The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(44)
As I already explained, Joseph’s deformities are so hideous they invariably evoke either pity or disgust in those who see him. I imagine Joseph can judge from his guests” reaction whether they are the kindhearted type or on the contrary ones riddled with fears and anxieties.” They came to a door at the far end of a long passageway.
“Here we are,” said Treves, plunging for a few moments into a respectful silence. Then he looked Wells in the eye, and added in a somber, almost threatening tone: “Behind this door awaits the most horrific-looking creature you have probably ever seen or will ever see; it is up to you whether you consider him a monster or an unfortunate wretch.” Wells felt a little faint.
“It is not too late to turn back; you may not like what you discover about yourself.” “You need not worry about me,” stammered Wells.
“As you wish,” said Treves, with the detachment of one washing his hands of the matter.
He took a key from his pocket, opened the door and, gently but resolutely propelled Wells over the threshold.
Wells held his breath as he ventured inside the room.
He had only taken a couple of faltering steps when he heard the surgeon close the door behind him. He gulped, glancing about the place Treves had practically hurled him into once he had fulfilled his minor role in the disturbing ceremony. He found himself in a spacious suite of rooms containing various normal-looking pieces of furniture. The ordinariness of the furnishings combined with the soft afternoon light filtering in through the window to create a prosaic, unexpectedly cozy atmosphere that clashed with the image of a monster’s lair. Wells stood transfixed for a few seconds, thinking his host would appear at any moment. When this did not happen, and not knowing what was expected of him, he began wandering hesitantly through the rooms. He was immediately overcome by the unsettling feeling that Merrick was spying on him from behind one of the screens, but even so continued weaving in and out of the furniture, sensing this was another part of the ritual. But nothing he saw gave away the uniqueness of the rooms” occupant; there were no half–eaten rats strewn about, or the remains of some brave knight’s armor. In one of the rooms, however, he came across two chairs and a small table laid out for tea. He found this innocent scene still more unsettling, for he could not help comparing it to the gallows awaiting the condemned man in the town square, its joists creaking balefully in the spring breeze. Then he noticed an intriguing object on a table next to the wall, beneath one of the windows. It was a cardboard model of a church. Wells walked over to marvel at the exquisite piece of craftsmanship. Fascinated by the wealth of detail in the model, he did not at first notice the crooked shadow appearing on the wall: a stiff figure, bent over to the right crowned by an enormous head.
“It’s the church opposite. I had to make up the parts I can’t see from the window.” The voice had a labored, slurred quality to it.
“It’s beautiful,” Wells breathed, addressing the lopsided silhouette projected onto the wall.
The shadow shook its head with great difficulty, unintentionally revealing to Wells what a struggle it was for Merrick to produce even this simple gesture of playing down the importance of his work. Having completed the arduous movement, he remained silent, stooped over his cane, and Wells realized he could not go on standing there with his back to him. The moment had arrived when he must turn and look his host in the face. Treves had warned him that Merrick paid special attention to his guests” initial reaction—the one that arose automatically, almost involuntarily, and which he therefore considered more genuine, more revealing than the faces people hurriedly composed in order to dissimulate their feelings once they had recovered from the shock.
For those few brief moments, Merrick was afforded a rare glimpse into his guests” souls, and it made no difference how they pretended to act during the subsequent meeting. Their initial reaction had already condemned or redeemed them. Wells was unsure whether Merrick’s appearance would fill him with pity or disgust.
Fearing the latter, he clenched his jaw as tightly as he could, tensing his face to prevent it from registering any emotion. He did not even want to show surprise, but merely wanted to gain time before his brain was able to process what he was seeing and reach a logical conclusion about the feelings a creature as apparently horribly deformed as Merrick produced in a person like him. In the end, if he experienced repulsion, he would willingly acknowledge this and reflect on it later, after he had left. And so, Wells drew a deep breath, planted his feet firmly on the ground, which had dissolved into a soft, quaking mass, and slowly turned to face his host.
What he saw made him gasp. Just as Treves had warned, Merrick’s deformities gave him a terrifying appearance. The photographs Wells had seen of him at the university, which mercifully veiled his hideousness behind a blurry gauze, had not prepared him for this. He wore a dark gray suit and was propping himself up with a cane. Ironically, these accoutrements, which were intended to humanize him, only made him look more grotesque.
Teeth firmly clenched, Wells stood stiffly before him, struggling to suppress a physical urge to shudder. He felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest, and beads of cold sweat began to trickle down his back, but he could not make out whether these symptoms were caused by horror or pity. Despite the unnatural tensing of his facial muscles, he could feel his lips quivering, perhaps as they tried to form a grimace of horror, yet at the same time he noticed tears welling up in his eyes, and so did not know what to think. Their mutual scrutiny went on forever, and Wells wished he could shed at least one tear that would encapsulate his pain and prove to Merrick, and to himself, that he was a sensitive, compassionate being, but the tears pricking his eyes refused to brim over.