“Who is this?” said one of the officials.
“The man,” said the constable.
“Certainly not,” said the other turnkey; and the first corroborated his statement.
“But how can it be otherwise?” asked the constable. “Or why was he so terrified at sight o’ the singing instrument of the law?” Here he related the strange behaviour of the third stranger on entering the house.
“Can’t understand it,” said the officer coolly. “All I know is that it is not the condemned man. He’s quite a different character from this one; a gauntish fellow, with dark hair and eyes, rather good-looking, and with a musical bass voice that if you heard it once you’d never mistake as long as you lived.”
“Why, souls—’twas the man in the chimney-corner!”
“Hey—what?” said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiring particulars from the shepherd in the background. “Haven’t you got the man after all?”
“Well, sir,” said the constable, “he’s the man we were in search of, that’s true; and yet he’s not the man we were in search of. For the man we were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if you understand my everyday way; for ’twas the man in the chimney-corner.”
“A pretty kettle of fish altogether!” said the magistrate. “You had better start for the other man at once.”
The prisoner now spoke for the first time. The mention of the man in the chimney-corner seemed to have moved him as nothing else could do.
“Sir,” he said, stepping forward to the magistrate, “take no more trouble about me. The time is come when I may as well speak. I have done nothing; my crime is that the condemned man is my brother. Early this afternoon I left home at Anglebury to tramp it all the way to Casterbridge gaol to bid him farewell. I was benighted, and called here to rest and ask the way. When I opened the door I saw before me the very man, my brother, that I thought to see in the condemned cell at Casterbridge. He was in this chimney-corner; and jammed close to him, so that he could not have got out if he had tried, was the executioner who’d come to take his life, singing a song about it and not knowing that it was his victim who was close by, joining in to save appearances. My brother looked a glance of agony at me, and I knew he meant, ‘Don’t reveal what you see; my life depends on it.’ I was so terror-struck that I could hardly stand, and, not knowing what I did, I turned and hurried away.”
The narrator’s manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his story made a great impression on all around. “And do you know where your brother is at the present time?” asked the magistrate.
“I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door.”
“I can testify to that, for we’ve been between ye ever since,” said the constable.
“Where does he think to fly to?—what is his occupation?”
“He’s a watch-and-clock maker, sir.”
“ ’A said ’a was a wheelwright—a wicked rogue,” said the constable.
“The wheels o’clocks and watches he meant, no doubt,” said Shepherd Fennel. “I thought his hands were palish for’s trade.”
“Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining this poor man in custody,” said the magistrate; “your business lies with the other, unquestionably.”
And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothing the less sad on that account, it being beyond the power of magistrate or constable to raze out the written troubles in his brain, for they concerned another whom he regarded with more solicitude than himself. When this was done, and the man had gone his way, the night was found to be so far advanced that it was deemed useless to renew the search before the next morning.
Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer became general and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intended punishment was cruelly disproportioned to the transgression, and the sympathy of a great many country folk in that district was strongly on the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvelous coolness and daring under the unprecedented circumstances of the shepherd’s party won their admiration. So that it may be questioned if all those who ostensibly made themselves so busy in exploring woods and fields and lanes were quite so thorough when it came to the private examination of their own lofts and outhouses. Stories were afloat of a mysterious figure being occasionally seen in some old overgrown trackway or other, remote from turnpike roads; but when a search was instituted in any of these suspected quarters nobody was found. Thus the days and weeks passed without tidings.
In brief, the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was never recaptured. Some said that he went across the sea, others that he did not, but buried himself in the depths of a populous city. At any rate, the gentleman in cinder-grey never did his morning’s work at Casterbridge, nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes, the comrade with whom he had passed an hour of relaxation in the lonely house on the coomb.
The grass has long been green on the graves of Shepherd Fennel and his frugal wife; the guests who made up the christening party have mainly followed their entertainers to the tomb; the baby in whose honour they all had met is a matron in the sere and yellow leaf. But the arrival of the three strangers at the shepherd’s that night, and the details connected therewith, is a story as well known as ever in the country about Higher Crowstairs.
Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime
OSCAR WILDE
Chronologically a Victorian-era writer, Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde (1854–1900) is reliably described more as a member of the short-lived age of decadence, the 1890s, which demonstrated its French influence by being referred to as the fin de siècle.
Although his prodigious literary talent appears at first glance to be too much of its time, with its elaborate style, rococo embellishments, and focus on descriptions of rare jewels, exotic scents, and other flamboyant excesses, Wilde’s work remains wonderfully readable today, just as his plays are imbued with wit and charm that remain completely entertaining more than a century after their initial successes.
Born in Dublin, he attended Trinity College and Oxford University, selling his first poems while still in school. He affected Bohemian styles and mannerisms that were despised by some but fascinated others. After dabbling at various literary endeavors in his early years, he produced work at a prodigious rate in the late 1880s, including fairy tales for adults in The Happy Prince and Other Tales (1888), such enduring short stories as “The Canterville Ghost” (1887), the iconic horror novel The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891), and the plays that gave him financial independence and still enjoy large audiences today, including Lady Windermere’s Fan (1892), A Woman of No Importance (1893), An Ideal Husband (1895), and The Importance of Being Earnest (1895).
His writing career and life were cut short when he was sent to jail for two years because of his then-illegal homosexuality. Released in 1897, his health damaged, he moved to France, taking the name Sebastian Melmoth, and died three years later.
“Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime” was originally published in the May 11, 1887, issue of The Court and Society Review; it was first collected in Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories (London, Osgood, McIlvaine, 1891).
LORD ARTHUR SAVILE’S CRIME
Oscar Wilde
It was Lady Windermere’s last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from the Speaker’s Levée in their stars and ribands, all the pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the picture gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsrühe, a heavy Tartar-looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her voice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably to violent radicals, popular preachers brushed coattails with eminent skeptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout prima donna
from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal Academicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one time the supper room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of Lady Windermere’s best nights, and the Princess stayed till nearly half-past eleven.
As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picture gallery, where a celebrated political economist was solemnly explaining the scientific theory of music to an indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She looked wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large blue forget-me-not eyes, and her heavy coils of golden hair. Or pur they were—not that pale straw color that nowadays usurps the gracious name of gold, but such gold as is woven into sunbeams or hidden in strange amber; and they gave to her face something of the frame of a saint, with not a little of the fascination of a sinner.
She was a curious psychological study. Early in life she had discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half of them quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a personality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed, Debrett credits her with three marriages; but as she had never changed her lover, the world had long ago ceased to talk scandal about her. She was now forty years of age, childless, and with that inordinate passion for pleasure which is the secret of remaining young.
Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear contralto voice, “Where is my cheiromantist?”
“Your what, Gladys?” exclaimed the Duchess.
“My cheiromantist, Duchess. I can’t live without him at present.”
“Dear Gladys, you are always so original,” murmured the Duchess, trying to remember what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping it was not the same as a chiropodist.
“He comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,” continued Lady Windermere, “and is most interesting about it.”
“Good heavens!” said the Duchess to herself. “He is a sort of chiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope he is a foreigner at any rate. It wouldn’t be quite so bad then.”
“I must certainly introduce him to you.”
“Introduce him!” cried the Duchess. “You don’t mean to say he is here?”—and she began looking about for a small tortoiseshell fan and a very tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.
“Of course he is here. I would not dream of giving a party without him. He tells me I have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumb had been the least little bit shorter, I should have been a confirmed pessimist, and gone into a convent.”
“Oh, I see!” said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved. “He tells fortunes, I suppose?”
“And misfortunes, too,” answered Lady Windermere, “any amount of them. Next year, for instance, I am in great danger, both by land and sea, so I am going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinner in a basket every evening. It is all written down on my little finger, or on the palm of my hand, I forget which.”
“But surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.”
“My dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. I think everyone should have their hands told once a month, so as to know what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same, but it is so pleasant to be warned. Now if someone doesn’t go and fetch Mr. Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself.”
“Let me go, Lady Windermere,” said a tall handsome young man, who was standing by, listening to the conversation with an amused smile.
“Thanks so much, Lord Arthur, but I am afraid you wouldn’t recognize him.”
“If he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldn’t well miss him. Tell me what he is like, and I’ll bring him to you at once.”
“Well, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not mysterious, or esoteric, or romantic-looking. He is a little, stout man, with a funny, bald head, and great gold-rimmed spectacles; something between a family doctor and a country attorney. I’m really very sorry, but it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my pianists look exactly like poets; and all my poets look exactly like pianists; and I remember last season asking a most dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown up ever so many people, and always wore a coat of mail, and carried a dagger up his shirt-sleeve; and do you know that when he came he looked just like a nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the evening?
“Of course, he was very amusing, and all that, but I was awfully disappointed; and when I asked him about the coat of mail he only laughed, and said it was far too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is Mr. Podgers! Now, Mr. Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of Paisley’s hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off. No, not the left hand, the other.”
“Dear Gladys, I really don’t think it is quite right,” said the Duchess, feebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid glove.
“Nothing interesting ever is,” said Lady Windermere; “on a fait le monde ainsi. But I must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr. Podgers, my pet cheiromantist. Mr. Podgers, this is the Duchess of Paisley, and if you say that she has a larger mountain of the moon than I have, I will never believe in you again.”
“I am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,” said the Duchess gravely.
“Your Grace is quite right,” said Mr. Podgers, glancing at the little fat hand with its short square fingers; “the mountain of the moon is not developed. The line of life, however, is excellent. Kindly bend the wrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on the rascette! You will live to a great age, Duchess, and be extremely happy. Ambition very moderate, line of intellect not exaggerated, line of heart—”
“Now, do be indiscreet, Mr. Podgers,” cried Lady Windermere.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” said Mr. Podgers, bowing, “if the Duchess ever had been, but I am sorry to say that I see great permanence of affection, combined with a strong sense of duty.”
“Pray go on, Mr. Podgers,” said the Duchess, looking quite pleased.
“Economy is not the least of your Grace’s virtues,” continued Mr. Podgers, and Lady Windermere went off into fits of laughter.
“Economy is a very good thing,” remarked the Duchess complacently. “When I married Paisley he had eleven castles, and not a single house fit to live in.”
“And now he has twelve houses, and not a single castle,” cried Lady Windermere.
“Well, my dear,” said the Duchess, “I like—”
“Comfort,” said Mr. Podgers, “and modern improvements, and hot water in every bedroom. Your Grace is quite right. Comfort is the only thing our civilization can give us.”
“You have told the Duchess’s character admirably, Mr. Podgers, and now you must tell Lady Flora’s”—and in answer to a nod from the smiling hostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and high shoulder blades, stepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and held out a long, bony hand with spatulate fingers.
“Ah, a pianist! I see,” said Mr. Podgers, “an excellent pianist, but perhaps hardly a musician. Very reserved, very honest, and with a great love of animals.”
“Quite true!” exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere, “absolutely true! Flora keeps two dozen collie dogs at Macloskie, and would turn our townhouse into a menagerie if her father would let her.”
“Well, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday evening,” cried Lady Windermere, laughing, “only I like lions better than collie dogs.”
“Your one mistake, Lady Windermere,” said Mr. Podgers, with a pompous bow.
“If a woman can’t make her mistakes charming, she is only a female,” was the answer. “But you must read some more hands for us. Come, Sir Thomas, show Mr. Podgers yours”—and a genial-looking old gentleman, in a white waistcoat, came forward, and held out a thick rugged hand, with a very long t
hird finger.
“An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to come. Been shipwrecked three times. No, only twice, but in danger of a shipwreck your next journey. A strong Conservative, very punctual, and with a passion for collecting curiosities. Had a severe illness between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. Was left a fortune when about thirty. Great aversion to cats and Radicals.”
“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Sir Thomas. “You must really tell my wife’s hand, too.”
“Your second wife’s,” said Mr. Podgers quietly, still keeping Sir Thomas’ hand in his. “Your second wife’s. I shall be charmed.” But Lady Marvel, a melancholy-looking woman, with brown hair and sentimental eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her future exposed; and nothing that Lady Windermere could do would induce Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, even to take his gloves off. In fact, many people seemed afraid to face the odd little man with his stereotyped smile, his gold spectacles, and his bright, beady eyes; and when he told poor Lady Fermor right out before everyone that she did not care a bit for music, but was extremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt that cheiromancy was a most dangerous science, and one that ought not to be encouraged, except in a tete-a-tete.
Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about Lady Fermor’s unfortunate story, and who had been watching Mr. Podgers with a great deal of interest, was filled with an immense curiosity to have his own hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about putting himself forward, crossed over the room to where Lady Windermere was sitting, and asked her if she thought Mr. Podgers would mind.
“Of course he won’t mind,” said Lady Windermere, “that is what he is here for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and jump through hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn you beforehand that I shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with me tomorrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr. Podgers finds out that you have a bad temper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let her know all about it.”
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 63
