Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [69]
She could look at him more easily now, with eyes that pity was blinding to his ugliness. She noticed that, though shy, he was not tongue-tied, and though he slurped his tea a little he was not, as she had feared, disgusting.
“How is your tea, John?” Treves asked, to keep conversation going.
“It’s very good. I’m enjoying my visit with you very much,” he said politely. “It’s so very kind of you to have me as a guest in your home. I’m sorry I made a spectacle of myself.”
“Not at all, John.” As he spoke Treves looked intently at his wife, urging her to help keep the balloon of small talk in the air. But she was struck dumb. Merrick did not appall her quite as much as he had done, but she was still unable to think what to say to him.
“I love the way you’ve arranged your pictures on the mantelpiece. Is that the way it’s done in most houses?”
“Oh yes,” said Treves heartily.
“Who are they of?”
“Oh, our relatives—the children.”
“The children? May I see?”
“Of course.” Treves took some of the pictures down from the mantlepiece, hoping Merrick would not notice the faintly discolored outline where the mirror had once been. He handed a picture of his daughters to Merrick, who took it with reverent hands, and regarded it as if it were an icon.
“The children—” he said slowly. “Where are your children?”
“Oh, they’re gone for the day—” Treves said hastily. “With friends.”
He wondered unhappily if Merrick would understand and resent such an obvious ploy to keep the little girls out of his way, but Merrick only repeated, “Friends, ah yes, friends. How nice,” as though the word gave him the greatest pleasure.
Anne found her tongue and pushed another of the pictures toward Merrick. “And here is one of Frederick’s mother.”
“How lovely.”
“Yes,” said Treves lamely.
“And here—” Anne found another picture, “are my mother and father.”
He looked at the couple in the frame for a long moment before saying, “They have noble faces.”
Anne stared at him. “I’ve always thought that myself,” she said.
“Oh yes,” he repeated gravely, and set down the picture under Anne’s startled eyes. When next he spoke it was in a timid voice, and his words astonished both his listeners.
“Would you—would you like to see my mother?”
“Your mother?” said Treves. He had known about the dream figure of his mother that Merrick had built up, but never for a moment had he suspected that it might be backed up by a picture.
“Here.” Merrick reached into his pocket and brought out a small battered picture of a very lovely woman, which he handed gently to Anne.
“Why Mr. Merrick—” Anne studied the woman’s young, delicately formed face, “—she’s beautiful.”
“She has the face of an angel,” Merrick said simply. “She was an angel. She would hold my head and sing to me. She was so kind—” his voice trembled, “—so kind to me. You must not think ill of her. It’s not her fault, for in the fourth month of her maternal condition she was knocked down by an elephant. I’m sure I must have been a great disappointment to her.”
“Oh no, Mr. Merrick,” said Anne softly, looking at him. “No. No son as loving as you are could ever be a disappointment.”
“If only I could find her. If only she could see me now, here, with such lovely, kind friends. You, Mrs. Treves, and you, Mr. Treves. Then maybe she would love me as I am. I’ve tried so hard to be good.”
Anne could no longer see his face for her eyes were blurred with tears. The yearning sadness in Merrick’s last words had moved her unbearably and she saw the piteousness of his tragedy unclouded by revulsion for his looks. She tried to fight back the tears but they would not be restrained. They coursed down her face, distorting it, so that she dropped her head. Without knowing what she was doing she held out a hand to Merrick and he took it at once, everything forgotten but his desire to comfort her. He understood why she wept and he wanted to tell her that there was no need, but all he could do was to repeat huskily,