The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [29]
“But less culpable than the women …”
“No,” I said, the vitriol in my response containing a measure of self-reproach. “More.”
“A noble sentiment, Ephraim, but you are nonetheless misguided,” Simpson said patiently, but with frustration, sounding like Dr. Osler lecturing the callow Farnshaw. “The correct answer is neither more nor less. Women are neither inherently the precipitants of sin nor too weak and fragile to resist it. That is the purpose of this settlement—to show women who have been forced to endure the scorn of society that they are worthy and may take a place with honor. That they have not ‘fallen,’ regardless of who might say or think otherwise.” She placed her tea on the table and rose from her chair. “Would you like to see the evidence?”
Simpson guided me up the stairs and, for the next thirty minutes, I received a tour of the remarkable institution. The top floor contained sleeping quarters for eight women and their children. The bedrooms were small, but allowed for privacy and self-respect. The second floor contained two rooms set aside for learning and a large common room where the children could play together. The rear of the first floor contained a kitchen and dining area and, set in the corner, a surprisingly modern medical facility. Simpson was greeted by everyone we encountered with a mixture of warmth and deference.
When I expressed my admiration for whoever had begun such a progressive establishment, Simpson surprised me by reacting with venom.
“But eight women, Ephraim. Only eight. There are thousands who should be able to avail themselves of our services. Do you have any idea of what it is like for a woman who finds herself in such a predicament? A woman without means? What choices has she? She may remain at her home and live with disgrace, never marrying because she is considered tainted by other men. In many cases, her baby will be torn from her by her own family, given to an orphanage in an effort to expunge the shame. She can attempt to hide her disgrace by leaving home to have her baby and giving it to an orphanage herself, then return to live a lie and wonder for the rest of her life what has happened to her child. She can move to a new town, have her baby, and try to pass herself off as a widow. For the rich or the truly disreputable, there is abortion, the most loathsome option of all. Each option is ghastly. Each option is a lie. We try and provide an alternative that is not … for just eight.”
“But surely your eight can be a start,” I said. “A model on which other like institutions may be established.”
“That is our hope. Otherwise …”
“You are the physician here?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I provide medical services.”
“Does Dr. Osler know?”
“Oh, yes. In fact he has contributed to our cause, most generously, I might add. In addition, he has come here often to help with medical problems that are beyond my capability.”
“How did you come to be involved?”
“A patient,” she said tersely.
I opened my mouth to inquire further, but she asked instead, “But please tell me. Do our residents remind you of the fallen women in Chicago?”
“I swear before the Almighty that I will never use that term again.”
“The Almighty will be grateful,” she replied. “I would like to hear about your time there, though. Did you enjoy private practice?”
Now that Simpson had revealed something of herself, she was asking me to do likewise. I wanted to, wanted to more strongly than I would have thought, but, as always, feared the consequences of revelation. Nonetheless, I resolved to try.
“There was little to enjoy, I’m afraid. I practiced on the West Side for three years, apprenticed to a doctor named Jorgensen. Jorgie, everyone called him. He was about sixty, drank quite a bit, and was in need of someone to help out and eventually take over his practice. Our patients consisted entirely of working people and immigrants.