The Center of the World (13 page)

“You must put down your pen and ink and come with me,” she said. “It is a fine September day. Days like this do not come often to the south of England. You are a young man and need to bestir yourself; I am in want of air and a cavalier. So you will accompany me on an excursion. You have not yet seen the Rotunda, have you? It will please you.” With that she commanded me to change into a costume suitable “for tramping.”

Before this time I had only seen Mrs. Spencer when she was surrounded by others or in the company of Lord Egremont. She dressed in the more voluptuous style of the last century. At dinner she wore fine gowns that showed off her figure and displayed a good deal of bosom. It was amusing to see her next to Egremont’s prim and pinched daughter-in-law. When she came out to me she was wearing a dress such as a prosperous farmer’s wife might wear, but even though the stuff was simple and the cut was plain, she looked more like a duchess than any duchess I have ever seen.

Mrs. Spencer led the way. We walked over groomed paths, rough roads, and forest ways. “You mustn’t think,” she said, “that I am going to take you to our destination by the shortest route.” As we walked she talked to me about the history of Petworth, particularly of the park and gardens, which had been designed by Capability Brown in the 1750s. It was a massive undertaking during which, she told me, “no expense was spared to make nature more perfect than nature.” We had reached perhaps the most charming spot I have seen so far in the park, a bit of grass at the edge of a stand of fine trees, with a small brook running by.

“Let us sit here for a moment and rest.” She led me to a small stone bench half hidden by the banks of the brook. I commented on how sweet and charming a spot it was.

“Yes,” she said. “It is most sweet and charming. And false, you know. All this sweet nature was made by the hand of man. There was no brook here, no grass. This is as real as a canvas by Turner. Old Capability Brown bent the brook so he could make a perfect setting for this rustic seat. This is one of my favorite spots at Petworth,” she said as she settled herself, “but I sometimes think it is too much like certain charming ladies. Quite delightful as far as appearances go, but all rather contrived.” She turned to me and smiled, but I could see a sadness too deep for words in her eyes.

She quickly redirected the conversation, and we chatted for a while on a variety of subjects. She has an extraordinary gift for speaking easily and winningly on almost any topic. I found myself, to my surprise, saying interesting things on topics I had never thought about before. It is the way she listens that is the secret, and I can see why an old man like Egremont would find it so easy to be in love with her. Hers is a receptive genius; everything she hears comes back to the speaker burnished and ennobled.

I don’t know how long we sat in that pleasant spot, but at length she suggested that we move on. We walked another half hour or so, going by various twisty and pleasant ways, mostly through forest, until we emerged on a green field and began to climb a beautifully manicured hill.

“Look!” she said. Her face had been transformed by an expression of childlike radiance and joy. “I am always overcome
with happiness when I first see it.” She pointed to the top of the hill. Eight Ionic columns supported an open ring of weatherworn marble. I too broke into a smile. It was as if some giant child had made a Greek temple in a living playground, or as if we had stumbled on some relic from youthful Arcadia, when life was simple pleasure and our worship was our joy.

We scrambled up the hill like two delirious children. I gained the top first, and then held out my hand to assist her. Her face glowed with delight and exercise. Leading me into the charmed circle of the little temple, she directed my attention to the magnificent view of the Sussex countryside that lay stretched out before me like a vision. I had not realized how high we had climbed in our rambling walk, but we had reached the highest point on Egremont’s estate.

It is a glorious view. Mrs. Spencer named the villages and farms below us and pointed out, in the far middle distance, the silver thread of the river that marked the border of Egremont’s possessions.

There is something delightful about a prospect, and something more delightful still about the feeling of having the high vantage point to oneself. I felt a keen pleasure in imagining that I was the lord of all I surveyed, or that I was a worshipper of one of the minor gods to whom the temple was dedicated. These pleasing musings were interrupted, however, when I saw a pony cart coming up the hill. Mrs. Spencer saw the look of disappointment that crossed my face. She broke out in a wonderful laugh and assured me that our visitors would not be with us long.

The cart drove up to the Rotunda, and I recognized the figures who were walking beside it as two of the house servants. Mrs. Spencer gave instructions and they quickly set up a table and two chairs. The cloth was laid, and a large hamper was set down beside one of the chairs. Mrs. Spencer bade the servants be on their way.

As we watched the pony cart disappear Mrs. Spencer said, “You did not think that I would ask you to walk all this way without offering you some refreshment?” She directed me to sit down. A wonderful meal was soon before us: cold chicken, cheese, bread warm from the oven, pickles, and a cucumber salad. A bottle of rosé wine still cool from the cellars completed our repast.

She raised her glass and wished me health. She asked me how I found the wine.

“I am but a mendicant scholar,” I said. “The wines I have had at Petworth have been a revelation; the wine I drink at home is so poor I am half ashamed to drink it at all.”

“You must not be ashamed,” she said. “We must have our wine, no matter how poor. Wine lifts us out of ourselves and infuses some gaiety into our lives. I remember a night many years ago. I was in a low inn outside Florence. The wine was execrable, but I was young and my companions were kind and beautiful. I have never been so happy, and the vile wine was no small part of that happiness.”

As she was speaking she cut a slice of bread and piled cheese upon it. She ate with grace, but with an unladylike appetite.

“It is curious,” she said, “how often and at what length we expatiate on the virtues of wine, but how rarely we speak of the humble foods like cheese. This cheese is made on the estate; when he was younger His Lordship made quite a study of cheese, and his dairies produce some of the finest cheeses in all of Sussex. He once brought over monks from France to teach the farmers how it should be done. Do try some; it is most wholesome and delicious.”

I did as she bade me. “You have been,” I said, “most generous and kind to me. This day—this view, this lovely meal, your company—will always live in my mind.”

“But it is I who owe thanks,” she said. “I know how kind and brave you were in that matter of the stag.”

I felt the world begin to spin under my feet. My expression must have indicated my confusion.

“Lord Egremont,” she said, “is old. He has wealth and power. You gave him the opportunity to exercise his heart and his feelings.”

“He certainly exercised his feelings out in the field. His Lordship heaped upon me such a stream of abuse that I was half afraid he would exhaust himself.”

Mrs. Spencer smiled and drank some wine. “A lesser man than yourself would have stomped off in a pique of righteous indignation. There would have been a quarrel. You would have departed. My lord would have found his old heart grown so much harder. But as the case turned out, he was able to reflect, to apologize, and we all have the benefit of a few more days of your company.”

She then went on to tell me that she believed that Lord Egremont was secretly grateful to me because I had given him an excuse not to kill the stag. Egremont had half confessed; it seemed that the reason he had missed his shot was his sympathy for the creature. The stag, she said, was, like Egremont, old and noble; he spared it out of tenderness for himself. Yet he could not admit these things in front of his people because his position required him to act in certain ways. “You can little appreciate,” she said, “how a man like Egremont is bound by the rules of his position.”

“But his position did not require that he write me an apology. Indeed,” I said, “it would seem to require that he not do so. Did not Lord Egremont find it unseemly that he, one of the great lords of England, should condescend to apologize to someone as mean as myself?”

Mrs. Spencer took another swallow of wine. “So it would appear. But my lord was with Turner when he wrote the note. That makes all the difference. Turner is a remarkable man. What do you think of him?”

“He has been,” I said, “most kind to me. I feel that he is another order of being. His genius is such that we mortals cannot quite comprehend it. Do you know him well?”

She grew more thoughtful and her smile disappeared. She poured herself more wine. I saw a brightness in her eyes that I had not noticed before.

“He is a frequent guest here, so I have come to know him. My lord, indeed, suggested that I should get to know him better still. Do you find Mr. Turner handsome?”

I was taken aback by this question. Turner is short and stocky, with a large nose. His fingers are always dirty with paint. He has bad teeth, which you can often smell, but thick, sensuous lips.

“No, Mrs. Spencer,” I replied. “I do not.”

“Nor do I,” she said. “But he is a man of strong sensual leanings. He has never married, but he is rumored to have fathered a pair of brats with an elderly woman who runs a boardinghouse somewhere. He is fond of rambling about the harbor, you know.”

We spoke about the view and the delightful weather, as she helped me to some chicken and filled our glasses again.

“Tell me, Mr. Grant,” she said. “How do you live?” She had put down her glass and was looking at me most earnestly. I had never been asked that most important of questions before. If anyone else had asked I would have felt it a terrible impertinence, but from Mrs. Spencer’s lips it seemed most natural. “Come,” she added, “you and I must be able to understand each other. You have nothing to be afraid of. How do you live?”

There was nothing for it, so I plunged in. I hope you will not be annoyed. As I looked into her lovely face, I felt a great weight lifting from my shoulders. Living as I have been in a great house like Petworth, a small voice has always whispered my shame and imposture. It was a relief to tell her of my modest inheritance, the occasional payment for a review article, the visits to country houses. When she spoke again, it was clear that she had been doing sums in her head.

“Is that all, Mr. Grant? It hardly seems sufficient for a man of your taste.”

I confess that I blushed at this. I told her that although I attempted to keep up a good appearance my needs were quite modest, but that I also had a dear friend in Cambridge who was sometimes so kind as to give me gifts that allowed me to make ends meet.

She reached over and grabbed my hand. Her smile was radiant. “I knew we could understand each other!” she said. “At least you have the small income and whatever comes in from your articles; then, too, you must hope that you will someday write books that will bring in money. And I suppose, since you are clever and agreeable and handsome, you might take a position in the city, assisting some merchant or banker with accounts and correspondence. Or you might work on Fleet Street writing for one of the publications.”

She took another deep swallow of wine and then filled our two glasses again. “What is hard, I find, are the gifts. The stays in country houses can be easy if the host is genial. You are aware you are a mere guest, but you are also aware that you don’t have to pay for your supper and your wine. It must have been no small part of your feelings yesterday when you suddenly realized that you would have to find some other way to fill your belly for those days that you had counted on being here.”

I felt uneasy and began to protest, although the fact was that she had hit very near the mark. “Oh, Mr. Grant,” she said. “There is no dishonor in that. You and I, as I said, have nothing to fear from each other. We are kindred spirits. But what I really wanted to ask,” she went on, “was about the gifts. How do you feel about them?”

Something about Mrs. Spencer’s frank gaze undid me. I hope you can forgive me, David, when I tell you that I was soon unburdening myself of thoughts I hardly knew I had. I told her how much I appreciated your dear gifts. But I also confessed, which I have never mentioned to you, how I sometimes feel myself to be a mercenary wretch and how (and it pains me to write this) I don’t quite express my true feelings because I am afraid of offending you. When, for example, you say something unkind, or something with which I disagree, I sometimes refrain from commenting because I am anxious not to cut off those gifts which are so necessary for my survival. It is hard, I told her, when mercenary considerations prevent one from being honest.

“Ah,” she said, “but at least you have your small income and your cleverness to fall back on. What have I? Mr. Spencer was an error of my youth; he provides me with nothing except for the occasional blackmailing letter and the inability to marry. I have no way of earning money. I have no family. I have, at present, the kindness of Lord Egremont. In the past I have had the generosity of other gentlemen. But this comes with unspoken expectations: that I act the charming hostess, that I play after dinner, and so forth.”

She touched my hand again and drank some more of the wine. “It is, don’t you think, the fact that so much is unspoken that makes it all so hard. And yet, if it were spoken, we should die of shame, should we not? Since we do not speak of these matters we are always in danger of offending; we are always unsure if we need to do more or do less in order to maintain
that upon which we so much depend. But the silence is what allows us to go on. Were it not for that, we would see it all as a most common and sordid transaction. Let us raise our glasses, Mr. Grant, to the silence.”

She held up her glass and the crystal sparkled in the sunlight. Her face was flushed with wine, but she seemed more radiant and beautiful than ever. “Do not fear me, Mr. Grant.”