The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [42]
“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.