The Center of the World (24 page)

Bryce put the letter down and smiled with satisfaction. “Very good,” he said. “You must concentrate your efforts on Rhinebeck and his circle. But we must move cautiously. We are getting close.”

 
THOSE WERE SUCH DAYS
.
It was the autumn of 1830. Egremont had cleared the house, sending his son up to London on a fool’s errand, which, fool though he was, Wyndham knew was merely to get him out of the way. He was convinced that I was behind the command that he depart, and he stuttered and turned crimson with rage as I bade him adieu. There was nothing he could say because his father was standing beside me. I put my hand on His Lordship’s arm as I waved the bastard good-bye.

I remember the light. If Turner didn’t need us in the studio, I would find Grant and make him walk with me through the park. Petworth was always beautiful, but those days live in my memory. The colors of that season seemed brighter than other autumns, the air more clear. The light of those days and the light from the painting run together in my mind. I see young Grant’s face as he looked out on the view from the Rotunda. I see his back as he approaches me in the painting. I see
the blue sky above the park, I see the more perfect sky above the sea.

The sun sparkled on the water of the pond the way the light sparkled on Egremont’s diamonds. I wore the diamonds when Turner first sketched me. When I had been at Petworth only a month and hardly established as his mistress, Egremont called me up to his bedroom one afternoon. He had me undress and stand before him. I remember the feel of the Turkey carpet on my bare feet, the glow of the candles, the gray sky through the windows as the rain began to fall, the feel of the goosebumps on my skin in the cool air. He walked around me and considered me from all sides, as if I were a statue in his gallery or a horse in his stable. He had taken his boots off, although he was still dressed for the hunt, still smelling of horseflesh and exercise. I understood that, as old as he was, I was but the latest of many.

He approached me with a small wooden casket. He took out the jewels, the ones I wore as Jessica, the ones which Helen let fall to the floor by her dressing table. He placed them on my bosom and affixed the clasp behind my neck. I had never seen jewels like these before. They seemed to fill the room with their sparkle. They were cold and heavy against my skin, somehow heavier for the fact that I wore nothing else. He stepped back a few steps and looked at me again. I could see the heat in his old eyes as my lips parted. “Damn,” he said, “you are as fine a piece of flesh as ever I beheld.”

He kissed me and then pushed me back onto the bed. He turned me over and came into me. He used me hard; I could feel the diamonds cut into my flesh as he drove me down onto the coverlet.

He never stripped me down and used me like that again, but that encounter sealed my place in his affections. I became for him the woman of that afternoon, and every night when he came to me it was with that memory in his mind. Even in later years, when his powers failed, he would think of those days. He would pat my bottom or give my breasts a squeeze and say that no one had ever worn those jewels as I did and no one deserved them better. That was why he left them to me when he died. I had to struggle with Wyndham about them, but I prevailed. I was fighting for my life, while he was only fighting out of malice.

“Turner is to put you in another painting,” he said. “I want the jewels in it. I want to think of that afternoon with you when I see it. So go to him and take the jewels with you. Don’t fuss about. Do as he wants. I have great faith that he will outshine even himself.”

When I first went to the studio, Turner was content to sketch my face, but after two or three times he said, “Come, madam. This will not do. I know your charming face well enough from sitting across from you during many pleasant dinners. We must come to the rest of it.”

It was always said of Turner that he could not do the human figure. His
Jessica
seemed to bear that out, but as the event proved, he could paint the figure better than any artist of his generation. I never asked him why he did not do more often what he could do so well. But he knew his own nature. He had enough to do with his landscapes, I suppose; no want of subject matter in his mind. I think his sensual nature was
so strong that he feared it would stand in the way of his art. I was not pleased that I had to do what was required of me, for I had grown accustomed to thinking of myself as the lady of Petworth House. But living as I had, I had bade farewell to true pride many years before.

When the day came, I undressed behind the screen while Turner prepared his materials. I was wearing nothing but a robe of China silk that Turner had been thoughtful enough to provide. I ascended the little platform and looked down. He looked up at me. “Come, madam, there is nothing to be afraid of. I will not hurt you. Besides, I’m too sensible a man even to think of it.” But his lip was trembling and his voice almost broke. He was afraid, far more afraid than an old whore like me could even think of being.

I let the robe fall, taking pleasure in watching him gasp, in seeing him realize the distance between a women like me and the harborside creature who was the mother of his brats. He was such an ugly man. As I walked up the stairs to the studio I had thought about what I would do if he tested the virtue I had lost so many years ago. In spite of his nose and his dirty hands and his bad teeth, there was his genius. He was as close to a god as this fallen world possesses. I understood why those Greek girls would let themselves be taken by a bull or a swan: it was the odor of power and deity that compelled them. And I thought too that I could take a kind of vengeance on Egremont for sending me to Turner like some mere painter’s model. But I was no better than he treated me. I knew that. And I was fond of Egremont and not so far gone as to forget the gratitude I owed him.

Still, when I let the robe fall I had not yet decided. Had Turner made half a gesture toward me I would have fallen. I could see that it took him some effort to master himself, but he was, in those days, a driven man. He, more than any of us, knew what it was to be touched by the gods. His nature obliged him to honor that touch and keep his mind on the work at hand.

He said nothing. He drew his hand across his brow and went to his work, leaving me to stand there just as I was. I stood very still, my hands hanging at my side, the palms turned up the way they had been as the robe fell away. His gaze was like a lover’s caress, and I could feel myself yearn for him. No one had ever looked at me so intently, yet he was like a wall. Stare at him as I would, I could make no contact with the man behind the pencil.

After that first day Turner told me clearly what he wanted me to do. Raise your arm, please. Lean against the chair. Put your weight on your left leg. He was precise and polite. He knew his business. He was like old Hobb, the master of Egremont’s stables. There was no horse living, Hobb said, that he could not break. It was only a matter of time and patience. Lie down on the couch, please. Move your knees apart ever so slightly. Thank you. He broke me so slowly that by the time he had me on my knees before him like a bitch in heat, I hardly felt it.

It was only later that afternoon that the memories came back to me like a nightmare remembered. I found young Grant and made him accompany me on a walk around the estate. As the recollection of my morning in the studio overcame me, I
hurried ahead, as if trying to outrace my shame. Poor Grant. He hardly knew what to make of me. He must have thought I was mad. But he was kind and attentive and asked no questions. He had had his own humiliations in the studio. I cannot remember what we spoke of along the way. I am afraid I babbled like an idiot.

When I went to my room to rest, the thought of Turner sitting across from me as I passed him the meat seemed more than I could bear. Egremont and all the others counted on me to be presentable and poised. It was my duty to keep the conversation moving. I thought of Grant: how sweet-tempered he was, and how beautiful. I thought of the life that had brought me to this pass. I thought of how Turner had seen me; how I had obeyed his commands. But then I thought of Egremont’s passion, of the tremor on Turner’s lips when I let the robe fall and the reason I had been chosen to play my part in his great work. Shame be damned. With that thought I slept.

 
I NEEDED TO GET
closer to Turner. Seeing all the paintings in the Tate and the National Gallery was helpful, but I thought that if I could walk where he had walked and breathe the air that he had breathed, I might be able to understand my painting better. So I decided to visit Petworth House, the estate of Turner’s patron, Lord Egremont.