In the introduction to a reprinting of his Sangraal essays, Arthur Machen stated:
“On its being proposed that they should be reprinted, I had thoughts of rewriting them; but I have changed my mind. In the first place, I am a bad hand at the new handling of old work; if I try to do so I find that the article, or the story, or whatever it may be, has, as it were, set; and is not to be made again into the likeness of anything recognizable.”
This testimony accurately reflects his approach to revision. While many writers have often revisited their works with red ink, and some such as H. G. Wells extensively altered novels between editions, Machen rarely practiced such literary surgery. When he did so, the results of the scalpel appear mostly cosmetic. For example, in 1927, when preparing a second edition of The Terror, Machen changed sentence cases, substituted an occasional word and inserted a single new paragraph to the text of the novel. In regards to the scant new material, it fails to strengthen or improve the story, and if anything, it distracts from an otherwise fine work.
Perhaps most radically, Machen rewrote the entire concluding chapter to the novella Fragment of a Life for its first appearance in book form (House of Souls, 1906) so that its new ending completely altered the general tone and context of the narrative from the earlier incarnation originally serialized in Horlick’s Magazine (1904). While somewhat supporting Machen’s assertion that it “is not to be made again into the likeness of anything recognizable,” this sort of profound alteration is rare in his bibliography.
Below, we offer a rare opportunity to study textual differences between two versions of a shorter tale.
First published in an evening newspaper, this bit of grotesquerie concluded a series of a dozen contributions by Machen which included stories and essays, all uncredited. This version has been rarely reprinted. As a narrative, it reflects Machen’s influence by Edgar Allan Poe and anticipates Bram Stoker’s The Squaw (1893). It is brief, reflecting the restrictions of the newspaper column, but in its brevity, the tale is satisfyingly told and is reasonably effective for a quick read by the evening fire.
took in the situation at a glance and erased the execration in the approved manner. Hodson had spent the evening with a friend, and, aided by tobacco and whiskey and soda the hours had fled so quickly that Frank, looking suddenly at the clock, found that he had but four brief minutes in which to reach the station, half a mile away. He did his best, but by a fatality the train was punctual and the unfortunate man was left stranded, with no alternative to a nine mile walk through streets deserted as those of Pompeii. As he mused dolefully over the prospect a porter came out and locked the station door, and from him, Hodson obtained a brief direction as to the shortest way to town. He set out wearily, looking at the stretch of lamps vanishing in perspective; and as he walked street after street branch off to the right or left, some far-reaching and others ending abruptly in a piece of waste ground and a heap of sand. By degrees, as he walked on, the house improved; the suburban builder allowed himself a wider scope, and, for the artistic comfort of those whose business kept them all day in the dreary city, had placed twin plaster lions to guard the approaches of each flight of steps. The gardens, too, were somewhat larger; here and there green leaves shone under the lamps, and Hodson smelt mignonette. The road began slowly to climb a hill, and, looking up a side-street, he saw the half moon rise above the plane-trees. Resolutely he pressed on, listening for the wheels of some belated hansom; but into that land of men who go to the City in the morning and return again in the evening the hansom rarely comes, and Hodson had resigned himself a second time to the walk when he suddenly became aware that someone was advancing to meet him along the pavement. The man was strolling rather aimlessly and looking about him; he was, therefore, no policeman: he wore a silk hat; he was, therefore, respectable. The two men met each other under a lamp, and, strangely enough, found each an acquaintance.
“Mr. Mathias, I think?” said Hodson.
“Quite so. And you are Frank Hodson. You know, you are a man with a Christian name, so I won’t apologize for my familiarity. But may I ask where you are going?”
Hodson explained the situation. “I think I have only about five miles further,” he concluded.
“Nonsense; you must come home with me. My house is close by; in fact, I was just taking my evening walk when we met. Come along; I dare say you will find a makeshift bed easier than a five mile walk.”
Frank suffered himself to be led along, feeling a little surprised at so much geniality from a casual acquaintance at the club. Mr. Mathias took him up a side-street and stopped at a door in a high wall. They passed through the still moonlit garden and into an old red-brick house with many gables, and Hodson sighed with relief as he fell back into an easy chair. There was a shaded lamp which threw a bright white light upon the table where it stood but left the room in shadow, and Hodson could only see that it was long and low and seemed filled with objects which might be furniture. Mr. Mathias sat down in a second arm-chair and looked about him with a curious smile. He was an odd-looking man, clean shaven, and white to the lips, apparently between fifty and sixty.
“Now I have got you here,” he began, “I must inflict my hobby upon you. You knew I was a collector? Yes, I have devoted myself for years to collecting curiosities, which I think are really curious. But we must have a better light.”
He advanced to the middle of the room and lit a lamp which hung from the ceiling; and as the bright light flashed round the wick, from every corner and space there seemed to start a horror. Great wooden frames connected with ropes and pulleys stood against the wall; little tables glittered with bright steel instruments carelessly put down as if ready for use; a screw and vice loomed from one corner and in another was a saw with cruel jagged teeth.
“Yes,” said Mr. Mathias, “they are, as you suggest, instruments of torture. Some—many, I may say—have actually been used for that purpose; a few are reproductions after ancient examples. Those knives were used for flaying; that frame is a rack and fine specimen. But these are all European; the Orientals, of course are much more ingenious. There are Chinese contrivances: you have heard of the ‘Heavy Death’? It is my hobby, this sort of thing. It gives me the greatest of luxuries—the luxury of terror. But I must show you my latest acquisition. Come into the next room.”
Frank Hodson followed Mr. Mathias. The weariness of the walk. The late hour, and the strangeness of the surroundings made him feel like a man in a dream—nothing would surprise him. The second room was, like the first, full of strange instruments; but beneath the lamp was a platform, and on it a figure. It was a large figure of a woman cast in some dark material, her arms stretched forth and a smile upon her lips; it might well have been intended for a Venus, and yet about it there was a deadly look.
Mr. Mathias looked at the thing complacently. “Quite a work of art, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s the Iron Maid; I got it from Germany; it was only unpacked this afternoon; indeed, I have not yet opened the letter of advice. You see that a very small knob above the breast? Well, the patient was bound to the Maid, the knob was pressed, and the arms slowly tightened around his neck. You can imagine the result.”
As Mr. Mathias talked he stood on the platform and patted the figure affectionately. Hodson had turned away and was gazing abstractedly about him. He did not hear a slight click: it was not much louder than the tick of a clock; but he heard a sudden whirr—the noise of machinery in motion. He turned around. And never has he forgotten the anguish and the terror on Mr. Mathias’s face as those relentless arms tightened about his neck, or the shriek that ended in a sudden groan. The whirring noise had suddenly changed to a heavy droning sound. Frank tore with all his might at the iron arms and strove to wrench them apart, but utterly in vain. The head had bent down a little and the iron lips were upon the lips of Mathias. It was five minutes before the Iron Maid unclosed her arms.
The letter which had accompanied the figure was found unopened on a table. It was read at the inquest. The German firm especially warned Mr. Mathias to be extremely careful in touching the Iron Maid, as the machinery had been oiled and put through working order.
In an expanded form, our story resurfaces in Machen’s first novel, The Three Impostors. The book’s narrative is a series of interrelated episodes of mystical adventures, referred to as “novels,” and threaded together through the investigations of Dyson, a character who also appears in a number of Machen’s stores such as “The Red Hand” and “The Shining Pyramid.” This episodic character has allowed several of the “novels” to be anthologized as separate short stories.
The reader will easily notice major changes. The original opening sentence (no doubt punchy for the audience of the time) has been completely excised, while the perspective shifts from third to first person. Additionally, the narrator’s surname has been changed and we are given more insight concerning his habits, philosophy, likes and dislikes. The morbid and unfortunate Mr. Mathias receives a more robust description as well. Likewise, the scenes and general atmosphere of the piece receives more shading and color. This is possible by the greatly increased word count from approximately 1300 words in the original text to 2100 in this second version.
Crucially, we find Machen to be a more confident and experienced writer. The revised word choices are for the better with vivid adjectives and stronger verbs improving the flow and depth of the story. The completely new coda provides a delightfully Machenesque charm by introducing ambiguity so that the reader, alongside Dyson, must doubt the veracity of the entire tale.
Blue text indicates new material, while red text denotes changes in word choice or an otherwise strong change in the narrative or sentence structure. Notations point to excised text from the original version.
Novel of the Iron Maid
(The Three Impostors, or The Transmutations, 1895)
I think the most extraordinary event which I can recall took place about five years ago. I was then still feeling my way; I had declared for business, and attended regularly at my office, but I had not succeeded in establishing a really profitable connection, and consequently I had a good deal of leisure time on my hands. I have never thought fit to trouble you with the details of my private life; they would be entirely devoid of interest. I must briefly say, however, that I had a numerous circle of acquaintance, and was never at a loss as to how to spend my evenings. I was so fortunate as to have friends in most of the ranks of the social order; there is nothing so unfortunate, to my mind, as a specialized circle, wherein a certain round of ideas is continually traversed and retraversed. I have always tried to find out new types and persons whose brains contained something fresh to me; one may chance to gain information even from the conversation of city men on an omnibus. Amongst my acquaintance I knew a young doctor who lived in a far outlying suburb, and I used often to brave the intolerably slow railway journey, to have the pleasure of listening to his talk. One night we conversed so eagerly together over our pipes and whiskey that the clock passed unnoticed, and when I glanced up I realized with a shock that I had just five minutes in which to catch the last train. I made a dash for my hat and stick, and jumped out of the house and down the steps, and tore at full speed up the street. It was no good, however; there was a shriek of the engine whistle, and I stood there at the station door and saw far on the long dark line of the embankment a red light shine and vanish, 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.
1 Before me was the long suburban street, its dreary distance marked by rows of twinkling lamps, and the air was poisoned by the faint sickly smell 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 those of Pompeii.2 I knew pretty well what direction to take; so I set out wearily, looking at the stretch of lamps vanishing in perspective; and as I walked, street after street branched off to right and left,—some far reaching to distances that seemed endless, communicating with, other systems of thoroughfare; and some mere protoplasmic streets, beginning in orderly fashion with serried two-storied houses, and ending suddenly in waste, and pits, and rubbish heaps, and fields whence the magic had departed. I have spoken of systems of thoroughfare, and I assure you that, walking alone through these silent places, I felt phantasy growing on me, and some glamour of the infinite. There was here, I felt, an immensity as in the outer void, of the universe. I passed from unknown to unknown, my way marked by lamps like stars, and on either band was an unknown world where myriads of men dwelt and slept, street leading into street, as it seemed to world’s end. At first the road by which I was travelling was lined with houses of unutterable monotony,—a wall of gray brick pierced by two stories of windows, drawn close to the very pavement. But by degrees I noticed an improvement: there were gardens, and these grew larger. The suburban builder began to allow himself a wider scope; and for a certain distance each flight of steps was guarded by twin lions of plaster, and scents of flowers prevailed over the fume of heated bricks. The road began to climb a hill, and, looking up a side street, I saw the half moon rise over plane-trees, and there on the other side was as if a white cloud had fallen, and the air around it was sweetened as with incense; it was a may-tree in full bloom. I pressed on stubbornly, listening for the wheels and the clatter of some belated hansom; but into that land of men who go to the city in the morning and return in the evening, the hansom rarely enters, and I had resigned myself once more to the walk, when I suddenly became aware that some one was advancing to meet me along the sidewalk. The man was strolling rather aimlessly; and though the time and the place would have allowed an unconventional style of dress, he was vested in the ordinary frock coat, black tie, and silk hat of civilization. We met each other under the lamp, and, as often happens in this great town, two casual passengers brought face to face found, each in the other an acquaintance.
“Mr. Mathias, I think?” I said.
“Quite so. And you are Frank Burton. You know you are a man with a Christian name, so I won’t apologize for my familiarity. But may I ask where you are going?”
I explained the situation to him, saying I had traversed a region as unknown to me as the darkest recesses of Africa. “I think I have only about five miles farther,” I concluded.
“Nonsense; you must come home with me. My house is close by; in fact, I was just taking my evening walk when we met. Come along; I dare say you will 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 deal surprised at so much geniality from a man who was, after all, a mere casual club acquaintance. I suppose I had not spoken to Mr. Mathias half-a-dozen times; he was a man who would sit silent in an armchair for hours, neither reading nor smoking, but now and again moistening his lips with his tongue and smiling queerly to himself. I confess he had never attracted me, and on the whole I should have preferred to continue my walk. But he took my arm and led me up a side street, and stopped at a 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 brick house with many gables. I was tired enough, and I sighed with relief as I let myself fall into a great leather armchair. You know the infernal grit with which they strew the sidewalk in those suburban districts; it makes walking a penance, and I felt my four-mile tramp had made me more weary than ten miles on an honest country road. I looked about the room with some curiosity. There was a shaded lamp which threw a circle of brilliant light on a heap of papers lying on an old brass-bound secretaire 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 filled with indistinct objects which might be furniture. Mr. Mathias sat down in 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. I should 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 to collecting curiosities, which I think are really curious. But we must have a better light.”
He advanced into the middle of the room, and lit a lamp which hung from the ceiling; and as the bright light flashed round the wick, from every corner and space there seemed to start a horror. Great wooden frames with complicated apparatus of ropes and pulleys stood against the wall; a wheel of strange shape had a place beside a thing that looked like a gigantic gridiron. Little tables glittered with bright steel instruments carelessly 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 jagged teeth.
“Yes,” said Mr. Mathias; “they are, as you suggest, instruments of torture,—of torture and death. Some—many, I may say—have been used; a few are reproductions after ancient examples. Those knives were used for flaying; 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 big horse-shoe? Well, the patient, let us call him, sat down quite comfortably, and the horse-shoe was neatly fitted round his neck. Then the two ends were joined with a silken band, and the executioner began to turn a handle connected with the band. The horse-shoe contracted very gradually as the band tightened, and the turning continued till the man was strangled. It all took place quietly, in one of those queer garrets under the leads. But these things are all European; the Orientals are, of course, much more ingenious. These are the Chinese contrivances. You have heard of the ‘heavy death’? It is my hobby, this sort of thing. Do you know, I often sit here, hour after hour, and meditate over the collection. I fancy I see the faces of the men who have suffered—faces lean with agony and wet with sweats of death—growing distinct out of the gloom, and I hear the echoes of their cries for mercy. But I must show 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 the first, crowded with ghastly instruments; but beneath the lamp was a wooden platform, and a figure stood on it. It was a large statue of a naked woman, fashioned in green bronze; the arms were stretched out, and there was a smile on the lips; it might well have been intended for a Venus, 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 name of the Iron Maid. I got it from Germany, and it was only unpacked this afternoon; 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 was bound to the Maid, the knob was pressed, and the arms slowly tightened round the neck. You can imagine the result.”
As Mr. Mathias talked, he patted the figure affectionately.3 I had turned away, 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 much louder than the tick of a clock; and then I heard a sudden whir, the noise of machinery in motion, and I faced round. I have never forgotten the hideous agony on Mathias’s face as those relentless arms tightened about 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 had suddenly changed into a heavy droning. I tore with all my might at the bronze 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 of Mathias.4
Of course I had to attend at the inquest. The letter which had accompanied the figure was found unopened on the study table. The German firm of dealers cautioned their client to be most careful in touching the Iron Maid, as the machinery had been put in thorough working order.
For many revolving weeks Mr. Burton delighted Dyson by his agreeable conversation, diversified by anecdote, and interspersed with the narration of singular adventures. Finally, however, he vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, and on the occasion of his last visit he contrived to loot a copy of his namesake’s Anatomy. Dyson, considering this violent attack on the rights of property, and certain glaring inconsistencies in the talk of his late friend, arrived at the conclusion that his stories were fabulous, and that the Iron Maid only existed in the sphere of a decorative imagination.
1 Excised Sentence: “Frank Hodson swore.”
2 Excised Phrase: “behind him a waste land, once a garden, now a vast rubbish heap” / Excised Sentences: “His last train gone, and the dull beat of the policeman’s feet echoed in the silence; nine miles from London and not a chance of a hansom! The Recording Angel doubtless took in the situation at a glance and erased the execration in the approved manner.”
3 Excised Phrase: “he stood on the platform and”
4 Excised Sentence: “It was five minutes before the Iron Maid unclosed her arms.”
In Again, Out Again
While the story of “The Iron Maid” is greatly improved in this second version, it could be argued that within the context of The Three Impostors, it is an ill-fit. When compared to other sections of the novel, it pales in comparison and leaves an impression of being filler rather than an integral portion of the greater narrative. Perhaps this is why it was excised, alongside other sections, in the novel’s abridgment which appears in Machen’s collection, The House of Souls. The fate of this tale is as dark and as obscure as the Iron Maid herself.