The Center of the World

by Thomas van Essen

  He was as good as his word. I saw him only once in the week following, when I was sitting in the Carved Room with my book. Hearing footsteps on the Portico, I looked up and saw Turner, dressed against the rain in an oilskin coat such as a sailor might wear. He marched off into the wind, gesticulating to some internal interlocutor.

  Mrs. Spencer and I were much together during this time. If the weather was fine we walked, but most often we sat together and read or engaged in desultory conversation. I began work on that article which was eventually published in The Westminster Review and which you were so kind as to say you admired. Sometimes Egremont joined us, although mostly he busied himself about matters of the estate. Time seemed suspended between the days that had been and the days that were to be.

  It was about ten days after Turner had last joined us for dinner, the evening of October 23, 1830, when a servant entered and handed a note to Lord Egremont as the three of us were at our evening meal. He read it and handed it to Mrs. Spencer, who read it in turn and then handed it to me.

  My lord,

  I have completed my labours. I beg Your Lordship’s attendance tomorrow morning, when the light is best. I shall send word when I am ready. I have done all that I can do.

  Believe me,

  My dear Lord Egremont,

  J.M.W.T.

  We all looked at each other. “We shall see,” said Egremont, “what all this huffing and puffing is about. He goes too far, I think. But the morning shall tell the story.”

  I hardly slept that night. I felt like a child on the eve of some great holiday, or a soldier on the eve of some great battle. When I arrived in the breakfast room, Mrs. Spencer was already there. She confessed that she too had passed a sleepless night. A few minutes later Egremont arrived. He called in Mr. Gregs and made a great show of going over accounts as he drank his coffee, but he too seemed distracted and on edge. Mrs. Spencer whispered to me that His Lordship had also tossed and turned all night.

  The coffee was cold, and poor Mr. Gregs had hardly ever seen his master so contrary by the time John, one of Egremont’s most trusted old servants, arrived. We had been waiting for about an hour by then. He stood before Egremont with his hands folded deferentially in front of him. He spoke awkwardly and formally, as if Turner had asked him to memorize his little speech.

  “My lord,” he said, “Mr. Turner most humbly requests the honor of your presence upstairs in the studio.”

  Egremont forgot his dignity to the extent that he was up and out of his chair before old John had quite finished. When he left the room Mrs. Spencer reached over and grabbed my hand, looking decidedly ashen. “I feel that I will be undone. But there is nothing for it but patience. The die was cast long ago.”

  We had only been alone together for about ten minutes when old John returned, moving as fast as I had ever seen him. “Madam,” he said, “His Lordship bids you come upstairs at once. At once,” he repeated. “I have been in his service these sixty years and never heard him so agitated. Please, madam, hurry.”

  Mrs. Spencer turned pale. She rose quickly and rushed off, only turning at the door to give me a pitiful look. I felt sorry for her.

  Alone except for a servant who had come to clear away the breakfast things, I felt superfluous. I began to feel, David, that my time at Petworth must soon come to an end and that my dream of Paradise was over. I had taken part in the production of something momentous, but I was not a central character in the play; I was not even one of those peasants who tells the hero which way the army went. If I was anything I was a prop or a bit of decoration, perhaps an empty chalice sitting on a sideboard.

  As I was engaged in these gloomy reflections, standing by the window overlooking the park, I saw Turner walking down toward the pond. He had his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his hat pushed back on his head. There was a spring to his step that I had never seen before. He appeared to be whistling.

  I asked for more tea and took up my book. I think I sat for about an hour; I read perhaps four pages, although, when the hour was up and old John came in again, I had no idea what I had read.

  He stood before me in the same formal pose he had taken when he spoke to Egremont earlier. “Mr. Grant,” he repeated, “Mr. Turner most humbly requests the honor of your presence upstairs in the studio.” He bowed and indicated that I should follow him. I did as he requested, feeling more than a little foolish, as if I was a child enacting some pantomime. When we reached the door of the studio, John bowed again and with the same gesture pointed to the door. “Mr. Turner, sir, bids you enter.” As soon as he spoke these words he turned on his heel and left. It was an absurd performance. I would have laughed except that I was almost overcome with anticipation and dread.

  I opened the door to the studio. Turner had set up a black curtain on the small platform where I had posed for him. All his painting materials had been put away and the room seemed curiously bare and imposing. The late morning air came in through the open windows, but the breeze could make little headway against the smell of paint and spirits that was Turner’s stock-in-trade. An ornate cord, such as you might find on a bell pull or a tapestry hanging, was attached to the front of the curtain.

  Turner, who had been standing behind the screen where I had changed out of my clothes when I was posing for him, stepped forward. He must have used the back entrance when he returned from his walk. He bowed to me gravely, but there was a sparkle in his eye. He pointed toward the cord. “With my compliments, sir,” he said. “But first allow me to take my leave.”

  The curtain fell to the floor. The painting was sitting on Turner’s easel, adorned with a simple gilt frame. There was a second black curtain behind it. The light flowed in from the windows behind my back, but my face was suddenly warm from the light that poured forth from the painting and illuminated my soul. I felt an understanding in my body like that I felt when you first took me to your chamber and introduced me to the mysteries of love. It was the purest moment I had ever known. I saw not only Helen in all her glory, but into the heart of the life the gods have given us. The vast chasm between Homer’s world and Homer’s truth and our world and our truth evaporated in an instant. Everything seemed clear and beautiful and holy.

  When you took me to your chamber you gave me the greatest gift I had ever received, but I remember well my doubts, my sense of sin, my sense that no matter what we did, you were you, dear David, and I was mere sinful Charles Grant. What we had that night was as deep a pleasure as our fallen world allows, but when I looked at Turner’s painting my sense of sin, my sense of self, disappeared. I was left with nothing but light and beauty.

  I could not so much see the beautiful gods as feel their presence. They lived in the light. I knew their invisible hands directed the golden ships that I could see on the far horizon. It was their hands that directed the flight of the spears which the heroes hurled at each other on the plain beneath the many-towered city. I cannot do justice to the clarity of the vision. It was less that I could see what I have just attempted to describe than that I knew it was true.

  In the foreground I saw Helen in her chamber, in a high tower overlooking the battlefield. She is the source of all light, but I cannot describe the trick of paint that made it so. The world of gods and heroes rages outside on the plain, but for that Helen has no regard. She is light. She is sublimely indifferent to the pain and suffering of the entangled armies. Her eyes are only for her lover Paris, who approaches. Her eyes, which I could only see reflected in the mirror, met mine as I viewed the painting. I saw myself in the figure of Paris who approaches her as she lies ready on her couch. It was my flesh as Turner had painted it that approached the divine beauty and they were my eyes that met her gaze. I saw that I had been perfected, but I knew that I was lost.

  . 41 .

  THE YOUNG COUPLE had disappeared, to continue their quarrel elsewhere. We had the room of unfinished Turners to ourselves. At first we just wandered from painting to painting. We paused a moment before each one, and th
en, as if by some sympathetic magic, moved on together to the next one. For the longest time we didn’t say anything. The beauty of the colors was made more pure by the beauty of the woman who was standing next to me, moving when I moved. The sound of her breathing and the smell of her perfume got all mixed up in what I saw on the canvas. It was like a diluted version of looking at The Center of the World.

  After we had made a relatively quick circuit of the room we started talking about the paintings. We had to lean close together to make out each other’s words. Her hair, I thought, smelled like light.

  “I don’t think these are unfinished,” I said. “They just are what they are. Turner was interested in the play of light and color. He used these canvases to work out his ideas about those interplays. When he had taken the idea to its logical conclusion or to some place where it just couldn’t go any further, he was done. He must have resented the fact that his audience wanted him to put in all those castles and mountains. He had to represent stuff that his audience would recognize as an appropriate subject for art because he had to make a living.”

  I went on and on, half amazed that I was making as much sense as I was. I don’t remember half the things I said, but I remember the way she looked at me, as if what I said mattered. She told me she didn’t know much about art, but everything she said seemed really smart.

  At last the spell was broken when a museum guard announced that it was closing time. I looked at my watch.

  “I had no idea it was so late,” I said.

  “Neither did I. I have to get back to my hotel and put together my slides for tomorrow’s meeting.”

  We stood together for a few moments on the steps in front of the Tate, watching the low sun break through the clouds. One of the river ferries was pulling off into the Thames.

  “It is almost a Turner sunset,” she said.

  “Which way is your hotel?” She was staying at the InterContinental near Hyde Park Corner, she said, but she was going to walk even though it was a bit of a hike. “It’s my last day in London and I thought I might as well see some of the street life.”

  I told her that my hotel was in that general direction, although it wasn’t true. When I asked if she would mind if I kept her company, she smiled at me and said she would be delighted.

  As we walked up Vauxhall Bridge Road we continued talking about Turner. We wondered what he would make of this modern city: the cars, the smog, the jets inscribing white contrails against the sky. At some point the conversation changed gears.

  “At first I felt like some character in a bad TV show,” she said. “I’d be sitting in the apartment waiting for him to come home. Then he’d call to say he had to stay late at work. Don’t wait up for me. When he finally got in I thought I could smell some other woman’s perfume on him. It was driving me crazy. In the morning I’d ask him if he’d been with someone else and he’d get angry. He kept saying that if I didn’t trust him I should leave. And so I didn’t leave, and I felt guilty for suspecting him. But then he goofed up on his email, and I got a note that he meant to send to her. All sorts of porn star details; it was gross. He couldn’t deny it; he moved out. We still talk, but it never goes anywhere.”

  “He’s a jerk and a fool. You need to make a clean break of it. I don’t know much, but I know he doesn’t deserve you.”

  “I’m such an idiot about this stuff.”

  “It’s difficult,” I replied. “I think my wife is sleeping with someone else, too. I’m not sure, but I think so. But I don’t want to leave either.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?” she asked.

  I was so glad I had bought some. I took out my pack and shook one out for her. I held the match for her and then lit my own. It was like in the movies.

  We walked along in silence for half a block. Perhaps I had lost enough weight to make a difference. I almost forgot that I was nearly old enough to be her father. We were both, I thought, bathed in light, and that made all the difference.

  She stopped suddenly and grasped my hand. Her touch was soft and cool, but strong and determined.

  “I like talking to you, but if we are going to talk, we have to talk about something else. Please.”

  I nodded. Of course she was right. I was about to make an ass of myself and she knew it.

  “So,” she said, “wouldn’t it be wonderful to own one of those Turners? Just have one in your living room so that you could look at it all day?”

  I think I paused for a moment, as a flash of alarm and suspicion crossed my brain, but then I looked at her and was overwhelmed by her smile. “It would be too much for me,” I said. “I think I would disappear.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. She stopped walking and looked up at me.

  “I’m too small,” I said. “My life and my heart are not large enough. If one of those canvases could fit into my living room it would take over everything.”

  “But they are just pictures,” she protested.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve been in London for almost a week. Most days I’ve gone to the Tate or the National Gallery. I’ve spent I don’t know how many hours standing in front of those Turners. I can’t explain it. I feel overwhelmed by the beauty and the light, by the divinity on the canvas. I would disappear.” I was, of course, talking about The Center of the World, not the Turners I had just seen. Looking back, I see that this was the first hint of the true nature of the risk that the painting posed for me.

  “You are an odd person,” she said.

  “If you knew me in New Jersey, you’d think there was nothing odd about me at all. A typical middle-aged guy, who works at a decent white-collar job. Two Volvos—one wagon, one sedan—with a combined two hundred and fifty thousand miles on them. But there’s something about being here in London, cast off from my moorings, that makes me think about stuff I usually don’t.” I paused and looked at her. Her face was a gift. “I’m sorry. You wanted to talk about Turner and look what I’ve done.”

  Her laugh made me smile. “I guess,” I said, “it would be nice to have one of those watercolors. I think I could handle that.”

  We managed to chat contentedly as we walked along, avoiding any deep waters. She told me about her work and her colleagues; I did the same.

  “Here we are,” she said. “That was a nice walk. I needed to get some air and stretch my legs. But I’m sorry to have bored you with my pathetic troubles. You’re a good listener. Can I buy you a drink in the swanky hotel bar by way of thanks?”

  I looked into her eyes and saw a promise of some happiness that was more profound than any I had thought to know in this world. Her eyes were Helen’s, and the skin under her shirt would be as soft and fragrant as a goddess’s. I stood there like an idiot for I don’t know how long.

  “I don’t think so,” I said at length. “I have to pack and get organized before my flight tomorrow.”

  She took my hand. “You’re probably right. You may be an even better guy than I thought.” She stood up on her toes and planted a kiss on my cheek before I knew what was happening.

  “Good-bye.” I watched her disappear into the hotel.

  I put my hand on the place where her lips had touched me. I could still feel the warm pressure and the hint of moisture, and wondered if there was a trace of her lipstick on my face. Who would ever have known? How could I have been so faithless as to turn away from Helen’s gift? Had she taught me nothing?

  . 42 .

  I CANNOT SAY HOW much time passed with only the four of us in the deserted house. But I do recall the day that Turner told us at dinner that he had no further use for me. It was time, he said, for him to shoulder the work alone. I felt, I confess, some pang of disappointment. I could not tell if it was because I had come to love my shame or if I felt regret that my small part in the great work was now come to an end.

  Turner was never a man who paid much regard to appearances, but now he seemed no longer part of our world at all. His conversation, always rough and
eccentric, descended to the level of grunts and nods. When we saw him it was at dusk, just as the light was failing. He would leave the house quietly and walk through the park for a while, seeming more like a ghost than a man.

  Grant, Egremont, and I ate by ourselves. Do what I could, none of us had much to say. Grant, bless him, would speak of what he had been reading. I would try some observation about the state of the park and ask Egremont about the progress of his improvements. In the past this was a topic that had always excited his interest, but now he was impatient and short-tempered. Our meals were over quickly. Some evenings he asked me to read to him, some to play the harpsichord, but neither words nor music had the power to keep his attention for long. He had me come up to the bedroom, and we would both toss and turn into the early hours. Sometimes I would wrap myself in my gown and walk the halls of the great house like the spirit of one of Egremont’s ancestors. Sometimes I would find Grant in the library and interrupt his studies. One night when it was warm I stepped out onto the Portico and looked up. I could see the light in Turner’s studio and his shadow on the window as he paced back and forth.

  I remember the date—it was October 23, 1830—and that Egremont, Grant, and I had just sat down to our dinner when old John came in and handed His Lordship a note from Turner. He would be most appreciative if we would gather in the breakfast room in the morning at about eight o’clock, when the light was best, so that he could call us up one by one to see what had been accomplished.

  The three of us looked at each other. My chest grew tight for a moment as I thought of how my two companions would see me in the morning. Grant and I exchanged a glance, and I knew that similar thoughts were going through his mind.

  “We shall see at last,” Egremont said, “what all this fuss is about. Turner has genius, to be sure, but these last days he has carried it with too high a hand. But perhaps the end will justify all. We shall see.”