The Heart Line 33

The Heart Line 33

He retired gracefully, followed by laughter and applause, and was not

troubled by more requests. Clytie whispered to him:

 

"I think you saved yourself with honor. It was a test, but I was sure

of you!"

 

Mrs. Maxwell, immensely relieved, almost immediately gave the signal for

the ladies to leave. After the men had reseated themselves, heavy

Chinese pipes with small bowls were passed about. Most of the guests

tried a few puffs of the mild tobacco, and then reached for cigarettes

or cigars. As the doors to the drawing-room were shut they drew closer

together and began to talk more freely.

 

Blanchard Cayley came over and sat down beside Granthope in Clytie’s

empty chair. He, too, had taken off his wig. His smile was

ingratiating, his voice was suave, as he said:

 

"I don’t want to make you talk shop if you don’t care to, Granthope, but

I’d like to know if you ever heard of reading the character by

thumb-prints. I don’t know exactly what you’d call it—papilamancy,

perhaps."

 

"I don’t think it has ever been done, but I don’t see why it shouldn’t

be," said Granthope, amused.

 

"What is necessary to make it a science?"

 

Granthope, quicker with women than with men, was at a loss to see what

Cayley was driving at, but he suspected a trap, and foresaw that his

science was to be impugned. He countermined:

 

"Oh, first of all, a classification and a terminology," he suggested.

Cayley was caught neatly. He was more ignorant than he knew.

 

"Why don’t you classify the markings then? I should think it might be

considered a logical development of chiromancy."

 

"One reason is, because they have already been classified by Galton.

I’ve forgotten most of it, but I remember some of the primary divisions.

Have you a pencil?"

 

Cayley unbuttoned and threw open his plum-colored, long-sleeved ’dun,’

disclosing evening dress underneath, and produced a pencil which he gave

to the palmist. Granthope smoothed out his paper napkin, and, as he

talked, drew illustrative diagrams upon it.

 

"You see, the identification of thumb-prints is made by means of the

characteristic involution of the nucleus and its envelope. One needs

only a few square millimeters of area. There are three primary

nuclei—arches, whorls and loops. Each has variously formed cores. The

arch, for instance, may be tented or forked—so. The whorls may be

circular or spiral. The loops may be nascent, invaded or crested, and

may contain either a single or several rods, as they are called. Let me

see your thumb, please. You have a banded, duplex, spiral whorl. It

was there when you were born, it will be the same in form when you die.

Mine is an invaded loop with three rods."

 

He saw by Cayley’s face that he had scored. Such technical detail was,

in point of fact, Cayley’s penchant, and he was interested. Granthope

proceeded:

 

"Almost every distinguishing characteristic of the human body has been

used at one time or another for divination or interpretation, as I

suppose you know."

 

Cayley saw an opening. "But what do you think the reading of moles, for

instance, amounts to, really?"

 

"The reading of them, very little, of course. But the location of them,

a good deal."

 

"Ah," said Cayley, "I thought so. Then you affirm an esoteric basis

with regard to such interpretations? You think that a mass of absolute

knowledge has been conserved, coming down from no one knows where, I

suppose?"

 

"There are several ways of looking at it," Granthope answered him. He

threw himself back in his chair and gathered the company in with his

eyes. "One theory, as you know, is that palmistry derives its authority

from the fact that the lines are produced by the opening and closing of

the hand—originally, at least—the fundamental markings being inherited,

as are our fundamental mental characteristics—and that such alteration

of the tissue is directly affected by the character. One stamps his own

particular way of doing things upon his palm. Using the right hand

most, more is shown there that is individually characteristic. Of

course this theory will not apply to the distribution of moles upon the

body. But it seems to me that every part of an organic growth must be

consistent with the whole, and with what governs it. Everything about a

person must necessarily be characteristic of the individual. There are

really no such things as accidents, if we except scars. We recognize

that in studying physiognomy, and, to a certain extent, in phrenology.

It is suggested less intelligibly in a person’s gait, gesture and pose.

Everything that is distinctive must be significant, if only we have the

power of interpreting it. Of course we have not that power as yet.

Palmistry, being the most obvious and striking method, has been more

fully developed. A great amount of data has been collected upon the

subject, and every good palmist is continually adding to that material.

But I believe that, to a possible higher intelligence, any part of a

man’s body would reveal his character—since every specialized partial

manifestation of himself must be correlated with every other part and

the whole. How else could it be? An infinite experience would draw a

man’s mental and physical portrait, for instance, from a single toe, as

it is possible for a scientist to portray a whole extinct animal from a

single bone. I think that there can be, in short, no possible

divergence from type without a reason for it; and that reason is the

same one that molded his character."

 

"But that doesn’t explain prognostication of the future." By this time

the animus of Cayley’s attack had died out. He was now impersonally

interested.

 

"No scientific palmist attempts to give more than possibilities. He

must combine with the signs in the hands a certain amount of

psychology—a knowledge of the tendencies of human nature—in order to

predict. But, after all, his diagnosis, when it is logical, is as

accurate as that of the ordinary physician, and the risk is less

serious. How many doctors look wise and take serious chances—or

prescribe bread-pills? There’s guess-work enough in all professions."

 

By this time the two had been joined by several others who hung over

them in a group, listening. Fernigan interjected:

 

"That’s right! Even Blanchard has to guess what he’s talking about most

of the time!"

 

"And you have to guess whether you’re sober or not!" said slim Keith

with the white nose.

 

"When you talk about the probable tendencies of human nature, you don’t

know what you’re up against," said Cayley, retreating. "San Francisco

is a town where people are likely to do anything. There’s no limit, no

predicting for them. They were buying air-ship stock on the street down

at Lotta’s fountain, the last thing I heard."

 

The old gentleman in evening dress, still wearing his Chinese paper

crown, took him up enthusiastically.

 

"You can be more foolish here without getting into the insane asylum

than any place on earth, but you have to be a thoroughbred spiritualist

before you can really call yourself bug-house. Look at old man Bennett!

You couldn’t make anything up he wouldn’t believe!"

 

"What about him?" said Cayley. "I would like to have him for my

collection of freaks.

 

"Oh, he was a furniture manufacturer here. I knew him well, but I

forget the details. It was something fierce though, the way they worked

him."

 

Granthope smiled. "I can tell you something about Bennett," he offered.

"I happened to hear the whole story nearly at first hand."

 

"Let’s have it," Cayley proposed.

 

Granthope leaned back in his chair and began, rather pleased at having

an audience.

 

"Why, he went to investigating spiritualism and fell into the hands of a

man named Harry Wing and a gang of mediums here. They won Bennett over

to a firm belief, step by step, till he was the dupe of every ghost that

appeared in the materializing circles, which cost him twenty-five

dollars an evening, by the way. One man that helped Wing out, played

spirit, pretended to be his dead son, and used to ask him for jewelry so

that he could dematerialize it, and then rematerialize it for

identification. If Bennett went down to Los Angeles he’d take the same

train and turn up at a circle there, proving he was the same spirit by

the rings that had been given him up here. Well, Bennett got so strong

for it that after a while they didn’t bother with cabinets and dark

séances—the players used to walk right in the door. Then they’d tell

him that, as partly materialized spirits, they ought to have dinner to

increase their magnetism, and he’d send out for chicken and wine.

Finally they got him so they’d point out people on the street and assert

that they were spirits. The prettiest test was when they materialized

Cleopatra. I’ve never seen the Egyptian queen, but she certainly wasn’t

a bit prettier than the girl who played her part. Bennett, as an

extraordinary test of her strength, was allowed to take her out to the

Cliff House in a hack. The curtains of the carriage had to be pulled

down to keep the daylight from burning her."

 

"Oh, Cliff House, what crimes have been committed in thy name!" Fernigan

murmured.

 

"Next, they made Bennett believe that his influence was so valuable in

accustoming spirits to earth-conditions, that they were going to reveal

a new bible to him, with all the errors and omissions corrected, and he

would go down to posterity as its author. In return, he was to help

civilize the planet Jupiter. You see, Jupiter being an exterior planet

was behind the earth in culture. Bennett contributed all sorts of

agricultural implements and furniture to be dematerialized and sent to

Jupiter, there to be rematerialized and used as patterns. Wing even got

him to contribute a five hundred dollar carriage for the same purpose.

It was sold by the gang for seventy-five dollars, and even when it was

shown to Bennett by his friends, who were trying to save him, he

wouldn’t believe it was the same one. They milked him out of every cent

at last, and he died bankrupt."

 

Granthope had scarcely finished his story when the drawing-room doors

were half opened and Mrs. Page appeared on the threshold pouting.

 

"Aren’t you ever coming in here?" she exclaimed petulantly. "You might

let us have Mr. Granthope, at least."

 

The men rose and sauntered in, one by one.

 

Granthope had but a moment in which to reflect upon what he had done,

but in that moment he regretted his indiscretion in telling the Bennett

story. He had not been able to resist the opportunity to make himself

interesting and agreeable; now he wondered what price he would have to

pay for it. The next moment his speculations vanished at the sight of

Clytie.

 

He went directly to her and sat down. Although the party was dispersed

in little groups, the conversation had become more or less general, and he had no chance to talk to her alone. He received her smile, however,and she favored him with as much of her talk as was possible.