I
I ENCOUNTER THE OLD GENTLEMAN
There are moments of supreme embarrassment in the lives of personsgiven to veracity,--indeed it has been my own unusual experience inlife that the truth well stuck to is twice as hard a proposition as alie so obvious that no one is deceived by it at the outset. I cannotquite agree with my friend, Caddy Barlow, who says that in a tightplace it is better to lie at once and be done with it than to tell thetruth which will need forty more truths to explain it, but I mustconfess that in my forty years of absolute and conscientious devotionto truth I have found myself in holes far deeper than any my mostmendacious of friends ever got into. I do not propose, however, todesert at this late hour the Goddess I have always worshipped becauseshe leads me over a rough and rocky road, and whatever may be thehardships involved in my wooing I intend to the very end to remain theever faithful slave of Mademoiselle Veracite. All of which I statehere in prefatory mood, and in order, in so far as it is possible forme to do so, to disarm the incredulous and sniffy reader who may beinclined to doubt the truth of my story of how the manuscript of thefollowing pages came into my possession. I am quite aware that to somethe tale will appear absolutely and intolerably impossible. I knowthat if any other than I told it to me I should not believe it. Yetdespite these drawbacks the story is in all particulars, essential andotherwise, absolutely truthful.
The facts are briefly these:
It was not, to begin with, a dark and dismal evening. The snow was notfalling silently, clothing a sad and gloomy world in a mantle ofwhite, and over the darkling moor a heavy mist was not rising, as isso frequently the case. There was no soul-stirring moaning of bitterwinds through the leafless boughs; so far as I was aware nothingsoughed within twenty miles of my bailiwick; and my dog, lying beforea blazing log fire in my library, did not give forth an occasionalgrowl of apprehension, denoting the presence or approach of an uncannyvisitor from other and mysterious realms: and for two good reasons.The first reason is that it was midsummer when the thing happened, sothat a blazing log fire in my library would have been an extravaganceas well as an anachronism. The second is that I have no dog. In factthere was nothing unusual, or uncanny in the whole experience. Ithappened to be a bright and somewhat too sunny July day, which is notan unusual happening along the banks of the Hudson. You could see theheat, and if anything had soughed it could only have been the mercuryin my thermometer. This I must say clicked nervously against the topof the glass tube and manifested an extraordinary desire to climbhigher than the length of the tube permitted. Incidentally I may add,even if it be not believed, that the heat was so intense that themercury actually did raise the whole thermometer a foot and a halfabove the mantel-shelf, and for two mortal hours, from midday untiltwo by the Monastery Clock, held it suspended there in mid-air with novisible means of support. Not a breath of air was stirring, and theonly sounds heard were the expanding creaks of the beams of my house,which upon that particular day increased eight feet in width andassumed a height which made it appear to be a three instead of a twostory dwelling. There was little work doing in the house. The childrenplayed about in their bathing suits, and the only other active factorin my life of the moment was our hired man who was kept busy in thecellar pouring water on the furnace coal to keep it from spontaneouslycombusting.
We had just had luncheon, burning our throats with the iced tea andwith considerable discomfort swallowing the simmering cold roastfilet, which we had to eat hastily before the heat of the daytransformed it into smoked beef. My youngest boy Willie perspired socopiously that we seriously thought of sending for a plumber to solderup his pores, and as for myself who have spent three summers of mylife in the desert of Sahara in order to rid myself of nervous chillsto which I was once unhappily subject, for the first time in my life Iwas impelled to admit that it was intolerably warm. And then thetelephone bell rang.
"Great Scott!" I cried, "Who in thunder do you suppose wants to playgolf on a day like this?"--for nowadays our telephone is used for noother purpose than the making or the breaking of golf engagements.
"Me," cried my eldest son, whose grammar is not as yet on a par withhis 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 ahusky voice whose name was none of his business wished to speak withme on a matter of some importance to myself.
I was loath to go. My friends the book agents had recently acquiredthe habit of approaching me over the telephone, and I feared that herewas another nefarious attempt to foist a thirty-eight volume tabloidedition of _The World's Worst Literature_ upon me. Nevertheless Iwisely 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 hadindicated, in a voice whose chief quality was huskiness.
"I guess so," I replied facetiously;--"It was this morning, but theheat has affected me somewhat, and I don't feel as much like myself asI might. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing, but you can do a lot for yourself," was the astonishinganswer. "Pretty hot for literary work, isn't it?" the voice addedsympathetically.
"Very," said I. "Fact is I can't seem to do anything these days butperspire."
"That's what I thought; and when you can't work ruin stares you in theface, eh? Now I have a manuscript--"
"Oh Lord!" I cried. "Don't. There are millions in the same fix. Evenmy cook writes."
"Don't know about that," he returned instantly. "But I do know thatthere'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 bearingon the situation. Is it a Henry James dandy, or does it bear the markof 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'lllook 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 yourcountry and mine is all one way," he added. "If it wasn't thepopulation 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 dictateit," he answered.
The novelty of the situation appealed to me. Even if my new foundacquaintance were some funny person nearer at hand than Gehenna tryingto play a practical joke upon me, still it might be worth while to gethold 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-morrowmorning 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 getto 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 hisvoice, "but here in Gehenna we are all on an equal footing. I'm plainMr. Munchausen of Hades now. But that's a detail. Don't forget. Nineo'clock. Good-bye."
"Wait a moment, Baron," I cried. "How about the royalties on thisbook?"
"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 satisfiedwith the returns on the Asbestos Edition, already in its 468ththousand. Good-bye."
There was a rattle as of the hanging up of the receiver, a short sharpclick and a ring, a
nd I realised that he had gone.
The next morning in response to a telegraphic summons my stenographerarrived and when I explained the situation to him he was incredulous,but orders were orders and he remained. I could see, however, that asnine o'clock approached he grew visibly nervous, which indicated thathe half believed me anyhow, and when at nine to the second the sharpring of the 'phone fell upon our ears he jumped as if he had beenshot.
"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 responseof 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 followingstories. The reader will observe that they are in the form ofinterviews, and it should be stated here that they appeared originallyin the columns of the Sunday edition of the _Gehenna Gazette_, apublication of Hades which circulates wholly among the best people ofthat country, and which, if report saith truly, would not print a linewhich could not be placed in the hands of children, and to whosecolumns such writers as Chaucer, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Jonah andAnanias are frequent contributors.
Indeed, on the statement of Mr. Munchausen, all the interviews hereinset forth were between himself as the principal and the Hon. Henry B.Ananias as reporter, or were scrupulously edited by the latter beforebeing published.