December 17, 2025 • 13 mins
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Secret of the Two Plaster Castes by Joseph Sheridan le'fannu,
years before the accession of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and
yet at not so remote a date as to be
utterly beyond the period to which the reminiscences of our
middle aged readers extend. It happened that two English gentlemen
sat at a table on a summer's evening after dinner,
(00:23):
quietly sipping their wine and engaged in desultory conversation. They
were both men known to fame. One of them was
a sculptor, whose statues adorned the palaces of princes, and
whose chiseled busts were the pride of half the nobility
of his nation. The other was no less renowned, as
an anatomist and surgeon. The age of the anatomist might
(00:44):
have been guessed at fifty, but the guests would have
aired on the side of youth by at least ten years.
That of the sculptor could scarcely be more than five
and thirty. A bust of the anatomist so admirably executed
as to present, although in stone, the per fixed similitude
of life and flesh, stood upon a pedestal opposite to
the table at which sat the pair, and at once
(01:06):
explained at least one connecting link of companionship between them.
The anatomist was exhibiting for the criticism of his friend
a rare gem which he had just drawn from his cabinet.
It was a crucifix, magnificently carved in ivory and encased
in a setting of pure gold. The carving, my dear sir,
(01:27):
observed mister Phidias, the sculptor, is indeed, as you say, exquisite.
The muscles are admirably made out, the flesh well modeled,
wonderfully so for the size and material. And yet by
the bye on this point you must know more than I.
The more I think upon the matter, the more I
regard the artistic conception as utterly false and wrong. You
(01:50):
speak in a riddle, replied doctor Carnell. But pray, go
on and explain. It is a fancy I first had
in my student days, replied Phidias. Conventionality, not to say,
a most proper and becoming reverence, prevents people by no
means ignorant from considering the point. But once think upon it,
and you, at least of all men, must at once
(02:11):
perceive how utterly impossible it would be for a victim
nailed upon a cross by hands and feet to preserve
the position invariably displayed in figures of the crucifixion. Those
who so portray it fail in what should be their
most awful and agonizing effect. Think for one moment, and imagine,
if you can, what would be the attitude of a
(02:31):
man living or dead under this frightful torture. You startle me,
returned the great surgeon, not only by the truth of
your remarks, but by their obviousness. It is strange, indeed,
that such a matter should have so long been overlooked.
The more I think upon it, the more the bare
idea of actual crucifixion seems to horrify me, though Heaven
(02:52):
knows I am accustomed enough to scenes of suffering. How
would you represent such a terrible agony? Indeed, I cannot tell,
replied the sculptor. To guess would be almost vain. The
fearful strain upon the muscles, their utter helplessness and inactivity,
the frightful swellings, the effect of weight upon the racked
(03:12):
and tortured sinews appall me too much, even for speculation.
But this, replied the surgeon, one might think a matter
of importance not only to art, but higher still to
religion itself. May be so, returned the sculptor. But perhaps
the appeal to the senses through a true representation might
(03:33):
be too horrible for either the one or the other.
Still persisted the surgeon, I should, like say, for curiosity,
though I am weak enough to believe, even in my
own motive as a higher one, to ascertain the effect
from actual observation, so should I. Could it be done,
and of course without pain to the object, which as
(03:54):
a condition seems to present at the outset and impossibility
perhaps not mused the anatomist. I think I have a notion. Stay,
we may contrive this matter. I will tell you my plan,
and it will be strange, indeed, if we too cannot
manage to carry it out. The discourse here, owing to
(04:14):
the rapt attention of both speakers, assumed a low and
earnest tone, but had perhaps better be narrated by a
relation of the events to which it gave rise. Suffice
it to say that the sovereign was more than once
mentioned during its progress, and in a manner which plainly
told that the two speakers each possessed sufficient influence to
obtain the assistance of royalty, and that such assistance would
(04:37):
be required in their scheme. The shades of evening deepened
while the two were still conversing, and leaving this scene,
let us cast one hurried glimpse at another taking place
contemporaneously between Pimlico and Chelsea, and across a canal of
which the bed has since been used for the railway
terminating at Victoria Station. There was at the time of
(04:59):
which we speak a rude timber footway, long since replaced
by a more substantial and convenient direction, but then known
as the Wooden Bridge. It was named shortly afterward Cutthroat Bridge,
and for this reason. While mister Fidius and doctor Carnell
were discoursing over their wine, as we have already seen,
one Peter Stark, a drunken Chelsea pensioner, was murdering his
(05:24):
wife upon the spot we have last indicated. The coincidence
was curious. In those days, the punishment of criminals followed
closely upon their conviction. The Chelsea pensioner whom we have mentioned,
was found guilty one Friday and sentenced to die on
the following Monday. He was a sad scoundrel, impenitent to
(05:44):
the last glorying in the deeds of slaughter which he
had witnessed and acted during the series of campaigns which
had ended just previously at Waterloo. He was a tall,
well built fellow, enough of middle age, for his class
was not then, as now composed chiefly of veterans, but
comprised many young men just sufficiently disabled to be unfit
(06:05):
for service. Peter Stark, although but slightly wounded, had nearly
completed his term of service, and had obtained his pension
and presentment to Chelsea Hospital. With his life, we have
but little to do, save as regards its close, which
we shall shortly endeavor to describe far more voraciously and
at some greater length than set forth in the brief
(06:26):
account which satisfied the public of his own day, and which,
as embodied in the columns of the few journals than
appearing ran Thus on Monday, Peter Stark was executed at
Newgate for the murder at the Wooden Bridge, Chelsea, with
four others for various offenses. After he had been hanging
only for a few minutes, a respite arrived, but although
(06:48):
he was promptly cut down, life was pronounced to be extinct.
His body was buried within the prison walls. Thus far history,
but the conciseness of history far more frequently embody's falsehood
than truth. Perhaps the following narration may approach more nearly
to the facts. A room within the prison had been
(07:09):
upon that special occasion, and by high authority, allotted to
the use of doctor Cardinal and mister Phidius, the famous sculptor,
for the purpose of certain investigations connected with art and science.
In that room, mister Fidius, while wretched Peter Stark was
yet swinging between heaven and Earth, was busily engaged in
arranging a variety of implements and materials, consisting of a
(07:32):
large quantity of plaster of Paris, two large pails of water,
sonic tubs, and other necessaries of the molder's art. The
room contained a large deal table and a wooden cross,
not neatly planed and squared at the angles, but of thick, narrow,
rudely sawn oaken plank fixed by strong, heavy nails. And
(07:54):
while mister Phidious was thus occupied, the executioner entered, bearing
upon his shop the body of the wretched Peter, which
he flung heavily upon the table. You are sure he
is dead, asked mister Fidius. Dead as a herring, replied
the other, and yet just as warm and limp as
if he had only fainted. Then go to work at once,
(08:16):
replied the sculptor, as turning his back upon the hangman,
he resumed his occupation. The work was soon done. Peter
was stripped and nailed upon the timber, which was instantly
propped against the wall. As fine a one as ever
I see, exclaimed the executioner, as he regarded the defunct
murderer with an expression of admiration, as if at his
(08:38):
own handiwork, in having abruptly demolished such a magnificent animal,
drops a good bit forward. Though Shall I tie him
up round the waist? Sir? Certainly not, returned the sculptor.
Just rub him well over with this oil, especially his head,
and then you can go. Doctor Carnell will settle with you,
all right, sir. The fellow did as ordered and retired
(09:01):
without another word, leaving this strange couple the living and
the dead, in that dismal chamber. Mister Fidius was a
man of strong nerve in such matters. He had been
too much accustomed to taking posthumous casts to trouble himself
with any sentiment of repugnance. At his approaching task of
taking what is called a piece mold from a body.
(09:22):
He emptied a number of bags of the white powdery
plaster of Paris into one of the larger vessels, poured
it into a pail of water, and was carefully stirring
up the mass when a sound of dropping arrested his ear. Drip, drip,
there's something leaking, he muttered, as he took a second pail, and,
emptying it again, stirred the composition drip, drip, drip. It's strange,
(09:49):
he soliloquized, half aloud. There is no more water, and
yet the sound was heard again. He gazed at the ceiling.
There was no sign of damp. He turned his eyes
to the body, and something suddenly caused him a violent start.
The murderer was bleeding. The sculptor, spite of his command
over himself, turned pale. At that moment, the head of
(10:11):
stark moved, clearly moved. It raised itself convulsively. For a
single moment, its eyes rolled, and it gave vent to
a subdued moan of intense agony. Mister Phidias fell fainting
on the floor. As doctor Carnell entered. It needed but
a glance to tell the doctor what had happened, even
had not Peter just then given vent to another low cry.
(10:34):
The surgeon's measures were soon taken. Locking the door, he
bore a chair to the wall which supported the body
of the malefactor. He drew from his pocket a cease
of glittering instruments, and with one of these so small
and delicate that it scarcely seemed larger than a needle,
he rapidly, but dexterously and firmly touched Peter just at
(10:54):
the back of the neck. There was no wound larger
than the head of a small pen, and yet the
head fell instantly, as though the heart had been pierced.
The doctor had divided the spinal cord, and Peter Stark
was dead. Indeed, a few minutes sufficed to recall the
sculptor to his senses. He at first gazed wildly upon
the still suspended body so painfully recalled to life by
(11:17):
the rough vinesection of the hangman and the subsequent friction
of anointing his body to prevent the adhesion of the plaster.
You need not fear now, said doctor Cardell. I assure
you he is dead. But he was alive, surely only
for a moment, and even that scarcely to be called life.
Mere muscular contraction, my dear sir, Mere muscular contraction. The
(11:43):
sculptor resumed his labor. The body was girt at various
circumferences with fine twine, to be afterward withdrawn through a
thick coating of plaster, so as to separate the various
pieces of the mold, which was at last completed. And
after this doctor Carnal skillfully flayed the body to enable
a second bold to be taken of the entire figure,
(12:03):
showing every muscle of the outer layer. The two molds
were thus taken. It is difficult to conceive more ghastly
appearances than they presented for sculptor's work. They were utterly useless,
for no artist except the most daring of realists would
have ventured to indicate the horrors which they presented. Phidius
refused to receive them. Doctor Cardinal, hard and cruel as
(12:27):
he was, for kindness sake, in his profession was a
gentle father of a family of daughters. He received the
casts and at once consigned them to a garret, to
which he forbade access. His youngest daughter, one unfortunate day,
during her father's absence, was impelled by feminine curiosity, perhaps
(12:48):
a little increased by the prohibition, to enter the mysterious chamber.
Whether she imagined in the pallid figure upon the cross
a celestial rebuke for her disobedience, or whether she was
overcome by the mere mortal horror of one or both
of those dreadful casts, can now never be known. But
this is true, she became a maniac. The writer of
(13:10):
this has more than once seen, as no doubt have
many others the plaster effigies of Peter Stark, after their
removal from Doctor Cardinal's to a famous studio near the
Regent's Park. It was there that he heard whispered the
strange story of their origin. Sculptor and surgeon are now
both long since dead, and it is no longer necessary
(13:32):
to keep the secret of the two plaster casts. End
of the Secret of the Two Plaster Casts by Joseph
Sheridan le'fagneu
The Secret of the Two Plaster Castes by Joseph Sheridan le'fannu,
years before the accession of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and
yet at not so remote a date as to be
utterly beyond the period to which the reminiscences of our
middle aged readers extend. It happened that two English gentlemen
sat at a table on a summer's evening after dinner,
(00:23):
quietly sipping their wine and engaged in desultory conversation. They
were both men known to fame. One of them was
a sculptor, whose statues adorned the palaces of princes, and
whose chiseled busts were the pride of half the nobility
of his nation. The other was no less renowned, as
an anatomist and surgeon. The age of the anatomist might
(00:44):
have been guessed at fifty, but the guests would have
aired on the side of youth by at least ten years.
That of the sculptor could scarcely be more than five
and thirty. A bust of the anatomist so admirably executed
as to present, although in stone, the per fixed similitude
of life and flesh, stood upon a pedestal opposite to
the table at which sat the pair, and at once
(01:06):
explained at least one connecting link of companionship between them.
The anatomist was exhibiting for the criticism of his friend
a rare gem which he had just drawn from his cabinet.
It was a crucifix, magnificently carved in ivory and encased
in a setting of pure gold. The carving, my dear sir,
(01:27):
observed mister Phidias, the sculptor, is indeed, as you say, exquisite.
The muscles are admirably made out, the flesh well modeled,
wonderfully so for the size and material. And yet by
the bye on this point you must know more than I.
The more I think upon the matter, the more I
regard the artistic conception as utterly false and wrong. You
(01:50):
speak in a riddle, replied doctor Carnell. But pray, go
on and explain. It is a fancy I first had
in my student days, replied Phidias. Conventionality, not to say,
a most proper and becoming reverence, prevents people by no
means ignorant from considering the point. But once think upon it,
and you, at least of all men, must at once
(02:11):
perceive how utterly impossible it would be for a victim
nailed upon a cross by hands and feet to preserve
the position invariably displayed in figures of the crucifixion. Those
who so portray it fail in what should be their
most awful and agonizing effect. Think for one moment, and imagine,
if you can, what would be the attitude of a
(02:31):
man living or dead under this frightful torture. You startle me,
returned the great surgeon, not only by the truth of
your remarks, but by their obviousness. It is strange, indeed,
that such a matter should have so long been overlooked.
The more I think upon it, the more the bare
idea of actual crucifixion seems to horrify me, though Heaven
(02:52):
knows I am accustomed enough to scenes of suffering. How
would you represent such a terrible agony? Indeed, I cannot tell,
replied the sculptor. To guess would be almost vain. The
fearful strain upon the muscles, their utter helplessness and inactivity,
the frightful swellings, the effect of weight upon the racked
(03:12):
and tortured sinews appall me too much, even for speculation.
But this, replied the surgeon, one might think a matter
of importance not only to art, but higher still to
religion itself. May be so, returned the sculptor. But perhaps
the appeal to the senses through a true representation might
(03:33):
be too horrible for either the one or the other.
Still persisted the surgeon, I should, like say, for curiosity,
though I am weak enough to believe, even in my
own motive as a higher one, to ascertain the effect
from actual observation, so should I. Could it be done,
and of course without pain to the object, which as
(03:54):
a condition seems to present at the outset and impossibility
perhaps not mused the anatomist. I think I have a notion. Stay,
we may contrive this matter. I will tell you my plan,
and it will be strange, indeed, if we too cannot
manage to carry it out. The discourse here, owing to
(04:14):
the rapt attention of both speakers, assumed a low and
earnest tone, but had perhaps better be narrated by a
relation of the events to which it gave rise. Suffice
it to say that the sovereign was more than once
mentioned during its progress, and in a manner which plainly
told that the two speakers each possessed sufficient influence to
obtain the assistance of royalty, and that such assistance would
(04:37):
be required in their scheme. The shades of evening deepened
while the two were still conversing, and leaving this scene,
let us cast one hurried glimpse at another taking place
contemporaneously between Pimlico and Chelsea, and across a canal of
which the bed has since been used for the railway
terminating at Victoria Station. There was at the time of
(04:59):
which we speak a rude timber footway, long since replaced
by a more substantial and convenient direction, but then known
as the Wooden Bridge. It was named shortly afterward Cutthroat Bridge,
and for this reason. While mister Fidius and doctor Carnell
were discoursing over their wine, as we have already seen,
one Peter Stark, a drunken Chelsea pensioner, was murdering his
(05:24):
wife upon the spot we have last indicated. The coincidence
was curious. In those days, the punishment of criminals followed
closely upon their conviction. The Chelsea pensioner whom we have mentioned,
was found guilty one Friday and sentenced to die on
the following Monday. He was a sad scoundrel, impenitent to
(05:44):
the last glorying in the deeds of slaughter which he
had witnessed and acted during the series of campaigns which
had ended just previously at Waterloo. He was a tall,
well built fellow, enough of middle age, for his class
was not then, as now composed chiefly of veterans, but
comprised many young men just sufficiently disabled to be unfit
(06:05):
for service. Peter Stark, although but slightly wounded, had nearly
completed his term of service, and had obtained his pension
and presentment to Chelsea Hospital. With his life, we have
but little to do, save as regards its close, which
we shall shortly endeavor to describe far more voraciously and
at some greater length than set forth in the brief
(06:26):
account which satisfied the public of his own day, and which,
as embodied in the columns of the few journals than
appearing ran Thus on Monday, Peter Stark was executed at
Newgate for the murder at the Wooden Bridge, Chelsea, with
four others for various offenses. After he had been hanging
only for a few minutes, a respite arrived, but although
(06:48):
he was promptly cut down, life was pronounced to be extinct.
His body was buried within the prison walls. Thus far history,
but the conciseness of history far more frequently embody's falsehood
than truth. Perhaps the following narration may approach more nearly
to the facts. A room within the prison had been
(07:09):
upon that special occasion, and by high authority, allotted to
the use of doctor Cardinal and mister Phidius, the famous sculptor,
for the purpose of certain investigations connected with art and science.
In that room, mister Fidius, while wretched Peter Stark was
yet swinging between heaven and Earth, was busily engaged in
arranging a variety of implements and materials, consisting of a
(07:32):
large quantity of plaster of Paris, two large pails of water,
sonic tubs, and other necessaries of the molder's art. The
room contained a large deal table and a wooden cross,
not neatly planed and squared at the angles, but of thick, narrow,
rudely sawn oaken plank fixed by strong, heavy nails. And
(07:54):
while mister Phidious was thus occupied, the executioner entered, bearing
upon his shop the body of the wretched Peter, which
he flung heavily upon the table. You are sure he
is dead, asked mister Fidius. Dead as a herring, replied
the other, and yet just as warm and limp as
if he had only fainted. Then go to work at once,
(08:16):
replied the sculptor, as turning his back upon the hangman,
he resumed his occupation. The work was soon done. Peter
was stripped and nailed upon the timber, which was instantly
propped against the wall. As fine a one as ever
I see, exclaimed the executioner, as he regarded the defunct
murderer with an expression of admiration, as if at his
(08:38):
own handiwork, in having abruptly demolished such a magnificent animal,
drops a good bit forward. Though Shall I tie him
up round the waist? Sir? Certainly not, returned the sculptor.
Just rub him well over with this oil, especially his head,
and then you can go. Doctor Carnell will settle with you,
all right, sir. The fellow did as ordered and retired
(09:01):
without another word, leaving this strange couple the living and
the dead, in that dismal chamber. Mister Fidius was a
man of strong nerve in such matters. He had been
too much accustomed to taking posthumous casts to trouble himself
with any sentiment of repugnance. At his approaching task of
taking what is called a piece mold from a body.
(09:22):
He emptied a number of bags of the white powdery
plaster of Paris into one of the larger vessels, poured
it into a pail of water, and was carefully stirring
up the mass when a sound of dropping arrested his ear. Drip, drip,
there's something leaking, he muttered, as he took a second pail, and,
emptying it again, stirred the composition drip, drip, drip. It's strange,
(09:49):
he soliloquized, half aloud. There is no more water, and
yet the sound was heard again. He gazed at the ceiling.
There was no sign of damp. He turned his eyes
to the body, and something suddenly caused him a violent start.
The murderer was bleeding. The sculptor, spite of his command
over himself, turned pale. At that moment, the head of
(10:11):
stark moved, clearly moved. It raised itself convulsively. For a
single moment, its eyes rolled, and it gave vent to
a subdued moan of intense agony. Mister Phidias fell fainting
on the floor. As doctor Carnell entered. It needed but
a glance to tell the doctor what had happened, even
had not Peter just then given vent to another low cry.
(10:34):
The surgeon's measures were soon taken. Locking the door, he
bore a chair to the wall which supported the body
of the malefactor. He drew from his pocket a cease
of glittering instruments, and with one of these so small
and delicate that it scarcely seemed larger than a needle,
he rapidly, but dexterously and firmly touched Peter just at
(10:54):
the back of the neck. There was no wound larger
than the head of a small pen, and yet the
head fell instantly, as though the heart had been pierced.
The doctor had divided the spinal cord, and Peter Stark
was dead. Indeed, a few minutes sufficed to recall the
sculptor to his senses. He at first gazed wildly upon
the still suspended body so painfully recalled to life by
(11:17):
the rough vinesection of the hangman and the subsequent friction
of anointing his body to prevent the adhesion of the plaster.
You need not fear now, said doctor Cardell. I assure
you he is dead. But he was alive, surely only
for a moment, and even that scarcely to be called life.
Mere muscular contraction, my dear sir, Mere muscular contraction. The
(11:43):
sculptor resumed his labor. The body was girt at various
circumferences with fine twine, to be afterward withdrawn through a
thick coating of plaster, so as to separate the various
pieces of the mold, which was at last completed. And
after this doctor Carnal skillfully flayed the body to enable
a second bold to be taken of the entire figure,
(12:03):
showing every muscle of the outer layer. The two molds
were thus taken. It is difficult to conceive more ghastly
appearances than they presented for sculptor's work. They were utterly useless,
for no artist except the most daring of realists would
have ventured to indicate the horrors which they presented. Phidius
refused to receive them. Doctor Cardinal, hard and cruel as
(12:27):
he was, for kindness sake, in his profession was a
gentle father of a family of daughters. He received the
casts and at once consigned them to a garret, to
which he forbade access. His youngest daughter, one unfortunate day,
during her father's absence, was impelled by feminine curiosity, perhaps
(12:48):
a little increased by the prohibition, to enter the mysterious chamber.
Whether she imagined in the pallid figure upon the cross
a celestial rebuke for her disobedience, or whether she was
overcome by the mere mortal horror of one or both
of those dreadful casts, can now never be known. But
this is true, she became a maniac. The writer of
(13:10):
this has more than once seen, as no doubt have
many others the plaster effigies of Peter Stark, after their
removal from Doctor Cardinal's to a famous studio near the
Regent's Park. It was there that he heard whispered the
strange story of their origin. Sculptor and surgeon are now
both long since dead, and it is no longer necessary
(13:32):
to keep the secret of the two plaster casts. End
of the Secret of the Two Plaster Casts by Joseph
Sheridan le'fagneu
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