The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [38]
“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