THE SECRET OF THE TWO PLASTER CASTS.
Years before the accession of her Majesty Queen Victoria, and yet at notso remote a date as to be utterly beyond the period to which thereminiscences of our middle-aged readers extend, it happened that twoEnglish gentlemen sat at table on a summer's evening, after dinner,quietly sipping their wine and engaged in desultory conversation. Theywere both men known to fame. One of them was a sculptor whose statuesadorned the palaces of princes, and whose chiselled busts were the prideof half the nobility of his nation; the other was no less renowned as ananatomist and surgeon. The age of the anatomist might have been guessedat fifty, but the guess would have erred on the side of youth by atleast ten years. That of the sculptor could scarcely be more thanfive-and-thirty. A bust of the anatomist, so admirably executed as topresent, although in stone, the perfect similitude of life and flesh,stood upon a pedestal opposite to the table at which sat the pair, andat once explained at least one connecting-link of companionship betweenthem. The anatomist was exhibiting for the criticism of his friend arare gem which he had just drawn from his cabinet: it was a crucifixmagnificently carved in ivory, and incased in a setting of pure gold.
"The carving, my dear sir," observed Mr. Fiddyes, the sculptor, "isindeed, as you say, exquisite. The muscles are admirably made out, theflesh well modelled, wonderfully so for the size and material; andyet--by the bye, on this point you must know more than I--the more Ithink upon the matter, the more I regard the artistic conception asutterly false and wrong."
"You speak in a riddle," replied Dr. Carnell; "but pray go on, andexplain."
"It is a fancy I first had in my student-days," replied Fiddyes."Conventionality, not to say a most proper and becoming reverence,prevents people by no means ignorant from considering the point. Butonce think upon it, and you at least, of all men, must at once perceivehow utterly impossible it would be for a victim nailed upon a cross byhands and feet to preserve the position invariably displayed in figuresof the Crucifixion. Those who so portray it fail in what should be theirmost awful and agonizing effect. Think for one moment, and imagine, ifyou can, what would be the attitude of a man, living or dead, under thisfrightful torture."
"You startle me," returned the great surgeon, "not only by the truth ofyour remarks, but by their obviousness. It is strange indeed that such amatter should have so long been overlooked. The more I think upon it themore the bare idea of actual crucifixion seems to horrify me, thoughheaven knows I am accustomed enough to scenes of suffering. How wouldyou represent such a terrible agony?"
"Indeed I cannot tell," replied the sculptor; "to guess would be almostvain. The fearful strain upon the muscles, their utter helplessness andinactivity, the frightful swellings, the effect of weight upon theracked and tortured sinews, appal me too much even for speculation."
"But this," replied the surgeon, "one might think a matter ofimportance, not only to art, but, higher still, to religion itself."
"Maybe so," returned the sculptor. "But perhaps the appeal to the sensesthrough a true representation might be too horrible for either the oneor the other."
"Still," persisted the surgeon, "I should like--say forcuriosity--though I am weak enough to believe even in my own motive as ahigher one--to ascertain the effect from actual observation."
"So should I, could it be done, and of course without pain to theobject, which, as a condition, seems to present at the outset animpossibility."
"Perhaps not," mused the anatomist; "I think I have a notion. Stay--wemay contrive this matter. I will tell you my plan, and it will bestrange indeed if we two cannot manage to carry it out."
The discourse here, owing to the rapt attention of both speakers,assumed a low and earnest tone, but had perhaps better be narrated by arelation of the events to which it gave rise. Suffice it to say that theSovereign was more than once mentioned during its progress, and in amanner which plainly told that the two speakers each possessedsufficient influence to obtain the assistance of royalty, and that suchassistance would be required in their scheme.
The shades of evening deepened while the two were still conversing. Andleaving this scene, let us cast one hurried glimpse at another takingplace contemporaneously.
Between Pimlico and Chelsea, and across a canal of which the bed hassince been used for the railway terminating at Victoria Station, therewas at the time of which we speak a rude timber footway, long sincereplaced by a more substantial and convenient erection, but then knownas the Wooden Bridge. It was named shortly afterward Cutthroat Bridge,and for this reason.
While Mr. Fiddyes and Dr. Carnell were discoursing over their wine, aswe have already seen, one Peter Starke, a drunken Chelsea pensioner, wasmurdering his wife upon the spot we have last indicated. The coincidencewas curious.
* * * * *
In those days the punishment of criminals followed closely upon theirconviction. The Chelsea pensioner whom we have mentioned was foundguilty one Friday and sentenced to die on the following Monday. He was asad scoundrel, impenitent to the last, glorying in the deeds ofslaughter which he had witnessed and acted during the series ofcampaigns which had ended just previously at Waterloo. He was a tall,well-built fellow enough, of middle age, for his class was not then, asnow, composed chiefly of veterans, but comprised many young men, justsufficiently disabled to be unfit for service. Peter Starke, althoughbut slightly wounded, had nearly completed his term of service, and hadobtained his pension and presentment to Chelsea Hospital. With his lifewe have but little to do, save as regards its close, which we shallshortly endeavor to describe far more veraciously, and at some greaterlength than set forth in the brief account which satisfied the public ofhis own day, and which, as embodied in the columns of the few journalsthen appearing, ran thus:
"On Monday last Peter Starke was executed at Newgate for the murder at the Wooden Bridge, Chelsea, with four others for various offences. After he had been hanging only for a few minutes a respite arrived, but although he was promptly cut down, life was pronounced to be extinct. His body was buried within the prison walls."
Thus far history. But the conciseness of history far more frequentlyembodies falsehood than truth. Perhaps the following narration mayapproach more nearly to the facts.
A room within the prison had been, upon that special occasion and byhigh authority, allotted to the use of Dr. Carnell and Mr. Fiddyes, thefamous sculptor, for the purpose of certain investigations connectedwith art and science. In that room Mr. Fiddyes, while wretched PeterStarke was yet swinging between heaven and earth, was busily engaged inarranging a variety of implements and materials, consisting of a largequantity of plaster-of-Paris, two large pails of water, some tubs, andother necessaries of the moulder's art. The room contained a large dealtable, and a wooden cross, not neatly planed and squared at the angles,but of thick, narrow, rudely-sawn oaken plank, fixed by strong, heavynails. And while Mr. Fiddyes was thus occupied, the executionerentered, bearing upon his shoulders the body of the wretched Peter,which he flung heavily upon the table.
"You are sure he is dead?" asked Mr. Fiddyes.
"Dead as a herring," replied the other. "And yet just as warm and limpas if he had only fainted."
"Then go to work at once," replied the sculptor, as turning his backupon the hangman, he resumed his occupation.
The "work" was soon done. Peter was stripped and nailed upon the timber,which was instantly propped against the wall.
"As fine a one as ever I see," exclaimed the executioner, as he regardedthe defunct murderer with an expression of admiration, as if at his ownhandiwork, in having abruptly demolished such a magnificent animal."Drops a good bit for'ard, though. Shall I tie him up round the waist,sir?"
"Certainly not," returned the sculptor. "Just rub him well over withthis oil, especially his head, and then you can go. Dr. Carnell willsettle with you."
"All right, sir."
The fellow did as ordered, and retired without another word; leavingthis strang
e couple, the living and the dead, in that dismal chamber.
Mr. Fiddyes was a man of strong nerve in such matters. He had been toomuch accustomed to taking posthumous casts to trouble himself with anysentiment of repugnance at his approaching task of taking what is calleda "piece-mould" from a body. He emptied a number of bags of the whitepowdery plaster-of-Paris into one of the larger vessels, poured into ita pail of water, and was carefully stirring up the mass, when a sound ofdropping arrested his ear.
_Drip, drip._
"There's something leaking," he muttered, as he took a second pail, andemptying it, again stirred the composition.
_Drip, drip, drip._
"It's strange," he soliloquized, half aloud. "There is no more water,and yet----"
The sound was heard again.
He gazed at the ceiling; there was no sign of damp. He turned his eyesto the body, and something suddenly caused him a violent start. Themurderer was bleeding.
The sculptor, spite of his command over himself, turned pale. At thatmoment the head of Starke moved--clearly moved. It raised itselfconvulsively for a single moment; its eyes rolled, and it gave vent to asubdued moan of intense agony. Mr. Fiddyes fell fainting on the floor asDr. Carnell entered. It needed but a glance to tell the doctor what hadhappened, even had not Peter just then given vent to another low cry.The surgeon's measures were soon taken. Locking the door, he bore achair to the wall which supported the body of the malefactor. He drewfrom his pocket a case of glittering instruments, and with one of these,so small and delicate that it scarcely seemed larger than a needle, herapidly, but dexterously and firmly, touched Peter just at the back ofthe neck. There was no wound larger than the head of a small pin, andyet the head fell instantly as though the heart had been pierced. Thedoctor had divided the spinal cord, and Peter Starke was dead indeed.
A few minutes sufficed to recall the sculptor to his senses. He at firstgazed wildly upon the still suspended body, so painfully recalled tolife by the rough venesection of the hangman and the subsequent frictionof anointing his body to prevent the adhesion of the plaster.
"You need not fear now," said Dr. Carnell; "I assure you he is dead."
"But he _was_ alive, surely!"
"Only for a moment, and even that scarcely to be called life--meremuscular contraction, my dear sir, mere muscular contraction."
The sculptor resumed his labor. The body was girt at variouscircumferences with fine twine, to be afterward withdrawn through athick coating of plaster, so as to separate the various pieces of themould, which was at last completed; and after this Dr. Carnell skilfullyflayed the body, to enable a second mould to be taken of the entirefigure, showing every muscle of the outer layer.
The two moulds were thus taken. It is difficult to conceive more ghastlyappearances than they presented. For sculptor's work they were utterlyuseless; for no artist except the most daring of realists would haveventured to indicate the horrors which they presented. Fiddyes refusedto receive them. Dr. Carnell, hard and cruel as he was, for kindness'sake, in his profession, was a gentle, genial father of a family ofdaughters. He received the casts, and at once consigned them to agarret, to which he forbade access. His youngest daughter, oneunfortunate day, during her father's absence, was impelled by femininecuriosity--perhaps a little increased by the prohibition--to enter themysterious chamber.
Whether she imagined in the pallid figure upon the cross a celestialrebuke for her disobedience, or whether she was overcome by the meremortal horror of one or both of those dreadful casts, can now never beknown. But this is true: she became a maniac.
The writer of this has more than once seen (as, no doubt, have manyothers) the plaster effigies of Peter Starke, after their removal fromDr. Carnell's to a famous studio near the Regent's Park. It was therethat he heard whispered the strange story of their origin. Sculptor andsurgeon are now both long since dead, and it is no longer necessary tokeep _the secret of the two plaster casts_.
A Stable for Nightmares; or, Weird Tales Page 10
