Elephant Man (18 page)

The editor of the
Times
had promised to keep public interest in the story boiling. Treves suspected
that Carr-Gomm had some sort of influence on the paper’s board, for a couple of days later he was contacted by a reporter for further details of Merrick’s condition. He gave them frankly, and for the next few days made sure that some other paper than the
Times
was delivered to the Isolation Ward. Whatever Merrick eventually learned about his own condition Treves wanted it to be directly from himself.

He was less observant, however, about leaving the
Times
lying around in his own home, a piece of neglectfulness that brought Anne’s wrath down about his head one evening.

“I am trying to teach the child to be a lady, Freddie, and it isn’t made easier by you allowing her to read anything she likes.”

“I didn’t allow Jenny to read anything,” he defended himself. “According to you she just picked it up.”

“It isn’t the sort of thing she
ought
to be picking up. It should never have been brought into the house with that kind of thing in it.”

Anne pushed the offending issue of the paper toward him. It was open at page 3, where a good deal of space had been devoted to Treves’ comments on Merrick’s condition. They were not, he guiltily conceded, ideal reading for a child of ten, but it had never occurred to him that Jenny would be sufficiently alert to pick up the paper or read the piece with any understanding. Remembering his daughter’s precocious intelligence he realized that it ought to have occurred to him. For the sake of domestic harmony he decided to conceal how much pleasure he took in this.

“You little ghoul,” he told her amiably when he went upstairs to say goodnight. “Why can’t you—” He groped around for the phrase Anne had used. “—learn to be a lady?”

She made a face.

“I agree,” he said before he could stop himself.

“I just saw your name in the paper and kept on reading.”

“Did you understand it?”

“Not some of the longer words. What are ‘fibrous tumours’?”

“Never mind,” he said hastily. “I’m beginning to agree with your mother.”

“Is Mr. Merrick
very
ugly, Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because—he grew differently from everyone else. And just kept on growing. Now he’s so different that he’s—well, he’s not like other people.”

“Like Alice?”

“Who?”

“Alice in Wonderland. In that book Grandpapa gave me when I was eight. Alice kept on growing bigger and bigger or smaller and smaller. And she wasn’t like any of the other people in the book. She kept trying to be, but she was always the wrong size.”

“Jenny,” Treves said urgently. “Where is that book? Do you still have it?”

“I gave it to Kate but she didn’t like it. She said it frightened her.”

“Where
is
it?”

The child’s brow puckered. “In the playroom, I think.”

He was in there in a moment, ferreting around among the shelves till he found what he was looking for. It was a large edition, beautifully illustrated in color, and almost untouched, since neither of his daughters had spent much time with it. Treves took it downstairs and stuffed it in his bag which he kept by the door. As he turned to go into the drawing room he found Anne regarding him cynically from the doorway.

“I suppose the two of you sat there and had a nice little scientific discussion?” she said, accusingly.

“No.” He assumed his most innocent air. “As a
matter of fact we talked about Alice in Wonderland.”

“
Alice in Wonderland?
”

It seemed to Treves now that his awareness of Merrick colored all his perceptions, sometimes sharpening them unbearably. As he went about his daily business he had the impression that an outer skin had been stripped away from him, leaving nerves raw that usually existed in comfortable padding. At any moment he might be pulled up short in the midst of things he took for granted, and find himself wondering, “How would this look to him?”

His comfortable home, his casual acceptance of his wife’s greeting kiss in the evening, the gentle sound of her breathing beside him at night, the enjoyable arguments with colleagues—he now saw all these afresh from within the head of an intelligent, sensitive man trapped in the body of a monster. As his pity and understanding grew, so did his pain, and he wondered how he could ever have regarded Merrick as merely a specimen.

His mind began to dwell on the fear that enough money would not come in to house Merrick somewhere, and that no home would be offered to him. If that happened, short of taking the Elephant Man to Wimpole Street (which he knew Anne would never allow), he could see no way of providing a home for him. And his dread was growing that Merrick would be returned to a life made ten times more hideous by his glimpse of something better.

While the fear grew daily more real, Treves’ own star rocketed into the firmament, and this fact troubled him more than anything else. It was irksome that the growing realization of his ambitious dreams should be spoiled by a haunting sense of guilt. After all, he had done no wrong. But the specter refused to be silenced so easily. It walked with him always. It whispered to him at night that as much cruelty was committed by single-minded men wearing blinders as by men of conscious evil. It sat down with him in the elegantly
furnished dining room at the hospital, touching the heavy carpet and the walnut paneling and making the lavish table ghastly to him.

He dined there as little as possible. He hated the air of self-satisfaction that hung over his fellow doctors as they offered him their congratulations with port and cigars; hated the tempting avenue of smugness down which their oiled laughter sought to lure him. But he bore with it all reasonably well until the day after the
Times
printed the item that had caused him trouble at home.

The light-hearted mood that had buoyed him up the evening before had quite deserted him now. He picked irritably at his food as Mr. Stanley persisted in reading the paragraphs out to the whole table, and wondered why it had never occurred to him before that Stanley had a voice like a horse.

“… in life until he came under the kind care of the nursing staff at the London Hospital, and the surgeon who has befriended him …”

Young Atkins chipped in, “Good publicity for the hospital, at any rate.”

“Treves comes off well too, eh, Freddie.” Hill was pouring himself another glass of port at the far end of the table.

Treves grunted. He could sense that the atmosphere round this table was partly hostile to him. Some of the older men in particular were affronted at this sudden prominence of a younger colleague. He could see Carlyle now, lighting himself a cigar, his silver hair gleaming in the light from the finely wrought brass lamps above their heads. Carlyle must have been pushing sixty. He’d started at the London Hospital and he’d end there because nobody had ever wanted him anywhere else. Carlyle was much given to expounding on the value of consistency, and something he chose to call “unseen application.” Of late, “shooting stars” had made a mysterious appearance in his conversation, though nobody was so naïve as to
ask his meaning. He leaned back now and regarded Treves satirically.

“It was pleasant of you to join us this evening, Frederick.”

“Your Elephant Man dining out tonight?” Hill chimed in.

There was a chuckle round the table and Carlyle added, “I understand the kitchen ran out of hay this morning.”

The chuckle became a roar in which everyone joined except Treves and Fox. When the noise had died down Fox indicated to Stanley, who was still holding the
Times
.

“Do continue reading, Mr. Stanley, please …” he said in a quiet, sour voice.

Stanley found his place again. “It is a case of singular affliction brought about through no fault of himself. He can but hope for quiet and privacy during a life which Mr. Treves assured me is not likely to be long.”

There was a short, uncomfortable pause, as though someone had made a remark in bad taste. Carlyle tried to ease the atmosphere.

“The Elephant Man. Makes you sound rather more like a zoo keeper than a surgeon, Frederick.”

Amidst the genial rumble that shook the company Treves rose to his feet.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said coldly, “I seem to have lost my appetite. Good evening.”

He walked out without looking at any of them, leaving a chilly silence behind him. Again it was Carlyle who broke it, waving his cigar with an air of injured innocence.

“I say, what’s he on about?”

“He’s getting a bit of a swelled head, if you ask me,” said Atkins.

“Well no one did ask you, Atkins,” Fox snapped. “Frederick Treves is not only the most skillful surgical operator here, he’s also a humanitarian of the highest
order. You sound like a pack of whining schoolboys with your petty jealousies.”

“Look here, Fox, I simply said …”

“Oh, shut up!”

Treves heard Fox’s speech on his behalf from outside in the corridor where he was shrugging on his coat, and was perversely ungrateful. He did not feel like a humanitarian of the highest order and it embarrassed him to be thought of as one. Between those who would applaud him and those who would criticize him he felt as if he had a pack of jackals at his heels, and he wasn’t sure which were the worst.

He slipped quietly up to the Isolation Ward. Now was the time to tell Merrick of the impending move, and also to perform the other task that had been on his mind all day.

The line of bright light coming from under the door made it clear that Merrick was still up and probably reading, as he read voraciously everything that was given to him. The day before, Treves had obtained for him some back copies of the
Illustrated London News
but Merrick, with nothing to do all day but read, had probably gone through them by now.

Treves knocked before entering, and waited for Merrick’s “Come in.” He was always meticulous in performing these small courtesies.

“Good evening,” he said when he had closed the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”

“Good evening. Very well, thank you. And you?” Merrick took pleasure in repeating this exchange of politeness between them. Gravely Treves replied as he now did every time.

“Very well, thank you.”

Merrick was sitting by the table with an
Illustrated London News
in front of him. It was open at a large picture of the Eddystone Lighthouse with a caption underneath that read, “A silent shaft of stone on a deserted promontory, the lonely Eddystone is a beacon of aid and comfort to mariners of all nations.” On
the facing page was a long article on the history and uses of the Eddystone. Merrick followed his glance.

“It looks very lonely out there,” he said.

“Very,” Treves told him. “I believe sometimes the lighthousemen get no visitors for months.” He sat down by the table and opened his bag. “I have something for you, John. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s very popular.”

He lifted out the
Alice in Wonderland
and laid it on the table. Merrick’s face did not change but he gave a sharp intake of breath.

“Thank you—so much,” he stammered. “Oh, it’s beautiful!”

His good hand began to caress the leather binding, enjoying its soft luxurious feel. He gazed at Treves with speechless gratitude.

“Open it,” Treves told him.

The book fell open at a colored picture depicting an early scene. Alice, having grown hugely, was trapped in a hallway far too big for her. She lay full length with her head jammed against the ceiling and her foot taking up the whole of the little door. She was giving an imploring look to the White Rabbit, who had stopped to look up at her, appalled. The caption beneath read, “Curiouser and curiouser …”

Merrick turned a few more pages and found himself looking at Alice shrunk too small for her gigantic surroundings. Yet another picture, a few pages on, showed her grown again, this time in the little cottage. He became very still. Treves watched him intently, wondering for a horrible moment if he’d badly misjudged. Merrick was too intelligent to fail to understand the significance of this book to himself, even at a first glance. Perhaps he would draw from it not the comfort that Treves had intended, but further despair.

Then Treves became aware that Merrick was looking at him with glowing eyes and stretching out a hesitant hand. He took it at once.

“Thank you,” Merrick whispered again.

“Don’t thank me,” said Treves hastily. “It belongs to my daughters. They’d like you to have it.”

“That is very kind of them,” Merrick said with careful formality. “Please give them my thanks.”

“I came to tell you that I’ll be here early tomorrow morning,” Treves said. “We’re moving you to a better place. I’m sure you’ll be very happy there, John. So get a good night’s rest; there’ll be new people to meet tomorrow.” He patted Merrick’s arm and got up, closing his bag. “I must be off home now. Goodnight, John.”

If it occurred to him that there was something mechanical about the reply he received, he attributed it to Merrick’s absorption in the book. As he hurried down the stairs and out of the hospital Treves was congratulating himself on an ingenious idea, and made a mental resolution to riffle the bookshelves at home. He had a conviction that his elder daughter’s taste might prove helpful here, for though Merrick was intelligent he was neither educated nor sophisticated, and the kind of luridly dramatic tale for which Jenny had developed an interest might prove ideal.

His way home took him past the Peacock Public House, one of the more notorious establishments of the Whitechapel Road, and one which, on a Saturday night, provided a steady stream of minor casualties to the hospital.

A cab passed him as he drew level with the pub, and in hailing it he forgot all else. But as he settled back into his seat he noticed that the pub door had opened to admit a large man that he recognized as Renshaw, the night porter. The man was laughing in a way that suggested this was not his first port of call that evening, and he seemed to be taking great care not to lose something that was tucked under one arm.