The Center of the World

by Thomas van Essen

  “And things have been different since then,” she said. I was surprised that she associated any change with that time, but moved on.

  “Something happened to me up there which didn’t feel like an accident,” I said, “and my life has been transformed.” I told her about finding The Center of the World in the barn and how I guessed that it had been hidden there since before my father bought the place, back when the house was part of the Rhinebeck property.

  “It has shown me the heart of things; I have seen why the blood flows in our veins and why we have children. And I have wanted,” I said, “to keep it all to myself, but now I understand that this greed, this lust, is killing me and driving us apart.”

  Susan looked at me very earnestly.

  “And even if we don’t keep it, we could sell it for twenty million dollars, thirty million dollars, more money than we could ever count or spend. It could change everything for us. I would never need to even think about Mossbacher. But what I am trying to say,” I went on, “is that I saw hope. I found hope. I don’t always see it, but I’ve caught a glimpse of it, and I believe there is at least a reason for it to exist. I will die. You will die. Our children will die. But perhaps there is a reason not to give up. That is what my Turner tells me. There is beauty in the world and there is beauty in the space between men and women. We have seen it, you and I. We have seen it when we were younger and there is no reason that we cannot see it again.”

  I had grown more and more excited as I spoke, becoming animated at the thought of the two of us dwelling together in that light. She, meanwhile, seemed to grow more and more alarmed.

  “Look,” I said. “I know I sound crazy. Words are not enough. I want to give you this gift. I love you. We can talk about it later. We can talk about if we want to keep it or sell it. I want you to go upstairs to our bedroom. I am going to wait down here. You will see the painting on the bureau. Call me when you want me to come upstairs.”

  She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

  “No, really,” I said. “Trust me. I want you to go upstairs. You can tell me I’m nuts later.”

  . 51 .

  WHEN SHE RETURNED to New York after seeing Henry at the Tate, Gina put him out of her mind and concentrated on Rhinebeck and his affairs. Bryce forgave her indiscretion with Henry; he called her into the upstairs library almost every evening to think about what they ought to do next. It became a matter of faith for both of them that Rhinebeck had owned the Turner, as they had come to think of it, and that it had been among those paintings dispersed after his death. Did it stay within the Rhinebeck family or had it been acquired, somehow, by Maria Overstreet’s employer in the days immediately following the car crash that claimed the lives of Rhinebeck, his wife, and Overstreet herself?

  Maria Overstreet had worked for Oswald Lambert, a gallery owner who operated on the edges of legality. It seemed reasonable to associate a painting as scandalous as the Turner with a character like Lambert, who was eventually forced to close up shop and move to Paris when stories about his financial and moral laxity became too widely known in New York.

  But it was also possible that Rhinebeck’s brother Rupert had kept it for himself, or that he had sold it quietly while he was selling off his brother’s assets to establish a trust for the benefit of the two Rhinebeck boys, who both died young and without issue.

  The trail forked, thus, at Rhinebeck’s summer place in Saranac Lake. In early November Bryce suggested that Gina drive to upstate New York to consult the real estate records associated with the property in order to identify families into whose hands the painting might have fallen.

  Before she made her trip she consulted histories of the Adirondack Great Camps and found out that in 1908 Rhinebeck had purchased a twenty-acre lakeside lot and begun the construction of Birch Lodge, famous in its day as one of the most expensive construction projects ever undertaken in the Adirondacks and as a haven for Rhinebeck and a select group of his most intimate male associates. The property consisted of the main building and a series of more or less elaborate outbuildings: guest cottages, boathouses, dormitories for staff, stables, and a house for the caretaker. After Rhinebeck’s death the place was all but abandoned. In the end Birch Lodge was sold to a family from Cleveland, who held on to it for a decade before they broke it up into a number of smaller parcels.

  Gina told the town clerk in Saranac Lake that she was doing research on Cornelius Rhinebeck for a book on New York financiers. He offered her a cup of bad coffee and a seat at a metal desk. Systematically she worked her way through the old ledgers.

  She followed the trail as the property made its tortuous way through the legal limbo that followed the death of Rhinebeck’s children. She noted the name of the family from Cleveland, then the names of the families that had purchased pieces of the parcel. She was about to close the ledger when she saw, at the bottom of the page, a familiar name. The property that had been the housekeeper’s cottage was sold in 1952 to David and Irene Leiden. She turned the page. In 1970 it passed into the hands of their son, Henry.

  She recalled what he had said when she had asked if he would like to own a Turner. “It would be too much for me,” he had said, “I think I would disappear.” At the time she had taken his comment as an eccentric expression of admiration, but now it struck her that he was speaking from experience. He had seen it.

  His clumsy approach to the professor in Princeton, his interest in Turner, the photos of him and his wife sitting on a dock beside some blue water: it all made sense. The detective had mentioned a summer place in upstate New York, but if George had provided the name of the town, she couldn’t remember. She felt like an idiot, but she kept calm and continued writing dates down carefully for fifteen minutes, so that the clerk would never suspect that the attractive young woman in front of him had just made an extraordinary discovery.

  She drove down the Northway and then the Thruway in a kind of delirium. It wasn’t until later, until after it was all over, that she was able to see how illogically she had behaved. The obvious thing, of course, would have been to drive the few miles to the lake house and take a look around there.

  She turned her phone off and drove straight to New Jersey. She knew that she should inform Bryce of what she had discovered, but she needed to do this for herself and to present this thing to Bryce as the product of her own pluck and initiative. She checked into a hotel on Route 1 just outside of Princeton. The next morning she waited until she thought they would both be at work before she went to Leiden’s house.

  When Gina broke the glass of the back door to let herself in, the sound was as loud as anything she had ever heard. She stood for a moment waiting for sirens and policemen. She went in.

  It was propped up on the bureau in the upstairs bedroom. The felt and visible world disappeared. Everything became gray and irrelevant, except for the painting in front of her.

  She collapsed onto the foot of the bed. She had never before seen light like that; she had never before seen light itself for what it is. There was the ocean out beyond the battlefield; she now knew the life that teemed within it, as well as the death that threatened every day. In one glance she seemed to comprehend everything that Homer knew about the sea.

  The face reflected in the mirror was Helen’s. She saw all the great queens and goddesses in whom men had ever believed. She saw Nefertiti and Venus. She saw the force against which all men were powerless. She saw herself as she wanted to be. These realizations broke over her like waves upon the shore during a storm. Beauty is power as well as truth. Helen was the force that set the heroes at each other’s throats. She was the force that propelled the sap through the trees. She was the idea behind all action, but prior to all thought.

  She sat in the Leidens’ bedroom for twenty minutes, but it could have been an hour, a day, a lifetime. The room slowly began to impinge on her consciousness. She became aware that Helen would not sit there goggle-eyed while the prize of a lifetime lay before her. She took the painting do
wn from the bureau and placed it on the bed. She wrapped it carefully in the bedspread and carried the clumsy bundle down the stairs.

  The detective grasped her by the arm so firmly that the pain forced the air from her lungs. “You are very pretty,” George said, “but you’ve been bad, dear, very bad. But Mr. Bryce said it was to be expected. Things will work out if you come along and behave. I’ll take the dingus, if you don’t mind. Just come along to the car here.”

  She burst into tears.

  . 52 .

  THERE WAS ONLY a small party seated at the dinner table: Wyndham and his family; Mr. Gedding, the member from Pulborough; and Mr. Bainbridge, who had ridden over to talk about a scheme to build a canal. We had just finished our soup when Egremont suddenly looked about him with a puzzled air. He half stood up and then sat down abruptly. We all looked at him.

  “I am not well,” he said. “I wish to go to my room.” He turned to me. “Come up with me. And you,” he turned to his son, “be ready to follow. I will send for you.” I could see that Egremont was making a great effort to speak clearly, but even so there was something altered about his voice. He motioned for me and I helped him from his chair. “And my friends,” he said. “Thank you for your company and your conversation. All of it. It has been most edifying. Good night.”

  I called to some of the servants to help us, but even so it was only with great difficulty that we made our way up the stairs. After we had settled him in his bed, I said that I would call for the doctor.

  “No. I have no need of a doctor. I am past all that. As we walked up the stair my right foot was like a stone. Summon my son—I wish to speak to him. Call in the oldest servants—I wish to say farewell.”

  I did as he bade me. When Wyndham entered, Egremont asked me to step outside. I stood in the corridor for about ten minutes, feeling as if my fate were being decided. When the door opened Wyndham motioned me to enter. He looked pale and very angry.

  Egremont spoke with even greater difficulty. His voice was becoming slurred. “I have asked my son to treat you with respect. I hope he will do so. I have asked him, too, not to trouble himself about the sickroom. I wish to spend my final hours with you.”

  My eyes welled with tears as I felt the feeble pressure of his hand. Wyndham stood stock still. “May Jesus Christ have mercy on your soul, Father,” he said. He bowed and left the room.

  Four or five of the servants came in. Egremont thanked them for their many years of service and bade them adieu. He told them that they had all been remembered in his will.

  After they had gone he motioned for me to open the cabinet. I sat down beside him and asked if there was anything further I could do. His words were now very difficult to make out, although he did not seem to be suffering in any way. “No,” he said, “I am past all help. It has been good. I wish to die here with you and with these wonders before me. Everything is here.” I held a glass of water to his lips; he took a small swallow.

  “They call me,” he said. I looked at the painting. I could see the invisible gods hovering above the battlefield. I looked at Egremont. There was an expression of great peace on his still face. He tried to speak again, but I could not make out his words. I felt a gentle pressure from his hand. He shook his head and smiled. He looked at the painting, his eyes bright.

  We sat thus for about two hours. He could no longer swallow. I occasionally moistened his thin lips with a cloth. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but that was the only sign of discomfort I saw. At length he seemed to sleep. I held his hand and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest.

  As the night progressed his breathing grew more and more shallow. I remained by his side, holding his hand, although I suppose I may have dozed for a brief while. When the morning light filled the room I blew out the candles and turned off the lanterns. I watched as new beauties came into focus in the dawn’s light. Suddenly Egremont gave a start. He raised his head slightly, his eyes opening. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. An expression of wonder came across his face as the light from the painting illuminated the room. His head fell back into the pillow. The great lord of Petworth was no more.

  . 53 .

  SUSAN CAME DOWN the stairs. “What on earth have you been talking about?”

  It was as I had feared. She couldn’t see what I had seen; either I had been deluding myself or there was something in her nature that made her incapable of perceiving the truth.

  “The Center of the World,” I said, “the painting on the bureau. Couldn’t you see at least a hint of what I am talking about?”

  “What painting? There is no painting. Are you okay?”

  In her utter disbelief, I saw a horror that it had not occurred to me to consider. I rushed up the stairs and saw the void. I checked under the bed, in the closet, behind the door.

  How could the gods do this to me? How could they toy with me in this terrible way? That is what they always do—give us a glimpse of meaning where none exists. It would have been better, I thought, if I had remained ignorant. I felt frantic with rage and bafflement. My breath came with difficulty and tears streamed from my eyes.

  Susan stood in the doorway. I was standing at the foot of the bed. I stared at the place where the painting had been, gasping for breath. My hands hung at my sides, but every few seconds I lifted them up as if I wanted to grasp something that was no longer there.

  . 54 .

  IT HAS BEEN seven years since I was last at Petworth, seven years since that fevered autumn of 1830. As you know, David, my life has been one of modest success and ordinary heartbreak. My duties at The Westminster Review have not brought me fame, but they have earned me the respect of a small circle of influential men and women. Most men would, I suppose, consider me fortunate, but since that evening in Cambridge when you said you would see me no more, I have felt like a stranger in this world. My mother is gone, Mrs. Spencer is forbidden me, and you have rejected me. My past life seems a kind of remembered glory, even though to the eyes of most men, it is only in these last few years that I have begun to realize my promise. But everything seems empty, a pale shadow of that truth I remember glimpsing in Helen’s eyes. Where are those golden ships that would carry me off to distant lands? Where are the beautiful gods that order the flights of arrows over the plain?

  When news of Lord Egremont’s death reached London, I decided that I would attend his funeral. I owed him much; it was his generous support that had allowed me to make my way in the world as far as I had. I wished to pay my respects to his memory. And besides, I thought the funeral would give me a chance to see Mrs. Spencer without violating the terms of the promise that I had made. I had had Turner’s portrait of her framed and hung in my bedroom, but I longed to see her in the flesh once more. Time, I thought, might have softened her resolve and perhaps we might be friends again.

  The morning of Egremont’s funeral broke cold and gray. By midmorning a steady soaking rain was pouring down on Petworth. I had resolved to write a short piece for the Review on the event. It seemed to me that the hundreds of mourners gathered at the small cemetery in Petworth village had come to mourn not only one of the great men of his age, but also the end of the age itself. England would never again see an English life lived on such a scale, nor an individual who patronized the arts and useful sciences on such a scale. The English Maecenas was dead; he would return no more.

  I found Turner at the center of a group of painters and sculptors. Over the years I had seen him only occasionally in London, and I felt he was happy enough for our meetings to be infrequent. He seemed, however, very glad to see me on this sad day. He grasped my arm and looked at me most earnestly.

  “Ah, young Grant. Although not as young as you once were, either. Those were great days that we lived through, great! Come stay by me.” The years had not been kind to Turner. He was much thinner than when I had last seen him, and he seemed worn down. When I inquired after his health he claimed that it had been tolerable until a few days ago, when he had come down with a bad c
old. “Damn rain,” he said. “When I was younger I never minded it, but now it soaks through to my old bones.” I held my umbrella over the aged artist and did what I could to protect him from the storm.

  Wyndham and his wife stood under the shelter of the church porch as the crowd of mourners made its slow way toward them. I looked up at one point and saw that the long line of black umbrellas stretched perhaps a hundred yards between us and the old stone church and perhaps half a mile behind. I was in the midst of a number of painters and sculptors who had benefited from Lord Egremont’s patronage. Jones, whom I had met in the early days of my stay at Petworth, stood next to us. He remembered me and said a few kind words. The artists present sincerely lamented the loss of their great patron; the conversation I heard around me was full of stories of his generosity and good taste. Turner stayed aloof from the general talk. “These fellows,” he said, “are mourning a patron. Only I knew him as a friend. The great have few friends by nature of their position. But I was one.” He said that he was composing a poem in Lord Egremont’s honor. “But in my mind, you know, while all these fellows are talking.”

  The rain poured down, the line moved slowly forward. Just before we reached the church, Turner asked me if I had any paper about me. All I had, I told him, were some proofs for my latest review, which I had been going over in the coach. That would do, he said, so I handed them to him and he began scribbling in the margins, though it wasn’t easy, owing to the dampness of the paper and the way the wind was blowing the rain about. He mumbled to himself as we shuffled along.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Turner. You will soon be free from this obligation and able to resume your studies.” Turner looked up with a start. He was standing on the church porch, facing Wyndham, who had an oily smile smeared across his face. Jones had interposed himself between me and Turner, so I too was surprised to find myself so near the head of the line.