The Anatomy of Deception (12 page)

I also knew that Thomas Eakins and scandal were easy companions. He had been forced to resign three years ago as director of the Philadelphia Academy of the Fine Arts after he produced a fully nude male model for his female students to draw. After the outcry and his dismissal, the artist had been so distraught that he was sent to the Dakotas for a rest cure by Weir Mitchell himself. Upon his return, he had retired to the seclusion of his studio. His reputation had never fully recovered, although I had heard at the hospital that he had
recently been commissioned by some of Agnew’s students to create a portrait of their beloved professor.

Eakins’ notoriety notwithstanding, I found myself turning from the rowers and once again examining the portrait of the young woman. The eyes on the canvas seemed to be staring directly at me. The overall effect of the subject’s unwavering gaze was of slight incongruence, an imbalance that was almost certainly intentional. It made the face at once familiar and distant.

“Who painted this one?” I asked.

“I did,” replied Abigail Benedict.

“You? I didn’t mean to …”

“Not at all.” She spoke without a trace of annoyance. “Thomas is one of our great painters. I studied with him, as a matter of fact. As an additional matter of fact, it was he with whom I was dining at Barker’s two nights ago … when our paths crossed the first time.”

I wanted to respond, but could not turn my attention from the painting. I moved closer and then farther away, but the power emanating from the canvas did not diminish with distance. “The portrait is …” I searched for the right word.

“Thank you, Dr. Carroll, but I already know it’s good.”

Suddenly, I realized why I was having a difficult time turning away.

“Eakins replicates reality. You distort it,” I offered, “but in doing so, you create an effect more commanding.”

“Reality is unimportant.” There was an urgency in her voice that I had been unused to in women, but now reminded me of Simpson.
“Truth
is what an artist seeks. This is a wondrous age, Doctor. For the first time in centuries, we are not merely painting differently, but instead introducing an entirely new way to
see.”
As she spoke she moved her hands in broad strokes, as if holding a paintbrush to a spectral canvas. “Art, although Thomas is slow to appreciate it, is no longer merely an effort to reflect life, but to interpret it, to find truth
under the skin. Even more exciting is that, in doing so, painters have demanded that their audiences no longer be merely passive observers but, through their imaginations, participants in the process.”

“Anyone who can exhibit such ardor can hardly be engaged in an idle pursuit,” I noted.

Abigail Benedict reached out and her fingertips touched my cheek. The breath went out of me. “That is very sweet of you,” she said softly. “Albert doesn’t really mean what he says, you know. My brother is actually quite proud of my painting, but is intensely jealous of the freedom.”

“The freedom to create?”

“Yes, that. But also the freedom to live. He is the older. He feels his life was preordained. I do much as I please. It is sometimes … hard for him.”

A bell rang and I heard a servant announce dinner. As we returned to the drawing room, Hiram Benedict appeared at our side. He glanced at me as if I were a flea. Miss Benedict took his arm, much as she had taken mine. They made an unusual pair, the outsized, imperious banker and his bohemian daughter, but, whatever their differences, he obviously adored her and did not think me a suitable escort, even to fill a chair at a dinner for sixteen.

We made our way through a glass-roofed vestibule, which contained an enclosed goldfish pool, into a palatial dining room, even more opulent than the drawing room. Members of the seemingly limitless staff stood along the wall as we entered.

We took our places behind our chairs and I peered down at an array of silver as varied and extensive as instruments in a surgical tray, polished to an even higher sheen. I held out the chair for Miss Benedict. She and I were seated at the far end of the massive mahogany table, near her mother, her brother, and his wife. The Professor sat diagonally across at the other end, next to Hiram Benedict, with Mrs. Gross next to him. Jonas Lachtmann was seated opposite the Professor.

Dinner was a nearly three-hour affair. I believe I witnessed more food at the Benedict home that evening than I would have seen in a month in Marietta. The meal began with fried smelts with tartar sauce, turtle soup, another fish course, and then a meat course, a poultry course, vegetables, and salads, followed by a variety of desserts. There were at least six wines served. Conversation was light and social, as befitted mixed company. Notwithstanding her remark when we had been introduced, Miss Benedict did not ask me about modern medicine, but rather joined in the general banter.

When the desserts were done, Mr. Benedict suggested we adjourn to the drawing room for brandy and cigars, and that the ladies retire to the parlor. Everyone made for their respective destinations, although Miss Benedict made little secret of her distaste for the convention.

Once we had been served our brandies, it did not take the elder Benedict ten minutes to come to the point. “So, Osler,” he said, “have you decided for certain to leave us? Or might we be permitted to use our powers of persuasion to keep you in our wonderful city?”

This degree of bluntness would disconcert most, but the Professor was at home with direct conversation.

“I am flattered that you think enough of my abilities to want me to remain,” Dr. Osler said. “Whatever decision I make will not be easy or without regret. My associations here have been the most rewarding of my life. But the Johns Hopkins Hospital and eventually the medical school will be unique. The position offered me might easily be described as once in a lifetime.”

“We intend extensive improvements and expansion of the facilities here,” said Albert Benedict with a nod toward Schoonmaker. “If you remain, your degree of authority will be every bit as great as in Baltimore, perhaps even more so.”

“And in a city with far greater resources,” added Jonas Lachtmann.

“Will there be women in the student body in Baltimore?” interjected Elias Schoonmaker, and the room fell silent.

“Definitely so,” the Professor replied easily. “There will soon be any number of women doctors in America, Mr. Schoonmaker. We must give them the best training available.”

Schoonmaker was about to retort, “Not here,” when Mr. Benedict spoke over him. “A progressive notion, Dr. Osler. Quite in tune with the times.”

“Is it equally progressive to employ drug addicts?” Schoonmaker asked sourly. “It sounds to me that the Baltimore hospital will have no moral standards whatever, Dr. Osler.”

It was Agnew who responded. “Dr. Halsted has been cured, Mr. Schoonmaker. He is no longer dependent on drugs and will not be in the future. And let us not forget that he became addicted only because he insisted on experimenting on himself rather than on a patient. Local anesthesia will be a great boon to doctors and patients alike. Halsted was experimenting with a new drug called cocaine, an extract of the coca plant, to find the proper dosage.”

“He had no way of anticipating the effect,” the Professor added. “Coca leaves have been used for centuries as a medicinal agent, but it has only been in the last decade that we have succeeded in extracting the active agent. The drug continues to exhibit enormous promise. When Dr. Halsted discovered he had become addicted, he immediately checked himself into a hospital. As to his current condition, he has been living with Welch in Baltimore, and Welch has assured me that he has remained in perfect health.”

“That’s curious,” said Mitchell, frowning. “I saw him here in Philadelphia not two weeks ago.”

“Impossible,” replied the Professor.

“No. Not impossible at all. He was right on Market Street. We spoke briefly, and he told me that he had been doing some private consultations.”

“Ah, that explains it then, eh?” The Professor smiled. “I
was under the impression that he had already joined the Hopkins staff full-time.”

“Drug addicts are never cured,” Schoonmaker insisted. “We don’t need men like that. We have many fine surgeons on staff already.”

“Like Wilberforce Burleigh?” The words were out of my mouth before I knew it.

“Dr. Burleigh is an exemplary surgeon, young man,” Schoonmaker shot back. “He once performed eighteen successful operations in a single day. He also happens to be one of my closest friends.”

The Lord must truly be merciful because, at that moment, there was a knock at the door, which then instantly flew open to reveal Abigail Benedict in the doorway. She was wearing a wrap, bright red with long tassels, a blaze of color against the black dress. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’d like a walk in the garden. I’m going to borrow Dr. Carroll.”

No one objected, least of all me.

Miss Benedict led me through the halls out into a garden at the back of the house. It was thickly set with shrubbery and ornamental trees, pathways meandering through, all surrounded by a high brick wall. The air smelled of pine. A strong late-winter chill was about, but walking in the garden with Abigail Benedict had rendered me insensible to the elements.

She waited until we could neither be seen nor heard by those inside. Flickers of light from the house played across her face. “Fascinating, wasn’t it? Welcome to polite Philadelphia society.”

“You heard?”

“Elias would have been audible in New Jersey. He loathes modernity, an unfortunate point of view for a man seeking posterity by endowing a hospital. He’s never had to be polite to anyone, so he isn’t. Dr. Osler is hardly the first person he has repulsed with his behavior.”

“An odd choice to persuade Dr. Osler to remain here,” I offered, daring to show nothing of the attraction I felt for her.

“My father had little option. Elias insisted on being present. After all, it is his money.”

“Lachtmann too seems an ill-considered choice.”

Miss Benedict moved to the far side of an elm, even deeper into the shadows. “Jonas can actually be quite effective and even charming when he chooses to be.”

“He did not choose to be this evening.”

Miss Benedict smiled. Her lips seemed luminescent. “I believe I am in large part to blame. I infuriate him, but he is afraid to cross my father.”

“The portrait?”

“No, no. He detests the portrait, of course, but his is a far more powerful dislike.” Her bitterness was palpable. “Jonas holds me responsible for the moral dissolution of his daughter. Rebecca does not comport herself to the standards of a proper Philadelphia young lady, at least as defined by her father. That is why she is currently in Italy.”

“
Are
you responsible?”

“For her moral dissolution?” Miss Benedict laughed, as if at the absurdity of the term. “Actually, I am not, although it is not outlandish of Jonas to think so. The only difference between me and Rebecca is that I am open about my behavior and she is surreptitious.”

I was bewildered. “You mean that Miss Lachtmann was sent to Italy to paint?”

“To paint?” she asked incredulously. “Is that what you think?” She sighed. “No, Dr. Carroll, I do not mean to paint. I mean this.” With that, Abigail Benedict put a hand to my cheek, pulled me to her, and kissed me, deeply and rapturously.

She pulled back, studied my face. “You are an interesting man.”

“I want to see you again,” I said, the words coming out more as a gasp.

“Aren’t you moving to Baltimore?” she countered lightly.

“Baltimore is not far,” I replied.

“I suppose we shall find out just how far,” she said. “But if you wish to see me again, why don’t you call on me tomorrow? I’ll take you on an outing. Shall we say, about eleven?”

“Yes,” I replied eagerly. “By all means. But might I come by at one instead?”

“One? Ah, of course. It’s Sunday. You go to church.”

“Yes, I do. Perhaps you would care to join me?”

“One will be perfect,” she said.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, I ATTENDED
services at the Third Congregational Church. I had chosen this particular flock because of Reverend Powers. Rare among theologians, he mirrored the spirit of impassioned inquiry that I so admired in the Professor. His choice of subjects for sermons would have shocked Reverend Audette, who took a literal view of Scriptural commands, whereas Reverend Powers preferred that his parishioners consider the meaning of any passage they encountered. This enlightened approach to God’s teachings seemed more suited to my majority and present surroundings, just as Reverend Audette’s had been to my childhood in provincial Marietta.

This morning’s sermon was entitled “The Role of Conscience in Christianity.” Reverend Powers began by recalling the recent conflagration over slavery and noted that both those who held slaves and those who demanded abolition had cited Scripture to justify their views. After reading passages favored by each side of the question, Reverend Powers closed the Bible and leaned forward on the pulpit.

“They could not both be correct,” he observed, “for as Aristotle demonstrated, two opposites cannot exist simultaneously without one giving way. If that is true, then how is the Christian to choose the proper alternative? Does Scripture, which seems to support opposites, become irrelevant in our search?”

He had paused to allow this question to sit with the congregation. Then he intoned firmly, “No! Scripture is never irrelevant to moral questions, not if we employ it correctly. The word of God does not exist merely to allow us to browse until we discover a passage that we may extract to support a conclusion upon which we have already arrived. God’s word exists to inspire us to seek the truth within ourselves, to probe our
Christian consciences
in order to determine what is
right
. Human slavery, as every person in this room of God’s house knows,
was not right
. It is not then possible that Scripture could justify the enslavement of human beings.”

Reverend Powers concluded by instructing each of us to seek God’s truth, not just in Scripture, but in our daily lives. “God has embedded within each of us a power for good, knowledge of what is right and what is wrong. And it is only by allowing that which God has granted to flower, to be with us as we make our life decisions, that we may live as true Christians.”