the assembly in his thrall. I watched the fat Monsignor looking up at him,
smiling in admiration.
But as
Oscar embarked on the second stanza of the poem and reached the end of the
line, ‘His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man’, the old priest standing
next to the Monsignor suddenly lurched forward, throwing down his sherry glass
so that it smashed violently on the ground. The old man cried out as if in
agony, ‘No, no!’ and then he fell, pathetically, in a heap, onto the marble church
floor.
9
‘The Wilde effect’
‘This is what I call “the
Oscar Wilde effect”. The man exerts an unhealthy influence on all who come too
close to him.’
‘Is
that intended as a joke, sir?’ I murmured, through clenched teeth.
‘It is
the truth, sir. At least, it reflects my experience of Mr Wilde.’
Four of
us carried the body of the old priest from the foot of the pulpit of All Saints
to the dimly lit church vestry. I was one of the four, the others being Martin
English, the Anglican chaplain; Axel Munthe, the Swedish doctor; and the
gentleman who uttered this gratuitous slander at the expense of my friend
Wilde.
‘Who
are you, sir?’ I demanded, angrily.
‘Mr
Rennell Rodd is First Secretary at the British Embassy,’ said the Reverend
English, ‘and, consequently, our principal guest of honour this evening.’
‘His
remarks do his office no credit,’ I said.
‘Please,
gentlemen,’ cried Axel Munthe, ‘desist! I have a patient to attend to.’
‘I
apologise,’ I said, without conviction, as we lowered the frail body of the old
man onto a leather chaise beneath the vestry window. He was alive. His face was
as white as a surplice, his toothless mouth hung open, his grey tongue lolled
loosely over his lower lip.
‘I
apologise, also,’ said the so-called diplomat, now standing upright and nodding
his head towards me.
He was
in his early thirties, tall and slender, immaculately dressed (he wore a
Balliol College tie), impeccably groomed, with thick auburn hair swept back
from a broad, smooth brow, and a luxuriant moustache, waxed at the tips. His
appearance struck me at once as being too good to be true, but he had high
cheekbones, a distinguished nose (in the Wellington tradition) and piercing
blue eyes. He was undeniably handsome.
‘I
spoke out of turn,’ he said, ‘in the heat of the moment.’
‘Please,’
insisted Dr Munthe, ‘don’t speak at all.’ He lifted the old priest’s right arm,
took hold of his wrist and searched for his pulse. He then rested his head on
the old man’s chest and pressed his ear against his heart. ‘Doyle,’ he
instructed, ‘loosen his collar, straighten his head.’
I did
as Munthe told me and, as I did so, the old man started to breathe noisily,
gasping first, then wheezing like the bellows on a chapel organ.
‘Is
that the death rattle?’ enquired the Reverend English, anxiously.
Munthe
raised his head and laughed. ‘No, it’s an old man snoring. Leave him to us,
gentlemen.’ He looked at Martin English. ‘Return to your flock, Padre. I
imagine the ladies will be in quite a state. You can tell them that all’s
well.’
The
vicar and the diplomatist took their leave. ‘I think we’ll have to forgo your
story, Dr Doyle,’ English said. ‘The night has proved unruly.’
‘Good
evening, gentlemen,’ said Rennell Rodd. He bowed to us and accompanied English
to the vestry door.
When
they had departed, Munthe returned his attention to the old priest stretched
out before us on the chaise. ‘His breathing has calmed considerably,’ he said.
‘He looks quite peaceful.’ He removed the old man’s spectacles and, with thumb
and forefinger, carefully raised each eyelid in turn. ‘And look at his eyes …’
They were those of an old man: swollen, yellow and cloudy.
I bent
down to look into them closely. ‘Beyond the cataracts, I see nothing out of the
ordinary.’
‘We are
agreed then?’ said Munthe.
‘It
smiling in admiration.
But as
Oscar embarked on the second stanza of the poem and reached the end of the
line, ‘His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man’, the old priest standing
next to the Monsignor suddenly lurched forward, throwing down his sherry glass
so that it smashed violently on the ground. The old man cried out as if in
agony, ‘No, no!’ and then he fell, pathetically, in a heap, onto the marble church
floor.
9
‘The Wilde effect’
‘This is what I call “the
Oscar Wilde effect”. The man exerts an unhealthy influence on all who come too
close to him.’
‘Is
that intended as a joke, sir?’ I murmured, through clenched teeth.
‘It is
the truth, sir. At least, it reflects my experience of Mr Wilde.’
Four of
us carried the body of the old priest from the foot of the pulpit of All Saints
to the dimly lit church vestry. I was one of the four, the others being Martin
English, the Anglican chaplain; Axel Munthe, the Swedish doctor; and the
gentleman who uttered this gratuitous slander at the expense of my friend
Wilde.
‘Who
are you, sir?’ I demanded, angrily.
‘Mr
Rennell Rodd is First Secretary at the British Embassy,’ said the Reverend
English, ‘and, consequently, our principal guest of honour this evening.’
‘His
remarks do his office no credit,’ I said.
‘Please,
gentlemen,’ cried Axel Munthe, ‘desist! I have a patient to attend to.’
‘I
apologise,’ I said, without conviction, as we lowered the frail body of the old
man onto a leather chaise beneath the vestry window. He was alive. His face was
as white as a surplice, his toothless mouth hung open, his grey tongue lolled
loosely over his lower lip.
‘I
apologise, also,’ said the so-called diplomat, now standing upright and nodding
his head towards me.
He was
in his early thirties, tall and slender, immaculately dressed (he wore a
Balliol College tie), impeccably groomed, with thick auburn hair swept back
from a broad, smooth brow, and a luxuriant moustache, waxed at the tips. His
appearance struck me at once as being too good to be true, but he had high
cheekbones, a distinguished nose (in the Wellington tradition) and piercing
blue eyes. He was undeniably handsome.
‘I
spoke out of turn,’ he said, ‘in the heat of the moment.’
‘Please,’
insisted Dr Munthe, ‘don’t speak at all.’ He lifted the old priest’s right arm,
took hold of his wrist and searched for his pulse. He then rested his head on
the old man’s chest and pressed his ear against his heart. ‘Doyle,’ he
instructed, ‘loosen his collar, straighten his head.’
I did
as Munthe told me and, as I did so, the old man started to breathe noisily,
gasping first, then wheezing like the bellows on a chapel organ.
‘Is
that the death rattle?’ enquired the Reverend English, anxiously.
Munthe
raised his head and laughed. ‘No, it’s an old man snoring. Leave him to us,
gentlemen.’ He looked at Martin English. ‘Return to your flock, Padre. I
imagine the ladies will be in quite a state. You can tell them that all’s
well.’
The
vicar and the diplomatist took their leave. ‘I think we’ll have to forgo your
story, Dr Doyle,’ English said. ‘The night has proved unruly.’
‘Good
evening, gentlemen,’ said Rennell Rodd. He bowed to us and accompanied English
to the vestry door.
When
they had departed, Munthe returned his attention to the old priest stretched
out before us on the chaise. ‘His breathing has calmed considerably,’ he said.
‘He looks quite peaceful.’ He removed the old man’s spectacles and, with thumb
and forefinger, carefully raised each eyelid in turn. ‘And look at his eyes …’
They were those of an old man: swollen, yellow and cloudy.
I bent
down to look into them closely. ‘Beyond the cataracts, I see nothing out of the
ordinary.’
‘We are
agreed then?’ said Munthe.
‘It
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