As I drove back to New Jersey, things seemed to make less and less sense. I was quite literally putting distance between myself and what mattered. I tried to distract myself with NPR and the Yankees, but I couldn’t concentrate. I tried to think about the painting, but the farther south I got, the more the thought of Susan’s infidelity took up whatever space there was in my brain.
I got home a little before nine and wandered around the house where I had raised my children and lived out fifteen years of married life, wondering how long I could go on living in it.
The car service dropped Susan off just before one. I heard her move about in the kitchen and then come quietly upstairs. I pretended to be asleep as she took a shower. I imagined that she was washing off the residue of her lover’s caresses, scrubbing the traces of his saliva from her breasts. She set the alarm and got into bed, taking care not to disturb me. If I had reached over and put my hand inside her it would have come out coated with another man’s sperm. I listened to her settle into sleep.
I stared into the darkness, knowing I was on the edge of something. If I fell, there was only darkness and an endless plunge on either side. Or light. I thought about Helen’s eyes. “The face that launched a thousand ships” was half hidden from the viewer, and only revealed in the mirror at the foot of the bed. Helen was like the sun, so dangerous that she could not be looked at directly. The source of her power, of her ability to move men and launch ships, was not her face but her body. But her eyes showed her soul and were the window into her intentions. I remembered the way she seemed to look at me. Her eyes met mine in the darkness. What message or command could she have for the likes of me?
When I awoke my wife was gone.
. 28 .
OCTOBER 25, 1929
SPECIAL TO THE NEW YORK TIMES
CORNELIUS RHINEBECK DIES AT 56
The financier, industrialist and noted art collector Cornelius Rhinebeck died yesterday when the car in which he was traveling with three others plunged off the road into the cold waters of a small pond just outside of Saranac Lake, New York.
All the passengers in the vehicle perished.
Mr. Rhinebeck was traveling from his camp, Birch Lodge, to Lake Placid in order to catch the train back to New York City. Interviews with staff members at Birch Lodge reveal that Mr. Rhinebeck had left slightly later than planned. Police speculate that the driver of the car may have been going too fast for the weather conditions.
A light rain had fallen the night before and temperatures were near the freezing mark. The place where the car left the road was particularly exposed, and it is not uncommon for ice to form there, according to local police.
Mr. Rhinebeck’s holdings and interests were large and varied, being primarily in steel, shipping and banking. After the war Mr. Rhinebeck traveled extensively in Europe, pursuing both business interests and his passion for art. He is known to have purchased works by Rembrandt, Titian and other old masters. He also took a strong interest in the French school, buying works by Degas, Renoir and Sisley.
The other passengers in the car were Mr. Rhinebeck’s wife, Charlotte; Mrs. Maria Overstreet, a family friend; and Mr. William Kircum, the driver. Mrs. Rhinebeck was born Charlotte St. Clair in Boston, Massachusetts. Her father was active in banking and philanthropy. Mrs. Rhinebeck continued his philanthropic work, being active in various charities in the city. Two years ago she was a member of the Ladies’ Committee for the New York Hospital Ball.
Mrs. Overstreet was a graduate of Mt. Holyoke College and an expert on English art who had published monographs on Constable, Stubbs and Turner. A resident of New York, she was employed by the Oswald T. Mitchell Gallery. She is survived by her husband, Colonel William Overstreet, of Hoboken, New Jersey.
Mr. Kircum was a longtime employee of Mr. Rhinebeck’s and served as the manager of Birch Lodge. Mr. Kircum served with distinction in the Great War and received a Purple Heart as well as a number of decorations for valor. He is survived by his wife, Constance.
Mr. Rhinebeck is survived by his two sons, Thomas, age 19, and Herman, age 15. He is also survived by a brother, Rupert, who will take over management of the family enterprises.
. 29 .
IT IS ALL MIXED up now, my life in the painting, those days at Petworth, my time with Grant and Turner. Hannah brings my tea and then for a moment I know myself to be here in London: my skin is covered with wrinkles, the flesh of my arm sags downward when I lift the teacup. The sound of the omnibus comes to ears that feel as if they were stuffed with cotton. And when Hannah leaves I open the cabinet door, and there is Helen, and I see him approaching me as he never did, though there were many others who did so. How many were there? It doesn’t matter now.
He was the most beautiful man I ever saw. Turner said so too. More of a boy really. When he first sat down at the dining table I felt like a schoolgirl. I was afraid he would see me staring, but he was too nervous to look up toward the head of the table. He was chatting with one of Egremont’s painters and looking about him shyly. I could tell that he had never been in a room like this before. I don’t think he saw me staring. He wasn’t sure which fork to use. I saw him wait to see what others did, but noticed he had the sense not to follow Turner’s lead.
He was sweet-tempered and well-spoken. I offered him my hand after dinner. I still remember how cool and soft his was the first time I touched him. His eyes met mine and held them; they did not stray to my bosom as so many men’s did in those days. I could see kindness in his eyes, and sweetness, and passion, but not lust. Later, when I got to know him better, we walked through the grounds of the park. Sometimes I wanted to cover his face with kisses. Sometimes I wanted him to throw me to the grass and take me, the way that Egremont did when I was first at Petworth, the way Spencer did, the way that Frenchman did when I was at Königsberg. How many were there?
But he never did. He was too kind. It was not in his nature. At first, before I got to know him, I almost felt it an insult that he made no effort to seduce me. I took great pleasure when I saw desire in the eyes of Egremont’s guests. I took pleasure in their lust, watching them weigh the consequences of making love to me. There were only a few—the artists mostly—who had the courage to risk Egremont’s wrath, although, if they had understood Egremont better, they would not have been afraid.
He was old, but in those first days that I was with him he could still perform like a younger man. We understood each other. I could smell the other women on him, taste them sometimes; I knew they had sapped his ability. He said he was tired, but I knew. When he went away I was free. And although there were handsome boys about the stables, I never touched them, even though Egremont took his liberties with every pretty chambermaid and farmer’s daughter. But he was the lord of Petworth and I was only his mistress. Once, when Egremont had gone up to London, he had left some young cousin of his behind—he was a pretty boy too, but nothing like Grant. He had no conversation in him. Richard was his name, I think. I invited him up to my boudoir for tea and we passed a pleasant afternoon together. He was not good for much else. I intimated that it would be best if he never visited again. He never did.
When Egremont returned I think we both fancied the thought of our sinning, because there was an extra relish to our exertions that first night. He was wonderful for an old man that way, but it was not to last. I had been at Petworth for three years, I had posed for Jessica, when Egremont’s preternatural abilities began to fail. On some days it became difficult for him to pass water as well. Oh, how he raged. He was a man of temper and unused to being disappointed, particularly in himself. He raged at his physician, he raged at me. He was a terror to anyone who came near him for a time. He was most cruel, and said things to me that I shudder to remember. He said my looks were gone, that the problem was that I was no longer young and pretty. He went up to London to see a renowned physician, but neither the physician nor the young girls at Mrs. Bolcolm’s establishment could cure what ailed him. Indeed, when he came back, he acknowledg
ed that if he could perform at all, which was rarely, it was only on account of my patience and coaxing. I think it was only then that he abjured all others.
Such was his temper when young Grant arrived. He told me as we went to bed that he had taken a liking to our new guest because he knew that I would not be able win him over with my whorish ways. He could be most cruel. I had given up protesting his usage because I knew the cause was in him and not me. And I knew that he was fond of me despite his words.
One afternoon he came into the White Room after the shooting party had returned from culling the herd as I was having tea with Turner. He threw his gloves down on the sideboard. He poured a cup of tea and sat down without greeting us. I could tell he was in a vile humor and that he wished I would inquire as to the cause. I resolved to let him stir his tea for a few minutes before gratifying him.
“So, Mr. Turner,” I said, “are you content to be idle for so long and to partake of Petworth’s poor country pleasures? Don’t you miss the excitements of your work and the city?”
It was, I suppose, my evil angel that prompted me to speak thus. Why else would I contrive to have two angry men in the room when I already had one?
Turner responded as I knew he would. He almost spat out his tea as he assured me that he was up at dawn every day, that he had filled ever so many sketchbooks, that he had laid the foundation for ever so many paintings and that he had nearly completed an oil landscape. He began one of his tiresome tirades about the sacrifices he made for his Art and how he had once had himself tied to the mast so as to observe the waves break over the bow. When I interrupted him to ask His Lordship how the shooting had gone, I took, I will confess, some pleasure in observing Turner splutter to a halt.
Egremont looked at me sternly for a moment to let me know he was displeased, but he was so keen to inform me of his hurts that he could not keep silent very long. He told a tedious tale of the day’s events—his memory was wonderful for a man his age—and I was treated to every sight they saw on the way to the shooting grounds and how he had showed the younger men how to clear a hedge. As the tale was nearing its end, Egremont grew more and more angry, working himself up into a spitting fury as he recalled how poor Grant had cried out and saved the life of some poor stag that Egremont was about to murder.
“I let him know my opinion of him, the damned pederast,” Egremont said. “If it had not done me so much good, I would be half ashamed of the language I used. But at least we will be rid of him: if he is a gentleman he will not be able to remain here after hearing what he heard.”
I looked at him coldly, and then at Turner. The violence of Egremont’s outburst had cooled Turner’s annoyance. “So,” I said to Egremont, “are you pleased with yourself?”
“Of course not. My temper does me no credit, although it affords me relief. But, as I said, we will be rid of him. Petworth will not miss a no-account scribbler—no matter how handsome he is.”
“Was the stag the one you call Old Thunder?” Turner asked.
“Yes. Magnificent creature. Old, but stately. Fast as lightning. Wisest of the herd, for otherwise how would he have survived for so long? I have only caught glimpses of him these last few years, but there he was, plain as day. And I’d have got him, if it weren’t for that young puppy.”
“Don’t you think he did you a service?” I asked.
Egremont glared at me and was about to speak, but Turner, bless him, came to my rescue. “Like yourself, you know. Lord of the manor. First among equals. You will forgive me, my lord, but you are too good a shot to have missed on account of a mere sneeze.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You are the steadiest hand in all of Sussex. You have hit your mark at a hundred paces while the tempest blew like the last trump. Must be some reason beyond Grant’s feeble sneeze that your shot miscarried. Inward sympathy, you know.”
Egremont looked at Turner; I, who knew him so well, thought I detected some softening about his eyes.
“Sounds as if you are making poor excuses for the two of us.”
“No excuses, my lord,” I offered. “Certainly none for young Grant—although it is hard to fault a city boy for being appalled at such slaughter. And none for you either. But can it not be that your better nature played you a trick unawares?”
Egremont seemed to consider for a moment. Although he was a brusque and masterful man, he had a capacity for self-reflection far greater than that of others of his type. “Perhaps there is something in what you say,” he admitted at last. “But the damage, if damage it is, is done. I have said what I have said and he will no doubt leave us.”
We all sat silent for a few minutes, until Turner spoke. “More’s the pity. I had fancied he would make a first-rate Paris in a classical composition. Grecian form, you know; fine features. Good muscles under his shirt, from the look of things.”
This was the first time I had heard any talk of the painting. Looking back after all these years, I see that I was standing unconscious on the edge of a precipice.
“You mean a painting of that truth you mentioned last night?” Egremont said.
“Just laying it out in my mind,” Turner replied. He poured himself more tea. “Put Helen in a room and she is nothing. Place her against all those Greeks, or just one, you have the Trojan War. A great beauty, begging your pardon, madam, is nothing until a man sets eyes on her. He loses his head. Towers burn; heroes die.”
“Odd joke to make Paris a fellow who wouldn’t raise a finger for Helen.”
“Yes but no,” Turner said. “Private joke between us, true. But private truth between us as well. We are speaking of Helen, you know. She causes men to act in ways that Mrs. Spencer, for all her beauty, cannot. Again, begging your pardon, madam. Grant’s nature is one thing, Helen’s power another.” Turner stopped. He nodded toward me and then spoke to Egremont in a lowered tone. “Not so damn awkward. Regular fellow will act like a regular man, in the situation I am thinking of. Fellow like Grant, not. Stick to the idea of the thing, you know.”
Had I not been so used to being the kind of woman I was, my heart might have broken at Turner’s words. But my heart had been wounded so often, a scab had formed around it that mere words could not penetrate. Besides, I appreciated what he was trying to do.
“I am not so bad as all that,” I observed.
“I have no fears on your account, madam.” Turner said. “Masculine nature is what I fear. I know something of it myself.”
We were all silent for a moment. I thought of poor Grant, humiliated as he had been in front of all the company, sitting in his room and making plans for his departure.
“Go see about supper, will you?” said Egremont, looking at me. I could not tell if there was tenderness or contempt in his eyes. “We owe our guests a good meal. See what John can do. Not overmuch, mind you, but a deal better than last night. Be off. I wish to discuss this painting that Turner is thinking of with him alone.”
. 30 .
THERE WAS A NOTE beside her empty cereal bowl. She hoped to be on her usual train, but she would call if she got stuck at the office. I arrived late to work, but found some good news. There was a conference in London on the role of philanthropy in the twenty-first century, and I had been invited to give a short talk about the work of the Nassau Foundation. At first the thought of putting so many miles between me and the painting gave me pause, but then I realized that it wouldn’t be a bad thing to get out of the house for a while. My painting would be safe where it was, and it would be interesting to take a few days off and look at some Turners.
When I got home that evening I made a nice dinner. I tried to remind myself that I had no evidence she was having an affair. I had done a foolish thing, but we were grown-ups. These things happen—it was not the end of the world.
I gave her a kiss on the cheek when she came in. I guess she had been thinking too, because she returned it with a little bit of interest. She looked at herself in the hallway mirror. “Jesus,” she said. “I lo
ok like a wreck. I fell asleep on the train and almost missed my stop. Let me get changed and make myself presentable.”
While she was upstairs I took out a bottle of wine and put out a plate of cheese and crackers.
“Looks like company’s coming,” she said. She had changed into jeans and a T-shirt. She looked a lot better than Ruth Carpenter could ever dream of looking. She took a piece of cheese. “It feels good to be wearing something other than a suit. I’m exhausted, though, so don’t try to keep me up all night. Cleveland was brutal. But we got it done, and Richard gave us all nice pats on the back this morning. With any luck, we’ll all get a cookie at the end of the year.”
As we drank our wine and waited for the salmon we settled into the kind of conversation that had been the norm before I discovered the painting, though it wasn’t quite as comfortable as it used to be. We were both aware that my kiss with Ruth Carpenter was lurking just beyond the boundaries of our talk, while for me the painting and my thoughts about Susan and her putative lover also threatened to breach the dike. But we skated along on the war and the weather and the neighbors, and things seemed pretty good.
I told her about the trip to England, and that I thought I might take a few extra days to look around London.
“That’s a good idea. How long will you be gone altogether?” About a week, I said. She paused for a moment before she answered. “That will be nice for you. Congratulations.” It occurred to me that she was thinking through the possibilities for seeing her lover that my absence would open up, but I let it go.
Dinner was pleasant. “Let’s do the dishes tomorrow,” she said. “I want to go to bed.”
She was on top of me right away. It was the first time we had made love since the Millers’ party. “Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll do it.” I watched her concentrate. She seemed to go to that place deep inside herself where I could never follow. I wondered how she was with the other guy.
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