Elephant Man - Christine Sparks [93]
It was not until he was safely alone that Merrick felt able to relish the full joy of his dressing case. He knew his little audience were on his side—Treves, Carr-Gomm, even Mothershead now. But any spectators, no matter how sympathetic, were a restraint on the free flow of his imagination. The case was a vehicle for dreams, and dreams could only be savored in happy solitude.
Alone at last he could be himself, the true self that nature had meant him to be, the self that would use such a dressing case as a matter of course. He studied its contents, removing each one and laying it gently on the table. They lay there in a neat row, but after a moment the order displeased him, and he began to rearrange them.
He held up the toothbrush and considered it. He had never used such a thing, but the debonair young gadabout that lurked hidden inside his body would have used one every day to maintain the dazzling smile he turned on the ladies. It was the same with the comb and the ivory-handled razors, accessories a gentleman could not afford to be without.
He wondered how he might have obtained the case. He would have preferred it to be a gift from a pretty woman, but was it likely? Merrick’s knowledge of etiquette was almost nil, but some instinct told him that no well-bred young woman would give such a personal gift to a man not her husband.
A wife then? And into his mind rose the charming face of Anne Treves. She epitomized the little he had ever seen of domestic bliss but—was it not a little soon to be thinking of domestic bliss? Marriage cramped a man’s style. Even a betrothal got in the way of those delightful little saunters in perfume-scented gardens, whispering languorous delights into small feminine ears. Reluctantly he decided he had bought the case for himself.
His situation settled, he began to consider how best he might spend the evening. A night out on the town would suit him. Dressed in the height of elegant fashion he’d saunter along to—here Merrick’s knowledge failed him—to wherever dashing young blades saunter on these occasions. A theater party perhaps, to see Twelfth Night at the Apollo? The idea pleased him. He’d send Mrs. Kendal a bouquet of red roses with compliments on her performance. A note would be delivered to his box, inviting him to a select supper at the Kendals’ house afterward. There would be champagne—ladies …
He began to prepare himself for the night’s revelry, taking up one of the silver-backed brushes and stroking forward his thin hair till it lay neatly across his monstrous skull. To check the effect he lifted the picture of Mrs. Kendal and used the glass to give him a reflection. The ugliness of his own face staring back did not disturb him. He did not see it.
With difficulty he used his finlike right hand to slip the ring onto his left. Then he opened the cigarette case and shoved a cigarette into his right hand. All that was needed now was the walking stick, and his accessories were complete. He twitched the stick up into his left hand and began to circle the room in a casual saunter. He could feel the admiring eyes cast upon him, drawn by his matchless elegance.
Before Mrs. Kendal’s picture he stopped and inclined his head toward her.
“Hello, my name is John Merrick,” he said courteously. “I am very, very pleased to meet you.”
He gave her a small bow, then he turned and repeated the movement in the direction of the other ladies on his mantelpiece. He felt his heart might break with happiness.
The thunderous opening of the door behind him shattered his fragile world like crystal. On the threshold stood Renshaw grinning tipsily.
“Curtain time!” he announced in a voice that drink had made carelessly loud. Then his jaw dropped as he took in the sight before him.
Merrick’s mind was racing, wondering wildly how he could have so mistaken the time. He knew the nightly dreaded visit must come,