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I I ENCOUNTER THE OLD GENTLEMAN
There are moments of supreme embarrassment in
the lives of persons given to veracity, —
indeed it has been my own unusual experience in life that the truth well
stuck to is twice as hard a proposition as a lie so obvious that no one is
deceived by it at the outset. I cannot quite agree with my friend, Caddy
Barlow, who says that in a tight place it is better to lie at once and be done
with it than to tell the truth which will need forty more truths to explain it,
but I must confess that in my forty years of absolute and conscientious
devotion to truth I have found myself in holes far deeper than any my most mendacious
of friends ever got into. I do not propose, however, to desert at this late
hour the Goddess I have always worshipped because she leads me over a rough and
rocky road, and whatever may be the hardships involved in my wooing I intend to
the very end to remain the ever faithful slave of Mademoiselle Veracity. All of which I state here
in prefatory mood, and in order, in so far as it is possible for me to do so,
to disarm the incredulous and sniffy reader who may be inclined to doubt the
truth of my story of how the manuscript of the following pages came into my
possession. I am quite aware that to some the tale will appear absolutely and
intolerably impossible. I know that if any other than I told it to me I should
not believe it. Yet despite these drawbacks the story is in all particulars, essential
and otherwise, absolutely truthful. The facts are briefly
these: It was not, to begin with,
a dark and dismal evening. The snow was not falling silently, clothing a sad
and gloomy world in a mantle of white, and over the darkling moor a heavy mist
was not rising, as is so frequently the case. There was no soul-stirring
moaning of bitter winds through the leafless boughs; so far as I was aware
nothing soughed within twenty miles of my bailiwick; and my dog, lying before a
blazing log fire in my library, did not give forth an occasional growl of
apprehension, denoting the presence or approach of an uncanny visitor from
other and mysterious realms: and for two good reasons. The first reason is that
it was midsummer when the thing happened, so that a blazing log fire in my
library would have been an extravagance as well as an anachronism. The second
is that I have no dog. In fact there was nothing unusual, or uncanny in the
whole experience. It happened to be a bright and somewhat too sunny July day,
which is not an unusual happening along the banks of the Hudson. You could see
the heat, and if anything had soughed it could only have been the mercury in my
thermometer. This I must say clicked nervously against the top of the glass
tube and manifested an extraordinary desire to climb higher than the length of
the tube permitted. Incidentally I may add, even if it be not believed, that
the heat was so intense that the mercury actually did raise the whole
thermometer a foot and a half above the mantel-shelf, and for two mortal hours,
from midday until two by the Monastery Clock, held it suspended there in
mid-air with no visible means of support. Not a breath of air was stirring, and
the only sounds heard were the expanding creaks of the beams of my house, which
upon that particular day increased eight feet in width and assumed a height
which made it appear to be a three instead of a two story dwelling. There was
little work doing in the house. The children played about in their bathing
suits, and the only other active factor in my life of the moment was our hired
man who was kept busy in the cellar pouring water on the furnace coal to keep
it from spontaneously combusting. We had just had luncheon,
burning our throats with the iced tea and with considerable discomfort
swallowing the simmering cold roast filet, which we had to eat hastily before
the heat of the day transformed it into smoked beef. My youngest boy Willie
perspired so copiously that we seriously thought of sending for a plumber to
solder up his pores, and as for myself who have spent three summers of my life
in the desert of Sahara in order to rid myself of nervous chills to which I was
once unhappily subject, for the first time in my life I was impelled to admit
that it was intolerably warm. And then the telephone bell rang. "Great Scott!" I
cried, "Who in thunder do you suppose wants to play golf on a day like
this?" — for nowadays our
telephone is used for no other purpose than the making or the breaking of golf
engagements. "Me," cried my
eldest son, whose grammar is not as yet on a par with his activity. "I'll
go." The boy shot out of the
dining room and ran to the telephone, returning in a few moments with the
statement that a gentleman with a husky voice whose name was none of his
business wished to speak with me on a matter of some importance to myself. I was loath to go. My
friends the book agents had recently acquired the habit of approaching me over
the telephone, and I feared that here was another nefarious attempt to foist a
thirty-eight volume tabloid edition of The
World's Worst Literature upon me. Nevertheless I wisely determined to
respond. "Hello," I said,
placing my lips against the rubber cup. "Hello there, who wants 91162
Nepperhan?" "Is that you?"
came the answering question, and, as my boy had indicated, in a voice whose
chief quality was huskiness. "I guess so," I
replied facetiously; — "It was
this morning, but the heat has affected me somewhat, and I don't feel as much
like myself as I might. What can I do for you?" "Nothing, but you can
do a lot for yourself," was the astonishing answer. "Pretty hot for
literary work, isn't it?" the voice added sympathetically. "Very," said I.
"Fact is I can't seem to do anything these days but perspire." "That's what I
thought; and when you can't work ruin stares you in the face, eh? Now I have a
manuscript — " "Oh Lord!" I
cried. "Don't. There are millions in the same fix. Even my cook
writes." "Don't know about
that," he returned instantly. "But I do know that there's millions in
my manuscript. And you can have it for the asking. How's that for an
offer?" "Very kind, thank
you," said I. "What's the nature of your story?" "It's extremely
good-natured," he answered promptly. I laughed. The twist amused
me. "That isn't what I
meant exactly," said I, "though it has some bearing on the situation.
Is it a Henry James dandy, or does it bear the mark of Caine? Is it realism or
fiction?" "Realism," said
he. "Fiction isn't in my line." "Well, I'll tell
you," I replied; "you send it to me by post and I'll look it over. If
I can use it I will." "Can't do it,"
said he. "There isn't any post-office where I am." "What?" I cried.
"No post-office? Where in Hades are you?" "Gehenna," he
answered briefly. "The transportation between your country and mine is all
one way," he added. "If it wasn't the population here would
diminish." "Then how the deuce am
I to get hold of your stuff?" I demanded. "That's easy. Send
your stenographer to the 'phone and I'll dictate it," he answered. The novelty of the
situation appealed to me. Even if my new found acquaintance were some funny
person nearer at hand than Gehenna trying to play a practical joke upon me,
still it might be worth while to get hold of the story he had to tell. Hence I
agreed to his proposal. "All right, sir,"
said I. "I'll do it. I'll have him here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock
sharp. What's your number? I'll ring you up." "Never mind
that," he replied. "I'm merely a tapster on your wires. I'll ring you up as soon as I've had breakfast and
then we can get to work." "Very good," said
I. "And may I ask your name?" "Certainly," he
answered. "I'm Munchausen." "What? The
Baron?" I roared, delighted. "Well — I used to be
Baron," he returned with a tinge of sadness in his voice, "but here
in Gehenna we are all on an equal footing. I'm plain Mr. Munchausen of Hades
now. But that's a detail. Don't forget. Nine o'clock. Good-bye." "Wait a moment,
Baron," I cried. "How about the royalties on this book?" "Keep 'em for
yourself," he replied. "We have money to burn over here. You are
welcome to all the earthly rights of the book. I'm satisfied with the returns
on the Asbestos Edition, already in its 468th thousand. Good-bye." There was a rattle as of
the hanging up of the receiver, a short sharp click and a ring, and I realised
that he had gone. The next morning in
response to a telegraphic summons my stenographer arrived and when I explained
the situation to him he was incredulous, but orders were orders and he
remained. I could see, however, that as nine o'clock approached he grew visibly
nervous, which indicated that he half believed me anyhow, and when at nine to
the second the sharp ring of the 'phone fell upon our ears he jumped as if he
had been shot. "Hello," said I
again. "That you, Baron?" "The same," the
voice replied. "Stenographer ready?" "Yes," said I. The stenographer walked to
the desk, placed the receiver at his ear, and with trembling voice announced
his presence. There was a response of some kind, and then more calmly he
remarked, "Fire ahead, Mr. Munchausen," and began to write rapidly in
short-hand. Two days later he handed me
a type-written copy of the following stories. The reader will observe that they
are in the form of interviews, and it should be stated here that they appeared
originally in the columns of the Sunday edition of the Gehenna Gazette, a publication of Hades which circulates wholly
among the best people of that country, and which, if report saith truly, would
not print a line which could not be placed in the hands of children, and to
whose columns such writers as Chaucer, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Jonah and Ananias
are frequent contributors. Indeed, on the statement of
Mr. Munchausen, all the interviews herein set forth were between himself as the
principal and the Hon. Henry B. Ananias as reporter, or were scrupulously
edited by the latter before being published. |