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.”
. 55 .
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.
I was aware that Susan had walked up behind me. I could see the carvings on Helen’s lyre and sense the touch of the craftsman who had shaped the wood. I could see the clouds that gave shape to the sky, the light fall on Helen’s thighs, the gods. I saw that the world was beautiful.
I sat down on the bed. The rage and bafflement that had consumed me began to dissipate. The color of the sea remained. The light remained. The fury of the soldiers on the battlefield and the invitation in Helen’s eyes were all still there.
I felt Susan’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s been stolen,” I said. I turned to look at her, watching me with pity and fear in her beautiful eyes. I saw that she was more beautiful than she had been in the early days of our marriage; I hoped she could find something in me too. “We can make this work,” I said.
I pointed to the place where the painting had been. I was suddenly calm. “I had something,” I said. “But someone took it. It doesn’t matter. Maybe I can explain. Maybe not.” I leaned forward and kissed her. At first she pulled away, as if she was concerned that there was something wrong with me. But I think she recognized something in my eyes and in the sudden repose of my face that allowed her to see a kind of beauty in me that she hadn’t seen in years. As we kissed I felt a heat that we had not felt since before the children were born. I saw the gods in the light that poured in through the bedroom windows. She responded to my urgency and before long we were pulling off each other’s clothes as if we had never been married.
. 56 .
IT WAS TWO DAYS before the funeral. Egremont had been dead for five days. Wyndham and I had exchanged only a few words, but they were sufficient for me to understand that I was to be out of the great house before any of the guests arrived. This arrangement suited me well, as I had no desire to be the object of either his condescension or his scorn.
All my belongings, such as they were, were packed and in the carriage. Thanks to Egremont’s love and the work of his solicitors my modest provision was secure. I had the world before me and Paradise behind.
I went down to the Carved Room where Wyndham had set up his desk in order to meet with the legal men and to work out the settling of the estate. It was here that he held forth as the new lord of Petworth. I think he felt that the majesty of Henry VIII, as depicted in Holbein’s portrait, would rub off on him, but the old king’s air made it all too clear that Wyndham was nothing more than a misshapen jester trying on regal robes.
He protracted his conversation with the steward as long as possible before turning to me. “So,” he said. “You are still here. I’d thought I heard a carriage on the drive.”
I waited until the steward had left the room before sitting down. I regarded him for a few minutes before speaking.
“You and I,” I said at length, “do not love each other. Neither of us, I fancy, sees any value in pretending otherwise. I grant you that you loved your father in your way. I too loved him. And of his affection for me the lawyers have provided you ample evidence.”
“All of that,” he said, “is neither here nor there. You have been, against my better judgment, provided for. We have agreed that you should leave before the funeral. The funeral is the day after tomorrow. Yet you are still here.”
“It is a vile thing. You have no right to it. I should destroy it.”
“No right? You forget your father’s words. Your father commanded you, as you are a gentleman, that I should have it.”
“He was old and in his dotage, debauched by you and your bewitchments. You spoke to the worst parts of his corrupted nature. I would be well within my rights to destroy the thing or even to keep it for myself.”
I stood up so that I would be able to look down on him. I had found over the years that in spite of all his bluster he was a timorous soul. It usually did not take much to make him give way.
“You are the heir of Petworth, but a bastard. It is well known. Between your birth and your character, you will not have an easy time taking up your rightful place amongst the gentry. A scandal will not make your way smoother. And I must let you know this: if I do not get that painting, there is no shame so great as to deter me from exacting revenge on you.”
I stared down at him until I could see in his eyes that he was about to surrender. “Come,” I said. “We need not be about this all day. You would just as soon be rid of me, and I would just as soon depart. There is no reason we cannot make things easy. Do as you ought to and we are done. You must come upstairs and help me.”
He stood, and I followed him up the stairs to the great bedroom. I had prepared cloth and cord and laid them out on the bed. Taking the key from the chain about my neck, I unlocked the cabinet and handed it to him.
“I have no more need of this,” I said. “I will open the door. You must help me lift the painting out. Together we shall place it face down on the cloth. We shall tie it up with the cord and you shall be rid of me.”
He nodded his assent. I positioned him in front of the cabinet and opened the door. Something passed across his face when he saw the painting—I could not tell what—but he grasped the frame and did as he was told. I made quick work of tying up the bundle, and it was soon in the carriage.
The servants had come out to say good-bye to me. I held my hand out to Wyndham, but he kept his own resolutely behind his back. He enjoyed having them notice how he cut me. His wife was nowhere to be seen.
“Very well,” I said. I spoke softly so that we could not be overheard. “But there is no need for us to part on such terms. I wish you no harm and am prepared to remain indifferent to your insult. You need not fear me nor doubt my discretion. Consider this painting locked in a tomb, for it would doom such honor as I have were it ever to be seen in public. Among the living only you, Turner, young Grant, and I have seen it.”
“To call that a painting, madam, is an insult to those noble works of art which adorn this great house. But it does nothing to change my opinion of you.” He took a few steps back to the house and then turned to face me for the last time. He raised his voice so that all might hear. “I have known you to be a debauched and covetous whore for these many years. My opinion is unaltered.”
He turned and walked into the house.
“I loved your father with an honest love,” I called to his retreating back, “and for that you must not blame me.” I thought of the light that illuminated the field of battle and the way the gods seemed to embrace the struggling heroes. I thought of Helen and the look of power in her eye. His insult meant nothing.
The servants seemed genuinely sad to see me go, for I had always been kind to them. They knew, I think, that with my departure the great age of Petworth had come to an end. Tears were shed on their part and on mine. I shook hands with them all, having already made them such small gifts as it was in my power to offer. Sally, who had been my special attendant, wept most piteously as she clutched the small box that contained the earrings and the lace collar I had given her.
I turned to look for one last time at Petworth. I had been fortunate to have passed so much time in Paradise. I put my hand on the bundle that lay on the seat beside me, reflecting that there was an even greater Paradise before me.
. 57 .
Dear David,
I scarcely know why I am writing to you after all these years, but I feel some need to justify myself and explain. You can hardly understand the extent to which you were the great planet about which the puny moon of myself revolved for so long. Or perhaps you did understand, and you chose not to let me see that you knew. It no longer matters.
In a week I shall be going to America. I do not think I shall ever return to England. There is nothing for me here. My mother is gone, you are gone, the days I spent at Petworth are gone. Lord Egremont is dead. I get no relish from my work at the Review, even though I have been honoured for my accomplishments and men of note esteem me. It all seems like stale beer, or soup without salt. I have been offered a position at a journal called The Atlantic Monthly, which is published in Boston, Massachusetts. I shall see if a change of scene will do me good.
Do you remember the day I first visited you in Cambridge on my return from Petworth? I had gone up to London from Petworth to settle myself in my rooms. London seemed monstrous and overwhelming. I felt, for reasons which you will perhaps understand when you read the enclosed narrative, out of sorts with the world and defeated by its ugliness. But then I thought of you and recalled the joy that we had felt in each other’s arms. I resolved to visit you at once. It would have been wise, I know, to have written to tell you of my coming, but like the fool I was, I listened to the promptings of my heart.
When I arrived at your rooms you were busy about your work. Though you received me cordially and called down for tea, you explained that you were preparing an examination and needed to complete it by the following day. I remember seeing your well-thumbed edition of Herodotus on your writing table.
As soon as your man left the room I put my arms around you. But as my lips found yours, I felt a reluctance in your body that shattered my heart. You escaped from my embrace as quickly as you could, muttering something about the servant returning with the tea things. Yet even had Puck or Mercury been in your employment there was no danger that we should be interrupted so soon.
You directed me to one of your chairs and sat across from me. We spoke, as I recall, about the state of the weather and university gossip. I explained that I had left Petworth, probably for good, but you did not enquire about my stay there.
When your man came in with the tea, you asked him to secure a room for me at the University Arms Hotel. For months I had been dreaming of spending the night with you, but I saw it was not to be. I would have cried then if your servant had not been present, and perhaps because you sensed this, you detained him for longer than was necessary. You asked him about the arrangements he had been making for dinner, about the state of your wardrobe, about I forget what else. But I saw that you were keeping him in the room so that I would not be able to reveal my pent-up feelings. Despite your stratagem, and despite my best efforts at self-control, I thought your man might hear my heart crack.
When at length he left, you started in on a tedious tale of an insignificant scandal in the bursar’s office. I don’t think, David, I had ever heard you talk so quickly and to such little purpose. You wanted, I knew, to prevent any conversation on the one topic that was nearest to what was left of my heart.
I chafed under your chatter for about half an hour, when there came a knock on the door. Edward entered, and I saw the look you gave him and the look he gave you. I saw what I had been to you not too many years before.
Edward was, as you said later, a very promising young man. He was beautiful—perhaps not as beautiful as I was, but handsome enough in a different, darker style. But his conversation, as I recall, was insipid. He was so young. He knew so little. I could see by the way he looked at you that he adored you. You had given him what you had given me. I had never thought that a broke
n heart could break again, but I was wrong.
When he left we had our moment of truth. You said that you feared that my stay with the “great people at Petworth” had spoiled me for life with a humble scholar. You said that I had fallen in love with luxury and you with a simple heart.
I could not speak, as you recall. We said good night and I went to the University Arms, where you had been so kind as to procure a room for me. I passed the most miserable night of my life.
I thought of Helen, and of our love. I thought of the world that was and the world that could be. I had glimpsed such glorious things, but I knew that night that I would never see them again.
You don’t understand what I am talking about, nor did you have any desire that night to understand what had happened to me at Petworth. The enclosed manuscript will explain some part of my story. I have soldiered on since then, but it has been a heartless trudge through the desert. Perhaps it will be otherwise in America.
Charles Grant
P.S. As you are a man of honour I ask that you destroy the manuscript after you have read it.
. 58 .
HANNAH KNOCKED on the bedroom door. “There is a gentleman here to see you, ma’am.” I closed the cabinet and saw, once again, how the light in the room was diminished. “He says his name is Turner.”
“Tell him,” I said, “that I am indisposed.”
“I have already done so, ma’am. He is most insistent.” She handed me a note hastily written on a page torn out of a sketchbook. It must have pained him to rip it out. On the back there was a drawing of a London street scene.
Dear Madam,
It is most cruel of you to have hidden yourself away as you have. But now that I have discovered you, we must speak. I will not take up much of your time if such is your desire. Please believe me
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