The Center of the World (12 page)
Mrs. Spencer had not been away from his side the whole time of his illness. One day as my father was discussing estate matters with me he encouraged her to go out and get some air. She acknowledged that the air would do her good. As soon as the door was closed my father put on that tone he had for serious matters of business. He said he knew that I did not love Mrs. Spencer and that she did not love me. There was nothing to be done about that and he had no Desire to remedy it at his time of life. But I was to remember that Mrs. Spencer had been a good friend to him since the death of my mother, and that it would displease him greatly if I was to quarrel with her or show that contempt which he knew I felt. He had, he said, no intention of altering his instructions regarding the disposition
of the estate, but I was to remember that I had more than one brother and numerous cousins. He hoped, he said, that even my Understanding was sufficient to comprehend what he meant. I told him that my Behavior would be all that he could desire
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He went on to say that his recent illness had taught him that he could no longer be certain that there were many years left to him. I ventured to suggest that perhaps it was time to seek Spiritual Counsel and to take care of his Immortal Soul. It is a salve to my Conscience that I reminded him of this, even though his response was harsh. He waved his hand as if he was brushing away an Insect, and said that it was always a wonder to him that I, who had not the Wit to reckon the number of Swine that could be sustained upon an acre of land, could claim Understanding of the deepest of mysteries. He said he had no wish to speak to me on this subject and if I wished to remain in his good graces I would refrain from mentioning it in the future. He knew full well, he said, that he could not trust me to make a decent and humane provision for Mrs. Spencer, as virtuous and pious as I might be. He had, therefore, called in his legal man to adjust his Will so as to make a modest and reasonable provision for her. He advised me that more than sufficient remained and I would not miss her small legacy, but that if I Objected I would miss all
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Although it pained me to give silent assent to his Lechery, I said that I would honour his wishes in these matters as in all others. There was one other matter which he wished to speak to me about. He was aware that I had seen the painting in the
cabinet. He was sorry that I had seen it, but there was nothing to be done for it now except to remind me that he did not wish me or anyone else sneaking about and entering his chamber without his permission or Mrs. Spencer’s. His feelings about this painting were most particular and he wished to have no single word of conversation about it with me. On this he was most adamant and he wished me to understand that if I so much as mentioned it to him again, or if he was ever to learn that I had spoken of it with another living soul, he would take those steps that would please my brother. Our last word on the subject was that upon his death, as I was a Christian gentleman, I was to make sure that Mrs. Spencer got it. I had no recourse but to give my consent, but it was a powerful lesson to me about the shame that sinners feel over repeated Sin
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We had reached this stage in our conversation when there was a knock on the door. It was Mrs. Spencer, and my father bade her enter. I greeted her cordially because I knew my father was watching. It was always a Wonder to me that she could look me in the eye without colouring after I had seen that picture, but she was brazen if she was nothing else. The walk had done her good, she said, and indeed it showed. She put her hand on my father’s shoulder and I could see from the look he gave her that neither age nor illness had dampened his tendency towards Sin
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16
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I TRIED TO GET
back into my life in New Jersey, but the knowledge of the painting gnawed at me like an ulcer. I felt foolish for having abandoned the greatest happiness I had ever known, and I woke most nights in a fever sweat at the thought of something happening to it. Though I tried to console myself with the thought that it had been hidden where I left it since the days when Rhinebeck owned the property, I became obsessed with the notion that Mossbacher or one of his people might find it. It was an irrational thought, but nothing, including my mind, was as it had been before.
The hardest thing to convey is how unreal the world in which I found myself seemed. Everything I knew and cared about—my wife, my children, my job, my finances—seemed like a pale reflection of a dream. I felt as though I was walking through a world of shadows. All the while, however, I was tormented with the certainty that the real world—or at least the world that was true and meaningful—was on the canvas that was hidden in my
barn in the Adirondacks. I don’t think I was really mad, but I am not sure a psychiatrist would agree with me.
So I floated uneasily through those last days of July, hoping that with time my life would click into focus. Susan kept on trying to engage me in a conversation about what was wrong. She claimed I was detached and disengaged, that I seemed depressed, that I was hiding something, that I wasn’t “there for her.” All of this was certainly true, but she, through no fault of her own, wasn’t there for me either, in the sense that she no longer seemed adequate to the truths of the world as I had come to understand them. I knew she was trying and I knew she had done nothing wrong, but I had felt the power that fires all poetry and moves the world. I had seen Helen of Troy. I knew the truth of her like no one who is now alive, like no one who has been alive for a hundred years. I tried to be polite, to say that I was fine, that I was just worried about money or just thinking too much about turning fifty, but we had been married too long for her to believe me. Naturally enough, she would retreat in hurt and anger, but after a few days she took a deep breath and tried to reach me again. Looking back, I can see that it was a measure of her affection and decency that she stayed with me as long as she did.
My birthday, August 7, was on a Thursday. Susan made reservations for dinner in New York; there was something so sad and so hopeful about the way she told me of her plan that I tried as hard as I could to pretend it pleased me. Neither of us could afford to take a day off from work, so we agreed that we would meet at a restaurant in the Village.
It turned out to be a wonderful day for early August in New York. Not too hot, not too humid, and a nice breeze. As part of making an effort, I had put on my favorite summer suit and a tie. When she saw me at the restaurant I wanted her to know that I was trying.
I hadn’t been in the city very often since the attack on the World Trade Center, and I was still shocked by the absence of that ugly but familiar landmark. Washington Square Park was filled with young people; they all seemed to be flirting with one another, as if they had all been given permission at once to go on with the business of living. There was an air of gaiety and yearning about them; they seemed bathed in Helen’s light.
A young couple walked toward me. He was very handsome, like a young Marlon Brando. She was tall and African American. She was wearing jeans, high heels, and a thin red camisole. I don’t think I had ever seen anyone so beautiful just walking down the street.
Her arms were around him, but just as they approached me, she turned and, in response to something he said, broke into a beautiful smile. She said something in his ear; he laughed and kissed her. Then they passed me and were gone. I walked on for a few more steps and a sentence formed in my mind:
I will never sleep with anyone as beautiful as that, but it’s okay
. And then, quite mysteriously, after a few more steps, I thought:
It is okay to die
. It just sort of hit me:
It’s okay to die. There is nothing to be afraid of
. And I felt, for a moment, that a cloud had lifted or a curtain had opened. I am not sure, to this day, exactly what
happened or the precise meaning of what had occurred, but I became convinced, somehow, that it was Helen speaking to me. These were the words, I thought, that I had been struggling to hear as I looked at the painting.
I think I smiled for the first time since I had left the painting in the mountains. I had a hint that whatever it was that Helen meant was not entirely dependent on being in her presence, that she could live in my mind even when I was away from her. As it turned out, this lesson—if it was a lesson—didn’t stick. The moment of brightness made the darkness that followed so much the darker.
But for the moment at least I was happy to see Susan when I got to the restaurant and happy to be alive in the moment that we had. We had a lovely dinner; we talked about what the children were doing; we traded gossip about our jobs. She said that she noticed that I had lost some weight and that I looked good.
“Five pounds so far,” I said. “I’ve been watching what I’ve been eating since you left the mountains. Nothing crazy: sensible choices and no seconds.”
I told her that she looked good too, and it was true. She seemed more beautiful to me than she had at any time since I found the painting.
We left the restaurant and walked up the street holding hands. “This has been a lovely evening,” she said. “I’m glad you made an effort. We are worth it, you know.”
When we got to a corner, Susan hailed a cab. “I have a surprise for you,” she said. She had taken a nice room at the
Park Lane overlooking Central Park. There was a half bottle of champagne in a cooler and a pretty little cake with a candle on the table in front of the window.
“No wonder you wouldn’t let me get any dessert,” I said. “This is all too much, you know.”
“Happy birthday. You only get to get old once.” She went to the closet and took out two nicely wrapped presents. She opened the champagne and lit the candle. We sat next to each other and looked out over the dark green park ringed by the sparkling city.
I opened my presents, a handsome shirt with French cuffs and a pair of cuff links made out of blue stones. “These are really nice,” I said. I leaned over and gave her a kiss. “But are you trying to make us go bankrupt?”
She explained that she had just gotten a big bonus. “But mostly I want you to know that I love you. I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy.”
I thanked her and touched my glass to hers, apologizing for having been so gloomy. I didn’t know what it was, I said. This would have been the moment to tell her about the painting, and the words to do so started to form in my mind. But I just couldn’t do it: it was mine and mine alone. “I love you too,” I managed to say.
We undressed and got into the big bed with its luxurious sheets. I let her get on top and do all the work. I thought of the young couple I had seen in the park earlier that day. I thought of Helen and the way the diaphanous cloth caressed her thighs.
I thought of the beautifully articulated muscles on Paris’s back. I closed my eyes and saw the sea beyond the field of battle. There were ships in the far distance. Argosies, I remember thinking, is the word. I could see hope and fear on the mariners’ faces. I could see the treasure they were carrying and the distant lands to which they were bound.
17
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I REALLY WISH
, David, that you could see this place. Its wonders are almost wasted on me. Your superior taste and discernment would find even more to admire than I do. Yesterday Egremont took his son and daughter-in-law up to London to see to some business. A number of guests had departed. It seemed as if the living being that is Petworth House was resting. I was sitting outside on the Portico with writing implements, trying to make some sense of the notes I had taken in the North Gallery, but mostly just looking out over the pond. Turner was off sketching somewhere. The beauty of the place and the peculiar fact that I had the freedom of the house rendered me almost idiotic with happiness.
Mrs. Spencer approached and said that she had been looking for me. After inquiring about my health and comfort she asked if I could do her a service. I naturally told her that I was hers to command.