Author: Arthur Machen
Category: Fiction
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NOVEL OF THE IRON MAID.
I think the most extraordinary event which I can recall took place aboutfive years ago. I was then still feeling my way; I had declared forbusiness, and attended regularly at my office, but I had not succeededin establishing a really profitable connection, and consequently I had agood deal of leisure time on my hands. I have never thought fit totrouble you with the details of my private life; they would be entirelydevoid of interest. I must briefly say, however, that I had a numerouscircle of acquaintance, and was never at a loss as to how to spend myevenings. I was so fortunate as to have friends in most of the ranks ofthe social order; there is nothing so unfortunate, to my mind, as aspecialized circle, wherein a certain round of ideas is continuallytraversed and retraversed. I have always tried to find out new types andpersons whose brains contained something fresh to me; one may chance togain information even from the conversation of city men on an omnibus.Amongst my acquaintance I knew a young doctor who lived in a faroutlying suburb, and I used often to brave the intolerably slow railwayjourney, to have the pleasure of listening to his talk. One night weconversed so eagerly together over our pipes and whiskey that the clockpassed unnoticed, and when I glanced up I realized with a shock that Ihad just five minutes in which to catch the last tram. I made a dash formy hat and stick, and jumped out of the house and down the steps, andtore at full speed up the street. It was no good, however; there was ashriek of the engine whistle, and I stood there at the station door andsaw far on the long dark line of the embankment a red light shine andvanish, and a porter came down and shut the door with a bang.
"How far to London?" I asked him.
"A good nine miles to Waterloo Bridge;" and with that he went off.
Before me was the long suburban street, its dreary distance marked byrows of twinkling lamps, and the air was poisoned by the faint sicklysmell of burning bricks; it was not a cheerful prospect by any means,and I had to walk through nine miles of such streets, deserted as thoseof Pompeii. I knew pretty well what direction to take; so I set outwearily, looking at the stretch of lamps vanishing in perspective; andas I walked, street after street branched off to right and left,--somefar reaching to distances that seemed endless, communicating with, othersystems of thoroughfare; and some mere protoplasmic streets, beginningin orderly fashion with serried two-storied houses, and ending suddenlyin waste, and pits, and rubbish heaps, and fields whence the magic haddeparted. I have spoken of systems of thoroughfare, and I assure youthat, walking alone through these silent places, I felt phantasy growingon me, and some glamour of the infinite. There was here. I felt, animmensity as in the outer void, of the universe. I passed from unknownto unknown, my way marked by lamps like stars, and on either band was anunknown world where myriads of men dwelt and slept, street leading intostreet, as it seemed to world's end. At first the road by which I wastravelling was lined with houses of unutterable monotony,--a wall ofgray brick pierced by two stories of windows, drawn close to the verypavement. But by degrees I noticed an improvement: there were gardens,and these grew larger. The suburban builder began to allow himself awider scope; and for a certain distance each flight of steps was guardedby twin lions of plaster, and scents of flowers prevailed over the fumeof heated bricks. The road began to climb a hill, and, looking up a sidestreet, I saw the half moon rise over plane-trees, and there on theother side was as if a white cloud had fallen, and the air around it wassweetened as with incense; it was a may-tree in full bloom. I pressed onstubbornly, listening for the wheels and the clatter of some belatedhansom; but into that land of men who go to the city in the morning andreturn in the evening, the hansom rarely enters, and I had resignedmyself once more to the walk, when I suddenly became aware that some onewas advancing to meet me along the sidewalk. The man was strollingrather aimlessly; and though the time and the place would have allowedan unconventional style of dress, he was vested in the ordinary frockcoat, black tie, and silk hat of civilization. We met each other underthe lamp, and, as often happens in this great town, two casualpassengers brought face to face found, each in the other anacquaintance.
"Mr. Mathias, I think?" I said.
"Quite so. And you are Frank Burton. You know you are a man with aChristian name, so I won't apologize for my familiarity. But may I askwhere you are going?"
I explained the situation to him, saying I had traversed a region asunknown to me as the darkest recesses of Africa. "I think I have onlyabout five miles farther," I concluded.
"Nonsense; you must come home with me. My house is close by; in fact, Iwas just taking my evening walk when we met. Come along; I dare say youwill find a makeshift bed easier than a five-mile walk."
I let him take my arm and lead me along, though I was a good dealsurprised at so much geniality from a man who was, after all, a merecasual club acquaintance. I suppose I had not spoken to Mr. Mathiashalf-a-dozen times; he was a man who would sit silent in an armchairfor hours, neither reading nor smoking, but now and again moistening hislips with his tongue and smiling queerly to himself. I confess he hadnever attracted me, and on the whole I should have preferred to continuemy walk. But he took my arm and led me up a side street, and stopped ata door in a high wall. We passed through the still moonlit garden,beneath the black shadow of an old cedar, and into an old red brickhouse with many gables. I was tired enough, and I sighed with relief asI let myself fall into a great leather armchair. You know the infernalgrit with which they strew the sidewalk in those suburban districts; itmakes walking a penance, and I felt my four-mile tramp had made me moreweary than ten miles on an honest country road. I looked about the roomwith some curiosity. There was a shaded lamp which threw a circle ofbrilliant light on a heap of papers lying on an old brass-boundsecretaire of the last century; but the room was all vague and shadowy,and I could only see that it was long and low, and that it was filledwith indistinct objects which might be furniture. Mr. Mathias sat downin a second armchair, and looked about him with that odd smile of his.He was a queer-looking man, clean-shaven, and white to the lips. Ishould think his age was something between fifty and sixty.
"Now I have got you here," he began, "I must inflict my hobby on you.You knew I was a collector? Oh, yes, I have devoted many years tocollecting curiosities, which I think are really curious. But we musthave a better light."
He advanced into the middle of the room, and lit a lamp which hung fromthe ceiling; and as the bright light flashed round the wick, from everycorner and space there seemed to start a horror. Great wooden frameswith complicated apparatus of ropes and pulleys stood against the wall;a wheel of strange shape had a place beside a thing that looked like agigantic gridiron. Little tables glittered with bright steel instrumentscarelessly put down as if ready for use; a screw and vice loomed out,casting ugly shadows; and in another nook was a saw with cruel jaggedteeth.
"Yes," said Mr. Mathias; "they are, as you suggest, instruments oftorture,--of torture and death. Some--many, I may say--have been used; afew are reproductions after ancient examples. Those knives were used forflaying; that frame is a rack, and a very fine specimen. Look at this;it comes from Venice. You see that sort of collar, something like a bighorse-shoe? Well, the patient, let us call him, sat down quitecomfortably, and the horse-shoe was neatly fitted round his neck. Thenthe two ends were joined with a silken band, and the executioner beganto turn a handle connected with the band. The horse-shoe contracted verygradually as the band tightened, and the turning continued till the manwas strangled. It all took place quietly, in one of those queer garretsunder the leads. But these things are all European; the Orientals are,of course, much more ingenious. These are the Chinese contrivances. Youhave heard of the 'heavy death'? It is my hobby, this sort of thing. Doyou know, I often sit here, hour after hour, and meditate over thecollection. I fancy I see the faces of the men who have suffered--faceslean with agony and wet with sweats of death--growing distinct out ofthe gloom, and I hear the echoes of their cries for mercy. But I mustshow you my latest acquisition. Come into the next room."
I followed Mr. Mathias out. The weariness of the walk, the late hour,and the strangeness of it all, made me feel like a man in a dream;nothing would have surprised me very much. The second room was as thefirst, crowded with ghastly instruments; but beneath the lamp was awooden platform, and a figure stood on it. It was a large statue of anaked woman, fashioned in green bronze; the arms were stretched out, andthere was a smile on the lips; it might well have been intended for aVenus, and yet there was about the thing an evil and a deadly look.
Mr. Mathias looked at it complacently. "Quite a work of art, isn't it?"he said. "It's made of bronze, as you see, but it has long had the nameof the Iron Maid. I got it from Germany, and it was only unpacked thisafternoon; indeed, I have not yet had time to open the letter of advice.You see that very small knob between the breasts? Well, the victim wasbound to the Maid, the knob was pressed, and the arms slowly tightenedround the neck. You can imagine the result."
As Mr. Mathias talked, he patted the figure affectionately. I had turnedaway, for I sickened at the sight of the man and his loathsome treasure.There was a slight click, of which I took no notice,--it was not muchlouder than the tick of a clock; and then I heard a sudden whir, thenoise of machinery in motion, and I faced round. I have never forgottenthe hideous agony on Mathias's face as those relentless arms tightenedabout his neck; there was a wild struggle as of a beast in the toils,and then a shriek that ended in a choking groan. The whirring noise hadsuddenly changed into a heavy droning. I tore with all my might at thebronze arms, and strove to wrench them apart, but I could do nothing.The head had slowly bent down, and the green lips were on the lips ofMathias.
Of course I had to attend at the inquest. The letter which hadaccompanied the figure was found unopened on the study table. The Germanfirm of dealers cautioned their client to be most careful in touchingthe Iron Maid, as the machinery had been put in thorough working order.
For many revolving weeks Mr. Burton delighted Dyson by his agreeableconversation, diversified by anecdote, and interspersed with thenarration of singular adventures. Finally, however, he vanished assuddenly as he had appeared, and on the occasion of his last visit hecontrived to loot a copy of his namesake's Anatomy. Dyson, consideringthis violent attack on the rights of property, and certain glaringinconsistencies in the talk of his late friend, arrived at theconclusion that his stories were fabulous, and that the Iron Maid onlyexisted in the sphere of a decorative imagination.