Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [12]
It took an age for them to climb the two flights of stairs and go down the three long corridors that were necessary before they reached Treves’ office. Treves ground his teeth in frustration. At every point they were stared at by nurses, doctors, even other patients who happened to be out in the corridors. The man shambling painfully along seemed oblivious to this harsh curiosity, but Treves had an uncomfortable sense of being stabbed by knives. He was used to being stared at—with respect by students who attended his anatomy lectures, with awe by patients he was treating, with open hostility by other doctors when he had hot-headedly overstepped the bounds of professional etiquette. He quite enjoyed the respect and awe, and hostility held no tenors for him.
But these stares were different. They held the jeering curiosity that the normal offer to the different. They were primarily for the clumsily grotesque creature, but they also took in the man with him. Treves got his first experience of being treated as a spectacle, and he did not like it. He felt a twinge of discomfort, remembering that his own first gaze at the Elephant Man had contained something of the same character.
They reached his room at last and he opened the door to lead the way in. The creature paused on the threshold and turned his head uneasily. Treves gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile and beckoned for him to come in. As the silent figure passed him he tried to get a furtive glimpse at the eye-slit, but whatever was inside was in shadow.
As he closed the door he tried not to gag. In the small room the smell of the Elephant Man was overwhelming. It was an effort to force himself to go close and help the creature to sit down, and when he had done so he went to the window and opened it as far as it would go. When he turned back it seemed to him that the shrouded figure drooped, as if in shame. He told himself not to be fanciful. He could not remember being so nervous before.
“My name is Frederick Treves,” he informed the bent head. “I am a surgeon here at the London Hospital, and I lecture in anatomy at the Medical College.” There was no response of any kind. He went on hurriedly. “I would very much like to examine you. Would that be all right?”
Just how much, if anything, could the thing understand? It sat quite still, staring at the floor, seemingly oblivious to its surroundings. Treves’ sense of discomfort was growing. His own voice had begun to sound ridiculous in his head. He looked at the floor for a moment, then locked his gaze on the figure’s left arm, the one part of it that looked normal.
“Ah—yes. Um—first I would like to ask you a few questions. Would that be all right?”
All the formal words and expressions that had served in other, similar situations now clattered uselessly to the floor between them. Treves made the awkward discovery that when the familiar lines proved inappropriate he had no others at his command. He must go on, reciting the senseless part.
“Good.” He sat down at the desk and picked up a pencil. “Now let’s see, your owner …” The word slipped out before he could stop it and he could have bitten off his tongue. But the Elephant Man seemed to notice nothing. He sat there, immovable in the silent agony of his own world. “Um—the man who—who looks after you—tells me that you are English and your name is John Merrick. Is that correct?”
He had not really expected to receive a reply, nor was there one.
“Do you know where you were born?” he persisted. “Where you come from?”
Still the silence, but the Elephant Man lifted his head very slowly and stared blindly at Treves.
“I tell you what,” said Treves desperately, “I’ll ask you a question, and you shake your head like this for ‘no,’ and nod like this for ‘yes.’ All right?” Silence. “Do you understand?”
After a long interminable moment the ponderous head waved uncertainly up and down, once, and a wheezing