The Night of the Ripper

~ THIRTY-SEVEN ~

As Mark reentered the hospital and followed the shuffling figure down the rear corridor, recollection stirred. Somewhere he’d heard or read about the Elephant Man — a deformed unfortunate, exhibited by an unscrupulous showman as a freak and rescued from his fate by an outraged physician. But what was he doing here?

The apparition in the cloak halted before one of the hall doors and its left hand turned the knob. “These are my quarters,” the voice wheezed.

Now the door swung open on the lamplit interior of a bed-sitting room. Mark saw its meager furnishings — the bed itself, a small desk, several tables, a few chairs. There was a bookcase near the fireplace, and a door led to a bathroom on one side. Pictures hung on the walls, but no mirrors.

Their absence was understandable as Mark followed John Merrick into the room and watched him shed his cloak.

“Thank you for coming,” Merrick murmured.

Mark nodded, secretly ashamed. It had not been compassion that caused him to accept the invitation, only professional curiosity — a curiosity which was shockingly satisfied as he saw the Elephant Man’s face and form fully revealed in the lamplight.

From his bowed back rose a huge lump of cauliflower-like wrinkled dermal tissue hanging between protuberances on the shoulder blades. A similar sacklike growth dangled from waist to mid-thigh. Another brownish mass covered the chest. The right arm was swollen and shapeless beneath the weight of bulging flesh which terminated in rootlike fingers. The lower limbs were stunted and misshapen, thus accounting for Merrick’s limp. In contrast, his left arm and hand were quite delicately formed and covered with smooth white skin.

Merrick used that arm now as he moved to the bed and adjusted the pillows, then leaned back upon the coverlet with a grateful sigh.

“Please sit down.” The husky voice seemed more intelligible once Merrick reclined. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any refreshment—”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account.” Mark found himself secretly wishing that a drink had been available — not to temper his shock but to combat the fetid odor of festering flesh which filled the tiny room. He noticed a window overlooking the courtyard, but it was tightly closed. Sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a hard chair, Mark broke the silence.

“How long have you been here?”

“Two years now, thanks to the kindness of Sir Frederick Treves. He’s Surgeon Extraordinary to the Queen.”

Surgeon Extraordinary? Mark thought of Gull’s title — Surgeon Ordinary, wasn’t it? Try as he may, he couldn’t get used to the British custom of conferring titles and honors.

“He obtained permission from Mr. Carr Gomm, the chairman of the hospital committee, who arranged for my room and maintenance here.”

Mark listened, marveling at Merrick’s command of language. Buried within that monstrous malformed mass was an alert, articulate human being.

His eyes wandered to the bookcase, noting that the shelves were filled with volumes; prominent among them was an oversized Book of Common Prayer.

Merrick followed his gaze. “I read a great deal to pass the time,” he said. “And they’ve been kind enough to provide me with material. Particularly the picture books, so that I can learn about the outside world. I would love to visit your America, Dr. Robinson, though of course it isn’t possible for me to travel such a distance.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “It must be lonely for you here.”

“At times, yes. But I do have friends.” The finely-formed left hand pointed toward the wall, indicating a framed photograph of Alexandra, Princess of Wales. To Mark’s surprise he saw that it was autographed.

Merrick noted his reaction and nodded. “She has visited me, you know.” He spoke with obvious pride. “Many noble ladies have come here. You can see some of their photographs and gifts there on the mantel and side-table. The silver-headed walking stick in the corner — that too was a gift. I never cease to give thanks for such kindness.” The soft voice deepened. “Still, it’s hard to accept that I am a prisoner here, condemned to live out my life in this miserable body of mine.”

Mark nodded. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“Your presence is enough.” The huge head bobbed, struggling to convey appreciation which could never be shown by a smile. “The days are not difficult but often I find the nights an ordeal. You see, because of my affliction”—and here the left hand gestured down across the bulging body—“I cannot sleep lying down. I must sit up against the pillows here in bed with my legs drawn up, and rest the weight of my head on my knees.”

“Can you manage comfortably that way?”

“When I am very tired, yes. But many times I stay awake. Then I sit by the window and gaze at the stars. Sometimes I do as I did tonight — slip out for a walk in the court to enjoy the trees and flowers.”

“But always alone?”

Merrick’s head bobbed again. “It’s best not to attract attention. If someone happens to pass by, I hide in the shadows under the trees. When you came through just now, I thought for a moment you might be the other gentleman.”

“What other gentleman?”

“The one who left the hospital earlier tonight by way of the courtyard.”

“Who is he?”

“I can’t be certain.” Merrick’s voice was muffled, but his words came clear. “A man with a mustache. He wore a deerstalker cap. I think it must be one of the doctors I met here at the hospital. His name is Hume.”