Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories - Oscar Wilde (electronic book reader TXT) 📗

“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 shirtsleeve; 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 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 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 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 tête-à-tête.

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