I am sure you could not catch me these days sitting still long enough to paint me. I am always rushing from lectures to laboratories to the bedsides of patients in the hospital and the bedsides of patients in their homes. The conditions some women must endure—all while preparing for childbirth and motherhood!—are shocking, Eden. The women’s hospital does all it can to treat the poor with modern medical care, and yet there is too much suffering and loss of life to be believed in the same city where so much progress has been made in other things. I feel myself, that though there are many noble doctors doing their best under trying circumstances, until we have many more women doing this work, the loss of women and children in birth and infancy will continue unchecked. Too many doctors believe it is nature, or—much worse—the divine will that so many suffer.
I hope I don’t bore you with these thoughts about work and worries. It is all I have to write about, busy with it as I am. But you must be doing such marvelous things. I fear I can’t really imagine it even with all the sketches and letters you send. It is like a fairy tale to me. I only hope you aren’t moving too fast. Are you quite certain it is right to have taken your own studio so soon? I am proud of you, of course. If your friend, Miss Nourse advises it, I suppose it must be best. What does Eleanor think?
I must leave off writing now and go out to meet Claire about some research I’m planning. But to the constant refrain of your letters—yes—I have booked my passage for July and now whenever I close my eyes I see you meeting me at the train in Paris. It is a long time, darling, but it will pass quickly.