The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [46]
“The real issue, of course, is not my judgment, but this country’s commitment to Puritanism. It stifles creativity everywhere. Can you really tell me that the Neanderthals surrounding medicine are any less backward than those surrounding art? I simply choose to ignore them. I hope for the sake of the sick that you do as well.”
He was correct, of course. The Professor would never allow Revered Squires or Elias Schoonmaker to suppress his researches, so why should Eakins allow the trustees of the Academy of the Fine Arts to dictate to him? Still, the pursuit of science was intrinsically moral—art was more questionable.
Eakins’ argument also made me more curious about the true nature of the relationship of these three people. Their mutual ease and understanding might merely be friendship—how easily wealth mixed with art—but might also be something more. There was little reason to believe that they would hold more inhibitions in their sexual behavior than they had exhibited anywhere else in their lives. I tried to feel disapproving, but their mode of living was magnetic. What must it be like to live in almost total freedom? Unfettered by society’s conventions, where the very definition of morality is of one’s own making? I had always been taught that such a way of life would lead inexorably to wickedness, yet I felt a draw to this group that could easily overpower reason. Part of that draw, a terrifying large part, was the longing I was developing, deep and desperate, for Abigail Benedict.
“I’d like to show you another canvas,” Eakins said, urging me out of my seat and directing me to the far end of the studio. “I painted this one seven years ago, but I am sending it to Paris to be submitted to the Salon. I’d like your opinion.”
Before me was a painting of an elderly man wearing glasses, seated at a table, leaning over a large sheet of writing paper, completely absorbed in forming characters on the page. The subject was at once intense and serene.
“It is arresting,” I offered.
“Yes,” agreed the painter. “It is called ‘The Writing Master.’ The model is my father. As you can see, I am capable of painting clothed figures.” He gestured back to the table. “But come, Doctor. We must talk.”
After we were again seated, the painter, now quite calm, asked softly, “I wonder, Dr. Carroll, if we might ask your assistance in a matter of some importance?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I am at your service.”
“Thank you, Ephraim,” said Miss Benedict. She reached out and squeezed my hand. “I knew you would help.”
Excited as I was to feel Miss Benedict’s hand on mine, the gesture left me wondering just what I was about to be asked to do. Eakins noticed my expression and laughed easily. “Don’t worry, Doctor, it is nothing nefarious, although there is some delicacy involved. We would ask your discretion.”
“I believe I may be trusted with a confidence,” I replied. This explained the invitation to the studio. There was undoubtedly a professional question in the offing—drug addiction or venereal disease, most likely—but I waited for Eakins to tell me what his predicament might be. I was stung a bit at Miss Benedict’s lack of candor, but nonetheless pleased with the prospect of demonstrating professional sophistication in a room where I lacked sophistication in every other way.
But instead of the painter, it was Miss Benedict who spoke. “It concerns Rebecca Lachtmann … the subject of the portrait I showed you last evening.”
“Is Miss Lachtmann having a medical problem in Italy?” I asked, taken aback.
“Not exactly,” Miss Benedict replied. Her face, which had reflected only unease the night before, now showed grave concern, fear. “Rebecca does have a … situation … but she is not, I fear to say, in Italy. She has not, as far as I know, ever been to Italy.”
“Where is she then?”
“She is here in Philadelphia.