The Center of the World (34 page)

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.

 
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.

 
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 cold. “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.

Turner stuffed the offending piece of paper into his coat pocket. “Most sorry, sir. Attempting an ode. A poem, you know, on your father. ‘Talent, genius, exceeding rare, / mold in the earth in the funeral bier.’ Those were the lines. Trying to jot them down before I forgot.” Turner tapped his forehead with this finger. “I’m getting old, you know. Tend to forget things now. But your father was a great man. I loved him dearly. My heart is quite broken at our loss. There will never come amongst us one like him again. I offer you my most heartfelt condolences.”

Wyndham looked at Turner coolly and regarded the artist’s outstretched hand as if it was something distasteful. After an unconscionable delay he touched it briefly, returning none of Turner’s sincere pressure. “Most obliged,” he said.

“And there is one matter I would like to discuss with you. A painting of mine. A portrait of Helen. Done especially for your father. Would very much like to see it again. Perhaps even buy it back.”

Wyndham’s face quickly took on a look of undisguised contempt. “I had expected the vultures to descend, but not so quickly, sir. Not so quickly. As for that painting, I know the work to which you refer. It is a memorial of my father at his worst, hardly a fit topic of conversation for a solemn occasion like the present. Or for any occasion. But I can assure you of one thing, sir: it shall be destroyed. Good day. There are many worthy people who wish to pay their respects. It will not do to keep them waiting in the rain.”

Wyndham turned from the greatest artist of the age and directed his attention to Jones. Turner stumbled away, too staggered to speak. Wyndham was exceedingly gracious to Jones. I believe he prolonged the conversation more than was strictly necessary, so as to underscore how abrupt he had been with Turner.

When my turn came I did my best not to allow the way in which he had treated Turner to affect my demeanor. I offered my sincerest condolences and told him how much I admired and was grateful to his father. Then I asked after Mrs. Spencer.

Wyndham started and looked at me more closely. “Mrs. Spencer,” he said, “is not here. Her whereabouts are a matter of indifference to me. I recognize you now. You were of that party that took advantage of my father in his dotage. I further recall that my father, sir, once felt compelled to apologize for referring to you as a sodomite. If I had been in his position I should not have felt myself under any such obligation.”

I also felt staggered, but something arose in me that quite surprised me. I thought of Egremont and those days I had
passed at Petworth with Mrs. Spencer. I thought of those evenings the four of us had talked in the Carved Room, those walks with Mrs. Spencer to the Rotunda, the kindness Egremont had showered upon a young man with few prospects.

“You, sir,” I said, “are not worthy of your great father.”

I moved quickly off the porch to Turner’s side, but not before I had the satisfaction of seeing the sanctimonious little man turn crimson with rage. Turner was so shaken he could hardly speak. He took my arm when I reached him and asked me very earnestly to accompany him back to London. He had hired a private coach for the occasion and offered me a seat. We found his carriage among the sea of them standing near the inn in the village.

I settled Turner on the seat opposite me. He was silent and shivering. I relieved him of his sodden rain cape and wrapped a blanket about his shoulders. Then I went into the inn and procured a sip of brandy. These efforts soon had their effect and after a few miles Turner was more comfortable.

“I am much obliged to you. You always were a good chap and I see that you still are. An evil day, Grant, an evil day for J.M.W.T. Egremont was like a second father to me. My own father was a good man. He stretched my canvases when I was younger. I’d send him off to buy pigments when I needed them. Like a studio boy, but without the expense. And he drove a better bargain with the merchants than I ever could. A double savings. Started out as a barber, you know. A mere barber. But Lord Egremont was a different order of father. The Greek or Roman sort, the head of the tribe, the dispenser
of order and all that is good. A philosopher king in his way. It is a great loss.

“And to think that puppy will destroy my Helen. The murder of a favorite child, that’s what it is. A brutal, heartless man. I heard what you said to him. Truer words were never spoken. Good for you, and my compliments. I hardly know how I did it. I’ve looked at the sketches, but they don’t add up. Such a moment. Such a gift. It occurs but once. I feel my old heart cracking in my ribs.”

 
AFTER A FEW MOMENTS
I was able to breathe normally. I stared at the spot where the painting had been when I left for the station. There was a faint mark on the wall behind the dresser where the back of the frame had touched the paint. There was a slight depression on the bed. The bedspread was missing.