Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [74]
“You’ve never been?”
“Alas, no.”
She studied him curiously. The old-fashioned word had taken her aback. Despite what Treves had told her about Merrick’s intelligence she had somehow believed that “intelligence” in this case meant little more than the cleverness of an animal. Physically Merrick had surpassed her worst nightmares. But now, as she forced herself to talk to him, she found herself confronted by a wistful, gentle personality, whose words, though a little indistinct, were courteous and even charming. It disturbed her to discover that mingled with her pity was liking for the person he was.
“Well, you must go,” she said, trying valiantly to carry on the conversation. “It is one of the most beautiful places on earth. Of course, I’m rather partial.”
“Tell me about it, please,” he begged.
“It’s very difficult to put into a nutshell, but I should say the theater is the shrine of the imagination, where one may suspend disbelief and travel anywhere in the world, to any time you desire.” She was not blind to the shine that came into his eyes. She went on, uncertain whether she was doing more harm than good, but not knowing what else to say. “You may look over the shoulders of kings unobserved, battle with ruthless tyrants, and marry the beautiful princess, all in the space of a few hours.”
She smiled, and her voice took on an added gentleness. “Onstage you may be whoever you wish to be, do anything you please, and always, always live happily ever after. The theater is all the brightest and best things of the world, Mr. Merrick. It is lights and music, gaiety and joy. It’s—well, it’s romance.”
“Romance …” he whispered longingly.
“That’s one thing the theater has in great store. Which reminds me …” She turned to the book she had brought in with her. “I have something else for you …”
The book was bound in fine leather, and gold lettering announced it to be the complete works of William Shakespeare. Merrick could hardly hold it in one hand. He put it quickly down and began to leaf through it, touching its pages with reverence.
“Have you read it?” she asked politely.
“No, but I certainly shall.” He flicked over some more pages until he came to a play whose title caught his eye. “Romeo and Juliet. I know of this …” He began to read from halfway down the page, saying the words in his thick, lisping voice, but with perfect comprehension of their meaning.
“If I profane with my unworthiest hand,
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand,
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”
Embarrassed by the last words he stopped. He had not seen the astounded look Mrs. Kendal had given Treves, nor the equally disbelieving one she turned on him. If what Merrick had told her was true—that he had never seen these lines before—then he was reading them for the first time; and sightreading them with an ease and flexibility that many a professional actor would envy. She stared, and the true tragedy of a man with such quick perceptions and sensitivity imprisoned in this ghastly cage, almost reduced her to tears in front of them.
But she recovered herself in time to halt Merrick as he began to close the book. She put her hand on his, and huskily began to recite back to him Juliet’s lines which she knew by heart.
“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss.”
He paused just long enough to search her face to see what she wanted him to do, then dropped his eyes back to the book and continued reading,
“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”
“Ay, pilgrim,” she replied at once. “Lips that they must use in prayer.”
“Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.
They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
His voice faltered on the last words, but she tightened her hold on his hand, urging him on.
“Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake,” she said quickly.
“Then move not, while my prayer