The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(43)

But he was mistaken. A few words with Merrick were enough to show Treves that the hideous exterior concealed a courteous, educated, sensitive being. He explained to the surgeon that the reason why he was called the Elephant Man was due to a fleshy protuberance between his nose and upper lip, a tiny trunk measuring about eight inches that had made it hard for him to eat and had been unceremoniously removed a few years before.

Treves was deeply moved by this creature’s gentleness, by the fact that despite the hardship and humiliation he had suffered, he apparently bore no resentment towards humanity, faceless humanity, whom he, Treves, was so quick to despise whenever he could not get a cab or a box at the theater.

When the surgeon left the circus an hour later, he had firmly resolved to do everything in his power to take Merrick away from there and offer him a decent life. His reasons were clear: in no other hospital records in the world was there any evidence of a human being with such severe deformities as Merrick’s. Whatever this strange disease was, of all the people in the world, it had chosen to reside in his body alone, transforming the wretched creature into a unique individual, a rare species of butterfly that had to be kept behind glass. Clearly, Merrick must leave the circus at the earliest opportunity. Little did Treves know that in order to accomplish this admirable goal he had set himself in a fit of compassion, he would have to begin a long, arduous campaign that would leave him drained. He started by presenting Merrick to the Pathology Society, but this only led to its distinguished members subjecting the patient to a series of probing examinations and ended in them becoming embroiled in fruitless, heated debates about the nature of his mysterious illness, which invariably turned into shouting matches where someone would always take the opportunity to try to settle old scores. However, his colleagues” disarray, far from discouraging Treves, heartened him. For ultimately it underlined the importance of Merrick’s life, making it all the more imperative to remove him from the precarious world of show business. His next step had been to try to get him admitted to the hospital where he worked, where he could be easily examined. Unfortunately, hospitals did not provide beds for chronic patients, and consequently, although the hospital management applauded Treves’s idea, their hands were tied. Faced with the hopelessness of the situation, Merrick suggested Treves find him a job as a lighthouse keeper, or some other occupation that would cut him off from the rest of the world.

However, Treves would not admit defeat. Out of desperation, he went to the newspapers, and in a few weeks managed to move the whole country with the wretched predicament of the fellow they called Elephant Man. Donations poured in, but Treves did not only want money; he wanted to give Merrick a decent home.

And so he decided to turn to the only people who were above society’s absurd, hidebound rules: the royal family. He managed to persuade the Duke of Cambridge and the Princess of Wales to agree to meet the creature. Merrick’s refined manners and extraordinarily gentle nature did the rest. And that was how Merrick came to be a permanent guest in the hospital wing where they found themselves at that very moment.

“Joseph is happy here,” declared Treves, in a suddenly thoughtful voice. “The examinations we carry out on him from time to time are fruitless, but that does not seem to worry him.

Joseph is convinced his illness was caused by an elephant knocking down his heavily pregnant mother while she was watching a parade. Sadly, Mr. Wells, this is a pyrrhic victory. I have found Merrick a home, but I am unable to cure his illness. His skull is growing bigger by the day, and I’m afraid that soon his neck will be unable to support the incredible weight of his head.” Treves’s blunt evocation of Merrick’s death, together with the bleak desolation that seemed to permeate that wing of the hospital, plunged Wells into a state of extreme anxiety.

“I would like his last days to be as peaceful as possible,” the surgeon went on, oblivious to the pallor beginning to spread over his companion’s face. “But apparently this is asking too much.

Every night, the locals gather under his window shouting insults at him and calling him names. They even think he is to blame for killing those whores who have been found mutilated in the neighborhood. Have people gone mad? Merrick couldn’t hurt a fly. I already mentioned his extraordinary sensibility. Do you know that he devours Jane Austen’s novels? And on occasion, I’ve even surprised him writing poems. Like you, Mr. Wells.” “I don’t write poems, I write stories,” Wells murmured hesitantly, his increasing unease apparently making him doubt everything.

Treves scowled at him, annoyed that his companion would want to split hairs over what he considered such an inconsequential subject as literature.

“That’s why I allow these visits,” he said, shaking his head regretfully, before resuming where he had left off, “because I know they do him a great deal of good. I imagine people come to see him because his appearance makes even the unhappiest souls realize they should thank God. Joseph, on the other hand, views the matter differently. Sometimes I think he derives a sort of twisted amusement from these visits. Every Saturday, Joseph scours the newspapers, then hands me a list of people he would like to invite to tea, and I obligingly forward them his card. They are usually members of the aristocracy, wealthy businessmen, public figures, painters, actors and other more or less well-known artists … People who have achieved a measure of social success and who in his estimation have one last test to pass: confronting him in the flesh.