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.