer than those of the others as he offered me a kindly smile. “But no more speechifying! Let us to our meat while it is still piping.”
All that was good of field, pond, garden, and vine was placed before us in more than customary abundance, including an enormous roast of venison. There was that usual lull in the conversation as the party commenced with the serious business of eating, but Mrs. Spencer soon worked her magic. She drew Mr. Gedding out on political gossip. From there we were embarked on a lively discussion of some matter of church policy, but when Mr. Sockett was on the verge of becoming heated over something Mr. Gedding said, Mrs. Spencer managed to toss the ball to Turner, who recounted one of his adventures while traveling in the Rhineland. It involved an attractive chambermaid, a pot of mustard, and two drunken Frenchmen. The story had all the table laughing except for Wyndham and his wife, who looked daggers at Mr. Sockett for his failure to support them in their sanctimoniousness.
At one point while the conversation was particularly loud and animated, Turner turned to me. He spoke so softly that no one else could hear. “His Lordship was most cordial to you before we came in.”
“He is kind and gracious,” I said. “One of the most remarkable men in England.”
“He sent you a note, I understand.”
I looked at Turner, unable to comprehend how he had come to know of it. “As I said,” I replied, “His Lordship is most kind. I burnt it.”
Turner looked at me closely with his piercing gray eyes. “Very good, young man. Very good indeed. You will do well.” He patted me on the shoulder and gave me a wink, motioning to the steward to fill our glasses.
“Come,” he said, “to your health. This is a better vintage than usual. Have you seen His Lordship’s cellars? Most interesting. Wine there bottled before I was born, put down by Egremont’s father when he was a young man. The likes of us must drink wine like this when it is offered. Drink up, I say, for we pass this way but once.”
. 10 .
ON THE MORNING of July 7, 2003, I woke just as the sun was rising. Mist rose and swirled up from the surface of the lake; the sun was an orange disk framed by golden clouds as it crested the hill on the far shore. Usually I’m not a morning person, but self-pity was waiting just around the corner, and I knew I had to keep it at bay with action. I made a pot of coffee, swallowed half a bowl of cereal, and went straight to the barn.
Once there, I went deeper and deeper into the past. Mostly it was just junk that my father thought might come in handy one day, but there were some old toys of mine, too, the sight of which almost moved me to tears. A paper bag contained wrapped presents for my mother that my father had never given to her. Another contained a filmy black nylon nightgown. I almost got sick thinking about it. There was a suitcase full of clothing that I had worn in high school, and boxes and boxes of my mother’s old clothes. As I made my way through the sheer quantity of stuff, I saw that it was a disease, a dry goods addiction equivalent to my father’s drinking. I set aside some of the clothes to bring to Goodwill, amused at the thought of the local girls in Tupper Lake walking around in the emblems of my mother’s vanity.
By late morning I had reached the previous owners’ junk, which was of a different class, more modest and less fraught. I found old electric motors and various unidentifiable machine parts. Almost everything went into the dumpster, but I set aside a few things that might be of interest to the antique shops in Bucks County.
By late afternoon, when the barn was empty, I took a broom and swept out what must have been a hundred years of dirt and dust. The floor was in remarkably good shape, but there were two windows that needed to be cleaned or perhaps replaced. The walls were painted tongue-and-groove boards of the sort that the Mossbachers used in some of their most tasteful renovations.
Deep down, I knew I’d have to take Mossbacher’s money, but I gave myself half an hour to indulge in the fantasy that I could make something of myself in this room. Then, as I was considering various locations for my desk, I noticed three small hinges set into the back wall on the left side of a three-by-four-foot rectangle that was formed by an almost imperceptible cut in the wood. This spot had been hidden by an old bedstead that was one of the last things I had taken out of the barn.
I tapped on the center of the rectangle; it sounded about the same as when I tapped elsewhere on the wall. I pressed on the side opposite the hinges. The wood gave slightly; there was a click, and the panel sprang forward.
When I pulled the panel toward me and peered inside, I saw a rectangular bundle wrapped in what appeared to be old sailcloth and tied with coarse twine. I lifted it out of the recess and placed it carefully on the ground. There was no mark or lettering of any kind on the cloth. I undid the twine.
Inside was a painting in an ornate gold frame. As I propped it against the wall and stepped back to get a better look, light poured from the canvas and lit up the barn. I could feel its glow on my face.
I knew at once that it was Helen. And I suddenly knew something of how the world worked. An army of heroes struggled on the vast plain below her window. I could not see the gods, but I knew they moved among the men. Her lover, Paris, was visible on the left, moving toward her as surely as the apple moves toward the earth and each human life moves toward death. There was a brass plate on the painting’s gilt frame:
THE CENTER OF THE WORLD
J.M.W. TURNER, R.A.
I don’t know how long I sat there. The day turned into evening. As the light in the barn faded and changed, I understood things that had been incomprehensible a moment before, while the certainties of the previous hour were lost. I remembered sensing the presence of the gods, although I knew they were not depicted on the canvas. I wept with rage and frustration at the thought of the feelings I had lost. I sat there until it was quite dark, seeming to see things in the painting long after the light had failed. At last I realized I could hardly see my hand when I held it up before my face.
I made my way back to the house and unplugged the phone. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn’t feel hungry or in need of a drink. I lay down on the old bed upstairs. There was a cold clarity to the visions which appeared against the pitch dark bedroom ceiling. My mind had never been so full nor my perceptions so acute. I don’t know if I slept or not, but if I did there was no difference between waking and dreaming.
. 11 .
AS THEY WAITED for their coffee, Gina and Bryce talked of her upcoming visit to Mr. Ashford. She mentioned that her father’s wedding had been put off and described how her mother, forgetting that there was a time difference between New York and London, had called in the middle of the night to read her the article in The Enquirer describing Megan’s wild night out with the costar of her latest film. Gina managed to turn it all into an amusing story, but her mother’s toxic glee at her father’s self-induced misfortunes was difficult for her to take. Since she no longer had a place of her own in New York, she had spent the night at her mother and Julia’s apartment. There was too much wine with dinner, too many drinks before, and too much yelling. She felt dirty when she woke in the morning, but a long shower had not made her feel as clean as sitting down in Bryce’s leather armchair and seeing the beautiful Turner watercolor and Bryce’s perfectly knotted tie.
“But there is a kind of glow about you, in spite of your unfortunate family, that I have not seen before,” Bryce said once Rosaria had delivered the coffee. “London seems to agree with you.”
“I have been lucky with a lot of old letters,” she said. “How familiar are you with the painter William Collins?”
“He is uninteresting beyond his friends and his progeny,” Bryce said. “A member of the Royal Academy. A friend of Sir David Wilkie, whom he persuaded to be the godfather of his child. The child grew up to be the novelist Wilkie Collins. Small realistic interiors of the worthy poor. Insipid seascapes. Please don’t tell me you have discovered a new painting by Collins. There is a market for that sort o
f thing, but he makes Hassam seem like Matisse.”
Gina colored slightly but went on to explain that she had found a letter from Collins to Wilkie that was previously unknown, but which seemed relevant to Bryce’s quest.
He raised his eyebrows. “If I recall, both Collins and Wilkie were insufferably moralistic, a tendency that was fatal to Collins’s art, less so for Wilkie’s. Turner and Wilkie respected and admired each other: one of Turner’s most moving seascapes, Peace—Burial at Sea, commemorated Wilkie’s death off the coast of Gibraltar in, I believe, 1841.”
“You are correct, of course.” She handed Bryce a folder. “This letter was written in the fall of 1838, when Wilkie was traveling in Ireland. The first page or so deals with some small matters of business having to do with picture frames. But then he goes on to share some Royal Academy gossip which I think you will find interesting. Start here.”
She pointed to the middle of the second page and waited patiently as Bryce read.
Our mutual friend (or, more precisely, your friend and my acquaintance) J.M.W.T. has unleashed a Burning of the Houses of Parliament on an unsuspecting world. I do not know what the general public will think of it, but our brother painters will be merely polite in their public utterances. In their private hearts they will feel what I now say to your private ear: it is hardly a painting so much as a force of nature and the very hand of God on canvas. He sets all rules at defiance and flings paint like one gone mad. There are the usual yellows, of course, and red and lurid orange. One can almost feel the fire’s heat coming off the surface. The painting brings back that awful night most vividly, but, and I hardly know how to say this, more in the manner of a nightmare than a recollection. It is as if, seeing it, I feel those horrors that stem from a disordered digestion intrude themselves upon my waking mind. And yet—and this is the queerest part of the whole business—while I still feel the nightmare quality, it also makes me feel (and I am almost ashamed to admit this) a kind of devilish joy. As a Christian gentleman I know this was a terrible event for our nation, and yet Turner’s painting makes me feel a savage glee in the conflagration, as if I were a heathen Hottentot dancing about a gruesome idol. It may be that this glee is an involuntary response to the mere beauty of the thing that Turner has made. This makes Turner a dangerous man. The beauty and passion in his work trump good sense and plain morality, even in someone who has his wits about him and knows a little about how Art moves the human heart.
The Center of the World Page 5
