Chapter 4: Receptions

One Saturday evening in November, Gilbert paused to adjust his white bow tie. He could have lived another several lifetimes in perfect felicity without ever attending another formal reception, but Dean Hilliard did insist. Harvard was in the midst of an ambitious capital campaign to raise money for a new medical school campus and it was all hands on deck to butter up the donors. Dean Hilliard himself had stopped by the lab yesterday to confirm that the entire staff would be in attendance.

Tolerably sure that he was presentable, Gilbert peered through the doors into the crowded reception room. At least two hundred of Harvard's wealthiest alumni and their brilliantly-attired wives mingled with the medical professors, researchers, and those members of the science faculty who had been unable to evade Dean Hilliard's aggressive recruitment. Gilbert even spotted a handful of the most promising medical students being pressed into service. He grimaced sympathetically. Godspeed, boys.

"Aren't you going in?"

Gilbert jumped at the voice at his elbow. He looked down to see Dr. Parkman glaring at him, her direct, brown gaze disconcerting in its bluntness. She wore smart black silk, not notably different from her ordinary laboratory attire, except in the fineness of the material and the intricate row of tiny buttons running up one side of the bodice, lending her a martial air.

"Dr. Parkman," he replied with a little bow. "How nice to see you. Yes, I was just about to go in."

Gilbert reached to open the door for her, but Dr. Parkman, appearing thoroughly unimpressed, beat him to it. With a blink that might have hidden a roll of her eyes, she stepped into the reception hall, letting the door close behind her. Gilbert caught it at the last instant and followed her in.

Inside, the hum of chatter and clinking glasses was overwhelming. Men in swallowtails and women in shimmering nets of sequined silk and chiffon conversed in small groups; waiters in crisp livery passed trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres.

Gilbert glanced around the hall, attempting to orient himself. It was the sort of room that was intended to impress, with the result that any individual feature taken on its own was inherently preposterous. There was the enormous marble fireplace, so huge that Gilbert could have stepped inside with plenty of room to spare. Overhead, an immense chandelier made entirely of antlers glowed with electric bulbs. On the walls, formal portraits of eminent Harvard men in flowing robes of black and crimson were stacked one on top of another from wainscoting to ceiling. Gilbert had always thought of Redmond as a place of wealth and power, but he suddenly felt himself quite the Islander again, wondering what on earth he was doing in this place, among these people.

When he finally spotted a familiar face, he grimaced. Lowell. No help for it — the younger man was beckoning him over, introducing him to a knot of prosperous-looking gentlemen.

"Dr. Blythe!" Dr. Lowell shouted over the din. "Allow me to present my uncle, Abbott Lawrence Lowell, Professor of Government."

Gilbert shook hands with the lavishly-mustached man with the protuberant eyes, struggling mightily not to think of Charlie Sloane.

"Be kind to Uncle Abbott, Dr. Blythe," Lowell said with jovial aplomb. "He has a building or two to donate, I understand."*

Gilbert was introduced around the group, noticing that most of the assemblage seemed to be Lowells or Eliots of one sort or another. It was good to know exactly how well-connected Dr. Lowell was, if only to be on guard.

A moment later, Gilbert jumped when a meaty hand thumped him soundly on the back.

"Dr. Blythe! Meeting our illustrious alumni, I see," said Dean Hilliard, a broad smile stretching his features. To the group at large, he said, "Dr. Blythe joins us from England. He's been working with Dr. Almroth Wright at the British Army Medical School on the development of the typhoid vaccine."

The group's interest in Gilbert, polite before, was considerably heightened by this introduction. He spent the next quarter hour answering a barrage of admiring questions about Dr. Wright, advancements in bacteriology, and the promising future of vaccination.

"That is why our work here is so important," Gilbert explained. "With improved laboratories and funding, we can keep working to make vaccination safer and more effective. That won't just help save civilian lives; it will also win wars. Just look at the British Army in South Africa: we've spent the last year vaccinating every British soldier we can lay hands on. Un-immunized regiments have lost thousands of soldiers to typhoid, but there have been only a handful of deaths in regiments that have received immunization. In every previous war, more men have died of disease than of wounds, but we're turning the tide. When the next war comes, we'll be ready for it."**

The Harvard men nodded and murmured their approval. Dean Hilliard beamed at Gilbert, certain that such an appeal to both humanitarian and patriotic sentiments would loosen a few purse strings.

Sometime later, the group broke up into smaller conversations and Gilbert sensed a chance for escape. He had surely fulfilled his duties, and in full view of Dean Hilliard, no less. Perhaps he could just slip away . . .

Gilbert wove through the crowd, finding himself funneled toward the oversized fireplace by the press of the crowd. There, he spotted Dr. Parkman, deep in conversation with a bald, red-faced man whom Gilbert recognized as the chair of the chemistry department. She seemed to be arguing a point, gesturing emphatically and responding ardently to the professor's comments. Gilbert caught her eye and nodded as he attempted to sidle by.

The chemistry professor followed Dr. Parkman's line of sight toward Gilbert. "Oh! You must be Dr. Blythe!" he exclaimed, interrupting whatever Dr. Parkman had been saying.

Gilbert shook the man's hand and smiled. "At your service, Professor . . ."

Dr. Parkman sighed. "Dr. Blythe, this is Professor Choate. Professor Choate, Dr. Blythe."

"Delighted! Delighted, Dr. Blythe. We hear excellent reports of your work."

"Thank you, sir."

"Are you on your way out?" Dr. Parkman asked pointedly.

"Er . . . yes," Gilbert answered. "I was just attempting to fight my way toward the door."

"Goodbye, then," Dr. Parkman chirped. Turning back to Professor Choate, she picked up where she had left off. "You must see, Professor Choate, that Professor Curie's work will revolutionize . . ."

Thus dismissed, Gilbert took his leave.

It was not very late. Gilbert wished to slough off the feel of the crowd, the press of people. Unfortunately, the doors of Harvard Medical School disgorged him into the midst of Copley Square, which was not notably less cramped than the reception room.

What he really needed were trees.

In the midst of Boston, there was nowhere wild, nowhere secluded. There was not even a rambling sanctuary like the park in Kingsport where he had spent so many happy hours as an undergraduate. He made his way down the elm-lined promenade of Commonwealth Avenue, a pleasant enough walk, but the rigid geometry of the mall provided poor prospects for refuge.

At the end, though, stood the Public Garden. A green splash of meandering paths and spreading trees arranged around a central pond, the Public Garden at least resisted some of the sounds of the city. In truth, it was more like the landscaped garden of an English country house than a natural place, but it would have to do.

In September, there had been ducks and swans on the pond. Now, as November shaded degree by degree toward winter, the edges of the pond were frozen, the trees leafless. Nevertheless, Gilbert found safe harbor on a bench shielded by the overhanging boughs of a weeping willow. If he half-closed his eyes, he could nearly imagine himself in Kingsport, though not Avonlea.

Gilbert sat on a bench, breathing the salt air off Kingsport harbor. The trees here had dropped their leaves, but there were enough firs in the park to provide the shelter he sought. Here, behind a screen of evergreens, no one would find him, even if there had been anyone to come looking.

If ever any great sorrow came to me, I would come to the pines for comfort . . .***

He tore the white gloves from his hands and stuffed them into a pocket. Another uncomfortable evening, starched collar digging into his neck, formal coat constricting his shoulders. And Christine still looking at him with that half-pitying, half-embarrassed look.

"You know, Gil, my brother could recommend an excellent tailor . . ."

Christine was good cover. She diverted Redmond's attention from his heartbreak. But if the price of her company was one tedious reception or gala or concert after another, Gilbert didn't think he could stand it much longer.

"You look exquisitely lovely tonight, Anne."

Gilbert's head shot up at the sound of the low, velvety voice from the other side of the concealing firs.

Surely not . . .

"Thank you," came the sweet reply, the voice he would have known anywhere. "I was always fond of this color. It reminds me of springtime and apples and . . ."

"You are the very vision of perfection. My Titian goddess."

Gilbert did not stay to hear more. Under cover of the shading trees, he backed away slowly, then dashed across the lawn and into the night. How had everything gone so terribly, horribly wrong?

*Abbot Lawrence Lowell was a real person. In 1901, he donated a lecture hall to Harvard (it is named after him). He served as president of the university from 1909-1933.

**The anti-typhoid vaccination program run by the British Army during the second Boer War (1899-1902) was one of the first large-scale vaccination schemes. During WWI, both the British and American armies vaccinated their soldiers against typhoid, virtually eliminating a danger that had been one of the major causes of death during 19th-century wars.

***Anne to Gilbert, Anne of the Island, chapter 6