It is a glorious view. Mrs. Spencer named the villages and farms below us and pointed out, in the far middle distance, the silver thread of the river that marked the border of Egremont’s possessions.
There is something delightful about a prospect, and something more delightful still about the feeling of having the high vantage point to oneself. I felt a keen pleasure in imagining that I was the lord of all I surveyed, or that I was a worshipper of one of the minor gods to whom the temple was dedicated. These pleasing musings were interrupted, however, when I saw a pony cart coming up the hill. Mrs. Spencer saw the look of disappointment that crossed my face. She broke out in a wonderful laugh and assured me that our visitors would not be with us long.
The cart drove up to the Rotunda, and I recognized the figures who were walking beside it as two of the house servants. Mrs. Spencer gave instructions and they quickly set up a table and two chairs. The cloth was laid, and a large hamper was set down beside one of the chairs. Mrs. Spencer bade the servants be on their way.
As we watched the pony cart disappear Mrs. Spencer said, “You did not think that I would ask you to walk all this way without offering you some refreshment?” She directed me to sit down. A wonderful meal was soon before us: cold chicken, cheese, bread warm from the oven, pickles, and a cucumber salad. A bottle of rosé wine still cool from the cellars completed our repast.
She raised her glass and wished me health. She asked me how I found the wine.
“I am but a mendicant scholar,” I said. “The wines I have had at Petworth have been a revelation; the wine I drink at home is so poor I am half ashamed to drink it at all.”
“You must not be ashamed,” she said. “We must have our wine, no matter how poor. Wine lifts us out of ourselves and infuses some gaiety into our lives. I remember a night many years ago. I was in a low inn outside Florence. The wine was execrable, but I was young and my companions were kind and beautiful. I have never been so happy, and the vile wine was no small part of that happiness.”
As she was speaking she cut a slice of bread and piled cheese upon it. She ate with grace, but with an unladylike appetite.
“It is curious,” she said, “how often and at what length we expatiate on the virtues of wine, but how rarely we speak of the humble foods like cheese. This cheese is made on the estate; when he was younger His Lordship made quite a study of cheese, and his dairies produce some of the finest cheeses in all of Sussex. He once brought over monks from France to teach the farmers how it should be done. Do try some; it is most wholesome and delicious.”
I did as she bade me. “You have been,” I said, “most generous and kind to me. This day—this view, this lovely meal, your company—will always live in my mind.”
“But it is I who owe thanks,” she said. “I know how kind and brave you were in that matter of the stag.”
I felt the world begin to spin under my feet. My expression must have indicated my confusion.
“Lord Egremont,” she said, “is old. He has wealth and power. You gave him the opportunity to exercise his heart and his feelings.”
“He certainly exercised his feelings out in the field. His Lordship heaped upon me such a stream of abuse that I was half afraid he would exhaust himself.”
Mrs. Spencer smiled and drank some wine. “A lesser man than yourself would have stomped off in a pique of righteous indignation. There would have been a quarrel. You would have departed. My lord would have found his old heart grown so much harder. But as the case turned out, he was able to reflect, to apologize, and we all have the benefit of a few more days of your company.”
She then went on to tell me that she believed that Lord Egremont was secretly grateful to me because I had given him an excuse not to kill the stag. Egremont had half confessed; it seemed that the reason he had missed his shot was his sympathy for the creature. The stag, she said, was, like Egremont, old and noble; he spared it out of tenderness for himself. Yet he could not admit these things in front of his people because his position required him to act in certain ways. “You can little appreciate,” she said, “how a man like Egremont is bound by the rules of his position.”
“But his position did not require that he write me an apology. Indeed,” I said, “it would seem to require that he not do so. Did not Lord Egremont find it unseemly that he, one of the great lords of England, should condescend to apologize to someone as mean as myself?”
Mrs. Spencer took another swallow of wine. “So it would appear. But my lord was with Turner when he wrote the note. That makes all the difference. Turner is a remarkable man. What do you think of him?”
“He has been,” I said, “most kind to me. I feel that he is another order of being. His genius is such that we mortals cannot quite comprehend it. Do you know him well?”
She grew more thoughtful and her smile disappeared. She poured herself more wine. I saw a brightness in her eyes that I had not noticed before.
“He is a frequent guest here, so I have come to know him. My lord, indeed, suggested that I should get to know him better still. Do you find Mr. Turner handsome?”
I was taken aback by this question. Turner is short and stocky, with a large nose. His fingers are always dirty with paint. He has bad teeth, which you can often smell, but thick, sensuous lips.
“No, Mrs. Spencer,” I replied. “I do not.”
“Nor do I,” she said. “But he is a man of strong sensual leanings. He has never married, but he is rumored to have fathered a pair of brats with an elderly woman who runs a boardinghouse somewhere. He is fond of rambling about the harbor, you know.”
We spoke about the view and the delightful weather, as she helped me to some chicken and filled our glasses again.
“Tell me, Mr. Grant,” she said. “How do you live?” She had put down her glass and was looking at me most earnestly. I had never been asked that most important of questions before. If anyone else had asked I would have felt it a terrible impertinence, but from Mrs. Spencer’s lips it seemed most natural. “Come,” she added, “you and I must be able to understand each other. You have nothing to be afraid of. How do you live?”
There was nothing for it, so I plunged in. I hope you will not be annoyed. As I looked into her lovely face, I felt a great weight lifting from my shoulders. Living as I have been in a great house like Petworth, a small voice has always whispered my shame and imposture. It was a relief to tell her of my modest inheritance, the occasional payment for a review article, the visits to country houses. When she spoke again, it was clear that she had been doing sums in her head.
“Is that all, Mr. Grant? It hardly seems sufficient for a man of your taste.”
I confess that I blushed at this. I told her that although I attempted to keep up a good appearance my needs were quite modest, but that I also had a dear friend in Cambridge who was sometimes so kind as to give me gifts that allowed me to make ends meet.
She reached over and grabbed my hand. Her smile was radiant. “I knew we could understand each other!” she said. “At least you have the small income and whatever comes in from your articles; then, too, you must hope that you will someday write books that will bring in money. And I suppose, since you are clever and agreeable and handsome, you might take a position in the city, assisting some merchant or banker with accounts and correspondence. Or you might work on Fleet Street writing for one of the publications.”
She took another deep swallow of wine and then filled our two glasses again. “What is hard, I find, are the gifts. The stays in country houses can be easy if the host is genial. You are aware you are a mere guest, but you are also aware that you don’t have to pay for your supper and your wine. It must have been no small part of your feelings yesterday when you suddenly realized that you would have to find some other way to fill your belly for those days that you had counted on being here.”
I felt uneasy and began to protest, although the fact was that she had hit very near the mark. “Oh, Mr. Grant,” she said. “There is no dishonor in th
at. You and I, as I said, have nothing to fear from each other. We are kindred spirits. But what I really wanted to ask,” she went on, “was about the gifts. How do you feel about them?”
Something about Mrs. Spencer’s frank gaze undid me. I hope you can forgive me, David, when I tell you that I was soon unburdening myself of thoughts I hardly knew I had. I told her how much I appreciated your dear gifts. But I also confessed, which I have never mentioned to you, how I sometimes feel myself to be a mercenary wretch and how (and it pains me to write this) I don’t quite express my true feelings because I am afraid of offending you. When, for example, you say something unkind, or something with which I disagree, I sometimes refrain from commenting because I am anxious not to cut off those gifts which are so necessary for my survival. It is hard, I told her, when mercenary considerations prevent one from being honest.
“Ah,” she said, “but at least you have your small income and your cleverness to fall back on. What have I? Mr. Spencer was an error of my youth; he provides me with nothing except for the occasional blackmailing letter and the inability to marry. I have no way of earning money. I have no family. I have, at present, the kindness of Lord Egremont. In the past I have had the generosity of other gentlemen. But this comes with unspoken expectations: that I act the charming hostess, that I play after dinner, and so forth.”
She touched my hand again and drank some more of the wine. “It is, don’t you think, the fact that so much is unspoken that makes it all so hard. And yet, if it were spoken, we should die of shame, should we not? Since we do not speak of these matters we are always in danger of offending; we are always unsure if we need to do more or do less in order to maintain that upon which we so much depend. But the silence is what allows us to go on. Were it not for that, we would see it all as a most common and sordid transaction. Let us raise our glasses, Mr. Grant, to the silence.”
She held up her glass and the crystal sparkled in the sunlight. Her face was flushed with wine, but she seemed more radiant and beautiful than ever. “Do not fear me, Mr. Grant.”
I raised my glass as well. She touched hers to mine. “You are young and handsome. Your youth will pass and your beauty will fade, just as mine has done. You will, however, have your wits and your small income to see you through those dark days. I, on the other hand, will have only the ruin of my beauty. Perhaps I will become one of those horrible creatures of paint and horsehair. I will frighten small children when I walk by.”
“Mrs. Spencer,” I said, “you will grow older, to be sure, but your beauty will merely become beauty of another sort. Your charm will not desert you.”
She smiled at my weak gallantry. “It is most good of you to say so. And most contemptible of me to place you in a position where decency requires that you pay me a compliment. But you will forgive me, for you are most kind.” She emptied her glass and we both took a few more bites in silence.
“But you are not kind to Mr. Turner,” she said with a smile.
“I admire him above all other painters,” I said. “His conversation, too, is droll and ingenious.”
“You said he was not handsome.”
“He is not,” I repeated.
“True,” she said. “But there are worse fates.” We had finished our meal. Mrs. Spencer rose from her chair and leaned against one of the pillars. I stood by her side and together we admired the view. “You must give me your arm as we walk home. I have had too much wine. We will go now, if you don’t mind. The servants will be here in less than an hour. You must amuse me and make sure that I do not turn my ankle. Come.”
. 18 .
SHE WAS SITTING UP in bed, reading, when he came in. There was a shawl thrown over her nightgown. Her hair was down. She had added a few logs to the fire, and the room was warm and inviting. Twenty years ago, Rhinebeck had married her for her looks and her family connections. Time, the children, and the life he had given her had taken their toll. She was tired around the eyes and thicker around the waist, but still attractive enough to turn heads when she got herself up in an evening gown. When he thought about the last young woman who had been in that bed, he felt a moment of regret. He tried to recall her name—was it Julie or Jenny?
She peered over her reading glasses. He had noticed the gray in her hair before, but somehow, in the firelight, there seemed more of it. Perhaps there was more of it. It had been a month since they had seen each other.
“You look very well. I’m glad to see you,” he said.
“And it’s good to see you as well. Birch Lodge is much more beautiful than I had imagined. From your descriptions, I expected something very rough, like a Viking fortress. But everything is charming and oddly delicate. Your Snuggery is the most marvelous room. This is a lovely room as well—the birch bark wall coverings look wonderful in the firelight. I am only sad that you intend to keep all this from me.”
“Men require some place where they can be alone with other men. We have had this discussion before, but perhaps we can revisit it. Where did you find your new friend?”
“Do you like her?”
“I asked where you found her.”
“At the Cranleys’. There was a tea. Ladies interested in the arts, you know. She said she had always wanted to meet me, so I invited her over. More tea. She has written a monograph on Constable—she has something to do with one of the galleries. She is very agreeable, and I wanted company. I believe she is rather hard up. She only protests a bit at my offers to pay, but she doesn’t seem too greedy. Not like Miss Danvers. I like her very much. Do you?”
“Is there a Mr. Overstreet?”
“He exists, but they are separated. She doesn’t like to speak of him, but she hints at drink and gambling debts.”
“You must tell me which gallery. I know all those people; I will make inquiries.”
“So you don’t like her?”
“She is certainly attractive. But she was making love to me during dinner. I am not so vain these days as to think that my personal charms are enough to make a woman lose her sense of propriety.”
“You are still a handsome man. But that is just her way. She’s always trying to be agreeable. Sometimes, perhaps, she tries too hard.”
“Perhaps she could try a bit harder to keep her buttons fastened.”
Rhinebeck had changed into his pajamas and was sitting on the side of the bed. They paused to listen to a loon’s cry echo across the water.
“So tell me. The boys. Are they well?”
“I received a letter from Tom last week. He’s enjoyed Yellowstone and California. Hollywood in particular. Some of his Triangle Club friends provided him with introductions, I’m afraid mostly to so-called actresses. I hope he’s careful. His father’s name is not unknown. I wouldn’t want them to take advantage of him.”
“I would worry more about his taking advantage of them. He’s a cool customer. Perhaps too cool. He will make his way in the world. And Herman? How is he?”
“He wasn’t happy in Canada. He said the place we sent him to was beastly. No hot water. Endless marches through the wilderness. Sleeping in the cold and rain.”
“But good for him. Toughen him up.”
“Oh, don’t sound like a typical masculine fool. It’s too stupid.”
Rhinebeck acknowledged the wisdom of her remarks by kissing her gently on the forehead. “But you must admit he needs it.”
“I do not. He isn’t like other boys. He is half a poet.”
“He is a kitten that has just seen a bulldog. He always appears to be frightened of something.”
“Don’t you think it might be you?”
Rhinebeck looked at his wife. She went on. “You’re always so gruff with him. Always disappointed. Whereas Tom can do no wrong in your eyes, Herman is conscious that everything he does displeases you.”
“I wish he would be more forthright. I admit that I lose my patience with the boy. But if he would only look me in the eye and not sneak about so, it would be much easier.”
“If you
didn’t glare at him as soon as he walks into the room, he might not cower so. You know that your glance can bring some of the most powerful men in America to their knees; you must understand what it can do to a fifteen-year-old boy.”
Rhinebeck was silent for a moment. “I’ll try to do better,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll bring him up here. I will keep my pretty Renoir locked up so as not to give him any ideas. How did you like her?”
“You should think better of me, Cornelius. Come to bed.”
Rhinebeck got under the covers. She reached over and touched him. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been together. I’m not such an old lady yet that I will be offended by a pink young thing, even if she reveals the hair between her legs.”
He responded to her familiar but unexpected touch and returned her kisses. She sat up and pulled off her nightdress. Orange firelight flickered on the walls. She smiled at him as her face emerged from the white cotton. The gray of her hair almost glistened in the firelight. Her breasts were full and pendulous, there was a fold of flesh around her stomach, but he felt the same heat and urgency that he had felt for her younger body, a body he could not even remember.
She kissed him again and pushed the covers back before touching him once more and turning over on her stomach. She raised her hips into the air.
“Come,” she said.
Rhinebeck pulled off his pajamas and positioned himself behind her. He saw her raised and parted thighs glow golden in the firelight, a gift from the gods. He looked at the smooth skin of her back and her rump. The place where their bodies joined disappeared in the darkness. He felt that he was seeing certain things for the first time. There was a beauty in the animal foolishness of the whole business—the pumping in, the pumping out—that he had never quite recognized before. His wife, the mother of his children, was as beautiful as Helen. He would bring her back to Birch Lodge the next time he came; he would show her the Turner. Together they would decide who would inherit it.
The Center of the World Page 10
