It began with my reading an article on "How to be a Success at an Evening
Party." I was rather surprised to know that, for one thing, some knowledge
of Spiritualism is necessary to enable one to be a popular entertainer
nowadays. It has never struck me before that spiritualists were such a
genial class, full of _bonhomie_ and great joy; but then, although I read
the Sunday papers, I'm afraid I don't know enough about the subject.
Even if we haven't got the rollicking boisterous temperament of the born
spiritualist, however, there are, it seems, other ways of winning a mild
popularity. "If you confess to only a slight knowledge of palmistry," the
article continued, "it is often enough to make you the centre of interest
at once."
This appealed to me strongly. I like to be the centre of interest. So I
bought a handbook on palmistry and, having absorbed it, set out for my next
party full of confidence.
Surely enough, the first thing I saw on arrival was a dank-looking man
holding forth on Spiritualism, and enjoying what I should call a chastened
vogue with most of the company gathered about him.
I took up my position on the fringe of the group. "Talking of psychics, the
occult and all that sort of thing," I remarked carelessly, "isn't
cheiromancy an interesting study?"
"Nasty sort of study, I should call it," murmured one of the company,
evidently under a vague impression that it had something to do with feet.
My hostess looked up sharply. "Cheiromancy," she repeated; "can you read
the hand?"
"Only a little," I confessed modestly. "Just enough to----"
I don't quite know how it happened. There was a sort of flank and rear
movement and the entire company, excepting, of course, the dank
spiritualist, precipitated itself on me. Voices clamoured for me to
foretell destinies. Hands were thrust before me. They eddied, surged and
swirled about me. I never saw such a massed quantity of hands. It was like
leaving a Swiss hotel in the height of the season.
"One at a time, please," I said limply.
I seized a palm, followed it up, and found that it belonged to a pinched
sour-looking female. Her character was stamped on her face as well as on
her hand. If, however, I had said to her, "Yours is a flaccid repressed
disposition you have a lack of imagination and a total absence of humour;
your life is too narrow and self-centred to be of the least interest to
anyone," she might not have liked it. You see, with even a slight knowledge
of palmistry you soon find out when reading hands that it's no use telling
people the truth. They want a version which I can only describe as
"garbled."
Accordingly I bent over the repressed female's hand with an air of
profundity and said, "There being a total absence of the mounts of Mercury
and the Sun, a calm and even nature is indicated." (You're nearly always
safe in saying this.) "Your sense of order and of the fitness of things
would not allow you to see any fun in the joke of, say, pulling away a
chair from anyone about to sit down. In fact you would not see a joke in
anything--like that," I added hastily, and gave her hand back, feeling I
had made the best of a bad job.
But she still lingered.
"Does it show if I shall----?" She paused in embarrassment.
"Get married?" I asked, knowing human nature better than palmistry.
She looked so fiercely eager, with such a vivid light of hope in her eye,
that I decided to award her a husband on the spot.
"The Hepatica line, being allied to the line of Fate," I said impressively
"signifies that you will marry--late in life."
The press around me at once grew terrific. All the girls said, "Tell me if
I'm going to get married;" and all the men remarked, "Of course it's utter
rubbish," and were more eager about it than the girls. I became reckless. I
worked my way steadily through the crowd, doling out husbands with an
unsparing hand. And it was just when I was beginning to feel a little tired
of the game that my enemy was delivered into my hands.
We were not on visiting or even speaking terms; we were indeed the most
implacable foes. But that did not prevent the woman from shamelessly
thrusting herself before me and saying gushingly, "Do tell me what you see
in my hand."
I looked at her, and before my searching glance even her brazen face fell.
Six months previously that creature had stolen Wilkins, the best cook I
ever had. Mere man may not understand the enormity of this offence; but
every woman knows there is no crime more heinous, more despicable, more
unforgivable. She might find it in her heart to condone larceny, think
lightly of arson, or even excuse murder; but there is not one who would
extend even a deathbed pardon to the person who had robbed her of a
treasured servant.
And Wilkins had been a treasure indeed. It brought the tears to my eyes
when I thought of her exquisite _omelettes aux rognons_, her salads, her
_poularde a la gelee_, her wide diversity of knowledge regarding _entrees_
and savouries. With a hard and bitter smile I settled down to interpret the
hand of the woman before me.
The company gathered closer round us and I noticed that Mrs. B., the
particular friend of my enemy, bent affectionately over her with truly
feminine expectation of "revelations." And from under the scarf which my
enemy wore about her arms and shoulders she seemed, I thought, to project
her hand rather timidly. Perhaps she realised too late what was in store
for her.
I was quite dignified about it; I want you to understand that. Many
another, seeing that creature so plump and well-fed and knowing the reason,
would have broken out into vituperation. But my tactics were more subtle.
My manner, as I studied her palm, was at first nonchalant, even urbane.
Then I gave a start and faltered, "I--I suppose you wish me to tell you the
truth?"
A frightened look came into her eyes which, I noted with satisfaction, were
beginning to show tinges of yellow (Wilkins' only fault is that in some of
her dishes she is over-liberal with the salad oil and high seasonings). "Of
course I want to know the truth," said my victim faintly.
With an apparent air of diffidence I began my recital. I did not spare her
in the smallest degree. I ascribed to her all those sinister
characteristics I had read about in the handbook; and, when I suddenly
remembered a delicious _vol-au-vent_ upon which I had doted, I added a few
of my own.
It was a terrible indictment. When I had finished an awed silence fell upon
the gathering. Everybody waited breathlessly for the victim to speak.
"That was most interesting," she said with a sinister laugh. "But perhaps
you will read _my_ palm now. You see, it was Mrs. B.'s that you have just
read. She slipped her hand through under my scarf."
There was a burst of laughter from everybody. Idiotic kind of joke, I call
it.
I can assure the writer of the Sunday articles that a knowledge of
palmistry does not necessarily make one popular.