The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [37]
The second painting was a portrait of a young woman with fair hair, head and shoulders only, set against a darkened background. Whereas the first work was remarkable for its realism, this canvas used broader swatches of color and was therefore more suggestive. The subject of the portrait was obviously quite beautiful, although the artist seemed to be attempting to capture a resolute mood, a combativeness that I found both jarring and arresting. There was something else, however, something …
“Does the painting shock you, Doctor?” Miss Benedict asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“Who sat for this portrait?” I asked.
“It’s Rebecca Lachtmann,” she replied. “Jonas’ daughter.” The disquiet she had exhibited in speaking with her brother and Jonas Lachtmann had returned.
“Rebecca Lachtmann?” I repeated. “Your friend who’s on holiday in Italy? Are you sure?” I cursed that the cadavers in the Dead House had been removed before I could get a close look at the young girl.
“Am I sure she’s my friend or am I sure she’s in Italy?”
“Italy,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied evenly. “I am quite sure. Do you know her?”
“No,” I said, drawing back from the portrait, relieved. “I thought for a moment I might, but I couldn’t.”
“All right then, Dr. Carroll,” said Miss Benedict, “if you are sufficiently recovered, which of these paintings do you prefer?”
“Well, they’re quite different,” I began, looking at each more carefully, “both excellent in their own way … but I believe I would choose the first.”
“Bravo, Dr. Carroll. You have chosen the work of one of America’s foremost artists. That was painted by Thomas Eakins.”
I knew of Eakins, not for scenes of rowers, but for his infamous medical painting, “The Portrait of Professor Gross,” which depicted an actual bone resection performed by Samuel Gross, late father-in-law of the Professor’s dinner companion this evening. It was a huge canvas, over six feet wide and eight feet high, and had been completed thirteen years earlier to be exhibited at the national centennial. At the time, the painting had so scandalized Philadelphia for its excessively realistic portrayal of gore and suffering that the overseers of the exposition had refused to display it. The patient in the image was etherized, with a long retracted incision in his left leg, Gross, his hand wet with blood, standing over him holding a scalpel. The patient’s mother could be seen cringing pathetically in the shadows. Scandal or no, for its realism and unflinching portrayal of a surgeon at work, “The Portrait of Professor Gross” was now the most well-known painting of its kind in the nation. The artist himself had attended the surgery and had included himself in the composition. Mrs. Gross’ late husband was visible in the gallery as well.
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