2
DR. PÉAN’S CLINIC & A SIDEWALK CAFÉ
OCTOBER 14
A large rectangular window flooded the operating theater with brilliant white light. Jules Émile Péan stood erect, dressed to perfection and dramatically posed, like an actor in the spotlight about to declaim his soliloquy to a silently anticipating audience. Universally acclaimed as one of the world’s greatest surgeons, Péan occupied the Olympian summit of the French medical profession. Before him stood four acolytes, young physicians hand-picked by the master to assist in his most daring and spectacular operations. Among the chosen few was Toulouse-Lautrec’s cousin, Tapié de Céleyran, an admirer of the Daimler automobile exhibit at the Exposition.
The acolytes hovered over an operating table supporting a woman in her early thirties, her nakedness covered by a white sheet. A classically educated witness might have compared the young woman to Iphigenia on the sacrificial altar. But unlike the tragic Greek princess of legend, this woman was not there to be slaughtered, but rather to be cured. An anesthetist sat beside the patient to the right of the table, one hand on her pulse, the other holding a chloroform mask.
The audience was a privileged group of physicians and surgeons, but there was an interloper among them: Toulouse-Lautrec. The artist had been attending the surgeries at Péan’s invitation, having been introduced by his cousin, Dr.Tapié. Like most, or perhaps all, celebrities, Péan was a savvy self-promoter, and he figured Lautrec’s drawings would provide good publicity for his professional services, not to mention a record for posterity.
The acolytes wore clean, white operating coats, but the high priest simply tied a towel around his neck to shelter his immaculate waistcoat from spattered blood. Thus accoutered, the stocky surgeon looked like a gourmand about to crack a lobster. Péan did not follow Pasteur’s Germ Theory, nor did he countenance Listerism, but he possessed a practical, commonsense belief in personal hygiene and cleanliness in surgery and the clinic that kept his post-operative infection rate reasonably low.
“Gentlemen,” announced Péan, “the diagnosis is Uterine Fibroids; the procedure Vaginal Hysterectomy.” With that, the surgeon chose a scalpel from among a sparkling array of instruments set out on a white cloth-draped table.
Toulouse-Lautrec observed and recorded the procedure the way he rendered the dance at the Moulin Rouge. His brilliant mind, curiously active brown eyes, and deft, charcoal-wielding hand operated swiftly and efficiently on the sketching paper, mimicking Péan’s audacious precision. As he worked on his sketch, Lautrec marveled at the machine-like functioning of the surgical team as they applied clamps and forceps without a scintilla of time or motion wasted.
Lautrec had barely completed his sketch when the diseased uterus and cervix lay in a pan. Péan removed his bib, washed his hands, and rolled down his sleeves, leaving the clean-up and dressing of the surgical wound to his assistants. Soon, two attendants arrived with a hospital trolley to wheel the patient out of the operating theater.
The drama over, most of the spectators filed out, but a few milled around while discussing the operation. One doctor remarked, “Péan is a virtuoso of the knife sans pareil. He operates on his patient the way Sarasate plays his violin.” “I agree, doctor,” chimed in another. “It’s one thing to do a neat job of surgery. But to remove a woman’s reproductive organs with such élan, such panache, is a mark of true genius.”
Lautrec closed his sketchbook, put away his charcoal sticks, and was about to leave when Dr.Tapié, who was in conversation with Péan near an easel upon which hung an anatomical drawing of the female lower abdomen, gestured for the artist to join them. As Lautrec approached, the great surgeon smiled broadly at the painter.
“Well, Monsieur, did you obtain a good study of our operation?”
“Yes, doctor, I believe I did. Would you care to take a look?”
“Of course, Monsieur; I’d be honored.” Péan held out his well-scrubbed hand and received the sketchbook. He examined the drawing with a critical eye, then smiled and returned it. “That’s splendid, Monsieur. You know, I was just saying to your cousin Tapié, ‘Monsieur de Toulouse-Lautrec has observed and sketched so many of my operations I wouldn’t be surprised if he could perform one himself.’”
Lautrec laughed, and the doctors laughed with him.
From Péan’s clinic Lautrec took a cab to a popular sidewalk café on the Rue Lepic, not far from his studio. There he joined his friend and fellow artist, Émile Bernard, at a small marble-topped table set up on the sidewalk under a fluttering yellow awning. The day was sunny, warm and pleasant under a clear blue sky. A variety of horse-drawn vehicles clip-clopped and rumbled up and down the cobblestones; a persistent conversational buzz pervaded the café, emanating from its diverse clientele—bohemians, bourgeoisie, working men and women, tourists, and flâneurs.
Lautrec and Bernard drank coffee and pastis. As they talked, Lautrec doodled on the tablecloth. His subject was a stocky, balding man with mutton-chop whiskers and a stained bib round his neck. The man was slurping his lunch, an immense bowl of onion soup. The man bore a remarkable likeness to Péan. Lautrec’s purplish lips grinned wryly as he drew objects floating in the soup that resembled the woman’s extirpated organs.
Bernard, a thin, intense young man in his early twenties with a thick shock of brown hair and slight beard, eyed the tablecloth caricature. “So, you attended another of Péan’s surgeries. Frankly, I find the subject morbid and rather distasteful.”
Lautrec stopped doodling and confronted his friend with a quizzical squint. “Morbid and distasteful, you say? Leonardo and Rembrandt attended dissections, and Gericault studied guillotined heads and cadavers at the Morgue. I assure you, my dear Émile, we artists can learn something of the human animal by witnessing its evisceration.”
Bernard made a face, registering his disgust. He changed the subject. “I’ve news from Theo; Vincent’s making progress at St. Remy. He’s working again.”
“I’m glad to hear it, though it’s his work that put him there. Rather, I should say his work and a host of other things, among them metaphysics, mysticism, hashish, absinthe, whores, the clap, rejection—and Gauguin.”
Bernard was accustomed to his friend’s cynical observations, and typically let them pass without comment. “Anyway, I’m glad to hear Vincent’s doing better. Theo worries too much about his brother and he has his own troubles, with a family to support and his own poor health.”
“Life’s no joke, Émile. We all have our crosses to bear in this vale of tears.”
Bernard used the biblical reference as an opening to a topic much on his mind of late. “Vincent and I corresponded on the subject of religion and the use of symbolism in modern art. In one of his letters he wrote something immensely profound, so much so I’ve committed it to memory: ‘Christ alone, of all the philosophers, magicians, etc., has affirmed eternal life as the most important certainty, the infinity of time, the futility of death, the necessity and purpose of serenity and devotion. He lived serenely, as an artist greater than all other artists, scorning marble and clay and paint, working in the living flesh. In other words, this peerless artist, scarcely conceivable with the blunt instrument of our modern, nervous and obtuse brains, made neither statues nor paintings nor books. He maintained in no uncertain terms that he made . . . living men, immortals.’
“Until now, I’ve looked for new styles, techniques, forms of expression suitable to our modern age. But I was wrong. What we really need is a new substance, a new essence in our art, to portray beauty and truth and to use our skill to transform souls. I believe that religious symbolism is the way forward. Not the old symbols of the Church, but something different that attempts to see modern life through the eyes of God, or at least as we conceive God would see it, and to imitate Him in the transformative, creative process as well.”
Lautrec almost snorted, “Rubbish!” but he checked himself. Instead he replied coolly, “That’s a fine ambition, and I wish you well. But as you k
now, I’m not religious and I certainly do not see the world through God’s eyes anymore than I see invisible, transcendent beings from the moon. For unlike God, assuming He exists, I’m mortal, changeable, fallible, and ignorant. I see the world with the keen, trained eyes of an artist who just happens to be a misshapen, ugly, dwarf. I make an accurate record of what I observe on the streets, in the dance halls, brothels, café concerts, in the surgery and morgue. What I see might be the work of God or the Devil, but that’s really of no consequence to me. It simply is what it is.”
Bernard knew that an argument with the skeptical Lautrec would prove futile, or worse. Disputes among artists were often vicious and destructive; Gauguin and Van Gogh were a tragic example. Rather than pick a fight, he asked about Virginie Ménard. “Henri, I’ve begun work on a new project, and I’d very much like to use Mademoiselle Ménard. I know she’s modeled for you in the past. I’ve gone to Cormon and checked with her concierge as well, but she seems to have disappeared. Have you seen her lately?”
“I saw her a few nights ago at the Moulin Rouge, but I’ve not seen her since,” he replied matter-of-factly. “A couple of rich American women were there that evening. As a matter of fact, they told me they liked my portrait of Virginie. I thought I was about to make a sale, but they seem to have disappeared too. Anyway, have you asked Zidler or some of his girls at the Moulin? They may know Virginie’s whereabouts.”
“Thanks, Henri, I’ll try them.”
“Well, I wish you luck. These lorettes are free, easy, and unpredictable. She could be living it up in Deauville with a rich Marquis, or sleeping it off in some hole with an apache.”
Émile frowned and shook his head. “Virginie’s not like that, Henri. That’s why I want her for my painting. I see her as an angel, a saint, or the Blessed Virgin Herself.”
Lautrec said nothing. He smiled knowingly, downed his pastis, and called for another round, paying for both.
Bernard thanked his friend. He liked Lautrec and admired his work, morbid and depressing as it was. But he often wondered: Why must he always be so damned pessimistic?
3
THE GRAND HOTEL TERMINUS & BOIS DE BOULOGNE
OCTOBER 14
Betsy Endicott and Marcia Brownlow shared a lavish suite at The Grand Hotel Terminus. On this morning, Betsy stood at a window overlooking the broad, tree-shaded avenue. A street-cleaning wagon pulled by a team of horses rumbled by, wetting the pavement with water spraying from its large, cylindrical tank.
She held back the white lace curtain and gazed across the thoroughfare at a great heap of mansard-roofed masonry, the Gare St. Lazare. She recalled how Marcia had admired Monet’s painting of the immense, steam- and smoke-filled cast iron and glass train shed. The railway station stirred thoughts of a longed-for journey, her desire to be on board a fast steamer to New York.
She frowned at the leaden skies; the droplets running down the window pane seemed to mirror the tears Betsy had shed over her companion. Marcia lay in bed under the care of Sir Henry Collingwood, an eminent Harley Street physician. Like Betsy, Marcia, and many other affluent foreign tourists attending the Exposition, Sir Henry had chosen The Grand Hotel for its convenient location, luxurious furnishings, first class service, and modern accommodations. The fact that Sir Henry occupied a suite on the same floor as Betsy and Marcia was providential.
Three days earlier, following their evening at the Moulin Rouge, Betsy and Marcia had breakfasted meagerly on a baguette and coffee served in their suite. Neither of them had much of an appetite, and the tension between them smoldered like a smoking match. The tense mood was aggravated by Betsy’s hangover and Marcia’s chronic illness. Between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of baguette, Betsy rubbed her aching temples and blinked her bloodshot eyes. Her behavior got on Marcia’s nerves, and she finally broke the silence:
“You drank too much last night, dear. But then, you almost always do.”
Betsy looked daggers at her friend. “You needn’t remind me of my faults, Marcia. I’m well aware of them, and I feel damned awful. You might show some sympathy.”
Marcia smirked. “Darling, I feel damned awful every damn day, but then I don’t whine about it.”
Betsy always tried to make allowance for Marcia’s illness when faced with her sharp tongue. But Betsy had reached the end of her patience; her self-control snapped. Her hands shook; her face reddened and her lips trembled. She dropped a butter knife; it clattered on the china plate. “I might not drink so much,” she sputtered, “if you were more careful of your health and showed a little consideration for me too. We’ve remained in this damp, dreary place because you insisted and I indulged you. But I can’t help wondering why we’re still here. Staying for the closing ceremonies had seemed an insufficient reason, but perhaps last night you were so good as to have given me a clue.”
“You said a clue, my dear? Are you playing detective? Or perhaps you’ve hired a professional to track my comings and goings.” Marcia’s voice oozed sarcasm, further infuriating her companion.
Betsy rose from the table. Her eyes flashed and she wrung her hands as if restraining them from lashing out at her friend. “All right, Marcia. Let’s have it out, here and now. We’ve stayed in Paris because—because you’ve formed a relationship with that little blonde bint at the Moulin Rouge!”
Marcia laughed at Betsy’s jealous accusation. But her laughter soon turned to violent coughing. Now more worried than angry, Betsy came around the table and began rubbing Marcia’s shoulders in an attempt to give her some relief. But the coughing fit persisted and between coughs Marcia wheezed and gasped for air. She shot to her feet, shoved Betsy aside and knocked the chair over in the process. Marcia grabbed a serviette from the table to cover her mouth, and then staggered toward the bathroom. Halfway to her destination she convulsed, hemorrhaged a great clot of blood into the serviette, and keeled over onto the carpet, where she remained unconscious.
Betsy screamed in shock at her friend’s sudden collapse, but soon regained her composure. She immediately went to the telephone to call the front desk for medical assistance, but then remembered that Sir Henry Collingwood was staying nearby. Not only was Sir Henry a noted physician, he was also a fine amateur watercolorist and a great admirer of Marcia’s work. They had become acquainted at the American Art exhibit and Marcia, Betsy, and Sir Henry had dined together on several occasions.
Betsy ran to Sir Henry’s suite and knocked frantically. Fortunately, the physician was in. In the meantime, Marcia had regained consciousness and had crawled across the carpet toward a settee. When Sir Henry and Betsy entered the suite they saw Marcia grasping at an armrest, trying to pull herself up like a helpless infant. Sir Henry knelt beside her, gently placed a hand on her shoulder, and whispered into her ear. Marcia nodded her understanding. Sir Henry lifted her in his arms and carried her to bed.
Later that afternoon, Betsy paced the drawing room carpet, occasionally glancing down at the skillfully woven nymphs and goddesses based on a pattern by Boucher. She stopped at a faint bloodstain that had defied the hotel’s attempts at removal. She supposed this memento of Marcia’s illness would be charged to their bill.
Her long, slender fingers fussed nervously with the pink ribbon and lace trim of her Doucet dress. Finally, she settled back in an imitation Louis XV armchair and glanced at a small gold and diamond decorated watch pinned to her breast. It seems like he’s been with her forever. What’s taking so long?
The large, ornately decorated bedroom doors swung open and Sir Henry entered the drawing room. Betsy sprang from the chair and almost tripped as she ran to him. “How is she, Sir Henry? I must know—I must know this instant!”
The eminent physician smiled soothingly. “Please calm yourself, Miss Endicott. Let us sit and discuss this over a cup of tea.” He took Betsy’s hand and led her to a round table in the angle of a bay where tea had been set up in a fine silver service. The hour was too early for a formal tea, but Sir Henry felt the beverage would have a qui
eting, restorative effect.
Sir Henry Collingwood was as smooth as silk. Tall, aristocratically handsome, and dressed to perfection in a gray Savile Row cutaway and striped trousers, with a fresh pink carnation boutonniere, he exuded self-confidence without seeming overbearing. He served Betsy tea, his keen blue eyes studying her facial expressions, gestures, manner, and attitude carefully. He had made a fortune in Harley Street treating high-strung, wealthy society women, and he observed their histrionics with the analytical eye of a critic watching Bernhardt or Modjeska from his box at the theater.
Sir Henry had a perfect sense of timing when in consultation; he knew precisely when to speak, and when to listen. The drawing room was silent except for the ticking of a mantelpiece clock. He stroked his neatly trimmed brown moustache and smiled beneficently before addressing Betsy in his suave, Oxbridge accent:
“I’ve examined Miss Brownlow thoroughly and had a long, frank talk with her as well. I’m pleased to inform you that she’s making good progress towards recovery.”
“Oh thank God!” Betsy cried. She wept, as he had anticipated she would. Sir Henry reached into his breast pocket, offered her a perfumed handkerchief, and then waited patiently for her to regain her composure.
“However,” he continued once he had ascertained that Betsy was sufficiently collected to comprehend what he had to say, “I have strongly advised her to enter a sanatorium, and she has agreed. I know of an excellent facility near Zurich, and would be honored to recommend Miss Brownlow to the Director, with whom I’m well acquainted. Moreover, should you wish to retain my professional services for the journey, I would be pleased to accompany you and introduce you to the Director and his staff. It’s a lovely place in the mountains, with clean, fresh air and beautiful scenery, ideal for sketching and painting.”
Betsy said nothing and looked down at her hands cradling the teacup. Sir Henry read her reaction and determined she would need some persuasion. The sanatorium he proposed was world-renowned, its reputation well deserved, and the journey by train relatively short and not taxing. “Miss Endicott, I believe the sanatorium is Miss Brownlow’s best hope.” If there was another option she preferred, he could be flexible and accommodating. He waited patiently for her response.
The Devil in Montmartre: A Mystery in Fin de Siècle Paris Page 2