Books: Lord Arthur Savile\'s Crime and Other Stories
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Oscar Wilde >> Lord Arthur Savile\'s Crime and Other Stories
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9 Transcribed from the 1913 Methuen and Co. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME AND OTHER STORIES
Contents
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime
The Canterville Ghost
The Sphinx Without a Secret
The Model Millionaire
The Portrait of Mr. W. H.
LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME
CHAPTER I
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 Levee 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 Carlsruhe, 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 coat-tails with eminent
sceptics, 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 colour 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, giving an involuntary
start.
'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 cheiropodist.
'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
cheiropodist 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 tortoise-shell 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 every one 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 some one 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 recognise
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
laid on in every bedroom. Your Grace is quite right. Comfort is
the only thing our civilisation 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 town house 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 third finger.
'An adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to
come. Been ship-wrecked 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 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's 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 every one, 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, with a charming blush, 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 to-morrow, 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.'
Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. 'I am not afraid,' he
answered. 'Sybil knows me as well as I know her.'
'Ah! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis
for marriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I am not at all
cynical, I have merely got experience, which, however, is very much
the same thing. Mr. Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have
his hand read. Don't tell him that he is engaged to one of the most
beautiful girls in London, because that appeared in the Morning Post
a month ago.
'Dear Lady Windermere,' cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, 'do let
Mr. Podgers stay here a little longer. He has just told me I should
go on the stage, and I am so interested.'
'If he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him
away. Come over at once, Mr. Podgers, and read Lord Arthur's hand.'
'Well,' said Lady Jedburgh, making a little moue as she rose from
the sofa, 'if I am not to be allowed to go on the stage, I must be
allowed to be part of the audience at any rate.'
'Of course; we are all going to be part of the audience,' said Lady
Windermere; 'and now, Mr. Podgers, be sure and tell us something
nice. Lord Arthur is one of my special favourites.'
But when Mr. Podgers saw Lord Arthur's hand he grew curiously pale,
and said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his
great bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating
way they had when he was puzzled. Then some huge beads of
perspiration broke out on his yellow forehead, like a poisonous dew,
and his fat fingers grew cold and clammy.
Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation,
and, for the first time in his life, he himself felt fear. His
impulse was to rush from the room, but he restrained himself. It
was better to know the worst, whatever it was, than to be left in
this hideous uncertainty.
'I am waiting, Mr. Podgers,' he said.
'We are all waiting,' cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient
manner, but the cheiromantist made no reply.
'I believe Arthur is going on the stage,' said Lady Jedburgh, 'and
that, after your scolding, Mr. Podgers is afraid to tell him so.'
Suddenly Mr. Podgers dropped Lord Arthur's right hand, and seized
hold of his left, bending down so low to examine it that the gold
rims of his spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a
moment his face became a white mask of horror, but he soon recovered
his sang-froid, and looking up at Lady Windermere, said with a
forced smile, 'It is the hand of a charming young man.
'Of course it is!' answered Lady Windermere, 'but will he be a
charming husband? That is what I want to know.'
'All charming young men are,' said Mr. Podgers.
'I don't think a husband should be too fascinating,' murmured Lady
Jedburgh pensively, 'it is so dangerous.'
'My dear child, they never are too fascinating,' cried Lady
Windermere. 'But what I want are details. Details are the only
things that interest. What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?'
'Well, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go a voyage--'
'Oh yes, his honeymoon, of course!'
'And lose a relative.'
'Not his sister, I hope?' said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of
voice.
'Certainly not his sister,' answered Mr. Podgers, with a deprecating
wave of the hand, 'a distant relative merely.'
'Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,' said Lady Windermere. 'I have
absolutely nothing to tell Sybil to-morrow. No one cares about
distant relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago.
However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it
always does for church, you know. And now let us go to supper.
They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we may find some hot
soup. Francois used to make excellent soup once, but he is so
agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain
about him. I do wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess,
I am sure you are tired?'
'Not at all, dear Gladys,' answered the Duchess, waddling towards
the door. 'I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I
mean the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my
tortoise-shell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my
lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I'm sure';
and the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs without
dropping her scent-bottle more than twice.
All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the
fireplace, with the same feeling of dread over him, the same
sickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as
she swept past him on Lord Plymdale's arm, looking lovely in her
pink brocade and pearls, and he hardly heard Lady Windermere when
she called to him to follow her. He thought of Sybil Merton, and
the idea that anything could come between them made his eyes dim
with tears.
Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the
shield of Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon's head. He seemed turned
to stone, and his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had
lived the delicate and luxurious life of a young man of birth and
fortune, a life exquisite in its freedom from sordid care, its
beautiful boyish insouciance; and now for the first time he became
conscious of the terrible mystery of Destiny, of the awful meaning
of Doom.
How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on
his hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that
another could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood-
red sign of crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no better
than chessmen, moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions
at his fancy, for honour or for shame? His reason revolted against
it, and yet he felt that some tragedy was hanging over him, and that
he had been suddenly called upon to bear an intolerable burden.
Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear
in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry,
laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different. Most men
and women are forced to perform parts for which they have no
qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our
Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the
play is badly cast.
Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he
started, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellow
colour. The two men's eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.
'The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has
asked me to bring it to her,' said Mr. Podgers finally. 'Ah, I see
it on the sofa! Good evening.'
'Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward
answer to a question I am going to put to you.'
'Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am afraid
I must go.'
'You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry.'
'Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,' said Mr. Podgers,
with his sickly smile. 'The fair sex is apt to be impatient.'
Lord Arthur's finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. The
poor Duchess seemed to him of very little importance at that moment.
He walked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was standing, and
held his hand out.
'Tell me what you saw there,' he said. 'Tell me the truth. I must
know it. I am not a child.'
Mr. Podgers's eyes blinked behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and he
moved uneasily from one foot to the other, while his fingers played
nervously with a flash watch-chain.
'What makes you think that I saw anything in your hand, Lord Arthur,
more than I told you?'
'I know you did, and I insist on your telling me what it was. I
will pay you. I will give you a cheque for a hundred pounds.'
The green eyes flashed for a moment, and then became dull again.
'Guineas?' said Mr. Podgers at last, in a low voice.
'Certainly. I will send you a cheque to-morrow. What is your
club?'
'I have no club. That is to say, not just at present. My address
is -, but allow me to give you my card'; and producing a bit of
gilt-edge pasteboard from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. Podgers handed
it, with a low bow, to Lord Arthur, who read on it,
Mr. SEPTIMUS R. PODGERS
Professional Cheiromantist
103a West Moon Street
'My hours are from ten to four,' murmured Mr. Podgers mechanically,
'and I make a reduction for families.'
'Be quick,' cried Lord Arthur, looking very pale, and holding his
hand out.
Mr. Podgers glanced nervously round, and drew the heavy portiere
across the door.
'It will take a little time, Lord Arthur, you had better sit down.'
'Be quick, sir,' cried Lord Arthur again, stamping his foot angrily
on the polished floor.
Mr. Podgers smiled, drew from his breast-pocket a small magnifying
glass, and wiped it carefully with his handkerchief
'I am quite ready,' he said.
CHAPTER II
Ten minutes later, with face blanched by terror, and eyes wild with
grief, Lord Arthur Savile rushed from Bentinck House, crushing his
way through the crowd of fur-coated footmen that stood round the
large striped awning, and seeming not to see or hear anything. The
night was bitter cold, and the gas-lamps round the square flared and
flickered in the keen wind; but his hands were hot with fever, and
his forehead burned like fire. On and on he went, almost with the
gait of a drunken man. A policeman looked curiously at him as he
passed, and a beggar, who slouched from an archway to ask for alms,
grew frightened, seeing misery greater than his own. Once he
stopped under a lamp, and looked at his hands. He thought he could
detect the stain of blood already upon them, and a faint cry broke
from his trembling lips.
Murder! that is what the cheiromantist had seen there. Murder! The
very night seemed to know it, and the desolate wind to howl it in
his ear. The dark corners of the streets were full of it. It
grinned at him from the roofs of the houses.
First he came to the Park, whose sombre woodland seemed to fascinate
him. He leaned wearily up against the railings, cooling his brow
against the wet metal, and listening to the tremulous silence of the
trees. 'Murder! murder!' he kept repeating, as though iteration
could dim the horror of the word. The sound of his own voice made
him shudder, yet he almost hoped that Echo might hear him, and wake
the slumbering city from its dreams. He felt a mad desire to stop
the casual passer-by, and tell him everything.
Then he wandered across Oxford Street into narrow, shameful alleys.
Two women with painted faces mocked at him as he went by. From a
dark courtyard came a sound of oaths and blows, followed by shrill
screams, and, huddled upon a damp door-step, he saw the crook-backed
forms of poverty and eld. A strange pity came over him. Were these
children of sin and misery predestined to their end, as he to his?
Were they, like him, merely the puppets of a monstrous show?
And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that
struck him; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of meaning.
How incoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all harmony! He
was amazed at the discord between the shallow optimism of the day,
and the real facts of existence. He was still very young.
After a time he found himself in front of Marylebone Church. The
silent roadway looked like a long riband of polished silver, flecked
here and there by the dark arabesques of waving shadows. Far into
the distance curved the line of flickering gas-lamps, and outside a
little walled-in house stood a solitary hansom, the driver asleep
inside. He walked hastily in the direction of Portland Place, now
and then looking round, as though he feared that he was being
followed. At the corner of Rich Street stood two men, reading a
small bill upon a hoarding. An odd feeling of curiosity stirred
him, and he crossed over. As he came near, the word 'Murder,'
printed in black letters, met his eye. He started, and a deep flush
came into his cheek. It was an advertisement offering a reward for
any information leading to the arrest of a man of medium height,
between thirty and forty years of age, wearing a billy-cock hat, a
black coat, and check trousers, and with a scar upon his right
cheek. He read it over and over again, and wondered if the wretched
man would be caught, and how he had been scarred. Perhaps, some
day, his own name might be placarded on the walls of London. Some
day, perhaps, a price would be set on his head also.
The thought made him sick with horror. He turned on his heel, and
hurried on into the night.
Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering
through a labyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web
of sombre streets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at
last in Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave
Square, he met the great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. The
white-smocked carters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse
curly hair, strode sturdily on, cracking their whips, and calling
out now and then to each other; on the back of a huge grey horse,
the leader of a jangling team, sat a chubby boy, with a bunch of
primroses in his battered hat, keeping tight hold of the mane with
his little hands, and laughing; and the great piles of vegetables
looked like masses of jade against the morning sky, like masses of
green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous rose. Lord
Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There was
something in the dawn's delicate loveliness that seemed to him
inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in
beauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too, with their
rough, good-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a
strange London they saw! A London free from the sin of night and
the smoke of day, a pallid, ghost-like city, a desolate town of
tombs! He wondered what they thought of it, and whether they knew
anything of its splendour and its shame, of its fierce, fiery-
coloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of all it makes and mars
from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a mart where they
brought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for a few hours
at most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still asleep.
It gave him pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude as they
were, with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward gait,
they brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they had
lived with Nature, and that she had taught them peace. He envied
them all that they did not know.
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