A DEAD IDEAL
A ROMANCE OF THE DISSECTING ROOM
I had been practising medicine for some years, and had grown tired of the hard daily grind of the general practitioner. I longed for a vacation, but medicine is a hard task mistress and with the busy physician economy of time is so essential that his so-called “rest” is usually merely a change of work. I felt that it must be so with me, and resolved to hie me to some of the eastern centers of medical teaching and take a post graduate course in several special subjects. Polyclinics and post graduate schools being then unknown, I went to New York and matriculated at one of that city’s famous schools, one which had attained a high reputation for practical bedside instruction and abundant clinical material.
It was with all the enthusiasm of a school boy, that I enrolled my name upon the college roster and settled down to earnest work in the hospital wards and dissecting rooms.
As I was desirous of mingling with my classmates as much as possible, and was not averse to a certain degree of practical economy, I formed a combination with three undergraduates, who were recommended to me as desirable associates, and became a guest of a medical students’ boarding house—an establishment characterized by abundant opportunities for the study of entomology and the effects of prolonged fasting upon the human body, rather than by the abundance and variety of its larder. As was the custom among medical students, we clubbed together and occupied a large single room—none too elaborately furnished, but very comfortable withal, and made rather attractive by a large, old fashioned fireplace.
My room-mates were most agreeable associates, although not altogether harmonious in tastes and methods of study. Two were young Southerners—men of superior attainments, but typic ladies’ men, and fond of social dissipation and excitement. Both were possessed of some means, and had adopted our mode of living because of social and bohemian instincts rather than from motives of economy. Time was an unimportant factor with them, hence they rarely suffered from over-study, although they were often the worse for the wear and tear of social dissipation. If ever there was a well matched pair of college cronies it was my young friends, Will Richardson and Charles Favell.
The fourth member of our circle, Harold Parkyn, was about my own age, and as different from our jovial room-mates as possible. He had been an artist, it seems, and an unappreciated one, which was no fault of his, for he had talent that fell but little short of genius. Despairing of success in his chosen profession and abhorring commercial pursuits, he had entered medicine at a rather late period in life.
I have rarely met a man so ill adapted by nature to medicine as was Parkyn. He was a fine, athletic, handsome fellow, with a clear cut, refined and classical face, and magnificent dark eyes which evidenced a temperament far too esthetic, and emotional faculties too exalted and sensitive to withstand the physical and mental strain incidental to intimate association with human suffering. His first visit to the dissecting room was harrowing to witness, and it was weeks before he made an attempt to qualify in practical anatomy. At his first surgical clinic he fainted outright. A large part of the disagreeable features of caring for the sick filled him with disgust. And yet, Parkyn was plucky; his was not a spirit to be easily discouraged, and he applied himself persistently to the task of subduing his finer feelings and acquiring the proverbial callosity of the medical student—an effort in which he most signally failed.
Parkyn was not only of a delicately sensitive nervous organization, but he was rather peculiar in his ways. Affable at times—when his chums were indulging in jollity—he was generally one of the most reserved and taciturn men I have ever met; especially was he unsocial in the presence of ladies. So noticeable was this peculiarity that the young women of the household had dubbed him “Old Crusty”—which disturbed his serenity not at all, even when Richardson and Favell, in a spirit of mischief and with great show of formality, adopted the sobriquet applied to him by the ladies. In grave and solemn caucus these young gentlemen decided that Parkyn was a confirmed woman hater, and deservedly doomed to die an old bachelor. Their favorite occupation was the reading of love letters which they pretended to have received, and the exhibition of photographs of pretty girls to “Old Crusty.”
Being a practitioner, and therefore concededly the oracle of our little student family, I was a sort of balance wheel to the party, standing between the occasional over-exuberance of Richardson and Favell on the one hand, and the extreme sensitiveness of Parkyn on the other.
One evening as we were all sitting before the fireplace enjoying our after-dinner pipes, Favell brought out from the recesses of his wonderfully productive pocket, a photograph of a most beautiful woman, and with a fine show of counterfeit embarrassment, exhibited it as “The picture of a very dear friend of mine, down home—just received this morning. Very charming girl—particular friend of my sister’s,” etc. etc.
The picture was certainly beautiful, and if Favell was telling the truth he had reason to be proud of the charming young woman’s acquaintance, but as I looked at the photograph, I fancied I remembered having seen it before, in a stationer’s shop. I made no comment, however, and Favell proceeded to launch the arrows of his wit at Parkyn.
“Say, old man, here is something that ought to stir your blood at last! How can you remain a woman hater and know that there are such charming creatures on this old planet of ours as Miss—Ahem!—the original of this photograph? Ah! your eyes are actually growing green with envy. You dear old stick, you! Has it been merely a slight touch of sour grapes after all? Tell me, old fellow, did you ever see anything so beautiful as this face? Did you ever know a lovelier girl?”
Parkyn rose from his chair, and with a mournful expression replied, “One only, my dear boy, and she—but pardon me,” he said, coloring up, “you well know that the subject of ladies is one which—bores me. I must leave such things to social butterflies like yourself and our mutual friend Richardson here. And, by the way, gentlemen, I must hie myself to a subject even more distasteful than that of woman in the abstract. I promised Professor Van Buren that I would finish that abominable dissection of the upper extremity to-night. You see that the trend of Favell’s conversation has driven me to extremities. Yes, thank God! to my last extremity.” Saying which he withdrew.
“Now, see here, boys,” I said, after Parkyn had gone. “You mustn’t tease our friend so outrageously. If I am not mistaken you hit him on a tender point just now, and he is far too sensitive and high-strung to always take your badinage so good naturedly as he did to-night. I suspect that Harold Parkyn is quite as human as the rest of us and that he—well, who knows that he may not be bitterly mourning over the grave of buried hopes? No, boys, you must let him alone. You may be inflicting pain upon him.”
“By Jove, doctor!” exclaimed Favell, “I never thought of that. I’ll just bet the dear old fellow has had a love affair. And it hasn’t turned out right; that’s what’s the matter. I’ll apologize to him as soon as he returns.”
“Yes, and a fine mess you’ll make of it!” said Richardson. “You would better let well enough alone. We’ll both have a little sense and delicacy hereafter. To tell the truth, I have for some time been a little ashamed of my part in our chaffing, and I’m only too glad to reform.”
Parkyn was very thoughtful for several days after the affair of the photograph, and even more reserved than usual. The boys kept their promises and did not again attempt to banter him. I fancied that he understood the studious politeness and affectionate consideration with which he was subsequently treated, although there was no comment.
Several weeks later, Parkyn and myself chanced to be alone together and, as is likely to be the case among young professional men, our talk drifted into a discussion of our aims and ambitions in life. In the course of the conversation I quite naturally commented upon the wide variance between Parkyn’s former profession and the one in the study of which he was then engaged.
“It has always puzzled me to understand, I said, how a man of your artistic temperament and admitted ability, could ever have deserted the profession of art for that of medicine.”
“Well,” replied Parkyn, “you have doubtless forgotten the fact which I long ago frankly stated to our mutual friends and yourself, that I was not highly appreciated by the public and finally despaired of success—not in making a living, for I could by dint of strong exertion do that—but in attaining the position in my profession which I felt was justly my due. I, myself, often wonder why I finally selected medicine as my field of labor, but I couldn’t sell groceries; the law wouldn’t do at all, and the ministry was out of the question, so there seemed to be nothing but medicine left.” Parkyn sighed, and remained for some moments dreamily gazing into the fireplace and listlessly poking at the glowing coals with the tongs.
“But, my dear fellow,” I said, “you have selected a profession that is nearly as difficult as art, so far as winning fame and financial success is concerned, and moreover, one which has by comparison no features of attractiveness. You will pardon me if I also say that medicine is a profession to which your sensitive organization is but poorly adapted.”
Parkyn arose and nervously paced the floor. He finally paused and facing me said, “Doctor, I realize the truth of what you say only too keenly, and what is more I detest your profession so far as I have gone. I have, however, determined not only to overcome my repugnance to it, but to blunt by sheer force of will the peculiarities of organization to which you have alluded. Distasteful as it is, medicine is delightful by comparison with the hell into which my chosen profession, art, finally precipitated me. Ye gods, man! You do not realize what—but pshaw! this is not interesting to you, and besides, I never talk of myself.”
“See here, Parkyn,” I said, “it might be far better for you to talk about yourself a little, especially to one who understands you—as I think I do. I have often suspected that there was a story connected with your change of profession and from the best of motives I am anxious to hear it. Come now, old man, out with it—I am as interested and sympathetic as you please, and as deep and silent as a well.”
Parkyn reflected for a moment and then replied, “I am quite sure you understand me much better than most of my friends, but I do not fancy being thought ridiculous, even by you, and my story might seem absurd to a man of your philosophic and rather lymphatic temperament.”
“Oh, nonsense!” I exclaimed, “I’m not so lymphatic as you seem to think. Philosophy puts a check on the impulses of the heart, while art lets them roam fancy free, yet human nature is the same in both philosopher and artist, so fire away, old fellow; I’m all ears—evolutionary relics you know.”
Parkyn leaned languidly against the corner of the mantel, his chin resting upon his hands and began:
“The details of my career up to the date of the circumstances that impelled me to leave the profession for which nature adapted me, are commonplace. My life was that of the average poor boy of artistic tastes and talents, who fights his way to the attainment of a thorough professional training. By hard work, I succeeded in getting enough money together to enable me to study with the most celebrated masters of Europe. I finally settled down in my native city, Boston, and after many trials and vicissitudes, was in due time in a fair way to earn a respectable living, although fame was by no means beating her angelic wings against the windows of my studio. It was too near the roof, I fear,” and Parkyn smiled somewhat bitterly.
“It so happened that the society of artists of which I eventually became a member, instituted a yearly exhibition of paintings patterned after the Paris Salon. As an act of extreme condescension I was especially invited by the directors of the exhibition to contribute. The invitation was gladly accepted and I promptly began casting about for a suitable theme—a matter that often constitutes the most difficult part of the artist’s labors. The department of painting in which I was particularly adept was the study of the nude and I quite naturally resolved to produce something in the line of my favorite work. And then came the search for a model.
“Contrary to the popular notion, a satisfactory model is a very scarce commodity. The human form divine rarely stands the keen professional criticism of the eye artistic. A picture is oftener the composite of several models than the actual delineation of one. The arms and shoulders of one, the feet of another, and the torso of still another may be required. Several months passed away and although the time for the exhibition was dangerously near, I had not yet found what I sought. As you may imagine, I was in despair, for having set my heart upon a certain subject for my picture, I was loth to abandon it, for another of less interest. And now comes the strangest part of my story—the part which I fear is hardly materialistic enough for you, my dear doctor,” and Parkyn hesitated.
“Go on; go on!” I exclaimed.
“I had always been an ardent student of the classics, and was in the habit of reading for an hour or two before retiring. In selecting a book almost at random from the modest little collection of odds and ends—by courtesy my library—I happened one evening to get hold of an old treatise on mythology. While reading of the gods and goddesses therein described, and admiring the artistic opportunities afforded by the social circle in which the heathen deities moved, I fell asleep in my chair, and dreaming, found that for which I had vainly sought in my waking hours—my model.
“You as a practical physician will doubtless attribute my dream to the direct impression made upon my brain by the character of the book I had been reading, and I must admit that my experience had certain features which would justify such an opinion, yet I feel nevertheless that my dream model had a basis of reality.
“I seemed to be in the midst of a vast garden—the most beautiful I had ever seen. The flowers and shrubs surpassed all forms with which I was familiar. Hovering over the rare and many hued exotics were gorgeous butterflies and humming birds, to which no description could possibly do justice. The air was redolent with the odor of the blossoms and vibrant with the songs of rare birds and the melodious strains of unseen musical instruments. ‘Surely,’ I thought, ‘this must be Paradise.’
“As I stood gazing enraptured upon the sensuous things surrounding me I became conscious that I was not alone. The garden was peopled with forms, among which I recognized some of the more familiar of the mythologic deities whom I had just left within the covers of my book. As these luminous beings passed and repassed me, I perceived that there was some central object of attraction. They appeared to be gathering about a beautiful fountain that stood, half hidden by flowering plants and foliage, in the center of the garden. Feeling that my human curiosity was justified by that which even the celestial beings about me were exhibiting, I approached the spot and there beheld a scene which astonished and delighted me beyond measure.
“Just within the spray of the fountain that glittered and sparkled with surprising brilliancy, showing combinations of colors which I had never before seen, was a golden, shell-like couch. Upon, or rather within this couch, lay the sleeping form of a most beautiful woman! Gazing upon this lovely creature, I was not surprised that the strange beings about me were attracted by her beauty. My own artistic eye was fairly entranced. I saw at once that the object of my admiration was different from the beings who peopled the celestial garden. She was human—although the loveliest of womankind.
“My first feeling of mingled awe and admiration was soon replaced by a most gratifying sense of triumph. I had found what was to me a much desired object—a perfect model for my picture! With feverish haste I drew sketch book and pencil from my pocket and endeavored to outline the only perfect female form I had ever seen.
“As is usual in the dream state, I found that I had lost all power of doing those things which were part of my daily life. I could not draw a single line; my artistic talent and indeed, even the power of voluntary motion necessary in drawing, was wholly gone. You may imagine how I despaired. Everything was real to me, and my inability to sketch the model for which I had so long sought in vain, was most distressing, so distressing that I awoke.
“I was greatly impressed by my dream, but inclined to smile at the keen disappointment that I felt on awaking. The peculiar circumstances under which I had found my model were naturally aggravating, but I consoled myself with the reflection that dream pictures are not very substantial after all, and that even though the sketch which I attempted had been made, my sketch book would have been rather evanescent. It certainly would have been lost on the way back to earth.
“Whether because of the vivid impression the vision of the female loveliness made upon me, I cannot say—you are a practical psychologist and should know more of such matters than I—but my dream repeated itself in every detail the following night. Even my unsuccessful endeavor to sketch the beautiful woman was faithfully reproduced, and I again awoke to the consciousness of keen disappointment at the loss of a long sought artistic opportunity.
“A detailed reproduction of a dream, is as you know, not common, but I felt intuitively that a further repetition would quite likely occur and when I retired on the second night following the original dream, it was with a fixed determination to so impress the vision of loveliness I had seen upon my mind, that I could from memory alone, utilize the model which had come to me in such a strange fashion.
“The wished for dream occurred precisely as on the two previous nights, and I remember making a most earnest endeavor to photograph the wonderful model upon my memory—an effort in which I was only too successful. When I awoke, my model was so vividly pictured in my mind that the work of reproducing her upon canvas was no more difficult than if her living form had been actually before me.
“And then came the disaster of my life. It was the story of Pygmalion and Galatea over again. I began my work with the enthusiasm of the artist, and completed it with the ardor of the man. I fell in love with my own creation! The self-confessed misogynist, who had never been susceptible to the real in womankind, became enslaved by an ideal from dreamland which my brush had metamorphosed into something material. I finally became intoxicated with the idea that my model must herself have a material being; that the feminine perfection I had seen in the vision was but the dream picture of a real personage—a fair woman who actually lived in the flesh!
“My picture was done! It was destined to be my last and, like the song of the dying swan, it was my masterpiece. But I had no longer a thought of the exhibition. I became infatuated with the idea that through some occult and mysterious influence I had had the opportunity of utilizing as a model the fairest of womankind. It was not by her own volition that she became my model. To hang her picture at the exhibition would be a crime. The most beautiful model in the whole world should not be gazed upon by the vulgar herd. She was mine, and mine alone. She was real; she lived, and one day we should meet, and then—
“Ah, me! Was it not thus that Aphrodite breathed the spark of life, the material essence of reality into the ivory form of Galatea? Such is the power of that worship of the ideal that the Philistine calls love, over the human heart!
“There is little more to be told. My picture became a shrine at which I worshipped by day and dreamed by night. Its possession was happiness. The failure to find the original was the acme of misery. I lost all interest in the art that had created the painting, and the very thought of devoting the talent which had developed my ideal to subjects that must ever be less worthy became abhorrent to me. My all of art, my all of life, my loftiest aspirations were there in the beautiful painting, the model for which had come to me in my dreams.
“Ah, my dear doctor!” exclaimed Parkyn, as he extended his hand imploringly towards me, “do not laugh at me. Be something more than a man of science, something more than a materialist, and do not discourage me when I say that I know that my ideal lives, know that somehow, somewhere, I am to meet her!
“You have heard my story, my dear friend. You are the first to whom I have told it, and shall be the last.”
“My dear Parkyn,” I said, when my friend had finished his story, “the very essence of materialism itself, should respect the artistic and emotional nature that could develop such an experience as you have had. I am, myself, by no means so materialistic as you suppose. We have not yet solved the mysteries of psychology. We know nothing of the workings of human affinities, and there are those, even among us men of science, who are not altogether blind to the possibilities of the occult. Men have been shattered upon the rocks and shoals of ideality before, and will be again. Not all could have so pure and fair an ideal as you have described. Your vision was extraordinary, and although as a physician I might descant to you on the relation of over-work and lack of exercise to figments of the imagination, still as a man, and one in whom the finer sensibilities are not yet dead, I must acknowledge that I not only sympathize with you, but I—well, I myself suspect that there is somewhere a substantial foundation for your dream. It is by no means impossible that you may one day find your model, and, my dear fellow, I sincerely hope you will.”
Parkyn grasped my hand warmly, and stood in silence for a moment, then, with an expression of gratification and happiness such as I had never before seen on his face, he said slowly:
“You do, indeed, understand me, doctor. Your medical philosophy is tinctured with just enough of the fire of romance, your heart has just enough of the emotional attributes of the true artist, to enable you to be something more than a mere compounder and prescriber of drugs. I understand now, why you have a penchant for psychology. Wise is he who hath read the chapter on hearts in the book of human life!”
The end of the college term was drawing near, and even Favell and Richardson had settled down to something like earnest work preparatory to examinations. I had just finished my dissections, as had my room-mates several weeks before, hence had no occasion to visit that gloomy and dismal room above stairs known as the hall of anatomy. When, therefore, we heard one day of a marvellously interesting subject that had just been brought over from Blackwell’s Island, our interest was not especially excited. The dissecting room is by no means haunted by students who have finished their prescribed course in anatomy. It seems, however, that one of Favell’s friends had induced him to go up to the dissecting-room one morning to inspect the anatomic wonder, which I had understood somewhat vaguely, was the body of a remarkably beautiful woman. Parkyn, Richardson and myself were just preparing to go to dinner, meanwhile wondering what had become of the ever-hungry Favell, when that worthy broke into the room in a state of great excitement, crying, “Say, boys, you just ought to see the subject that’s come in from the Island! Gee, whiz! but it’s a beauty—the handsomest thing in the shape of a woman that ever was born! Why, half the artists and all the newspaper men in New York have been up to see it. They’re all crazy over it. You boys must go up and look at it to-night, and if you don’t say that body is the most beautiful thing you ever saw, I’ll buy the dinners for the crowd. I mean you, especially, Parkyn. I suspect that you are much cleverer than any of those daubers who have seen it, and I know you’ll revel in the beauties of what might have been an artist’s model.”
Richardson and myself promptly agreed to visit the nine days wonder, but it was with extreme difficulty that I induced Parkyn to accompany us. When he did finally yield to my entreaties he turned a deaf ear to my urgent request that he take some sketching materials with him.
“You well know, doctor,” he said, “that I have reformed. I never sketch. Sketching is a lost art so far as I am concerned. You forget, my dear friend—”
I suddenly remembered, and was silent. I alone understood the sentiments that inspired his refusal.
Evening came, and our little party proceeded to the chamber of horrors which, as I supposed, Favell’s boyish nonsense had converted into a mortuary of dead female beauty. I more than half suspected a practical joke. My young friend was much given to such diversions.
Arriving at the dissecting room, we found a large congregation of men standing about one of the tables. Here and there I could see several who, sketch-book in hand, were busily at work utilizing what they evidently considered an artistic opportunity. Favell and Richardson, boylike, pushed their way through the crowd, while Parkyn and I leisurely brought up the rear. I heard the demonstrator of anatomy say—
“Well, gentlemen, we must begin our dissection. We have already devoted too much time to sentiment.”
As the professor poised his gleaming scalpel over the body, Favell exclaimed, “Wait just a moment, sir, please, here comes Parkyn.”
The professor, with whom the cultured and artistic Parkyn was a favorite, stayed his hand, and with knife upraised, waited. The crowd made way for my friend, and I stepped aside to allow him to pass ahead of me.
There are some events which are so replete with action and dramatic excitement that no one, however observing, can faithfully describe them. Note upon this point the conflicting testimony of disinterested eye-witnesses in murder trials. Such was the scene which followed the introduction of Parkyn to the presence of that body.
There was a yell like that of a maniac, a swift rush, the collision of two bodies, a heavy fall! As I sprang quickly into the midst of the swaying, trampling, excited crowd about the table, the demonstrator, pale and frightened, was just rising from the floor, his scalpel still in his trembling hand and his face cut and bleeding where his assailant had struck him in the first mad rush. Parkyn was still lying on the floor, and on endeavoring with the assistance of several students to raise him to his feet, I saw that he was insensible. Upon his temple was a deep, jagged gash where his head had come in contact with the corner of the table.
Temporary emotional insanity in a man of highly wrought nervous organization was the universal verdict, and it was with genuine sorrow and regret that poor Parkyn’s fellow students took him to the hospital, apparently in a lifeless condition.
But Parkyn did not die—his skull was not fractured. This was very fortunate, in the light of subsequent events, for he developed symptoms of meningitis, and hovered between life and death for many weeks. I remained in the city to care for him and was a proud and happy man when I was able to pronounce him out of danger.
How poor Parkyn raved as his fever and delirium rose! No one but myself knew the story of his wild, ecstatic visions and apparently erratic talk—and I said nothing.
During his illness I had occasion to open Parkyn’s trunk. While rummaging about in search of his wearing apparel, I found the pictured dream of his artist days. I knew then how powerful was the shock that made my poor friend, in intent, at least, a murderer. I care not what the world may say of the vagaries of foolish old doctors and the maunderings of aged, would-be philosophers; I care not who may doubt;—I held in my hands the picture of the beautiful subject of the dissecting hall. Beautiful beyond the power of pen or tongue to portray, realistic to a living, breathing, sentient degree, I beheld the portrait of the original of the lifeless clay which was the central figure of the romance of the dissecting room.
When Parkyn recovered from his illness his mind was a blank, so far as his artistic training and the romance of the picture and corpse were concerned. I concealed the picture, deeming it unwise to revive dangerous memories in his mind. It remained in my possession for several years. I kept it hidden because it seemed a sacrilege to permit it to be gazed upon by the eyes of the commonplace. My office was finally destroyed by fire, and I confess that I was not sorry when I discovered that the trunk which contained the painting was not among the properties saved from the flames.
Parkyn became a plodding practitioner in a little country town in New York State. I visited him some years later, and found that his ideals were represented by a short, dumpy, motherly, little red-headed wife and half a dozen tow-headed, freckle-faced youngsters that looked for all the world like turkey eggs and jack o’ lanterns.