The Anatomy of Deception (13 page)

I thanked Reverend Powers profusely as I left the church. He could not have known it but his sermon was of particular moment to me. The two aspects of my life that had the most meaning—the spiritual and scientific—were often seen to be in conflict in the modern world, and how the two could be reconciled had become an even greater controversy since the publication of Charles Darwin’s stunning work thirty years ago. (That the world owed the work to the decision by the Professor’s father to opt for Canada rather than the sea is one of history’s ironies.) I was as drawn to empiricism as to God but ever since I had become involved with the science of medicine, I had encountered a surprising degree of prejudice. A shocking number of otherwise intelligent people viewed the pursuit of natural science as an un-Godly act. The misguided Reverend Squires, who had founded the League Against Human Vivisection in his determination to prevent autopsy, was hardly the only example of blind rejection of knowledge
in the name of spirituality. There were even some who claimed that disease should not be treated and suffering not relieved, since each represented an expression of God’s will, which should not be interfered with by Man.

Reverend Powers’ sermon, however, had put a fresh perspective on the problem. When one introduced conscience into the question, it became a simple matter to determine whether or not any human pursuit was consistent with God’s dictates. Certainly, one needed look no further than Dr. Osler to find a man of science who lived God’s grace by seeking goodness and truth within him.

When I arrived at Rittenhouse Square, one of the large oak double doors was opened by a tall, pale-skinned, funereal servant who evoked a formally dressed Cadaverous Charlie, the Dead House attendant. When I identified myself, he stood aside, allowing for me to enter.

No one else acknowledged my arrival, nor was I ushered into a sitting room to pass the time. Instead, the servant slid away, leaving me to wait, hat in hand, for Miss Benedict to descend the stairs. This she did five minutes after my arrival, bounding down like a young boy. The energy with which she obviously embraced life was intoxicating. Instead of a dress, she wore green trousers, a pale blue man’s shirt, and a small cap common to the working classes, a mode of attire only possible if one were wealthy enough to avoid identification to the rank one evoked. I might have been scandalized if not for the knowledge that it was I who was the rustic, and she the cosmopolite.

At the bottom of the stairs, she leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek. It was in no way a match for the passion of her kiss in the garden, but when she touched me, I felt a dizzy surge from the memory of it.

“Do you have a carriage?” she asked.

I told her a brougham was waiting outside. I had thought
of engaging a hansom, but could not chance appearing unaware of the proper etiquette.

“Why was I left alone in the vestibule?” I asked. “Did your parents dislike me that much?” The feel of her lips had lingered, as the Cheshire cat’s grin.

“Mother actually liked you quite a lot.”

“That leaves ‘Father,’” I reminded her.

“Father doesn’t like anyone,” Miss Benedict said as we exited. “You’re in excellent company.”

When we had mounted the carriage, Miss Benedict gave the driver an address on Mount Vernon Street, which was almost due north and, I estimated, about twenty minutes ride from Rittenhouse Square.

“What is on Mount Vernon Street?” I asked.

“Since you expressed such an appreciation for Thomas’ work, I thought you should meet him.”

“Thomas? You mean Eakins?”

“I do,” she replied. “I thought it would be enjoyable for you. Doctors likely do not have much opportunity to see the inside of an artist’s studio. Think of this, then, as an operating room of a different sort. Consider it my contribution to your education.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Perhaps one day I can reciprocate and allow you to sit in on an autopsy.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, not seeming to appreciate that I had been joking. “Thomas has, you know. Sat in on autopsies, I mean. He is obsessed with the study of the human form.

“It is a great honor to be invited to the studio,” she continued. “But Thomas has been through some extremely trying times. The dismissal from his position at the Academy affected him quite deeply….”

“It was not entirely without cause,” I offered, and then immediately wished I could have the comment back. But instead of the irritation I expected, Abigail reacted with aplomb.

“I will grant you that Thomas is as naïve as to the sensibilities of polite society as you are,” she said. Point taken, I
thought, stung. “He could not believe that removing the loincloth from a male model in the presence of female art students would cause such a fuss.”

I decided quickly that even I would not have been that naïve.

“Before you pass judgment,” she added, anticipating my reaction, “you should know that after Thomas was dismissed, thirty-eight students resigned in protest. They established the Art Students’ League so that they could continue to study with him.”

“I’m sure he is a fine teacher,” I said.

“He is a brilliant teacher,” she replied. “In any event, he was so distressed that your friend Weir Mitchell sent him west for a ‘rest cure.’” Miss Benedict frowned. “The quack.”

“Mitchell is an excellent physician,” I countered, reflexively defending my profession. “There is no man more knowledgeable of nervous disorders.”

Miss Benedict sniffed. “He’s a quack. He thinks the brain functions like a kidney.”

We continued north, passing through an industrial area, then crossing railroad tracks into a residential neighborhood. Overnight, the weather had turned warmer, and the streets were bustling, men, women, couples, and families out for a Sunday stroll on a lovely, early spring afternoon. I could determine from their clothing that the area was prosperous but hardly rich. When we reached Mount Vernon Street, the brougham pulled up at a narrow and slightly shambling redbrick, four-story house that matched the address Miss Benedict had given the driver. As I perused the scene, I noted a solitary man at the end of the street who seemed to be simply enjoying a sunny day. He was hatless, with a handlebar mustache, and wore a short jacket and checked vest, and was made conspicuous by being the only person on the street not in motion.

I descended the carriage first and then extended my hand to help Miss Benedict down, but she ignored it and brushed
past me, skipping up the steps. A woman of about forty opened the door. She had a long but pleasant face, a trim figure, and was dressed in a paint-stained gingham dress. I was drawn to her large, quite expressive eyes, which were deeply brown. Her hair was disheveled and she wore no rouge or lip paint.

“Susan!” exclaimed Miss Benedict happily and the two women embraced.

“It’s so nice to see you, Abigail,” the woman replied, holding Miss Benedict at arm’s length and taking her in. “It’s been weeks. You look wonderful.”

“As do you, Susan,” said Miss Benedict. She gestured toward me. “This is Dr. Carroll.” I extended my hand as Miss Benedict added, “Ephraim Carroll, I’d like to introduce Susan Macdowell Eakins, Thomas’ wife and one of the finest painters in the United States.”

Susan Eakins ushered us into the foyer. The hall was long, narrow, and dark, and the entranceway minimally appointed. A parlor was to the left, with walls painted brown and wide-board floor planking rather than tiles, décor more common to farmhouses in Ohio than four-story homes in Philadelphia. The scent of gas mixed with a mustiness that I associated with aging.

On the walls hung five large paintings. Each was in the carefully detailed style of the rowers I’d seen at Miss Benedict’s, but only the first four seemed certain to have been rendered by the same hand: a western scene—cowboys, obviously painted during the trip to the Dakotas; two portraits; and finally, over the mantel, a provocative rendering of a group of nude men standing on a large rock ledge that extended over a pond. His dismissal from the Academy of the Fine Arts apparently had not cured Eakins’ need to shock.

The last painting, on the far wall, was of two seated women. Its background was darker, yet the faces and hands of both women seemed to have been illuminated by an unseen light from the left. It was similar to others, but at the same time different.

“That is Susan’s,” remarked Miss Benedict, as I walked forward to examine it. “It’s called ‘Two Sisters.’ Brilliant, is it not?”

Although I agreed heartily that it was certainly an arresting portrait, it did not, I thought, have the power of Abigail Benedict’s rendering of Rebecca Lachtmann.

Susan Eakins led us to the stairs, informing us that Eakins was in the studio. As we ascended, Mrs. Eakins told me that her husband had been raised in this house and, upon his return from studies in Europe, had actually engaged with his father in a written contract to lease the studio and receive room and board for twenty dollars per month. His mother had died some years earlier, but Benjamin Eakins still lived here, although the old man spent most his time in his rooms on the second floor.

The studio occupied the entire top floor. Huge windows set on a slant under high ceilings faced north and let in a profusion of light. The lower panels were attached to long pushrods so that they might be opened for ventilation. Although a breeze wafted through the studio, a smell of paint, mildly acrid but agreeable, permeated the large room. Unlike the downstairs hall where paintings were hung for individual effect, here virtually every inch of wall space was covered with paintings, works in progress, and a surprising number of photographs, the vast majority of which were of unclothed men and women. The artist’s obsession with the human form had certainly not been understated.

In the center of the room, coming forward to greet us, was Thomas Eakins himself. He was about my height, slim, with chestnut eyes, hair flecked with gray on top, close-cropped without a part, showing more gray at the temples. I guessed him to be in his mid-forties. A thin wisp of beard framed his face and an untrimmed mustache adorned his upper lip. Eakins’ features were, in fact, not dissimilar to those of his wife; they might be siblings as easily as spouses. Even upon first glance, there was a kinetic quality about the man that
made him seem to be vibrating even when he was standing still.

After Miss Benedict made the introductions, he extended his hand, which was stained with a variety of colors of paint. “It’s a pleasure, Dr. Carroll,” he said, his voice incongruously high-pitched. He glanced down at his fingers. “Don’t mind the paint. It’s dry.”

I told him how flattered I was to be asked to his studio and that I had admired “The Portrait of Professor Gross” on my visits to Jefferson Medical College.

“Thank you,” said the painter. “You are more discerning in that regard than the general public.”

“I am sure that the picture will eventually be recognized for its greatness,” I replied.

A thin smile darted across his face. “Perhaps you would be interested in one of my current projects.”

He directed me to a giant canvas in the center of the room—taller than I and almost twelve feet wide—held in place by block and tackle strung from the ceiling and supported by framing set about two feet off the floor. A number of smaller drawings were placed in front, as was a ladder to allow Eakins to reach the top. The painting was of Hayes Agnew in an operating theater, the portrait that had been commissioned by his students. The drawings were all preliminary sketches.

“It is not quite finished,” said Eakins, “but I think you may find it instructive.”

“Instructive” was hardly adequate—the painting was astonishing. If it was not finished, I could not tell where more work was needed. The detail was so remarkable that I felt as if I were present at the surgery. The composition depicted Agnew, a surgical knife held with thumb and first fingers of his left hand, supervising a mastectomy. Agnew himself had stepped back from the operating table and was lecturing to a packed gallery of students whilst an assistant did the actual cutting. Another assistant had just lifted an ether cone off the
face of the patient, an attractive young woman with dark hair whose healthy right breast was entirely exposed. Although the realism was remarkable, perhaps even more so than in “The Portrait of Professor Gross,” the visible breast, full and shapely, gave the work an undeniable prurience.

“They asked for a standard portrait,” said Eakins, “but I thought for seven hundred fifty dollars, they deserved something more elaborate. I only received two hundred dollars for the Gross painting, you know. Each of the students who commissioned this work is recognizable in the gallery.”

“We hung it just recently,” Susan Eakins said. “Because the canvas is so large, Thomas painted most of it on the floor, either sitting in a chair or cross-legged. I was astounded that he could attain proper proportion at such an angle to the work but, as you see …”

“Susie flatters me,” said Eakins, clearly pleased to be so flattered.

“More than once, I found him here in the morning, asleep at the foot of the canvas,” she informed us.