The Center of the World

by Thomas van Essen

  So instead of a body, we have a rack on which Egremont’s wealth is displayed—the heavy earrings, the necklace, the jewel-encrusted dress. One of the early reviews of the painting said that it provided “roundabout proof that Turner was a great man; for it seems to me that none but a great man dare have painted anything so bad.” I think there is a particular way in which this might be true of Jessica. Turner was great enough to be able to afford to hide Mrs. Spencer’s looks in order to protect their secret affair.

  Having some sense of what the thing we are looking for might be like gives me hope. I can’t quite form an image of Mrs. Spencer/Jessica as Venus bathed in Turner’s light, but there is something in my mind now that is more than a mere abstraction.

  I don’t know if I was just looking at everything through the light of Wyndham’s testimonial, but it struck me that the collection at Petworth, particularly the works added by Egremont, is remarkably sensual. There is, for example, a not very good nude by Hoppner called Sleeping Nymph with Cupid. It is also, and this is somewhat suggestive given our current concerns, known as Sleeping Venus with Cupid. It is charming in a porno-kitsch way, polite but slightly naughty, although the Petworth House guide tells us that Hoppner considered it his masterpiece (which seems surprising, since I only know of him as a portrait painter). The nymph is an attractive young woman; she is lying on her back with her arms behind her head, wearing nothing but an aggressively coy bit of drapery. A plump winged baby Cupid covers his eyes with his hands as he flies above her. (One fears that he might crash into a tree.) Wonderful brushwork, a murky forest background. Egremont purchased it in 1827 from the estate of his friend Sir John Leicester. It is said that Turner accompanied him to the sale and advised him to make the purchase. Not sure what to make of that.

  It was a lovely day, so I took a walk toward the far end of the estate where there is a marvelous structure, half gazebo, half Greek temple. It sits perched on what I had been told is the highest point on the estate and provides a glorious view of what seems like most of Sussex. The structure itself is charming, classically proportioned but playful as well.

  On my way back to the house I climbed the rise behind the building and sat on the bench beneath one of the ancient chestnut trees, looking down on Petworth House and the pond. It occurred to me that Turner and the remarkable Mrs. Spencer had sat on this very spot under this very tree and looked down on the house of their lord and patron. I wondered what Turner saw, what Mrs. Spencer saw, and what they had to say to each other.

  Sorry to have gone on for so long—it’s just that my mind is so full. London was colorless and dreary by the time I got back, but I felt energized. I think this thing you are looking for exists. I half believe that we will find it. Thank you for letting me join you in your quest.

  I hope Hong Kong is treating you well.

  . 26 .

  LORD EGREMONT RETURNED a week ago, but I was surprised last night when I discovered that all the guests are leaving, except for Turner and myself. Even Egremont’s son and his family are departing. This morning there was a carriage and a wagon at the door, laden with a mountain of luggage, including an easy chair and what looked like enough kitchen equipment to meet the needs of a small army. I was told that His lordship’s son and heir was going up to London to look after some family business. I came downstairs to wish Wyndham and his wife a bon voyage, but they seemed severely out of sorts and were hardly civil to me. It was plain that my presence was not welcome, so I bade my adieus quickly. I went back to my room to write, but I was, I confess, aware that I was so situated that I could hear everything that went on by the front door just below me.

  Wyndham’s temper did not improve with my absence, and for so pious a man, he used a good deal of rough language with the servants. In general he needs more done for him than most men, and none of it is done to his satisfaction. This was certainly the case today. Dozens of things had been forgotten, and for each one the servants were roundly abused. A roil of confusion seemed to last for about an hour, building to a furious pitch just before ten, when I could hear Wyndham damn any number of eyes as the possibility of arriving in London after dark loomed.

  At last the family was assembled and the ponderous wagon about to embark; Lord Egremont was summoned and from my room I could hear that deferential silence that always follows his appearance.

  “So. You are ready at last?”

  “Yes, my lord,” his son replied. “In a manner of speaking. What with the suddenness of the command, I am not sure that we have quite got everything we need. But we shall make do, my lord. We shall make do.”

  “And what is in that wagon?”

  “Why, just some small manner of things we require.”

  Egremont let out a furious oath which I will not repeat here, but which provoked an audible gasp from his virtuous daughter-in-law. “I have sent you to London—not the Antipodes. Do you not recollect that my house in London is well equipped with chairs?”

  “But you know how Maria suffers—this chair affords her some relief. We shall bring it back, of course.”

  Egremont swore again. He made some particular suggestions as to that part of his daughter-in-law’s anatomy that most often comes in contact with a chair. Again I could hear an audible gasp. Her husband began to remonstrate with his father, but Egremont silenced him with another oath. He said that he had no desire for further conversation and especially no desire that his son should keep the carriage waiting. But then his tone became quite cordial, as if he had made a great and successful effort to control himself.

  “Godspeed, my son. I much appreciate your willingness to assist us with our affairs in London.” By this time, I confess, I had moved to the window. I was so positioned that I could see Wyndham, his family, and all their equipage. I could not see Lord Egremont, who was standing in the doorway just beneath my window. Wyndham and his wife were almost completely undone by Egremont’s change of tone; they could do nothing but bow.

  I now heard Mrs. Spencer’s voice. Her tone seemed particularly clear and ringing. “I hope you have a safe journey and a good stay in London. We shall miss you here, of course, but there is so much to do in London at this season. You shall be content.”

  As Wyndham looked up at her, his self-possession deserted him completely. His face contorted with hatred. If he had been a wittier man he might have said something cutting at this point, but all he could produce was, “The only thing that will make us content is not being with you!”

  Egremont’s tone of cordiality vanished. “Get in that carriage, you puppy. If you tarry longer I shall drive you to London myself. Godspeed and good day, sir. Be off! Come, my dear.”

  I heard the shuffle of the servants’ feet as the door was held open for Egremont and Mrs. Spencer. Wyndham and his party mounted the carriage amid much ado and shouting by the servants, although Wyndham himself was beet-faced and tight-lipped. I felt, I confess, almost sorry for the man, as I thought about his rage trying to break through his dullness.

  Later that afternoon I took my book outside and found the bench under the cluster of chestnut trees that overlooks the house and pond. Petworth House is not a beautiful building, although there are many, I suppose, who might confuse its massive grandeur with beauty. The house sits in the landscape as an emblem of power. Petworth House does not need to be beautiful—it is above that. Solidity and mass signal its potency and its dominion over those who dwell in its shadow. It is always to me something of a shock that such a heavy building should contain so much exalted art. But then the sheer mass of the artworks, the profusion of Claudes, Van Dycks, and Turners also speaks to the truth that the lords of Petworth are peers of the realm, no more like the rest of us than the sun is like a candle flame.

  I was engaged in these thoughts when I saw Mrs. Spencer emerge from the house and go into the park. It was late afternoon, that time when His Lordship usually betakes himself to his bedroom and Turner secretes himself in his studio to take advantage of the last good light of the
day. She seemed to be scanning the horizon. When I waved she saw me and headed up the hill.

  She was slightly out of breath when she reached me; her face flushed with laughter. “Is the mere sight of me so amusing?” I asked.

  “No. You are a delightful vision. I was thinking of Wyndham’s face as he bid his adieus. You did not see it, but he was purple with vexation. I pity him, to be sure, and I do not wish upon him the apoplexy that is his due, but I will confess that the sight of his impotent rage did me good.”

  As she sat down beside me I told her what I had seen and heard this morning. Had she, I asked, intended to provoke him?

  “It was, perhaps, wicked of me. I know that if I had kept silent we might have been spared his outburst. But I did not intend to provoke him, although, if I am honest with myself, I was not unwilling to give him an opportunity to embarrass himself. Which, to the delight of my evil heart, he did.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments, admiring the view. “So how,” she asked me, “has your work with Turner been progressing?”

  “I was just trying to determine which of the windows is his studio.”

  “It is there, on the left, on the second story—count three windows over from the side of the house. It is a most interesting room.”

  “Yes. Most interesting. The first time it was odd. I was, I suppose, uncomfortable and nervous. But we have settled down. Turner flatters my vanity by telling me that I make an excellent model.”

  “Yes. When I sat for Jessica, he was most flattering.”

  “Do you mean that yellow painting in the gallery?” I looked hard at Mrs. Spencer’s face. “I suppose,” I said, “that there is a resemblance, but it had never occurred to me before. You are, and I only state the fact, a much more attractive woman, although, perhaps, a few years older.”

  She turned away from me. “I saw the painting before it was completed. It looked a great deal more like me then. But Turner was very unhappy with it. He was in a vile humor for almost a month. He had Egremont’s people construct a window frame up there on a platform. I spent hours and hours leaning through it, staring at Turner as he stared at me. He is usually a most sweet man, but he quite forgot himself in his vexation. I heard language that would have made me blush had I not been acquainted with Mr. Spencer.

  “But then he took it up to London a few weeks before the Academy show last fall. It was quite altered. My face was transformed from a tolerable likeness to what you see now. The yellow had been there from the beginning but now it looked as if the pigment had been pressed into the canvas with anger. The lace had been added and the architecture around the edges, which had been plain, is what you see now. Almost the only thing that remained unchanged was the jewels. Egremont was most particular that he wanted those jewels in the portrait, and they, if you care about that sort of thing, are done to perfection. His Lordship was quite upset when he saw it. He had half a mind not to purchase it, and in private agreed with those who abused the painting in the press. But his respect for Turner—both as a man and as an artist—allowed him to overcome those scruples. Now that he has had the painting in the house for almost a year, I believe he regrets his purchase less and less.”

  The afternoon was winding down, and the sandstone surface of Petworth seemed of a richer hue than it had earlier. “His Lordship and Turner, you know, have been discussing a new painting. I am to go to the studio tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Now I understand why my services will not be required.”

  “His Lordship told me the painting was to be a classical composition.” She paused for a moment. “Jessica was not classical. So I was able to keep my dignity.”

  “When I first started to pose, Turner asked me to take my shirt off. I did so, but at length he exclaimed that my trousers were too much of the nineteenth century, so off they went.”

  She placed her hand on my leg and patted me as if I were a child or a new puppy. “I am so sorry. Were you ashamed?”

  I shrugged. “Yes. I feared mostly that my claims to being a gentleman were at risk. He would never have asked it of a true gentleman, the son of one of the neighboring landowners, or a young man of affairs in London. But I could be asked. I understand that. And yet, at the same time, I was flattered; it was a great sop to my vanity. I am afraid I am all too human.”

  She touched my leg again. Her smile was still radiant, but there was a tincture of sadness around her eyes. “We are all too human,” she said. “Even my Lord Egremont.” She waved her arm in a gesture that encompassed the grand house, the lake, the pleasure grounds, and large swaths of the Sussex countryside. “All of this is his. The rules and conventions by which other men are bound do not bind him. I can be his ‘special friend’ and the world must bow to me and treat me with respect. If, however, Dr. Phillips, a young and handsome widower down in the village there, were so much as suspected of keeping company with a woman of easy virtue, he would be a ruined man. But even Egremont’s ability to ride roughshod over convention has its limits. All the other guests have been sent away, as have many of the servants, except for the oldest and most trusted amongst them.”

  I looked at her blankly. “Don’t you see?” she said. “Egremont desires that you and I should be part of Mr. Turner’s classical composition. So I shall pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”

  “And will you do what he requests of you?” I asked.

  “I am past that. We must live, you and I. If you do not know that, I must teach you.” She rose from the bench. “Give me your arm and take me down to the house. I could do with a cup of tea, or perhaps something stronger. We shall do well enough in the end. Come.”

  . 27 .

  WHEN I WOKE my first instinct was to go look at the painting, but I realized I needed to be in this world when Eddy came. Just to make things worse, there was no hot water. There was an inch of water on the basement floor and a steady rain falling from the ceiling. The floor joists on the north side of the house were all pretty far gone, Eddy explained when he arrived, and one of them, under the piano, had given way. “See how it landed on that pipe there? That’s where your water is coming from. There’s no water coming to the heater, but you were going to have to replace that heater anyway. It’s all rusted out and it’s only a matter of time before it goes. But your water heater is the least of it. You never know with rot how much you got until you peel it back.”

  My father hadn’t put any money into the house in years, and the house was rotting away from the inside out. Eddy pointed his flashlight at thick beams that were so soft he could stick a pencil into them. When I asked him what was involved he said it was a big deal: basically raise the whole house up and replace the understructure. Lower it back down. Install French drains and new gutters so it wouldn’t happen again. He wasn’t prepared to give me an estimate yet, but thirty to fifty thousand wouldn’t surprise him.

  Susan called just after Eddy left, and I told her what he’d said. She sounded cold and angry, more interested in talking about how things were going in Cleveland. She didn’t seem to care one way or the other about our house. She asked me if I enjoyed being alone in a way that suggested I had better get used to it. Then she told me to drive safely; I told her to have a good flight.

  My whole life, I saw, was coming apart. Susan and I had been married for over twenty years. We had had our ups and downs, but for the most part we’d always been happy to come home to each other. I suddenly felt myself about to take a step, or be pushed out, into the void.

  I took refuge in the painting. For most of the morning I just looked at Helen; every moment seemed to reveal some new beauty. Soon I no longer saw her image. She was simply present to me, while the itchy bundle of anxieties that was me disappeared. From Helen it was a smooth transition to the heroes on the battlefield beyond. I could feel the carnage of the battle in my bones; the suffering of the soldiers seemed my own. I could also feel, however, the presence of the gods who walked among them. They were there, just beyond the limits of my per
ception. I couldn’t see them delineated in paint on canvas, but I knew that divine fingers guided the flight of each arrow and divine hands protected each hero’s breast. As the afternoon passed, the battle’s chaos and confusion resolved itself. Soldiers cried, horses reared, and the great war chariots rumbled across the plain, but eventually I could see as the father of the gods sees and the pattern of the action was revealed.

  I left the painting in the mountains again. If Susan found out about it she would surely do the sensible thing and run off with her share of thirty million dollars. And although I was tempted by the prospect of all that money, I could not imagine parting from it when it was in front of me. Only when I was away from it did the thought that I might be able to repair the life I was living stand a chance against the images in my mind. We could both retire, the kids would be set up for life, the repair bill would be trivial, and Mossbacher’s offer laughable.