Free The Center of the World by Thomas van Essen

matterand light were just emerging from the chaos. I recognized the lake and the hills beyond; the sun was doubled in water and sky; some trees and low shrubs were fighting to be born out of the darkness.
    “It looks nothing like,” I said, “but somehow more true. I hardly know what else to say, but you have put the truth of this morning on the page.”
    Turner smiled like a delighted child. “You are too kind. But I see that you speak from your heart. That is a good thing, even if your eyes are not up to the task you set yourself. There is much that is wanting here. Turn the page. You will see that I warmed to my task as I worked. Here I was still annoyed at my tardiness. It is a picture of my indolence, not of the light I saw.”
    I turned the page as instructed. The next drawing was more finished, as befitted a day that was already an hour old. The colors still swirled and the shapes were indistinct, but I could clearly recognize the contours of the pond. I could see the deer that had come down to the water’s edge to drink, and the cattle in one of the distant fields.
    “That is a most beautiful drawing,” I said. “But I hope you will not think me rude if I say that I prefer the first. The world, I am sure, will admire the second more but the first feels more like the morning, if I can be allowed that. There is less likeness there, but more feeling.”
    There were a few more pages of drawings, each done in a rapid and confident way. The most magical of them conjured up the view and the feeling of the morning out of only a few lines and splashes of color. It seemed like alchemy.
    As I turned the last page I noticed a little drawing in one corner. It was the kind of crude sketch a naughty schoolboy might make. I thought of myself, David, when I am down on my knees before you in your glory. I wondered if Turner had allowed me to see the notebook because he was hoping to make an overture. He is not, as I have said, a handsome man, and you have no reason to fear on that account. His eyes met mine for a moment and I think he saw that I had noticed the sketch.
    We were saved from any further discussion, however, by the sound of footsteps. It was Lord Egremont. Turner and I both rose to greet him, but Egremont waved us down. I moved an additional chair up close to the fire. “I knew this was Turner’s favorite spot, but I didn’t think that he would be so willing to share it.”
    “Sharing had nothing to do with it,” Turner said. “The young dog is a dog of sense; he found it on his own.”
    A servant entered, carrying a tray with glasses and a bottle. “I thought I might enjoy a glass before I retired,” said Lord Egremont. “I would be most gratified if you would join me. At my age it won’t do to drink alone.”
    “To your health, my lord,” Turner proposed. He let the wine linger in his mouth before he swallowed it. “This is most fine, sir. I’ve never had anything like it—this must be, what is that stuff, Grant?—ambrosia, sir. The stuff of the gods, the very light in Apollo’s chalice.”
    Egremont took another small sip before responding. “Glad you like it. This was laid down in the cellar half a century ago. Old Hartley, bless his soul, chose it. He was a man who knewhis business. Not two dozen bottles left. I am getting to an age where it won’t do to save them. But I have put away enough young wine so that the youngsters shall have their share of fifty-year-old port when they reach my age.”
    He turned to me with a smile. “You are silent, Mr. Grant. Do you not approve of the wine?” His kindness sparked a pounding in my chest as I remembered how he had addressed me this morning in the field.
    “I am speechless,” I managed to reply. “I thought I had tasted port before, but this is a different order of thing altogether. I thank you for the privilege of drinking it.”
    Lord Egremont nodded with satisfaction and then spoke to Turner. “The other night you said something that I have