Read Curiosity for Free Online Page B

am not mistaken.”
    If my cosseted childhood hadn’t taught me how to relate to other people, neither had it taught me to fear them. Even in the House of Refuge, I hadn’t felt truly afraid, not even of Duff and his cronies; the most I was likely to suffer was a little pain, and I lived with that every day. But, though Maelzel’s words were neither harsh nor threatening, there was something in his voice that sent a chill through me, and for a moment I considered backing out, before I was in too deep.
    Then I thought of my father and his plight, and I pushed the unfamiliar feeling of fear aside, as I had learned to do with the familiar feeling of pain. I must admit, I had another feeling, too, even stronger than the fear. As I said earlier, for better or worse I had inherited my father’s compulsive curiosity. I had to see what lay beyond that door. “I won’t tell anybody,” I said. “I don’t have anybody to tell.”
    â€œGood.” Turning to the inner door, Maelzel unlocked it. “You wait here, Mulhouse. Rufus?” He beckoned to me. “Come inside and close the door behind you—and bolt it.” The door was so heavy, it took all my strength to push it closed. The iron bolt was heavy, too, but well oiled, and it slid easily into place. What could be so valuable or so secret, I wondered, that it must be kept in such a secure room?
    And then I turned and saw, for the first time, the Turk.
    Perhaps you’ve come upon one of the many engravings that have appeared in newspapers and books and magazines, depicting the famous chess-playing automaton. This one was published in 1783 by a journalist named von Windisch. (The cabinet at which he sat was not a separate piece of furniture, you know, but an integral part of the machine):

    Though the likeness is accurate enough, it doesn’t do justice to the Turk, any more than, say, a brief summary of “The Raven” could possibly do justice to Mr. Poe’s celebrated and chilling poem. No picture can begin to convey the uncanny feeling you got when watching the machine perform its delicate, lifelike movements, or the unnerving quality of the figure’s unblinking gaze. Those coal-black eyes, rimmed all around with white that was startling in the swarthy face, seemed to look right through you. Some have found the Turk’s expression rather menacing, but I always felt it held more of a challenge, as though he was engaging you in a contest of wills, and the loser would be the first one to look away.
    At the time I met him, he looked quite different. For one thing, he had been decapitated. Wires and mechanical bits protruded from his headless neck. His wooden torso was bare—his ermine-trimmed robe and embroidered shirt hung from a hook on the wall—the white kid gloves had been stripped from his hands, and his left arm had been amputated.
    My mind went to poor Ezra: How had he endured the brutal operation? Had he even survived it? And if he had, how would he stand up to Duff, or become skilled in any trade, with only one arm? Maelzel’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Allow me to introduce to you the world-famous chess-playing Turk, seen by more eyes than any other curiosity ever exhibited!”
    Even sequestered as I was in the Parsonage, I had heard of the Turk; with all the chess books I had read, I could scarcely have avoided it. It was said that Napoléon himself had challenged the machine—and, to his disgust, lost. Other celebrated opponents included Frederick the Great, Voltaire, Ben Franklin, Empress Maria Theresa, even the great Philidor—who, of course, defeated the Turk. Its inventor, Wolfgang von Kempelen, had supposedly destroyed or dismantled the machine some time around the turn of the century, without revealing to anyone exactly how it worked.
    Well-crafted automata were common enough; some were amazingly true to life, such as the mechanical musician who flawlessly