Wakefield hall, p.31
Wakefield Hall, page 31
The butler, having returned, announced in a supercilious voice that Mr. Cassel “awaited me” in the library; and would madam like a drink? A glass of water, I said, rejecting the fleeting temptation of alcohol.
I followed him across the vast gallery to the library, with its dark,
coffered ceiling and walls covered in red damask. A fire burned within, its flames leaping toward the protective screen. To one side, in a leather armchair, sat David Cassel, his hand gripping the silver hawk-shaped handle of a walking stick.
His manner was welcoming as he slowly stood up. “It’s good to see you again, sir,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Sit down, dear,” he said jovially enough, making himself comfortable again. He was, as usual, carefully turned out: tweed jacket with a bordeau-colored cashmere vest that matched the silk handkerchief in his front pocket. I noticed his black velvet slippers, with his initials thickly embroidered in gold.
“You’d like something to drink, wouldn’t you, Elisabeth?” he asked, leaning forward. “A drink? Tea? What can we get you?” He smiled warmly. I remember how startlingly youthful his eyes seemed.
I thanked him, saying that I had already asked for a glass of water; he was drinking whiskey, I noticed.
I took a seat opposite him and glanced around the room, with its cases of glimmering leatherbound books (like his study at Wakefield, its sole resemblance to a library). The effect of the red and green together with the quattrocento paintings was at once impressive and chilling—a museum subjugated to an old man’s whims.
The paintings were undeniably beautiful, however. I mentioned them admiringly (partly as a way of procrastinating, no doubt). “They’re even more astonishing here than in photographs,” I said, gazing at a Madonna and Child by Duccio above the fireplace; then, to its right, a depiction of the Martyrdom of St. Sebastian by Crivelli, the saint’s bluish-white flesh fastidiously pierced with arrows, the glistening drops of blood painted with uncanny realism. But it was the painting directly above me—Adam and Eve in the Garden of Paradise—that, even in my nervousness, I found mesmerizing. Its jewellike colors and enigmatic serpent led me to assume that it, too, was Sienese.
I told him what a privilege it was to see these famous pictures here, in this private setting. “Is it really?” he asked disarmingly as he continued to sip his whiskey. “Didn’t know you were interested in pictures.”
Smiling to myself—he had voiced the same surprise months earlier, when we had first met at Wakefield—I mentioned that my grandmother on my mother’s side had known Bernard Berenson as a girl.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” he said.
I asked about the Adam and Eve—its provenance and history.
“There you’ve got me,” he said, affably shaking his head. “Don’t know much about that one—it was Joanna’s. Found it in London, in a private collection, and the next thing I knew it was hanging here.” He flashed his most genial smile and gestured to a marble statuette of a lion on the table to his right. “Not nearly as beautiful as this, though.” He patted its rump and looked up. “Roman,” he said, “Third century B.C.” He took another sip of his whiskey, afterward smiling at me engagingly; at such moments Cassel was so appealing that the idea of a darker side seemed almost ludicrous.
The butler appeared with my glass of water, passing a tray of smoked salmon hors d’oeuvres the next moment. Cassel took two and devoured them, afterward crushing the napkin in his hand. I had a sudden vivid image of him rifling through the folder of memorabilia; greeting Joanna’s mother at the top of the steps; his arm around Rosalind’s waist—
The fire continued to crackle; the flames leapt.
“So—how’s life treating you, Elisabeth?” Cassel asked, his eyes fixed on me, his walking stick upright.
“I’m not complaining,” I replied as cavalierly as I could, before adding, “I’ve been working hard on the book, of course.”
“Of course.” He set down his glass. “And that—the book—is why we’re here. Why I asked to see you.”
I told him I assumed that was the reason.
He looked at me, set down his glass, and said definitively, “I’ve decided there doesn’t need to be a book, and that I was wrong to encourage you to write it.”
He had taken me by surprise: In my imaginings, I had expected a long, carefully worded preamble. Not this; not so abruptly!
“I don’t understand, Mr. Cassel.”
“It’s very simple. There is to be no book. I want you to drop it.”
“But you authorized the book—you asked me to write it!”
“That’s right. And I can just as soon bring it to an end.”
“I have no intention of dropping the book.”
“If it’s money—”
“It isn’t money!”
“If it’s money, I’ll pay you anything you’d get from your publisher. The rest of the advance.”
“It has nothing to do with money. I want to tell the story—Joanna’s story.” I clutched my hands. “With or without your approval.”
“So—” His eyes by this time had abandoned any trace of geniality. “We have come to an impasse. You say you’ll go ahead without my authorization.”
That was correct, I said.
“I see.” He paused. “New York is a small town, Elisabeth. And you have a long and productive career before you.”
I resisted the urge to ask precisely what he meant.
“And there are other people, other interesting women, to write about, women whose lives don’t present the same—” he paused, searching for the proper word, “complexity of my late wife’s.”
“It is precisely that complexity which interests me, Mr. Cassel.”
“Without my authorization I can’t see how you could expect to write this book.”
“Perhaps you underestimate my determination, Mr. Cassel. And my resourcefulness.”
His face flushed with anger. “So you would persist without regard to the family of your subject. Don’t you consider that irresponsible? Ruthless?”
At this I could barely control my own rage. “I think it’s selfish and unrealistic of you to expect me to abandon a book which you encouraged me to write. And I think it reprehensible of you to try to make me feel guilty for wanting to finish it.”
“I said nothing about guilt.”
“You said it was selfish—you called it ruthless.” I remember the leaping flames, and the terse smile of the enameled Madonna and her wizened baby above the mantelpiece. Moments passed. I took a sip of water—my throat was tight and parched—and quietly asked: “Exactly what is it that disturbs you about the way I’m going about the book, Mr. Cassel?”
“Your dependence on gossip, for one thing.”
“About the letter? Joanna’s final letter to you—is that what you mean?”
“Partly,” he replied, glowering at me. “But the letter is a non issue. There was no letter.”
I had noticed how he averted his gaze from mine as he uttered those crucial words. “If the letter, or a copy of that letter, does not exist,” I asked, “why are you so angry?”
“Because it shows a certain cheapness on your part, a reflection of your way of thinking, that you would give credence to such asinine stories. I don’t like the way you’ve hounded people about it. And I don’t like the way you’ve interrogated the help,” he went on. So Rosalind was right—he had heard about my conversation with Sam Neelly. “Under the terms of our agreement,” he continued, “you were to ask my permission before speaking to any member of the staff. You were not to hound them.”
“The only person I’ve ‘hounded’ is Desmond Kerrith,” I countered. “I have written him and called him, because I want to see whatever Joanna left at Thistleton.”
“She left nothing at Thistleton.”
“What she left at Thistleton is beyond your control,” I said, my heart pounding. “I’ve seen the will.”
“So have I, Miss Rowan,” he said gravely, and with such genuine sadness that I was momentarily taken aback. “I don’t like people prying into my private life—or Joanna’s,” he continued wearily. “She was very dear to me.” He looked at me almost plaintively, as if expecting me to voice some treacly affirmation of his feelings, the absence of which only seemed to exasperate him even more. “The emphasis was to have been on her career—” his voice had reassumed its hard, drumlike cadence, “not on her private life!”
“The two are inseparable.”
“It was to have been a distinguished book—not a book where the impression of my late wife’s character was formed by the gossip of a handyman!”
“You didn’t expect me to be thorough in my research, then—”
“I expected you to be professional.”
“By that you mean controllable—”
He jammed his stick on the floor, his face contorted in rage. “So you intend to find these imaginary letters and you intend to finish the book. And I will tell you what I intend, Elisabeth.” His eyes were coldly fixed upon me. “I intend to make this book difficult, if not impossible, for you to pursue. As I told you, this is a small town—and you’re just at the beginning of your career. Both in terms of your work and your private life, I put you on notice: that writing this book in the way I infer you intend to will not be a wise thing to do—not for your career, not for the framework of your life. I don’t think I have to put this more clearly than I already have.” His fist tightened around the handle of his walking stick. “Make your own choice. But be aware there will be consequences.”
“I’ve already made it, Mr. Cassel,” I said, nearly shaking as I stood up. “And now I think it’s time for me to leave.”
He struggled to stand up as well, his hand still tight around the silver handle. But rage seemed to prevent him from rising, and it was only when the butler came to help him that he finally succeeded, which seemed to infuriate him further.
“Get Miss Rowan her coat,” he commanded. “And show her to the door.”
I followed the butler through the gallery, the splendid paintings a succession of hostile golden faces, the staircase a twisting blur of black.
Darkness had fallen; it was snowing hard when I left his building.
33
December 11, 1986
Nearly a week has gone by since the meeting with David Cassel. Those who had agreed to speak with me about Joanna Eakins no longer will; of those I’ve already interviewed, only Christina von S. and Lawrence Brandt (Larry, I call him now) continue to take my calls.
I can hardly remember feeling so utterly alone.
Met with my editor this morning. I told him about the confrontation with Cassel; then showed him the folder (“To my biographer”) with the photographs of the English maze and the sonnet. I told him how the key words haunt me—”journey in my head”; “Those lines that I before have writ do lie/Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone.” The idea that Joanna would, in effect, lead me on a treasure hunt—the goal being Thistleton—from the grave. At this, John half jokingly suggested that the process of researching the book may be as intriguing as Joanna’s story itself.
I also told him about the second visit to Wakefield: the ghostly progression of statues in the Shakespearean maze: were these—and the quotes—a message, as well, or merely Joanna’s way of struggling against stage fright?
John has been unbelievably supportive and feels—as I do—that I must get to Thistleton, even if it means missing the deadline.
December 12th
Jack called me this morning—he’d just returned from Europe. Said he had something to discuss with me—sounded loving but mysterious. Please tell me, I said—I could use some Christmas cheer! Something in his voice made me think he’d met with the lawyer, had told Alice about us.
Asked me to meet him at the Four Seasons at 4:00. Thought this a strange choice at first, but then it cheered me (a public acknowledgment of our relationship?) Jack’s a habitué of the restaurant, after all.
Brutal cold this afternoon: leaden sky, wolflike wind that propelled me to the entrance. Checked my frozen face in the powder room; walked upstairs (long shallow steps) to the Grill Room—Jack in the prestigious corner booth (the one usually reserved for Philip Johnson).
A funereal hour for any restaurant, but especially for this one—pervasive beigeness devoid of milling power brokers. Tables being set by noiseless troops in androgynous uniforms; vacuum cleaner droning. A man at the bar, alone, hunched over his drink beneath the sculpture of bronze stalactites.
Jack stood up: the virile atmosphere of taupe and brown suits him. Thought he looked incredibly handsome—blond hair, beautiful gray jacket, keen smile. No kiss, of course—not here, in this bastion of restraint! Squeezed my hand; ordered white wine for us both.
Asked me how I was—told him I was well (this with a moment’s hesitation, which he didn’t seem to notice).
I never sleep well without you, he said. The tremolo in his voice I find so arousing. Told me Alice has been insisting on going out every night. “All those damn charity things.” Says he hates them.
But I wonder—I keep thinking of him at Christina’s—how at ease he seemed within the will-to-power of the drawing room.
Went on to say he’d always rather be with me. Then leave Alice, I said, and leave that world behind. Nothing in reply; I looked down at the thick white napkin and tablecloth.
Darling, he said. Look at me.
I asked him if he’d seen the lawyer. These things take time, he said.
I asked if he’d spoken with Alice.
Only shook his head. “You’ve got to trust me to decide when the time is right—I’m the only one who can make that determination.”
Told him he’d said that before; my annoyance exacerbated by his wordy language. Find myself battling undercurrents of anger and—for the first time—contempt. I admire decisiveness and utter commitment; it frightened me that here I saw neither.
He changed the subject. Asked about my work—the book on Joanna. How the research was going.
Told him that it had been very difficult: many of the original sources now refused to speak with me. That Cassel resented my trying to find the crucial letter, which I thought to be at Thistleton. (Described the folder and the messages that seemed to be contained within the sonnet—the clues that led to Kerrith’s house.) Told him—with a calmness I did not feel—about the meeting with Cassel. Only briefly mentioned discovery of sketch of nude in the study and that I thought it to be of Rosalind.
I finally admitted that Cassel refused to cooperate with the book.
“I’ve heard something to that effect,” Jack said—this took me aback! His tone is grave, deliberate—it shocks me.
I asked how he’d heard.
“It’s a small town. Things get around.”
I asked if Cassel had spoken with him about it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
Told him that Cassel knows about us—Jack and myself; Rosalind had told me.
She’s a dangerous, bitter girl, he said. And why would I ever believe her?
Had no real answer to that question. Within the Four Seasons—rational light, total order—it did seem absurd to believe her.
Jack went on to say he was concerned about me, concerned about the book. “Whether it’s the right thing for you to do, at this point of your career.”
Told him—tensely—that we’d already had that discussion. But did you listen, darling, he said.
Yes, I did listen. (Testily.)
“That’s why I wanted to see you today,” he said.
I looked at his startlingly blue eyes, Viking coloring, and thought how stupid, how naive, I’d been.
“Listen to me, sweetheart,” he said. “Unlike you, I know how New York works. I only speak out of love for you. You have no idea how powerful David Cassel is—I should never have encouraged you to write this book!”
Couldn’t face his eyes. “Don’t say that,” I said.
But he kept on: David Cassel will use his power against you, he’ll discredit you. In publishing, at the Journal. Every door will be shut just at the moment in your career when your options should be expanding. There are other people to write about, Liza—
But I won’t be intimidated! (This, fiercely.)
“But if the family of your subject objects to the book, why would you continue? It makes zero sense to me. (My hand in his, tightly). Isn’t it ruthless on your part—to persist?”
The word—ruthless—astonished me; the same word Cassel used.
“I’m only being professional,” I said. “I’m only fulfilling my commitment. That isn’t ruthless at all!”
And what if he sues you for libel?
I’ll get through it. (Swallowing hard as I say this.)
“It’s for you I worry, sweetheart. For your career.”
I gulped more wine; surely his fears were exaggerated. You’re taking this much too seriously, I told him.
“You’re dead wrong.” The expression in his eyes—steely, implacable—frightens me.
Told him I’d suffer the consequences—it’s my work, not his, after all. “And I’m not your wife!”
Noticed how this made him pause: “But I hope you will be my wife one day.”
“When that day comes, then we’ll see.” Another gulp of the soothing Montrachet.
At this he begs me not to do anything “self-destructive”: “If I didn’t love you, why would I be so concerned?” Caressed my thigh beneath the table; I fight my weakness—I love him to touch me and he knows it.
Darkness by then. People thronging the bar. Jack called for the check—we left the restaurant.
