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The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson
He turned his back, and the two panes were quickly covered with delicately-lined oval spots, but visible only to such persons as could get a dark background for them – the foliage of a tree, outside, for instance. Then, upon call, Wilson went to the window, made his examination, and said —
“This is Count Luigi’s right hand; this one, three signatures below, is his left. Here is Count Angelo’s right; down here is his left. Now for the other pane: here and here are Count Luigi’s, here and here are his brother’s.” He faced about. “Am I right?”
A deafening explosion of applause was the answer. The Bench said —
“This certainly approaches the miraculous!”
Wilson turned to the window again and remarked, pointing with his finger —
“This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson. [Applause.] This, of Constable Blake. [Applause.] This, of John Mason, juryman. [Applause.] This, of the sheriff. [Applause.] I cannot name the others, but I have them all at home, named and dated, and could identify them all by my finger-print records.”
He moved to his place through a storm of applause – which the sheriff stopped, and also made the people sit down, for they were all standing and struggling to see, of course. Court, jury, sheriff, and everybody had been too absorbed in observing Wilson’s performance to attend to the audience earlier.
“Now, then,” said Wilson, “I have here the natal autographs of two children – thrown up to ten times the natural size by the pantograph, so that any one who can see at all can tell the markings apart at a glance. We will call the children A and B. Here are A’s finger-marks, taken at the age of five months. Here they are again, taken at seven months. [Tom started.] They are alike, you see. Here are B’s at five months, and also at seven months. They, too, exactly copy each other, but the patterns are quite different from A’s, you observe. I shall refer to these again presently, but we will turn them face down, now.
“Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the natal autographs of the two persons who are here before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll. I made these pantograph copies last night, and will so swear when I go upon the witness stand. I ask the jury to compare them with the finger-marks of the accused upon the window panes, and tell the court if they are the same.”
He passed a powerful magnifying-glass to the foreman.
One juryman after another took the cardboard and the glass and made the comparison. Then the foreman said to the judge —
“Your honor, we are all agreed that they are identical.”
Wilson said to the foreman —
“Please turn that cardboard face down, and take this one, and compare it searchingly, by the magnifier, with the fatal signature upon the knife-handle, and report your finding to the court.”
Again the jury made minute examinations, and again reported —
“We find them to be exactly identical, your honor.”
Wilson turned toward the counsel for the prosecution, and there was a clearly recognizable note of warning in his voice when he said —
“May it please the court, the State has claimed, strenuously and persistently, that the blood-stained finger-prints upon that knife-handle were left there by the assassin of Judge Driscoll. You have heard us grant that claim, and welcome it.” He turned to the jury: “Compare the finger-prints of the accused with the finger-prints left by the assassin – and report.”
The comparison began. As it proceeded, all movement and all sound ceased, and the deep silence of an absorbed and waiting suspense settled upon the house; and when at last the words came —
“They do not even resemble,” a thunder-crash of applause followed and the house sprang to its feet, but was quickly repressed by official force and brought to order again. Tom was altering his position every few minutes, now, but none of his changes brought repose nor any small trifle of comfort. When the house’s attention was become fixed once more, Wilson said gravely, indicating the twins with a gesture —
“These men are innocent – I have no further concern with them. [Another outbreak of applause began, but was promptly checked.] We will now proceed to find the guilty. [Tom’s eyes were starting from their sockets – yes, it was a cruel day for the bereaved youth, everybody thought.] We will return to the infant autographs of A and B. I will ask the jury to take these large pantograph facsimilies of A’s marked five months and seven months. Do they tally?”
The foreman responded —
“Perfectly.”
“Now examine this pantograph, taken at eight months, and also marked A. Does it tally with the other two?”
The surprised response was —
“No – they differ widely!”
“You are quite right. Now take these two pantographs of B’s autograph, marked five months and seven months. Do they tally with each other?”
“Yes – perfectly.”
“Take this third pantograph marked B, eight months. Does it tally with B’s other two?”
“By no means!”
“Do you know how to account for those strange discrepancies? I will tell you. For a purpose unknown to us, but probably a selfish one, somebody changed those children in the cradle.”
This produced a vast sensation, naturally; Roxana was astonished at this admirable guess, but not disturbed by it. To guess the exchange was one thing, to guess who did it quite another. Pudd’nhead Wilson could do wonderful things, no doubt, but he couldn’t do impossible ones. Safe? She was perfectly safe. She smiled privately.
“Between the ages of seven months and eight months those children were changed in the cradle” – he made one of his effect-collecting pauses, and added – “and the person who did it is in this house!”
Roxy’s pulses stood still! The house was thrilled as with an electric shock, and the people half rose as if to seek a glimpse of the person who had made that exchange. Tom was growing limp; the life seemed oozing out of him. Wilson resumed:
“A was put into B’s cradle in the nursery; B was transferred to the kitchen and became a negro and a slave, [Sensation – confusion of angry ejaculations] – but within a quarter of an hour he will stand before you white and free! [Burst of applause, checked by the officers.] From seven months onward until now, A has still been a usurper, and in my finger-record he bears B’s name. Here is his pantograph at the age of twelve. Compare it with the assassin’s signature upon the knife-handle. Do they tally?”
The foreman answered —
“To the minutest detail!”
Wilson said, solemnly —
“The murderer of your friend and mine – York Driscoll of the generous hand and the kindly spirit – sits in among you. Valet de Chambre, negro and slave, – falsely called Thomas à Becket Driscoll, – make upon the window the finger-prints that will hang you!”
Tom turned his ashen face imploring toward the speaker, made some impotent movements with his white lips, then slid limp and lifeless to the floor.
Wilson broke the awed silence with the words —
“There is no need. He has confessed.”
Roxy flung herself upon her knees, covered her face with her hands, and out through her sobs the words struggled —
“De Lord have mercy on me, po’ misable sinner dat I is!”
The clock struck twelve.
The court rose; the new prisoner, handcuffed, was removed.
Conclusion
It is often the case that the man who can’t tell a lie thinks he is the best judge of one.– Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.
October 12, the Discovery. It was wonderful to find America, but it would have been more wonderful to miss it.– Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar.
The town sat up all night to discuss the amazing events of the day and swap guesses as to when Tom’s trial would begin. Troop after troop of citizens came to serenade Wilson, and require a speech, and shout themselves hoarse over every sentence that fell from his lips – for all his sentences were golden, now, all were marvelous. His long fight against hard luck and prejudice was ended; he was a made man for good.
And as each of these roaring gangs of enthusiasts marched away, some remorseful member of it was quite sure to raise his voice and say —
“And this is the man the likes of us have called a pudd’nhead for more than twenty years. He has resigned from that position, friends.”
“Yes, but it isn’t vacant – we’re elected.”
The twins were heroes of romance, now, and with rehabilitated reputations. But they were weary of Western adventure, and straightway retired to Europe.
Roxy’s heart was broken. The young fellow upon whom she had inflicted twenty-three years of slavery continued the false heir’s pension of thirty-five dollars a month to her, but her hurts were too deep for money to heal; the spirit in her eye was quenched, her martial bearing departed with it, and the voice of her laughter ceased in the land. In her church and its affairs she found her only solace.
The real heir suddenly found himself rich and free, but in a most embarrassing situation. He could neither read nor write, and his speech was the basest dialect of the negro quarter. His gait, his attitudes, his gestures, his bearing, his laugh – all were vulgar and uncouth; his manners were the manners of a slave. Money and fine clothes could not mend these defects or cover them up; they only made them the more glaring and the more pathetic. The poor fellow could not endure the terrors of the white man’s parlor, and felt at home and at peace nowhere but in the kitchen. The family pew was a misery to him, yet he could nevermore enter into the solacing refuge of the “nigger gallery” – that was closed to him for good and all. But we cannot follow his curious fate further – that would be a long story.
The false heir made a full confession and was sentenced to imprisonment for life. But now a complication came up. The Percy Driscoll estate was in such a crippled shape when its owner died that it could pay only sixty per cent. of its great indebtedness, and was settled at that rate. But the creditors came forward, now, and complained that inasmuch as through an error for which they were in no way to blame the false heir was not inventoried at the time with the rest of the property, great wrong and loss had thereby been inflicted upon them. They rightly claimed that “Tom” was lawfully their property and had been so for eight years; that they had already lost sufficiently in being deprived of his services during that long period, and ought not to be required to add anything to that loss; that if he had been delivered up to them in the first place, they would have sold him and he could not have murdered Judge Driscoll; therefore it was not he that had really committed the murder, the guilt lay with the erroneous inventory. Everybody saw that there was reason in this. Everybody granted that if “Tom” were white and free it would be unquestionably right to punish him – it would be no loss to anybody; but to shut up a valuable slave for life – that was quite another matter.
As soon as the Governor understood the case, he pardoned Tom at once, and the creditors sold him down the river.
