“Surely you’ve heard of John Woodbury—or maybe you haven’t,” he continued. “He made a fortune as a dermatologist. That’s what he called himself anyway. A few years back, he sold his soap and cosmetics line to Jergens for more than two hundred thousand dollars! Of course, he eventually lost it all, but that was sheer stupidity. The point is, you should not underestimate the importance of dermatology. And the Rome Institute most certainly must be a leader in the field.”
“But surgery interests me more.” She was somewhat surprised to hear herself say such a thing. But wasn’t it true? Wasn’t it Gray’s Anatomy that, even as a girl, had kept her enthralled for hour upon hour?
“You’re being very stubborn, Abigail. Let’s be realistic. When it comes to the surgical arts, your future is limited. You’ll never be more than an assistant.”
She knew he was right, and perhaps she didn’t care—it was not as if she aspired to follow in Franklin’s footsteps as she had once aspired to follow in her father’s—but still it bothered her to hear him say that her possibilities were limited. “So you’ve just been humoring me? The anatomy lesson, all the things you’ve taught me—they were for nothing?”
“They were to make you a better assistant. And, I suppose, to please you,” he added, glancing over at her with what seemed a conciliatory smile. “Look, you may imagine things have changed from the old days, but they haven’t changed that much. I guarantee no patient would want to go under the knife at the hands of a woman. Maybe it’s not fair, but the public isn’t ready for it—especially the kind of clientele we see. They want only the best.”
“So you never intended to let me do anything on my own,” she said accusingly, “even though you said you could if you wanted to, that nobody was watching over you.”
He laughed. “I never meant to imply you could dispense with me!”
“And what do you know about dermatology?” She didn’t care if she sounded belligerent.
“All that I need to. It’s not that complicated. At the Institute, you won’t be treating diseases. You’ll merely be beautifying the skin.”
It sounded as if he and Joe planned to turn her into some sort of glorified beautician, performing superficial treatments under the guise of offering medical miracles. What would be in those tonics and lotions that they planned to sell? Would the products bearing Franklin’s name be any better or different than what one could pick up at the local drugstore?
Abigail turned away again, even more discouraged than before. Somehow she’d convinced herself that, even though she would never attend the university, she still might have a challenging future in medicine—something beyond simply passing the blade and the needle to Franklin. And yet what gave her the right? She was not a doctor, certainly not a surgeon. Stitching up a little girl’s face didn’t make her one, as much as she might pretend that it did. She should be grateful for the opportunity Franklin was offering her.
She recalled how, when her father was alive, she had been so sure of her calling. It was to become a doctor, to serve the poor. It was almost laughable to think of it now. What a trick fate had played on her! And yet the choice had always been hers. She could have said no to beauty surgery.
She could have said no to Franklin.
But now, it was too late. She had become accustomed to the rhythm of her days, her nights. And there was the luxury of her tiny apartment—the tall ceilings and fine plaster moldings, the fireplace with its carved wood mantel, the lovely park view from her sitting-room window. The soft, wide featherbed that she shared with Franklin every night.
How could she claim to have even a single regret when she could not bear the thought of losing any of it?
And yet, as they neared the turnoff for Scarsdale and the Radcliffs’ estate, she couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that came over her.
The certainty that what lay ahead threatened to destroy all she loved.
They arrived barely in time to dress for dinner. There was no effusive greeting from Joe, no chilled champagne waiting in the gazebo. Everyone except the help seemed to be gone. Abigail was immediately shown to her room, the same one she had occupied before.
Setting her handbag on the night table, she went to the window and looked outside. In the distance, she could see several horses grazing in the fields and, far beyond that, the green roof of the gazebo peeking through the trees. She saw the beginning of the path on which she had encountered Ludwik that early morning when both of them were out walking. She remembered watching him shoot his photographs, his determination to find just the right light, the right angle.
She turned to the pretty young maid who was helping her unpack. “Is the countess still here?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. In the room next to yours.”
“And Baron Rutkowski?” she asked, thinking the maid might inadvertently tell her something useful.
“Oh no, ma’am. He’s not around anymore. But there’s two other guests. New ones, just arrived today before you got here.”
“More royalty, I suppose,” Abigail muttered under her breath. It seemed to her that Joe felt the need to surround himself with titles, though he claimed to have no use for them.
“I believe I heard that the two of them are doctors, ma’am.”
Abigail did not find out the identities of the new guests until everyone was gathered in the drawing room for cocktails. They were introduced as Dr. Francis Genworth and Dr. Martin Sorrel. Both were distinguished-looking gentlemen, slightly overfed, sporting neatly trimmed gray beards and round wire spectacles. The taller of the two, Dr. Genworth, carried a silver-tipped walking stick; judging from the speed and steadiness of his gait when it was finally announced that dinner was served, Abigail suspected the cane was more an affectation than a crutch. As to what kind of doctors they were and why they were here, no one had explained. It occurred to her that they might be beauty doctors and that Joe was about to spring another surprise. Perhaps he was proposing one, or even both, as Franklin’s new assistants. The possibility was yet another reason for her to dread the evening ahead.
“Welcome, everyone!” Joe stood at the head of the table, smiling down on his guests. He appeared to have put on a pound or two since Abigail had last seen him; she marveled that he was still able to fit into what appeared to be the same evening suit he’d worn before, which had been tight even then. “Dr. Genworth, Dr. Sorrel—I hope your trip from Indiana was not too tiring.”
She noticed with interest that Joe refrained from calling his new guests by their first names and wondered if his sudden propriety would extend to the rest of them as well.
“Fortunately, we had an opportunity to rest for a while yesterday when we arrived in New York City,” replied Dr. Genworth. “However, our meeting with Andrew Carnegie ran quite late last night. Of course, I’m not complaining! We’re finding a great deal of support for our efforts, especially here in New York.”
Joe was busy tasting a sample from the first bottle of wine. He approved it with a decisive nod and directed the butler to begin making his rounds.
“The good doctors are engaged in some very important research,” he said, turning back to his guests. “Possibly the most important in human history.”
“If I might ask—” Abigail was too curious to wait any longer. “In what kind of work are the two of you involved?”
Dr. Genworth turned to her eagerly. “Mr. Radcliff is referring to our research related to the field of eugenics.”
So it was not beauty surgery—that much was welcome news. But she remembered clearly the book from Joe’s library—the one entitled In Pursuit of Human Perfection. Mr. Gallagher’s book, what she’d read of it, had left a very bad taste in her mouth.
“Tell her about it, why don’t you,” Joe bellowed. “A bit of intellectual discourse over dinner aids the digestion, you know.”
“Yes, please do tell us,” the countess piped up. “I’ve grown tired of Mr. Radcliff’s obsession with freaks and monsters and the like. I assume you gentlem
en are involved in something infinitely more civilized?”
“Oh yes. If you’re sure you’d like to hear about it . . .” Without giving anyone a chance to say no, he cleared his throat and began. “The concept of bettering the human species through the strict control of reproduction dates back to Plato. More recently, some of the best thinkers have determined that the most effective long-term strategy to eliminate inferior human beings from our ranks would be to isolate those with hereditary defects and render them incapable of reproducing. Along with that goes a policy of encouraging reproduction among the fittest of our species.”
“It does make a lot of sense,” Joe added. “As an inventor, I’m always looking to create gadgets that run better, faster, more efficiently. Why shouldn’t we expect the same from humans?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Radcliff. Our research, and that of many other scientists, is aimed at further identifying the hereditary factors that lead to inferiority. Ultimately, we hope to refine the general makeup of vast populations, such that human evolution may take a giant leap forward. Imagine someday having eliminated the weak, the sick, and those who exhibit an inferior nature by virtue of their chronic state of poverty—all of which causes a significant drain on society’s resources.”
Dr. Sorrel jumped in to complete his colleague’s thoughts. “Granted, such widespread effects will take the cooperation of many governments and may take generations to achieve, but the work must begin now. As a matter of fact, earlier this year in our home state of Indiana we were able to convince the legislature to pass a law, the first of its kind, permitting the involuntary sterilization of criminals, rapists, and mentally deficient persons within our public institutions.”
“You see, physical defects as well as traits of the feeble and criminally minded are vestiges of a darker age of our animal ancestry,” Dr. Genworth added. “Personally, I would like to see their elimination sped up considerably, but that would require measures that some might find objectionable. Nevertheless, as people begin to appreciate the necessity, I imagine we will be granted the authority to do what must be done.”
“Forgive me for asking,” Abigail said, her relief that the two men were not beauty doctors having been quickly superseded by the shocking realization of what they proposed, “but surely you’ve been asked before, what gives you the right to decide who is superior to whom? Wouldn’t such determinations, if they had any place at all, be within the purview of some higher intelligence than ours?”
“Be assured that these are not moral judgments as much as societal ones,” answered Dr. Genworth. “We live in an environment that demands a human species capable of withstanding countless assaults on its physical and mental stamina. In order to create a more perfect world in which to live, we must first weed out the imperfections in ourselves.”
“You’ll have to forgive our lovely Miss Platford,” Joe said condescendingly. “I think sometimes these concepts are more difficult for women to understand than for men.”
“I don’t find them difficult at all,” said the countess, with an imperious air. “The world would be much better off if we were to rid it of human parasites.”
“Society cannot neglect the weak and the helpless—or simply destroy them,” Abigail blurted out.
Franklin had been unusually quiet, but now he entered the fray. “Many would say it’s a modern way of thinking about the future as something within our power to control. Isn’t that correct, gentlemen?”
Abigail looked at him in surprise. Was he only trying to smooth things over, perhaps to apologize for what the others undoubtedly viewed as her hopeless female sentimentality?
“A good way to put it, Dr. Rome,” Dr. Sorrel responded. “There is no reason that human reproduction should continue willy-nilly, with those most unfit often producing the greatest number of offspring. Such a situation can only spell misfortune for the human race.”
“I promise you, Miss Platford, we have no desire to usurp the role of God,” Dr. Genworth added, shaking his head and smiling, as if he’d corrected such absurd insinuations a thousand times before. “However, if you believe that God endowed man with the ability to think and, by thinking, to improve his lot, then you must agree it is our duty to revere those qualities in mankind that have proven themselves most godly. It is our duty to create a more perfect human being.”
Suddenly several sharp pings rang out. It was Lillian, gently tapping a knife on the rim of her crystal wine glass. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid this conversation is way over my head.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Radcliff,” Dr. Genworth apologized. “We don’t usually start out like this in mixed company, unless we’re asked. Certainly, let us go on to other subjects.”
“I just have one more question—if you don’t mind.” Ronnie hadn’t said a word until now. Abigail had noticed before, with some curiosity, that tonight she wore a gown. Could it be that Joe had asked her to forego her usual trousers and dinner jacket? The Indiana doctors did seem the sort to expect women to look like women . . . “This eugenics—how do you know it will work? How do you know it won’t somehow backfire and we’ll all end up worse off than we were before?”
“Well . . .” Dr. Genworth replied, exchanging an amused glance with his colleague. “That’s the purpose of our research.”
“Undoubtedly you’re familiar with the book The Time Machine.” The edge to Abigail’s tone was quite apparent. “I’m curious to know which creatures of the future you think better off in the end—the pretty Eloi who’d been bred into uselessness or the bestial but more adaptive Morlocks?”
Dr. Genworth smiled smugly. “Neither fate would be one I’d choose for the human race, Miss Platford. But I’m sure you must already be aware that H. G. Wells is on record supporting the concepts of eugenics. Or if you weren’t, perhaps that fact might better inform your reading.”
She reached for her water glass, too embarrassed by his insinuation of ignorance on her part to respond.
Dr. Genworth, squinting behind his spectacles, turned to Franklin. “Mr. Radcliff tells us that you’re a surgeon. Beauty surgery, is it?”
“That’s right, though I generally prefer the term transformative surgery, which is far more appropriate given the scope of my work. Interestingly, the goal is in some ways similar to yours—to improve on nature,” Franklin added, offering a collegial smile.
“But if I might say so, doesn’t this beauty surgery of yours actually run counter to what we are trying to accomplish?”
Franklin’s face registered surprise. “Not in the least. As you said, the achievement of your goals will take generations. In the meantime, my work provides people with an immediate path to self-improvement. As I always say, let those who seek perfection in the here and now find it through transformative surgery!” He glanced over at Joe, who nodded his approval.
“Very eloquently stated, Dr. Rome,” Dr. Genworth said. “But such perfection as you may achieve with your knife is not true perfection. It’s only superficial. It doesn’t address the underlying cause of inferiority. It lulls people into a false sense of well-being. It masks their true defects, which then are passed on to the next generation.” He was becoming increasingly vociferous as he continued. “Is it not possible, Dr. Rome, to alter traits indicative of inferiority, thus allowing an individual to masquerade as something he is not? Can you not see how this beauty surgery of yours can be a very dangerous thing?”
Franklin paused for a sip of wine, obviously needing a moment to collect his thoughts. Abigail was sure he’d not expected to spend the evening defending beauty surgery and no doubt found this turn of events inconvenient if not troubling, coming at a time when he needed Joe’s unquestioning enthusiasm. “I think you misjudge my work, Dr. Genworth. I believe anything that allows healthy individuals who are productive members of society to further enhance their opportunities for marriage and reproduction should be applauded.”
“But Doctor, I remember distinctly the writings of one of your predecessors, John B.
Roberts. He was quite proud of the fact that undesirable characteristics of the nose can be entirely corrected with surgery—the Roman nose, the Jewish nose, and so on. And, of course, we’re all painfully aware of the saddle nose indicative of syphilis. And isn’t it true, as well, that the large features so clearly identifying persons of base sensuality, laziness, and low intelligence can be made small so as to suggest virtue and delicacy where none exists? I’m sorry, sir, but these are not solutions to the problems of humanity. These are mere tricks to fool the eye, while the deeper defects continue. Breeding is the answer, Dr. Rome. Not beauty surgery!”
“My goodness, we’re not going to solve the problems of the world around this dinner table,” Lillian said, motioning to one of the servants for more wine. “Can we possibly discuss something a little less contentious?”
“But nothing is more stimulating than a healthy debate,” Joe protested. “What’s wrong with offering our guests both food for the belly and food for thought? After all, didn’t Socrates say that the unexamined life is not worth living?”
Lillian gave her husband a mildly scolding frown. “I don’t know anything about this Socrates fellow. What I do know is that sometimes one is better off not thinking so much.”
“Ha, but that’s the only way to arrive at the truth—eventually.”
“The truth is always a matter of opinion. As for me,” said the countess, slowly stroking the stem of her wine goblet, “I prefer to keep life simple and pleasurable. Delicious food, well-aged wine, sound sleep, and—” She turned to Franklin. “I think it best not to say what else. Don’t you agree, Dr. Rome?”
Franklin smiled back at her, chuckling—clearly grateful for the interruption of what had turned into an uncomfortable debate.
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