Round the Red Lamp: Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life Story 10 - A Question of Diplomacy

Arthur Conan Doyle (0:01)

Section 11 of Round the Red Lamp. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librivox.org. Recording by Subrata Udwal from Saratoga, California.

Round the Red Lamp by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Section 11, a question of diplomacy.

The Foreign Minister was down with a gout. For a week, he had been confined to the house, and he had missed two cabinet councils at a time when the pressure upon his department was severe. It is true that he had an excellent undersecretary and an admirable staff, but the Minister was a man of such ripe experience and of such proven sagacity that things halted in his absence.

When his firm hand was at the wheel, the great ship of state rode easily and smoothly upon her way. When it was removed, she yawed and staggered until twelve British editors rose up in their omniscience and traced out twelve several courses, each of which was the sole and only path to safety. Then it was that the opposition said vain things, and that the harassed Prime Minister prayed for his absent colleague.

The Foreign Minister sat in his dressing room in the great house in Cavendish Square. It was May, and the square garden shot up like a veil of green in front of his window. But in spite of the sunshine, a fire crackled and sputtered in the great of the sick room. In a deep red plush armchair sat the great statesman, his head leaning back upon a silken pillow, one foot stretched forward and supported upon a padded rest. His deeply lined, finely chiseled face, and slow moving, heavily pouched eyes were turned upwards towards the carved and painted ceiling. With that inscrutable expression, which had been the despair and admiration of his continental colleagues, upon the occasion of the famous congress when he had made his first appearance in the arena of European diplomacy.

Yet at the present moment, his capacity for hiding his emotions had for the instant failed him. For about the lines of his strong, straight mouth, and the puckers of his broad, overhanging forehead, there were sufficient indications of the restlessness and impatience which consumed him. And indeed, there was enough to make a man chaff, for he had much to think of, and yet was bereft of the power of thought. There was, for example, that question of the Dobrud Shah, and the navigation of the Mawds of the Danube, which was ripe for settlement. The Russian Chancellor had sent a masterly statement upon the subject, and it was the pet ambition of our minister to answer it in a worthy fashion. Then there was the Blockade of Crete, and the British fleet lying off Cape Matapan, waiting for instructions which might change the course of European history. And there were those three unfortunate Macedonian tourists, whose friends were momentarily expecting to receive their ears or their fingers, in default of the exorbitant ransom which had been demanded. They must be plucked out of those mountains, by force or by diplomacy, or an outraged public would vent its wrath upon Downing Street. All these questions pressed for a solution. And yet here was the Foreign Minister of England, planted in an armchair, with his whole thoughts and attention riveted upon the ball of his right toe. It was humiliating, horribly humiliating. His reason revolted at it. He had been a respecter of himself, a respecter of his own will. But what sort of a machine was it, which could be utterly thrown out of gear, by a little piece of inflamed grizzle? He groaned and writhed among his cushions.

But, after all, was it quite impossible that he should go down to the house? Perhaps the doctor was exaggerating the situation. There was a cabinet council that day. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly over by now. But at least he might perhaps venture to drive down as far as Westminster.

He pushed back the little round table with its bristle of medicine bottles, and levering himself up with a hand upon either arm of the chair, he clutched a thick oak stick and hobbled slowly across the room.

For a moment, as he moved, his energy of mind and body seemed to return to him. The British fleet should sail from the Matapan. Pressure should be brought to bear upon the Turks. The Greeks should be shown. Oww! In an instant, the Mediterranean was blotted out, and nothing remained but that huge, undeniable, intrusive, red-hot toe.

He staggered to the window and rested his left hand upon the ledge, while he propped himself upon his stick with his right. Outside lay the bright, cool, square garden, a few well-dressed passers-by, and a single, neatly appointed carriage, which was driving away from his own door.