The Center of the World (7 page)

I passed two or three hours in these gloomy cogitations, pacing back and forth in front of the window until my shins ached. I did not know where I would go and how I would live. I did not feel, like Adam, that the world was all before me after my expulsion from Paradise.

I tried to write, I tried to read, but all to no avail. Just after three o’clock there came a deferential knock on the door. It was one of the chief servants. He handed me a folded piece of paper and a sealed envelope. “My lord and Mrs. Spencer send these to you with their compliments.” His eyes met mine for a moment before he bowed, and I thought I saw something, either respect or contempt, that I had not seen before.

The note read as follows:

I opened the envelope and found a letter in a graceful feminine hand:

On first reading these missives I felt overwhelmed by joy, like a man given a reprieve at the foot of the gallows. But then I was half ashamed. I realized that the injury remained in the eyes of the world and that mere words written to my private eye could do nothing to eradicate the calumny. Then I thought further. I am, dear David, what the world calls a sodomite. It
is a vile word, used to hurt, but call it what you will, it is one of the words the world uses to describe my nature. By leaving, I reflected, I would say to the world that I was ashamed of my nature.

For about an hour I went back and forth as I tried to look at the thing from all sides. The more I thought, the more of a muddle I found myself in, as my feelings and logic did battle with each other. But every so often we are all blessed by moments of grace. Such a blessing fell upon me that afternoon. I can recall what happened, but I can hardly explain it. I was standing before the window looking out at the view, which had seemed to promise so fair a day in the morning. I was in an agony of confusion. But then the beauty of the place and the vista came over me with an almost palpable force. It poured a living balm into my wounded soul. I felt calm. Hardly knowing what I did, I went to the fireplace and burnt the two notes. I took up my pen and wrote to Egremont.

And then I wrote to Mrs. Spencer:

I put both notes in envelopes and called for a servant, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. A small voice, it is true, called out that I had been a coward and chided me for allowing myself to be bought by mere promises, but in general I felt at peace.

I went down to dinner at the usual time. At Petworth the custom is to gather just outside the dining room and await the arrival of Egremont. Guests begin to congregate five or ten minutes before the appointed hour. At seven the doors are flung open and Egremont takes Mrs. Spencer’s arm and leads her in. Egremont’s son and his wife make a great show of going in next, while the rest follow, with those of us, like myself, who are conscious of being outsiders to the ranks of the blessed hanging back and going in last.

As we waited, everyone was most cordial to me. When Egremont and Mrs. Spencer arrived, they paused for a moment before me. I bowed and said my greetings. Egremont took me by the hand and said, in a voice that all could hear, that I was “a damn fine fellow.” Mrs. Spencer also took me by the hand and said that she was very glad I was able to prolong my stay. She held my eyes for a moment or two longer than is customary and applied more pressure than is usual. There is a wealth of feeling in her eyes that I have never seen elsewhere. Her eyes, one suspects, have seen much; they express a kind of world-weariness on that account. But there is also an almost childlike sparkle of joy and laughter there, and it was this aspect that predominated as she took my hand. “I am so very glad to know that you will be remaining with us,” she said.

Everyone standing around us marked, of course, these exchanges, and I saw that they were intended to let all those assembled know that I was in the good graces of my host and hostess. I found myself seated next to Turner, who had grabbed me by the arm and steered me into a seat next to his. “We are in luck, sir,” he said as we sat down. He gave me a conspiratorial wink and nodded behind him. He spoke in a low whisper. “This is the best seat at the table. The steward stands directly behind. One can get a third glass without attracting attention.”

As the first glass of wine was poured Mr. Gedding rose and proposed my lord’s health in more words than were necessary for the task. But he is, as I might have mentioned earlier, the
member for Pulborough and, like most members, is enamored of the sound of his own voice. When at length he sat down, His Lordship rose, somewhat piqued, I thought, at the fulsome praise he had been forced to endure.

“You are too kind, Mr. Gedding, but I thank you for your gracious and eloquent words. Let me propose, in turn, a simple toast: to your health, ladies and gentlemen.” He paused for a moment and looked round the table. I fancied he held my eye for a moment longer than those of the others as he offered me a kindly smile. “But no more speechifying! Let us to our meat while it is still piping.”

All that was good of field, pond, garden, and vine was placed before us in more than customary abundance, including an enormous roast of venison. There was that usual lull in the conversation as the party commenced with the serious business of eating, but Mrs. Spencer soon worked her magic. She drew Mr. Gedding out on political gossip. From there we were embarked on a lively discussion of some matter of church policy, but when Mr. Sockett was on the verge of becoming heated over something Mr. Gedding said, Mrs. Spencer managed to toss the ball to Turner, who recounted one of his adventures while traveling in the Rhineland. It involved an attractive chambermaid, a pot of mustard, and two drunken Frenchmen. The story had all the table laughing except for Wyndham and his wife, who looked daggers at Mr. Sockett for his failure to support them in their sanctimoniousness.

At one point while the conversation was particularly loud and animated, Turner turned to me. He spoke so softly that no
one else could hear. “His Lordship was most cordial to you before we came in.”

“He is kind and gracious,” I said. “One of the most remarkable men in England.”

“He sent you a note, I understand.”

I looked at Turner, unable to comprehend how he had come to know of it. “As I said,” I replied, “His Lordship is most kind. I burnt it.”

Turner looked at me closely with his piercing gray eyes. “Very good, young man. Very good indeed. You will do well.” He patted me on the shoulder and gave me a wink, motioning to the steward to fill our glasses.

“Come,” he said, “to your health. This is a better vintage than usual. Have you seen His Lordship’s cellars? Most interesting. Wine there bottled before I was born, put down by Egremont’s father when he was a young man. The likes of us must drink wine like this when it is offered. Drink up, I say, for we pass this way but once.”

 
ON THE MORNING
of July 7, 2003, I woke just as the sun was rising. Mist rose and swirled up from the surface of the lake; the sun was an orange disk framed by golden clouds as it crested the hill on the far shore. Usually I’m not a morning person, but self-pity was waiting just around the corner, and I knew I had to keep it at bay with action. I made a pot of coffee, swallowed half a bowl of cereal, and went straight to the barn.

Once there, I went deeper and deeper into the past. Mostly it was just junk that my father thought might come in handy one day, but there were some old toys of mine, too, the sight of which almost moved me to tears. A paper bag contained wrapped presents for my mother that my father had never given to her. Another contained a filmy black nylon nightgown. I almost got sick thinking about it. There was a suitcase full of clothing that I had worn in high school, and boxes and boxes of my mother’s old clothes. As I made my way through the sheer
quantity of stuff, I saw that it was a disease, a dry goods addiction equivalent to my father’s drinking. I set aside some of the clothes to bring to Goodwill, amused at the thought of the local girls in Tupper Lake walking around in the emblems of my mother’s vanity.

By late morning I had reached the previous owners’ junk, which was of a different class, more modest and less fraught. I found old electric motors and various unidentifiable machine parts. Almost everything went into the dumpster, but I set aside a few things that might be of interest to the antique shops in Bucks County.

By late afternoon, when the barn was empty, I took a broom and swept out what must have been a hundred years of dirt and dust. The floor was in remarkably good shape, but there were two windows that needed to be cleaned or perhaps replaced. The walls were painted tongue-and-groove boards of the sort that the Mossbachers used in some of their most tasteful renovations.

Deep down, I knew I’d have to take Mossbacher’s money, but I gave myself half an hour to indulge in the fantasy that I could make something of myself in this room. Then, as I was considering various locations for my desk, I noticed three small hinges set into the back wall on the left side of a three-by-four-foot rectangle that was formed by an almost imperceptible cut in the wood. This spot had been hidden by an old bedstead that was one of the last things I had taken out of the barn.

I tapped on the center of the rectangle; it sounded about the same as when I tapped elsewhere on the wall. I pressed on the
side opposite the hinges. The wood gave slightly; there was a click, and the panel sprang forward.

When I pulled the panel toward me and peered inside, I saw a rectangular bundle wrapped in what appeared to be old sailcloth and tied with coarse twine. I lifted it out of the recess and placed it carefully on the ground. There was no mark or lettering of any kind on the cloth. I undid the twine.

Inside was a painting in an ornate gold frame. As I propped it against the wall and stepped back to get a better look, light poured from the canvas and lit up the barn. I could feel its glow on my face.

I knew at once that it was Helen. And I suddenly knew something of how the world worked. An army of heroes struggled on the vast plain below her window. I could not see the gods, but I knew they moved among the men. Her lover, Paris, was visible on the left, moving toward her as surely as the apple moves toward the earth and each human life moves toward death. There was a brass plate on the painting’s gilt frame:

I don’t know how long I sat there. The day turned into evening. As the light in the barn faded and changed, I understood things that had been incomprehensible a moment before, while the certainties of the previous hour were lost. I remembered sensing the presence of the gods, although I knew they were not depicted on the canvas. I wept with rage and frustration
at the thought of the feelings I had lost. I sat there until it was quite dark, seeming to see things in the painting long after the light had failed. At last I realized I could hardly see my hand when I held it up before my face.

I made my way back to the house and unplugged the phone. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn’t feel hungry or in need of a drink. I lay down on the old bed upstairs. There was a cold clarity to the visions which appeared against the pitch dark bedroom ceiling. My mind had never been so full nor my perceptions so acute. I don’t know if I slept or not, but if I did there was no difference between waking and dreaming.