The Doctor stayed with my father for two hours and came out looking very grey. He said that my father had a ferocious fever and that if it were any other man his age he would give up hope, but my father was remarkable for his Animal power and there was no telling but that he might survive. He gave orders that no one but he, the nurse, and Mrs. Spencer was to come into the bedroom. I objected that I would like to see my own father and comfort him in his sickness, but the Doctor said I would do so on my own responsibility as my father had been quite particular as to who was to come in and who was to stay out. The Doctor said that rest was the only medicine that could help, and he would not answer for it if my father were to be crossed and enraged.
Mrs. Spencer never left my father’s side for two weeks. She took what rest she did in his chamber and all her meals likewise. I stayed outside the door constantly, leaving only for meals, sleeping, and going with the hounds. Business of the estate I carried out at the desk I had brought into the hallway and so as not to disturb my father I conducted all business in a very low tone of voice. I saw Mrs. Spencer only occasionally when she put her head out to give some command to the servants that I had ordered to be constantly there. Her face was drawn and the very lustre had vanished from her hair. Her eyes had become large and sunken in her skull and there were new networks of lines and wrinkles on her neck. She was most distressed because she knew that her days of Ease and Luxury were soon to come to an end.
But then the Doctor came out to me one day and said that my father was a good deal better and that he wished to speak to me. I went in and saw my father sitting up in the great bed, having his breakfast of an egg and toasted bread and tea. He looked worn. He had been cleaned and shaved, and there was a tolerable colour about him. Mrs. Spencer stood by his side. The new cabinet was closed. I enquired as to his health. He said he was not yet ready for a ride round the estate, but that he was better than he had been. He thanked me for my devoted attendance and said that it was no longer required. He said he would call me in once a day to give me instructions as to the management of the estate and other matters.
At first when I came the most he could do was sit up in his bed while Mrs. Spencer sat off on the side reading. He got stronger as the weeks passed and soon he was sitting at his small desk, going over the papers and accounts. He began to take a keen interest in the affairs of the estate and I knew he was healed and ready to come downstairs when he called me a blockhead for not knowing the weight of the prize bull that had been sold.
Mrs. Spencer had not been away from his side the whole time of his illness. One day as my father was discussing estate matters with me he encouraged her to go out and get some air. She acknowledged that the air would do her good. As soon as the door was closed my father put on that tone he had for serious matters of business. He said he knew that I did not love Mrs. Spencer and that she did not love me. There was nothing to be done about that and he had no Desire to remedy it at his time of life. But I was to remember that Mrs. Spencer had been a good friend to him since the death of my mother, and that it would displease him greatly if I was to quarrel with her or show that contempt which he knew I felt. He had, he said, no intention of altering his instructions regarding the disposition of the estate, but I was to remember that I had more than one brother and numerous cousins. He hoped, he said, that even my Understanding was sufficient to comprehend what he meant. I told him that my Behavior would be all that he could desire.
He went on to say that his recent illness had taught him that he could no longer be certain that there were many years left to him. I ventured to suggest that perhaps it was time to seek Spiritual Counsel and to take care of his Immortal Soul. It is a salve to my Conscience that I reminded him of this, even though his response was harsh. He waved his hand as if he was brushing away an Insect, and said that it was always a wonder to him that I, who had not the Wit to reckon the number of Swine that could be sustained upon an acre of land, could claim Understanding of the deepest of mysteries. He said he had no wish to speak to me on this subject and if I wished to remain in his good graces I would refrain from mentioning it in the future. He knew full well, he said, that he could not trust me to make a decent and humane provision for Mrs. Spencer, as virtuous and pious as I might be. He had, therefore, called in his legal man to adjust his Will so as to make a modest and reasonable provision for her. He advised me that more than sufficient remained and I would not miss her small legacy, but that if I Objected I would miss all.
Although it pained me to give silent assent to his Lechery, I said that I would honour his wishes in these matters as in all others. There was one other matter which he wished to speak to me about. He was aware that I had seen the painting in the cabinet. He was sorry that I had seen it, but there was nothing to be done for it now except to remind me that he did not wish me or anyone else sneaking about and entering his chamber without his permission or Mrs. Spencer’s. His feelings about this painting were most particular and he wished to have no single word of conversation about it with me. On this he was most adamant and he wished me to understand that if I so much as mentioned it to him again, or if he was ever to learn that I had spoken of it with another living soul, he would take those steps that would please my brother. Our last word on the subject was that upon his death, as I was a Christian gentleman, I was to make sure that Mrs. Spencer got it. I had no recourse but to give my consent, but it was a powerful lesson to me about the shame that sinners feel over repeated Sin.
We had reached this stage in our conversation when there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Spencer, and my father bade her enter. I greeted her cordially because I knew my father was watching. It was always a Wonder to me that she could look me in the eye without colouring after I had seen that picture, but she was brazen if she was nothing else. The walk had done her good, she said, and indeed it showed. She put her hand on my father’s shoulder and I could see from the look he gave her that neither age nor illness had dampened his tendency towards Sin.
. 16 .
I TRIED TO GET back into my life in New Jersey, but the knowledge of the painting gnawed at me like an ulcer. I felt foolish for having abandoned the greatest happiness I had ever known, and I woke most nights in a fever sweat at the thought of something happening to it. Though I tried to console myself with the thought that it had been hidden where I left it since the days when Rhinebeck owned the property, I became obsessed with the notion that Mossbacher or one of his people might find it. It was an irrational thought, but nothing, including my mind, was as it had been before.
The hardest thing to convey is how unreal the world in which I found myself seemed. Everything I knew and cared about—my wife, my children, my job, my finances—seemed like a pale reflection of a dream. I felt as though I was walking through a world of shadows. All the while, however, I was tormented with the certainty that the real world—or at least the world that was true and meaningful—was on the canvas that was hidden in my barn in the Adirondacks. I don’t think I was really mad, but I am not sure a psychiatrist would agree with me.
So I floated uneasily through those last days of July, hoping that with time my life would click into focus. Susan kept on trying to engage me in a conversation about what was wrong. She claimed I was detached and disengaged, that I seemed depressed, that I was hiding something, that I wasn’t “there for her.” All of this was certainly true, but she, through no fault of her own, wasn’t there for me either, in the sense that she no longer seemed adequate to the truths of the world as I had come to understand them. I knew she was trying and I knew she had done nothing wrong, but I had felt the power that fires all poetry and moves the world. I had seen Helen of Troy. I knew the truth of her like no one who is now alive, like no one who has been alive for a hundred years. I tried to be polite, to say that I was fine, that I was just worried about money or just thinking too much about turning fifty, but we had been married too long for her to believe me. Naturally enough, she would retreat in hurt and anger, but afte
r a few days she took a deep breath and tried to reach me again. Looking back, I can see that it was a measure of her affection and decency that she stayed with me as long as she did.
My birthday, August 7, was on a Thursday. Susan made reservations for dinner in New York; there was something so sad and so hopeful about the way she told me of her plan that I tried as hard as I could to pretend it pleased me. Neither of us could afford to take a day off from work, so we agreed that we would meet at a restaurant in the Village.
It turned out to be a wonderful day for early August in New York. Not too hot, not too humid, and a nice breeze. As part of making an effort, I had put on my favorite summer suit and a tie. When she saw me at the restaurant I wanted her to know that I was trying.
I hadn’t been in the city very often since the attack on the World Trade Center, and I was still shocked by the absence of that ugly but familiar landmark. Washington Square Park was filled with young people; they all seemed to be flirting with one another, as if they had all been given permission at once to go on with the business of living. There was an air of gaiety and yearning about them; they seemed bathed in Helen’s light.
A young couple walked toward me. He was very handsome, like a young Marlon Brando. She was tall and African American. She was wearing jeans, high heels, and a thin red camisole. I don’t think I had ever seen anyone so beautiful just walking down the street.
Her arms were around him, but just as they approached me, she turned and, in response to something he said, broke into a beautiful smile. She said something in his ear; he laughed and kissed her. Then they passed me and were gone. I walked on for a few more steps and a sentence formed in my mind: I will never sleep with anyone as beautiful as that, but it’s okay. And then, quite mysteriously, after a few more steps, I thought: It is okay to die. It just sort of hit me: It’s okay to die. There is nothing to be afraid of. And I felt, for a moment, that a cloud had lifted or a curtain had opened. I am not sure, to this day, exactly what happened or the precise meaning of what had occurred, but I became convinced, somehow, that it was Helen speaking to me. These were the words, I thought, that I had been struggling to hear as I looked at the painting.
I think I smiled for the first time since I had left the painting in the mountains. I had a hint that whatever it was that Helen meant was not entirely dependent on being in her presence, that she could live in my mind even when I was away from her. As it turned out, this lesson—if it was a lesson—didn’t stick. The moment of brightness made the darkness that followed so much the darker.
But for the moment at least I was happy to see Susan when I got to the restaurant and happy to be alive in the moment that we had. We had a lovely dinner; we talked about what the children were doing; we traded gossip about our jobs. She said that she noticed that I had lost some weight and that I looked good.
“Five pounds so far,” I said. “I’ve been watching what I’ve been eating since you left the mountains. Nothing crazy: sensible choices and no seconds.”
I told her that she looked good too, and it was true. She seemed more beautiful to me than she had at any time since I found the painting.
We left the restaurant and walked up the street holding hands. “This has been a lovely evening,” she said. “I’m glad you made an effort. We are worth it, you know.”
When we got to a corner, Susan hailed a cab. “I have a surprise for you,” she said. She had taken a nice room at the Park Lane overlooking Central Park. There was a half bottle of champagne in a cooler and a pretty little cake with a candle on the table in front of the window.
“No wonder you wouldn’t let me get any dessert,” I said. “This is all too much, you know.”
“Happy birthday. You only get to get old once.” She went to the closet and took out two nicely wrapped presents. She opened the champagne and lit the candle. We sat next to each other and looked out over the dark green park ringed by the sparkling city.
I opened my presents, a handsome shirt with French cuffs and a pair of cuff links made out of blue stones. “These are really nice,” I said. I leaned over and gave her a kiss. “But are you trying to make us go bankrupt?”
She explained that she had just gotten a big bonus. “But mostly I want you to know that I love you. I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy.”
I thanked her and touched my glass to hers, apologizing for having been so gloomy. I didn’t know what it was, I said. This would have been the moment to tell her about the painting, and the words to do so started to form in my mind. But I just couldn’t do it: it was mine and mine alone. “I love you too,” I managed to say.
We undressed and got into the big bed with its luxurious sheets. I let her get on top and do all the work. I thought of the young couple I had seen in the park earlier that day. I thought of Helen and the way the diaphanous cloth caressed her thighs. I thought of the beautifully articulated muscles on Paris’s back. I closed my eyes and saw the sea beyond the field of battle. There were ships in the far distance. Argosies, I remember thinking, is the word. I could see hope and fear on the mariners’ faces. I could see the treasure they were carrying and the distant lands to which they were bound.
. 17 .
I REALLY WISH, David, that you could see this place. Its wonders are almost wasted on me. Your superior taste and discernment would find even more to admire than I do. Yesterday Egremont took his son and daughter-in-law up to London to see to some business. A number of guests had departed. It seemed as if the living being that is Petworth House was resting. I was sitting outside on the Portico with writing implements, trying to make some sense of the notes I had taken in the North Gallery, but mostly just looking out over the pond. Turner was off sketching somewhere. The beauty of the place and the peculiar fact that I had the freedom of the house rendered me almost idiotic with happiness.
Mrs. Spencer approached and said that she had been looking for me. After inquiring about my health and comfort she asked if I could do her a service. I naturally told her that I was hers to command.
“You must put down your pen and ink and come with me,” she said. “It is a fine September day. Days like this do not come often to the south of England. You are a young man and need to bestir yourself; I am in want of air and a cavalier. So you will accompany me on an excursion. You have not yet seen the Rotunda, have you? It will please you.” With that she commanded me to change into a costume suitable “for tramping.”
Before this time I had only seen Mrs. Spencer when she was surrounded by others or in the company of Lord Egremont. She dressed in the more voluptuous style of the last century. At dinner she wore fine gowns that showed off her figure and displayed a good deal of bosom. It was amusing to see her next to Egremont’s prim and pinched daughter-in-law. When she came out to me she was wearing a dress such as a prosperous farmer’s wife might wear, but even though the stuff was simple and the cut was plain, she looked more like a duchess than any duchess I have ever seen.
Mrs. Spencer led the way. We walked over groomed paths, rough roads, and forest ways. “You mustn’t think,” she said, “that I am going to take you to our destination by the shortest route.” As we walked she talked to me about the history of Petworth, particularly of the park and gardens, which had been designed by Capability Brown in the 1750s. It was a massive undertaking during which, she told me, “no expense was spared to make nature more perfect than nature.” We had reached perhaps the most charming spot I have seen so far in the park, a bit of grass at the edge of a stand of fine trees, with a small brook running by.
“Let us sit here for a moment and rest.” She led me to a small stone bench half hidden by the banks of the brook. I commented on how sweet and charming a spot it was.
“Yes,” she said. “It is most sweet and charming. And false, you know. All this sweet nature was made by the hand of man. There was no brook here, no grass. This is as real as a canvas by Turner. Old Capability Brown bent the brook so he could make a perfect setting for this rustic seat. T
his is one of my favorite spots at Petworth,” she said as she settled herself, “but I sometimes think it is too much like certain charming ladies. Quite delightful as far as appearances go, but all rather contrived.” She turned to me and smiled, but I could see a sadness too deep for words in her eyes.
She quickly redirected the conversation, and we chatted for a while on a variety of subjects. She has an extraordinary gift for speaking easily and winningly on almost any topic. I found myself, to my surprise, saying interesting things on topics I had never thought about before. It is the way she listens that is the secret, and I can see why an old man like Egremont would find it so easy to be in love with her. Hers is a receptive genius; everything she hears comes back to the speaker burnished and ennobled.
I don’t know how long we sat in that pleasant spot, but at length she suggested that we move on. We walked another half hour or so, going by various twisty and pleasant ways, mostly through forest, until we emerged on a green field and began to climb a beautifully manicured hill.
“Look!” she said. Her face had been transformed by an expression of childlike radiance and joy. “I am always overcome with happiness when I first see it.” She pointed to the top of the hill. Eight Ionic columns supported an open ring of weatherworn marble. I too broke into a smile. It was as if some giant child had made a Greek temple in a living playground, or as if we had stumbled on some relic from youthful Arcadia, when life was simple pleasure and our worship was our joy.
We scrambled up the hill like two delirious children. I gained the top first, and then held out my hand to assist her. Her face glowed with delight and exercise. Leading me into the charmed circle of the little temple, she directed my attention to the magnificent view of the Sussex countryside that lay stretched out before me like a vision. I had not realized how high we had climbed in our rambling walk, but we had reached the highest point on Egremont’s estate.
The Center of the World Page 9
