Talking With Freddy

Joseph Carey Merrick: 1864-1890.

"I don't think you are using your time wisely, Joseph. Perhaps if you took up a more sensible daily routine, you would feel more mentally sound."

Freddy strode across the small rooms, looking at the model that had come to occupy most of Joseph's time. Joseph simply continued to stare out the window, looking into the relative emptiness.

These rooms had been afforded him, chiefly, because they were so remote: overlooking the back area of the hospital, a place where the iron bedsteads were painted, it was unlikely hysterical persons would get a glimpse of the steadily growing head or the heavily distorted features that formed such a cage for him. Here was his fantasy world: he was in command of two bare, basement rooms, wherein, he was not only a typical, common man, but even a gentleman. Here were the pictures sent to him by various women. Here were his model houses, his books, and the various toys generous, well-meaning (and, to be completely truthful, wealthy) individuals had sent him. He had a good, soft bed, heaped high with comfortable pillows, and time aplenty to enjoy the relative luxury of his new position. And he had Freddy, (whom he was always careful to address as Dr. Treves) and that was enough for him.

Besides, with only a Bible and Prayer Book, he had made it twenty four excruciating years. Now, he had finally come to a kind of blissful comfort.

Yet still, it was as if there was some thorn stuck into his flesh. Despite his good fortune, his full belly, his relative cleanliness, and above all, his safety, there were days when the hints of gray in a rainy dawn could wash from him all of his Christian fortitude. He would sit, on such occasions, humming some half-forgotten hymn deep inside his gross chest. He would thump his heavy, misshapen arm against his mattress, and lose his mind.

"I don't know Dr. Treves. Perhaps I should begin to study my Bible lessons again. I don't think that I remember their essential moral truths in quite the way that I should. Tell me: have you ever read the book of Job?"
Treves looked somewhat disdainful.

"Yes Joseph, in fact, I have read the entire Bible. And, you must have guessed by now, I'm sure, exactly how I feel about it. God is a human construction, my good man, not a verifiable fact: he was created in human minds, so that they might have some way to account for those mysteries that were essentially unfathomable to primitive man. Read Greek, Roman, Egyptian mythology: tales replete with episodes of supernatural intervention. Yet, Joseph, they are still only tales."
Joseph blubbered for a minute, a perplexed sound that he seemed, during times of intense consternation, unable to prevent from issuing.

"Dr. Treves, I am not one of your students," he said slowly. "And this is no lecture. I simply wanted to understand how you felt about the suffering that afflicted Job...do you feel that some men are just born to suffer?"
"I feel that if you continue in this fashion, Joseph Merrick, you will continue to be afflicted by the same intense melancholy that troubles you now. Self-pity is a luxury you cannot afford, sir."

Merrick considered a moment, and then looked back out the dusty pain of glass, at the thin strip of gray that revealed itself as the coming of a rain-choked dawn.

"Dr. Treves, do you remember what we talked about a few days ago? About the book you didn't want me to read."


Sir Frederick Treves, 1853-1923.

Frederick Treves strode about Joseph’s little hospital room, occasionally picking up a stray object or picture, and examining it absentmindedly.

"Oh. Oh, yes. Frankenstein, by the wife of the poet Shelley. A scandalous piece, my boy. Why sully your mind with such rubbish?"

"You didn't take it away from me though. I suppose you could have, Dr. Treves."

"I certainly shall, Joseph, if this is the effect it has on your mental state. But tell me: didn't you give me your solemn oath, that you would discard that particular loathsome piece of nonsense? As a gentleman?"

"Yes…well, of course I will abide by whatever your superior judgment dictates, Dr. Treves. I am simply so happy to be here, with all the kindness that has been shown me." Merrick fell back into his well-seasoned cringing.

"Still," began Treves slowly, "I suppose the novel itself is quite entertaining after its own ghastly fashion: murderous ghouls, mad doctors playing God, and such outlandishness. It should certainly be a far cry from the usual romances you peer into, old boy."

"To be perfectly honest, Doctor, I found the beginning to be rather tiresome...a letter from some explorer to women named Mrs. Saville. But after reading a bit more, I began to realize that I couldn't stop myself. It was as if the story took hold of my mind--"

"Exactly the danger of such sordid stories. Joseph, if we are ever to evolve as individuals, it will be because we have kept our minds on the most intellectually edifying stimulus, and kept it well away from such nonsense as Frankenstein. I can tell you, as a medical man, that the very idea of creating a monstrous individual from scraps of decaying human bodies is not only impossible---it is damned absurd."

"And the Creature...what must it have been like to be him?" Merrick wondered aloud, although Frederick Treves could tell that he was simply asking himself a rhetorical question. Of course, Joseph knew exactly what it would be like to be Frankenstein's creation. That more than anything else, had disturbed Treves upon his learning that Joseph was reading the novel.

Who sent him the bloody thing? We are simply going to have to keep a closer inspection of the kinds of packages and gifts he receives. This was some bloody scoundrel's idea of a bad joke.

"Well, Joseph, I must be off. I have other patients to attend to. However, I do so much enjoy the little discussions we have. I am glad we here at London Hospital have been able to be of service to you."

Joseph revolved a bit on his bed, and hobbled to his feet. He was still in his dressing gown, and knew that he would shortly need his daily bath. Nurse Hildy would be in to fill the tub, and help him scrub his great, gross bulk free of the malignant stench that seemed to cling to him. He immensely liked this ritual, for reasons that he probably could never even admit to himself. And, also, it meant that he would have more company; anything to stave off the nagging, continual loneliness that had plagued him all his days.

"Yes, well, thank you very much Dr. Treves. You are, as always, a complete blessing to those that have been afflicted in their flesh."

"Don't put it that way, Joseph. I am simply a medical man...I have taken an oath, an oath to aid the sick. I am only sorry, you know, in your particular case..."

"That you cannot cure me?"

Frederick Treves felt his jaws clamp tightly for a moment, then simply let Joseph's question go unanswered.

"Good day, Mr. Merrick. I'll be back around within the next few days to see how you're feeling. If you need me, for any reason, do not hesitate to leave a message with the Nursing Staff. Until then, as your doctor, I would advise you to leave such rubbish as Frankenstein alone. It is a very poor novel, and the product of a morally--and even artistically--dubious school of literary endeavor. It is such dross that is steadily weakening the moral fiber of society...oh, you can see it in the streets on a daily basis. Believe me; you can certainly se it in the Receiving Room."

"I shall certainly heed whatever advice you give me Dr. Treves."
"Well, Joseph, you don't want to tax yourself mentally...you've had a tremendous strain. Well, must be off. Good day, sir."
"Good day, Dr. Treves."
"And, one thing Joseph..."
"Yes?"
"Please, you don't always have to refer to me as Dr. Treves. We are friends, you and I. Just call me Frederick. Er, call me Freddy...all of the fellows at the club call me Freddy."

Frederick Treves hurried himself through the door, and Joseph Merrick felt the small bite of loneliness steal over him again. He went to his wardrobe, and pulled open the door with his delicate, perfect hand.

He had hidden it under a small bundle of bedclothes that needed laundering. It somehow deserved to be there, under the stench from his sweaty sheets. The forbidden book. The one Treves hadn't wanted him to have. Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley. Joseph slightly trembled as he held it; it felt as if it was imbued with a strange, menacing power that was both exciting and distressing at the same time. He had never encountered anything quite like it.

He sat down, and opened to the page he had marked, having to go back abit in the story.

"I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced; until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I was..."

Merrick read slowly, relishing the words. Seeing the prostrate woman, Justine Moritz, bent low on her anguished knees, set his mind ablaze. She hadn't, really, been responsible for the death of little William, it had been the hideous thing that Frankenstein had crafted from his two hands, using the bodies of dead men. Merrick shuddered.

Where was Nurse Hildy? It seemed that the morning was slipping quickly by; the clock on the mantle already read half past nine. He usually had his bath much earlier. He continued onward, losing himself in the cramped print, not even realizing how physically tired he still was. Soon, he was asleep again.

Now he was standing in a dim cathedral. Stained glass windows revealed the Twelve Stations of the Cross. Merrick could see the Lord and Savior being broken by the scourge of an ancient Roman, who did not know that every bloodcurdling lash brought the human race one step closer to salvation. This place, he knew, was a paradise of suffering; a heaven of which he had never before been told; an Elysium for the distorted where all creatures of monumental bodily ugliness could find eternal peace.

Before him, the graphic image of a beautiful human form unfurled as a sacred scroll. The artist, he knew, was Leonardo Da Vinci. It seemed to slowly dissolve into smoke, and a vast panorama of flesh swept past his vision: deformed arms and legs, broken joints, limp fingers, cadaverous and hollow cheeks, kicking legs, burst organs of purplish hue, mad faces contorted in agony; oceans of flesh, rivers of crippled carcasses.

And, in the center of it all, one face gaped like a drowning victim in the tides of a torrential ocean. He could not see this face, but it seemed to be screaming for help.