crux of the matter, Wallace. We know much about your giant tree-rat of Sumatra but next to nothing about the potion. Another whisky?’
‘I will have another, thank you Holmes. All right, the potion – well, I can honestly say hand on heart it worked. If there is such a thing as the elixir of eternal youth, this gets damnably close. Not only did it contain healing properties, but when I next looked in the glass after being confined to my cot with yellow fever, for God knows how long and close to death, I had lost middle age and become young again. I felt cleansed, entirely rejuvenated in both body and mind. Samu the shaman insisted he had lived three hundred years, and amongst his tribe on Sumatra he was but a young man, a mere whippersnapper.’
‘But, scientifically, surely that’s unfeasible – an anti-ageing potion belongs to Greek myth,’ said I, stubbing out the remains of my cigar in the ashtray.
‘Make of it what you will, gentlemen,’ said he at length, sipping from his glass. ‘But I tell you truthfully, it proved effective.’
‘One more thing Wallace.’
‘By all means.’
‘If it were possible, say, to replicate this potion you talk of, to produce a modern serum from the remains of this long-extinct tree-rat, who would you plump for, who should possess the requisite skills and knowledge to carry it through?’
‘The Chinese come to mind. As a race they are so far advanced in alternative medicine. One only has to visit a Chinese herbalist in Limehouse to see the similarities.’
15
Opening Night
The theatre lights dimmed. We took our places in the box. Alfred Wallace, his wife and family filed in and took their seats. We were all of us expectantly passing round a bag of mint humbugs, making sure our opera glasses were close at hand. At last the performance got under way. A rousing overture, both instantly melodic and catchy, set our feet tapping and hands clapping to the infectious rhythm of the orchestra in the pit, being conducted by Sir Penfold Wilkes in white tie and tails. A stirring baton-led march led to the curtains parting on an idyllic tropical island. A gorgeous young lady walked hand in hand beneath the coconut palms with her handsome beau and a love duet ensued.
‘By Jove,’ said I to Alfred Wallace in the next seat. ‘That’s the second catchy tune and we’re barely into the first act.’
‘Agreed,’ said he, nodding his head, his spectacles flashing in the subdued wall lighting. ‘I think they have a hit on their hands, Doctor Watson.’
Entranced, we sat in the box, occasionally moved to tears, as stirring rumbustious marches alternated with tuneful ballads and Bella eventually promised eternal fidelity and marriage to young Archie, a poor rating whose ship would be leaving for England the next day, leaving the pretty young maiden alone to pine for her love. She, the daughter of a cantankerous, possessive widower, a hypochondriac moaner, a gruff old Welsh missionary by the name of Davies, played to perfection by our dear friend Charles Lemon.
The first act went riotously well and we sat enthralled. The second act, however, seemed to fall short. I should mention we were by then introduced to a chorus of cuddly dancing giant rats who sang of the delights of an idyllic tropical island.
‘
Sumatra, Sumatra, Sumatran jolly rats are we. Paradise is ours, the sun, the palms and the sea.
‘
Tosh, of course, but the younger members of the audience lapped it up, screaming and wildly applauding every time the blasted rodents made an appearance. I perceived the more mature members of the audience found the cuddly toy rats annoying after a while and I heard much coughing and blowing of noses.
The light opera, a musical entertainment in the style of Gilbert and Sullivan, else Franz Lahar, was well directed and had much to commend it. This said, those wretched singing and dancing giant rats spoiled it for me. I should rather have seen more of the beautiful, leggy chorus
‘I will have another, thank you Holmes. All right, the potion – well, I can honestly say hand on heart it worked. If there is such a thing as the elixir of eternal youth, this gets damnably close. Not only did it contain healing properties, but when I next looked in the glass after being confined to my cot with yellow fever, for God knows how long and close to death, I had lost middle age and become young again. I felt cleansed, entirely rejuvenated in both body and mind. Samu the shaman insisted he had lived three hundred years, and amongst his tribe on Sumatra he was but a young man, a mere whippersnapper.’
‘But, scientifically, surely that’s unfeasible – an anti-ageing potion belongs to Greek myth,’ said I, stubbing out the remains of my cigar in the ashtray.
‘Make of it what you will, gentlemen,’ said he at length, sipping from his glass. ‘But I tell you truthfully, it proved effective.’
‘One more thing Wallace.’
‘By all means.’
‘If it were possible, say, to replicate this potion you talk of, to produce a modern serum from the remains of this long-extinct tree-rat, who would you plump for, who should possess the requisite skills and knowledge to carry it through?’
‘The Chinese come to mind. As a race they are so far advanced in alternative medicine. One only has to visit a Chinese herbalist in Limehouse to see the similarities.’
15
Opening Night
The theatre lights dimmed. We took our places in the box. Alfred Wallace, his wife and family filed in and took their seats. We were all of us expectantly passing round a bag of mint humbugs, making sure our opera glasses were close at hand. At last the performance got under way. A rousing overture, both instantly melodic and catchy, set our feet tapping and hands clapping to the infectious rhythm of the orchestra in the pit, being conducted by Sir Penfold Wilkes in white tie and tails. A stirring baton-led march led to the curtains parting on an idyllic tropical island. A gorgeous young lady walked hand in hand beneath the coconut palms with her handsome beau and a love duet ensued.
‘By Jove,’ said I to Alfred Wallace in the next seat. ‘That’s the second catchy tune and we’re barely into the first act.’
‘Agreed,’ said he, nodding his head, his spectacles flashing in the subdued wall lighting. ‘I think they have a hit on their hands, Doctor Watson.’
Entranced, we sat in the box, occasionally moved to tears, as stirring rumbustious marches alternated with tuneful ballads and Bella eventually promised eternal fidelity and marriage to young Archie, a poor rating whose ship would be leaving for England the next day, leaving the pretty young maiden alone to pine for her love. She, the daughter of a cantankerous, possessive widower, a hypochondriac moaner, a gruff old Welsh missionary by the name of Davies, played to perfection by our dear friend Charles Lemon.
The first act went riotously well and we sat enthralled. The second act, however, seemed to fall short. I should mention we were by then introduced to a chorus of cuddly dancing giant rats who sang of the delights of an idyllic tropical island.
‘
Sumatra, Sumatra, Sumatran jolly rats are we. Paradise is ours, the sun, the palms and the sea.
‘
Tosh, of course, but the younger members of the audience lapped it up, screaming and wildly applauding every time the blasted rodents made an appearance. I perceived the more mature members of the audience found the cuddly toy rats annoying after a while and I heard much coughing and blowing of noses.
The light opera, a musical entertainment in the style of Gilbert and Sullivan, else Franz Lahar, was well directed and had much to commend it. This said, those wretched singing and dancing giant rats spoiled it for me. I should rather have seen more of the beautiful, leggy chorus
Similar Books
