Free The Center of the World by Thomas van Essen Page B

you,” he said. “You have no conception of what we are talking about,we old men who half live in the shadows. But you will, mark my words, you will.” He smiled at me quite kindly, as if our encounter that morning had never been. “Youth is a gift, young man. Do not waste it.”
    “I’ve always thought of it as light, not burning,” Turner said. Turner reached for the bottle and filled his glass again as if our host was not present. The wine was potent stuff, but it did not seem to have any effect on him. I drank mine very slowly. I felt I was sailing upon deep waters and that it would not do to lose my way.
    “Stands to reason you would,” Egremont replied. “But what do you mean by it?”
    Turner took another sip of wine. He held his free hand out before him, like a man reaching for something in the dark, as he often did when he was trying to describe a difficult concept.
    “Light. It is what makes the world. Without light: no clouds, no sky, no reflection on the water. This most excellent port? It would not be. Light is the prime force, creating all. Light drives us. Light, in all its aspects, is the motive of the world.”
    We were all silent for a moment. I could hear the distant sounds of the great house settling into sleep. Turner went on, “That, you see, is what matters. Homer understood—rosy-fingered dawn and all that fuss—what was it about? A cunt, my lord, begging your pardon, a cunt. The Greek fellow wanted to fuck her and so did the Trojan fellow. We all would if we could see her, even young Grant here. And so a thousand heroes died, each death more bloody than the last. The very gods pokingabout in human affairs. Zeus himself having to set things to rights. All on account of that cunt. Even Homer could only hint at it, but that is the light that makes us be.”
    “As I said this afternoon, you must paint that,” Egremont said, adding as he nodded in my direction, “and make use of Grant now that he is staying with us.”
    Turner snorted. “You are a man of the world. I am a respectable member of the Royal Academy. You must understand that even if I could paint such a painting, which I don’t believe I can, I would never be allowed to show it in Somerset House, nor any public place. Indeed, if the painting were true, I could never show myself in respectable society again. There are worse fates, I suppose. But understand, sir, my father was a barber. You are a man of genius and sympathetic understanding, but I think, with all due respect, that like most men of noble birth you cannot understand how damn difficult mere respectability is. Neither my father nor Grant’s, I suspect, would have dreamed of sitting in this most noble of English houses, the seat of the Percys in Shakespeare’s day, with you, my lord, one of the greatest men in England, drinking a wine that could only be purchased with half a year’s labor.”
    Turner smiled and tasted the wine again. “I hesitate to think how many greasy scalps he would have had to touch for each sip. But he was a good man, my father. I owe everything to him, God rest his soul.”
    I was astounded at the liberties Turner had just taken with Lord Egremont. I sensed that Egremont himself was takenaback by the frankness of Turner’s speech, but I also saw that he relished Turner’s honesty. A man like Egremont only hears flattery, and it must be a tonic to hear plain speaking.
    “I dare say you are right. There is that in my blood and breeding which makes me what I am and limits, I suppose, my perspective. But you would see things that way: being a painter you always have to trouble yourself about point of view. I don’t. I’m Lord Egremont. I see things as I see them.
    “Enough of this. It is time for bed. Up we go, the three of us. I thank you both for your company and your conversation. But I repeat my point: you should paint it. Good night!”

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      IT WAS RHINEBECK’S NATURE to hide more than he revealed. Since his marriage