The Center of the World (30 page)

“I had always known,” I said, “that the world was beautiful and we were blessed to be alive in it. But I had never quite felt what that meant until now.” I drank some more champagne. My hand, I saw, was shaking. “But,” I went on, turning to Mrs. Spencer, “has not Mr. Turner played us a cruel trick? Will this world suffice now that we have seen what we have? Can we live knowing what we now know?”

I must have seemed half mad to her, for she detached herself from her lord’s grip and came over to me. “You are overexcited,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “I felt that way myself when I first saw it. You will soon become yourself again. It is only a painting, although a very great one.” Her touch calmed me.

I asked for tea, the champagne having gone to my head in a way I found disagreeable. I sat down and looked across at Turner. It was impossible to reconcile the ugly little man in the greasy suit with the vision of Helen that he had created. He was in the midst of telling one of his vulgar stories about
his travels—this one involved a French countess and a chamber pot. As he reached the conclusion Mrs. Spencer and Lord Egremont joined him in his laughter.

Turner reared his head back and brayed like a donkey. He has only a few teeth left and of those that remain most are broken and all are dingy.

But gradually, as the conversation of my friends enveloped me, I came out of the dream into which I had been plunged and felt more and more like myself. I was even able to say a few sensible things about Turner’s masterwork, which pleased the artist and earned me grateful looks from both Egremont and Mrs. Spencer.

We had been thus together for about an hour when Lord Egremont said he wanted to go up to the studio and discuss some matters of business with Turner. When I recollect this moment, I seem to remember that Egremont nodded at Mrs. Spencer in what seemed a purposeful way, but whether or not that was the case, Mrs. Spencer proposed that I should accompany her on a walk about the grounds. “The weather,” she said, “has turned fine. We two have much to discuss. And the exercise will do us good. Come, let us go to the Rotunda.”

My heart sank at these words, for I knew somehow that they meant my days at Petworth would soon come to an end. But I said that nothing would please me more than to revisit that wonderful spot in her company, and gave her my arm.

We walked along in silence for a time, but gradually she managed to draw me out on the beauty of the scenery and other neutral topics. I was in a kind of daze, with the images from
the painting commingling in my mind with the beauty of my surroundings. I could not tell if what I had seen in the painting had made the world more beautiful or if this beautiful world had become nothing more than a pale reflection of what Turner had shown me. When Mrs. Spencer spoke, and I turned to look at her face, I saw Helen, the idea for which so many heroes had died, so many cities had been destroyed, so many empires sacked. It was a miracle that I could keep my feet steady.

On reaching the Rotunda we stood for a moment and admired the view. I felt tears forming in my eyes. When I turned to look at Mrs. Spencer, she was looking straight ahead and tears were running down her cheeks as well.

She turned to me. “His Lordship bade me tell you that it is time for you to leave us.” Her eyes met mine for a long moment, but then she burst into sobs and threw her arms around me. I too began to weep, and we held each other for I do not know how long, until the paroxysm passed and we sat down on one of the little carved benches and busied ourselves with our handkerchiefs.

When we were both somewhat collected, she turned to me and took my hands in hers. “Those,” she said, “were the hardest words I have ever spoken. You will understand I had no choice. But you must believe me when I say that I will be eternally grateful for your kindness and sympathy. I could not have survived this time without your company. It breaks my heart. But this is the way of the world, especially for the likes of us.”

I told her that I had known this moment would come, but that I had tried to delude myself into thinking it could be
avoided or postponed. I told her that her company had meant a great deal to me and that I would be forever in her debt. I told her that she was the most beautiful person I had ever known, and that her beauty had reached a painful pitch of perfection since I had seen her reflection in Turner’s painting.

“Egremont,” she said after a few moments, “is also exceedingly grateful to you. He recognizes that Turner’s great work could not have succeeded without you, and he too feels in your debt. This painting has delighted him beyond all measure, beyond all the other works in his collection.”

“As well it should,” I said, “for we have witnessed the creation of something extraordinary.”

“His Lordship,” she went on, “has come, like me, to delight in your company. You have brought both youth and sense to Petworth House, he says, and he thinks you are a young man of great promise. He wishes to support you as you make your way in the world. You will find, when we return to the house, a check for five hundred pounds, as well as a promise that every year at this time you will receive three hundred pounds as long as Lord Egremont lives. There is, of course, a condition. There always is for the likes of us. You must never, as you are a gentleman, speak to any living soul of Turner’s painting and the time that we have passed together.”

This offer made me feel like a common whore, making cheap what was most dear. Mrs. Spencer saw my thoughts in my face and redoubled the pressure on my hands.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said. “You must not, for my sake. Knowledge of this painting must never come out
in my lifetime, or I would be a ruined woman. I am no Helen, I know, but I can be recognized in that painting down to the very mole on my upper thigh.”

“But I need not be bribed,” I snapped back, “to protect the honor and reputation of a lady I admire. I am a gentleman, after all.”

“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “ ‘Lady’ and ‘gentleman’ are very precarious words. This is your great chance. If there are any sins, the greatest is to turn your back on good fortune. The world is too cruel.” She fixed her eyes on mine for a moment and her tone softened. “And besides,” she said, “you must do this for me and the sake of the pleasant hours we have passed in each other’s company. Although the money is Lord Egremont’s, you must think of it as a gift from me also. We must part, but in the years to come it will give me no small joy to think of you making your way in the world and knowing I had some small part in assisting you.”

I saw a depth of love in her eyes that I had not seen before, and felt I was in communion with a creature half divine. I raised her two hands to my lips and kissed them.

We walked back in silence; the time for speech had passed. When we arrived at the house I found that all my things had been packed except for my books and papers. Egremont’s carriage was waiting to take me to the coach.

I went up to the room which had been mine and gathered my few remaining possessions, taking one last look at the portrait of Lady Mary that had kept watch over me. I wanted to take a final look around the galleries, but I saw that my departure, like a well-conducted execution, was to be swift.

Mrs. Spencer came out, flushed but still radiant. “His Lordship,” she said, “is feeling indisposed, the events of this morning having been quite taxing. He sends you his compliments and his most profound thanks.” She handed me an envelope that was closed with Egremont’s seal. “I do not know when and if we shall see each other again. I hope, at the very least, to hear of you. I will not now repeat those words I spoke at the Rotunda, but know that I meant them from the bottom of my heart.”

“I fear,” I said, “that these days at Petworth, and my time with you and Turner, have made me into some creature ‘rich and strange.’ I doubt that I shall know myself when I return to the larger world.”

“Do not fear it. There is a goodness and a beauty in you that will prevail against all odds.”

I thanked her again for her kindness and asked after Turner. She said she was surprised that he hadn’t appeared, as he had been informed of my departure. She needed to go back to His Lordship, but she would send a servant to fetch him. Then, taking me by the hands again, she kissed me on the cheek and, quicker than thought, was gone.

The driver told me that we must be off in five minutes or we would certainly miss the coach to London. I waited as long as I could before climbing into the carriage. Just as the driver was about to set his whip to the horses, I heard a cry, and saw Turner running as fast as his short legs would carry him.

He was flushed and out of breath when he arrived at the carriage door. He thrust a small portfolio through the window.
“Sorry. Time and its fleet wings, you know. You are a good fellow and I am much obliged to you. I thought these might be of interest. With my compliments.”

I grasped his hand and told him that I admired him above all other artists and that I had been privileged to play a small part in the creation of his masterpiece. Turner brushed my compliments aside, but I could see that he was pleased. The driver, meanwhile, reminded us most urgently that I was about to miss my coach.

“Off with you, then! Time and tide, you know, and the London coach waits for no man. Godspeed!”

The carriage rattled off. As we drove down the drive I turned and saw Turner waving his handkerchief. He was but a small figure dwarfed by the imposing bulk of Petworth House.

We reached the inn with only a few minutes to spare. I took my seat on the coach and soon I was on my way. I had hardly thought what was to become of me, David. My departure had been so sudden that I had time neither to despair nor to plan. I knew I wished to return to your arms, but I felt, and the sequel proved me right, that it would be hard for our friendship to be what it had been. I was hardly civil to the two other passengers, as I thought of the small set of rooms that awaited me. An uncertain world, I reflected, was before me, and Paradise behind, never to be regained.

At length I opened the envelope that Mrs. Spencer had handed me. True to her promise there was a check for five hundred pounds. Also a note:

I sat back in my seat and watched the countryside go by through my tears. I do not know if my fellow passengers noticed, but I was beyond caring. When my eyes were dry I opened the portfolio Turner had handed me. There were three sketches inside, carefully separated by soft white paper, as well as a note hastily scribbled on the back of the artist’s card:

The first sketch was the portrait of me that he had done that rainy morning in the Carved Room. There was a kind of agony in my expression that seemed more appropriate to the way I felt now than to how I had felt when the likeness was taken. It was as if Turner had seen what I was to become after the events at Petworth. The second was a pencil sketch that showed me as a handsome young man. I had an air of easy confidence that I had never seen when I looked into the mirror. There was a small inscription in the upper left corner of the drawing: “To
Mrs. Grant. Compliments of the artist, J.M.W.T.” I felt a pang of guilt when I saw that Turner had been considerate where I had not. I had only written to my poor mother once or twice during the whole time I was at Petworth and had received half a dozen letters in return. I resolved at once to go visit her after I had got myself settled in London.

The last sheet was a portrait of Mrs. Spencer. She was seated on the red velvet settee I knew so well from the studio, wearing a loose dressing gown, negligently fastened to reveal the Egremont family jewels adorning her bosom. It was a good likeness of her, unlike
Jessica
; anyone who saw it would have immediately recognized Lord Egremont’s mistress. Yet there was something, mostly in her eyes and perhaps her lips, that hinted at Helen’s glory. I was quite confident that Turner had given me one of those preliminary sketches that had occupied so much of his time and effort in the early days of his work. The image before me was poised between the memory of the woman I admired and the Helen that I had seen so briefly earlier that day. For me, and for me alone, this sketch would be both a remembrance of the happy days at Petworth and a hint of that secret and forbidden glory that is
The Center of the World
.

 
IT WAS MUCH MORE
beautiful, much more wondrous than I had remembered. It was as if I had never seen it before. No one alive had ever seen anything like it, I reminded myself. There was no me, no marriage, no wife in New York fucking some guy who looked no better than I did. Sometimes my eyes would leave the plane of the painting to focus on something in the barn or something that I could see through the barn window. I would become aware of an old chair that needed a bottom or the crosshatch of branches against the sky. As I focused on these things, I came back into being. I had a plan to bring the painting with me to New Jersey; I thought of Susan taking a shower in Julie’s apartment as she waited for her lover. As I turned back to the world inside the frame, a sentence containing the word “I” would half form in my mind: “Those sandals by the foot of her couch are encrusted in jewels beyond price. I wonder how she walked in them?” But then the sentence
disappeared and I disappeared and there were only the sandals and the jewels and the light which created them.