The Dgerara type surfaced during the 2023 estate sale of the Whitfield mansion in rural Massachusetts. Hidden within a false bottom of an antique writing desk, the small, ornate silver case contained a remarkably preserved portrait dated September 18, 1897. The image showed two young women in Victorian attire seated side by side in what appeared to be a formal parlor identified on the reverse as the Witfield sisters Elizabeth and Catherine autumn 1897.

 

The portrait initially seemed to be a typical family heirloom of historical but unremarkable value. When historical conservator Dr. Amelia Parker received the photograph for assessment before its inclusion in the Barkshire Historical Society collection. She approached it with standard preservation protocols.

The Whitfield family had been prominent in New England textile manufacturing, their history well documented in local archives. This portrait would join several other family photographs already in the collection. It wasn’t until Dr. Parker began the highresolution digitization process that she noticed something distinctly unusual about the image.

While Elizabeth Witfield, the elder sister on the left, gazed at the camera with the composed expression typical of Victorian portraiture, Catherine Whitfield’s eyes revealed something entirely different. Despite her perfectly composed posture and neutral expression, Catherine’s eyes showed clearly dilated pupils and a distant, unfocused gaze that stood in stark contrast to her otherwise proper appearance.

The physiological anomaly is unmistakable. Dr. Parker noted in her initial assessment. This isn’t a photographic flaw or deterioration of the image. Katherine Whitfield’s pupils are dramatically dilated and her gaze lacks the focused attention seen in her sister. In modern medical terms, these are clear symptoms of specific medical conditions or pharmacological effects.

This curious detail prompted Dr. Parker to launch a thorough investigation into the Whitfield sisters and the circumstances surrounding this seemingly ordinary portrait. Dr. Parker began her investigation by examining official records concerning the Whitfield family during the late 19th century. Census documents from 1900 confirmed that Elizabeth Whitfield, born 1875, and Catherine Whitfield, born 1878, were the daughters of industrialist Harold Whitfield and his wife Margaret.

The family resided in their substantial estate in the Barkers, where Harold managed his textile manufacturing empire. Parish records from St. Stevens Episcopal Church showed regular attendance by Elizabeth throughout her life. While Catherine’s attendance became sporadic after 1896, the year before the year photograph was taken.

Medical records accessed through the Massachusetts Historical Medical Society revealed that Catherine had consulted several physicians in Boston during 1896 and 1897. Though the specific nature of these consultations was not detailed in the accessible records, “The documentary evidence presents an intriguing pattern.” Dr.

Parker explained to the historical society board. Catherine’s activities and public appearances diminished significantly in the period immediately preceding this photograph. While her sister’s social calendar remained full, birth and death records provided the most sobering context. Katherine Whitfield died on November 2nd, 1897, approximately 6 weeks after the photograph was taken.

Her death certificate signed by family physician Dr. Jonathan Harrington listed the cause as nervous exhaustion and cardiac failure, a common but vague diagnosis in the Victorian era that could encompass numerous actual medical conditions. Most intriguing was a notation in the Whitfield family bible kept in the historical society’s archives.

In the family register beneath Catherine’s death date, a different hand had written and later attempted to erase the words, “May she finally find peace from her affliction.” This constellation of records suggested that Catherine had been suffering from some condition in the months before the photograph, a condition possibly visible in her unusual eyes. Dr.

Parker consulted with Dr. Rebecca Thornton, a neurologist with expertise in historical medicine at Massachusetts General Hospital. Using highresolution digital scans of the photograph, Dr. Thornon conducted a detailed analysis of Katherine Whitfield’s appearance, focusing particularly on her eyes and subtle aspects of her posture and expression.

The dilation of Catherine’s pupils is extreme and would be impossible to maintain voluntarily during the relatively long exposure time required for photographs in 1897. Dr. Thornton confirmed this indicates either a medical condition or more likely the effects of specific medications common in that era. Further examination revealed additional subtle indicators.

Catherine’s posture, while arranged to appear natural, showed signs of unusual rigidity. Her hands, resting in her lap, displayed a slight but distinctive tremor captured as a blur in the otherwise sharp image. Her complexion appeared notably paler than her sisters with pronounced shadowing around her eyes, suggesting prolonged illness or fatigue.

Based on these visual indicators and the historical context, several possibilities emerge, Dr. Thornton explained in her detailed report. Catherine displays classic signs of treatment with Belelladana derivatives or opium based medications, both commonly prescribed in the 1890s for a range of conditions from epilepsy to female nervous disorders and pain management. Most significantly, Dr.

Thornton identified subtle indications of weight loss in Catherine’s face and neck compared to an earlier family photograph from 1895, suggesting a progressive condition rather than an acute illness. This photograph inadvertently captures the physical manifestations of either a serious neurological condition or the side effects of its treatment. Dr.

Thornton concluded, “The medical practices of the 1890s often relied on powerful drugs with visible side effects, particularly for conditions that were poorly understood, such as epilepsy, neuralgia, or psychiatric disorders.” The photograph had unintentionally documented not just a family portrait, but evidence of Catherine’s medical treatment, a reality the formal pose and composition attempted to normalize. Dr.

Parker’s investigation led her to a collection of Whitfield family letters preserved in the archives of the Massachusetts Historical Society. Among these were correspondents between Elizabeth Whitfield and various family members between 1895 and 1898, offering intimate insights into Catherine’s condition.

In a letter to her maternal aunt dated February 1896, Elizabeth wrote, “Catherine’s episodes have increased in both frequency and severity. Father has consulted specialists in Boston, but their conclusions differ. Mother spends every night by her bedside now, fearful of what might occur in the darkness. We maintain appearances when visitors call, but in private.

Our home has become a hospital of sorts. A subsequent letter from July 1897, just 2 months before the photograph revealed escalating concerns. Dr. Harrington has increased Catherine’s medication again. The new formula from Vienna provides better control of her seizures, but leaves her in an altered state that mother finds disturbing.

Catherine herself prefers this foggy existence to the terror of her episodes. We have canled her coming out season entirely, leading to unfortunate speculation among our social circle. Most revealing was a letter Elizabeth wrote to her cousin. A week after the photograph session, the photographer showed remarkable patience.

Catherine had taken her medication just 2 hours prior, leaving her docsel but visibly affected. He positioned her carefully and instructed me to place my hand gently on her arm to steady her. Father insisted on proceeding despite mother’s reservations. He remains determined to maintain the fiction that all is well with the youngest daughter of the Whitfield line.

The resulting image is technically proficient, but captures Catherine in her pharmaceutical mask rather than her true spirit. I find I cannot look at it without weeping. After Catherine’s death in November 1897, Elizabeth wrote to her aunt, “The end came quietly, almost a mercy after these difficult years. Father has removed all photographs of Catherine in her illness from the family albums, preserving only those from before her affliction manifested.

He speaks of her now only in reference to her childhood accomplishments, as though the troubled young woman she became existed only in our imagination. These private communications confirmed that Katherine had been suffering from a serious neurological condition, likely epilepsy, treated with the limited and often problematic methods available in the late 19th century.

A significant breakthrough came when Dr. Parker discovered that Catherine’s physician, Dr. Jonathan Harrington, had donated his medical papers to Harvard Medical School’s historical collection. While patient confidentiality limited specific details in his official records, Dr. Harrington had maintained a private research journal documenting interesting cases with patients identified only by initials.

Entries concerning CW female, a 19 from 1896 to 1897 aligned perfectly with Katherine Whitfield’s age and timeline. Dr. Harrington described a case of progressive epilepsy resistant to standard treatments with detailed observations of seizure patterns and responses to various medications. An entry from March 1897 noted implemented the broomemide belladonna protocol is recommended by Dr. Gowowers of London.

Patient experiences significant reduction in major seizure events but displays the typical madriasis pupil dilation and confusion. Family reports patient prefers these side effects to the alternative. Dosage calibrated to maintain function while minimizing most severe manifestations of the disorder. By August 1897, a month before the photograph, Dr.

Harrington wrote, “Cw’s condition continues to deteriorate despite aggressive medication. Major seizures now controlled, but petite mal episodes occur daily. Physical weakening apparent. have consulted with specialists at Massachusetts General who concur that prognosis is poor, family informed, but father resistant to institutional care options.

The final entry regarding CW dated October 30th, 1897, just days before Catherine’s death, stated simply, “Cardiac complications have emerged. Broomemide levels necessarily high to control neurological symptoms are likely contributing to cardiovascular strain.” family advised to prepare for imminent decline. Dr.

Benjamin Lewis, medical historian at Harvard Medical School, provided context. The treatment of epilepsy in the 1890s was largely paliotative and often dangerous by modern standards. Potassium bromide was the primary anti-convulsant, often combined with Belladana derivatives. Both caused significant side effects, including the distinctive eye dilation seen in the photograph.

Long-term broomemide use often led to brismm, a form of chronic poisoning that affected the heart, mind, and physical strength. These medical records confirmed that the unusual appearance of Catherine’s eyes in the photograph directly documented the effects of her treatment, a visual record of Victorian medical practices and their consequences. Dr.

Parker’s research led her to the archives of Harland Photography Studio, which had produced the Whitfield sisters portrait. William Harland had been a prominent portrait photographer in Massachusetts from 1880 to 1915 and his business records, appointment books, and technical notes had been preserved by the New England Photography Historical Society.

The appointment book for September 1897 confirmed the Whitfield sitting with a notation indicating it was a home session rather than at the studio, an accommodation typically made only for prestigious clients or those unable to travel. A small notation added, “Special considerations required. Private arrangement with Mr. Whitfield.

” Most significantly, Dr. Parker discovered Harland’s session notes, which included candid observations not intended for client review. Challenging session at Whitfield estate. Elder daughter composed and cooperative. Younger daughter physically present but mentally distant due to medical treatment. Father insistent on portraying normaly despite obvious difficulties.

Employed sidelighting to minimize pupilary abnormality though impossible to conceal entirely. Positioned younger daughter to allow Elder to provide subtle support without obviating the medical reality. A subsequent note added, “Mr. Whitfield selected final print despite my recommendation of an alternative pose where the younger daughter’s condition was less apparent.

He insisted on formal presentation regardless of medical indications visible. charged standard rate despite extraordinary time required. Maintaining relationship with Whitfield Industries takes precedence over additional fees. William Harland’s grandson, now in his 80s, provided additional context during an interview. My grandfather’s private journals mentioned the Whitfield session several times. It troubled him ethically.

He believed photographs should capture truth, but wealthy clients often demanded images that projected family narratives rather than reality. The Witfield portrait represented this tension perfectly. A technically accomplished image that both revealed and concealed depending on how closely one looked.

Harland had proceeded with creating the portrait despite the visible effects of Catherine’s medication, inadvertently documenting not just the sisters, but the medical reality the family simultaneously acknowledged privately and concealed publicly. Two, understand why Catherine’s condition would be simultaneously documented and disguised in the portrait. Dr. Parker consulted with Dr.

Victoria Hamilton, a specialist in Victorian social history at Smith College. Together, they examined how the photograph reflected the complex attitudes toward illness in late 19th century New England society. The 1890s represented a period of transition in how neurological and psychiatric conditions were understood and managed socially. Dr.

Hamilton explained, “Epilepsy carried particular stigma often associated with mental deficiency, moral failing, or even demonic influence in more traditional communities. Affluent families like the Witfields would go to extraordinary lengths to conceal such conditions while pursuing whatever treatments were available.

The practice of photographing family members despite visible illness represented a complex negotiation between documentation, denial, and presentation. Victorian morning culture normalized post-mortem photography and images of the terminally ill yet chronic conditions, particularly those affecting young women of marriageable age, were typically hidden from public documentation.

What makes this photograph so unusual isn’t that Catherine was ill, but that her father allowed this documentation of her medicated state. Dr. Hamilton noted, “Most families would have simply excluded an affected daughter from family portraits during periods of visible symptoms, effectively erasing them from the family’s visual record during illness.

Research into similar cases from the period revealed that families typically employed three strategies. Excluding ill members from photographs entirely, photographing them only during periods of remission when symptoms were minimal or carefully. staging images to conceal visible indicators of disease. The Whitfield portrait represented a rare departure, a patriarch insisting on his daughter’s inclusion despite her visible medical treatment.

Harold Whitfield’s insistence on this portrait suggests a complex psychological response to his daughter’s condition. Dr. Hamilton suggested the formal portrait setting asserted normaly and family cohesion even as Catherine’s eyes inadvertently revealed the reality of her situation. It represents both acknowledgement and denial simultaneously, precisely the ambivalence many Victorian families felt toward chronic illness. Dr.

Parker’s most remarkable discovery came from the personal papers of Elizabeth Whitfield, who had lived until 1962, never marrying and maintaining the family estate until her death. Her journals and personal correspondence donated to the Berkshire Historical Society, but never fully cataloged, provided intimate insights into Catherine’s story and the circumstances surrounding the photograph.

Elizabeth’s journal entry from September 18th, 1897, the day of the photograph, offered a poignant firstirhand account. The photographer arrived at 10:00. Catherine had suffered a series of small episodes throughout the night, leaving her exhausted. Dr. Harrington administered her medication at 8, assuring father she would be composed enough for the portrait by midm morning.

Mother wept privately while Catherine’s hair was arranged, her beautiful chestnut curls now thin and lusterless from the broomemides, she continued. When positioned beside me on the seti, dear Catherine whispered, “Do I look normal, Lizzy?” I assured her she looked beautiful, though her eyes betrayed her treatment.

Father observed the entire process with military rigidity as though his will alone could overcome her condition. The photographer worked quickly and kindly speaking to Catherine directly even when her responses came slowly. When he suggested perhaps another day might be better, father responded that there might not be many more suitable days ahead.

The only acknowledgement of her prognosis I have heard him make. A subsequent entry from October described the family’s reaction to the finished portrait. The photographs arrived today. Mother took one look at Catherine’s eyes in the image, so vacant and changed from the bright gaze of her childhood, and left the room in distress.

Father examined it stoically, declaring it excellent, though I detected a tremor in his hand. Catherine herself studied it longest, touching her own face in the image and murmuring, “So this is how you all see me now.” I could not bear to tell her that the image actually flattered her current condition as her decline has accelerated since the sitting.

After Catherine’s death, Elizabeth wrote, “Father has placed the portrait in his study. Though visitors often inquire uncomfortably about Catherine’s unusual appearance in the image, he tells them simply that she was feeling unwell that day, but wanted to be photographed with me regardless.

This halftruth seems to satisfy social propriety while allowing him to keep her image present in our home. I find it the most honest representation of our final months with her. Catherine, physically present, but increasingly distant, held to this world only by our hands and the medications that both maintained and diminished her.

To place Catherine’s condition and treatment in proper historical context, Dr. Parker collaborated with medical historian Dr. Richard Bennett from John’s Hopkins University. Together, they analyzed how the visible symptoms in the photograph reflected the evolution of epilepsy treatment in the late 19th century.

The 1890s represented a critical transition period in neurological medicine. Dr. Bennett explained the pioneering work of John Hulings Jackson had begun to establish epilepsy as a neurological rather than psychiatric condition, but treatment options remained primitive by modern standards. The primary therapy was potassium broomemide, often administered in combination with belladana derivatives and in some cases early barbiterates.

These medications controlled seizures by essentially depressing central nervous system function, effective at reducing seizure activity, but causing significant side effects, including the distinctive pupil dilation seen in Catherine’s photograph, along with cognitive slowing, tremors, skin eruptions, and eventually cardiovascular complications.

The visible symptoms in this photograph, Dr. Bennett noted, represent the cruel paradox of 19th century epilepsy treatment. The very medications that provided some control of seizures also caused significant side effects that impaired quality of life. Physicians and families faced impossible choices between seizure control and cognitive function. Research into Dr.

Harrington’s professional background revealed he had studied briefly with William Gowowers in London, one of the foremost epileptologists of the era. This connection explained his implementation of cuttingedge treatments, even as those treatments carried significant risks and side effects. Most revealing was Dr.

Bennett’s analysis of Catherine’s likely prognosis. Based on the progression described in the physician’s notes and family accounts, Catherine likely suffered from what we would now classify as a progressive form of epilepsy, possibly related to an underlying structural abnormality or autoimmune condition. Without modern diagnostics, anti-convulsants, or surgical options, her decline was unfortunately inevitable despite the best medical care available.

The photograph had captured not just Catherine’s medical treatment, but a specific moment in medical history when understanding of neurological conditions was advancing, but effective treatments still lagged significantly behind diagnostic capabilities. Through extensive research across multiple archives, Dr.

Parker gradually pieced together the complete story of the Whitfield sisters and the remarkable portrait that had documented both their relationship and Catherine’s medical reality. The final chapter of this investigation explored how the portrait had been viewed and preserved by subsequent generations. Harold Whitfield had kept the portrait prominently displayed in his study until his death in 1915, after which Elizabeth maintained it in the family home.

Family correspondents revealed that visitors often commented on Catherine’s unusual appearance in the image, with Elizabeth typically offering simplified explanations about her sister’s delicate health rather than discussing the specific nature of her condition. When Elizabeth donated most family photographs to the historical society in the 1950s, she conspicuously withheld this particular portrait, keeping it in her private quarters.

Her will specified that the writing desk containing the hidden compartment where the photograph was ultimately discovered should remain sealed until 20 years after her death, suggesting she wanted the image preserved, but not immediately. Revealed the most poignant epilogue came from Elizabeth’s final journal written in her 80s.

In an entry from 1960, she reflected, “I have kept Catherine’s true story private these many decades, honoring father’s desire to protect our family name from the stigma of epilepsy. But as I approach my own end, I find myself troubled by this partial eraser of who she truly was. The portrait father insisted upon, the one that shows her eyes altered by the very medications meant to help her, has become precious to me precisely because it captures something true about her struggle, even as it failed to capture her spirit.

Continued, “Mical science has advanced remarkably in the decades since we lost her. I read that children now survive and thrive with the condition that took my sister. I wonder what Catherine might have become had she been born in this era rather than our own. The portrait will remain hidden during my lifetime, but perhaps future generations will see in her dilated pupils not something to conceal, but evidence of how far treatment has progressed.

How what once required sedation to the point of stuper can now be managed without sacrificing the person to save the patient. When Dr. Parker’s research was complete. The Berkshire Historical Society featured the portrait in a special exhibition titled Hidden in Plain Sight: Medical Realities in Naider: Victorian Photography.

The exhibition contextualized the image alongside advances in epilepsy treatment over the subsequent century, fulfilling Elizabeth’s hope that her sister’s image might eventually serve a purpose beyond family memory. documenting both the medical challenges of the Victorian era and the human experiences behind clinical histories.