Chapter III. From Advance Sheets of Baron Munchausen's Further Recollections

The Enchanted Typewriter

by John Kendrick Bangs

It is with some very considerable hesitation that I come to this
portion of my personal recollections, and yet I feel that I owe it to
my fellow-citizens in this delightful Stygian country, where we are
all enjoying our well-earned rest, to lay before them the exact truth
concerning certain incidents which have now passed into history, and
for participation in which a number of familiar figures are
improperly gaining all the credit, or discredit, as the case may be.
It is not a pleasant task to expose an impostor; much less is it
agreeable to expose four impostors; but to one who from the earliest
times--and when I say earliest times I speak advisedly, as you will
see as you read on--to one, I say, who from the earliest times has
been actuated by no other motive than the promulgation of truth, the
task of exposing fraud becomes a duty which cannot be ignored.
Therefore, with regret I set down this chapter of my memoirs,
regardless of its consequences to certain figures which have been of
no inconsiderable importance in our community for many years--figures
which in my own favorite club, the Associated Shades, have been most
welcome, but which, as I and they alone know, have been nothing more
than impostures.

In previous volumes I have confined my attention to my memoirs
as Baron Munchausen--but, dear reader, there are others. I was not
always Baron Munchausen; I have been others! I am not aware that it
has fallen to the lot of any but myself in the whole span of
universal existence to live more than one life upon that curious,
compact little ball of land and water called the Earth, but, in any
event, to me has fallen that privilege or distinction, or whatever it
may be, and upon the record made by me in four separate existences,
placed centuries apart, four residents of this sphere are basing
their claims to notice, securing election to our clubs, and even
venturing so far at times as to make themselves personally obnoxious
to me, who with a word could expose their wicked deceit in all its
naked villainy to an astounded community. And in taking this course
they have gone too far. There is a limit beyond which no man shall
dare go with me. Satisfied with the ultimate embodiment of my virtues
in the Baron Munchausen, I have been disposed to allow the impostors
to pursue their deception in peace so long as they otherwise behave
themselves, but when Adam chooses to allude to my writings as frothy
lies, when Jonah attacks my right as a literary person to tell tales
of leviathans, when Noah states that my ignorance in yachting matters
is colossal, and when William Shakespeare publicly brands me as a
person unworthy of belief who should be expelled from the Associated
Shades, then do I consider it time to speak out and expose four of
the greatest frauds that have ever been inflicted upon a
long-suffering public.

To begin at the beginning then, let me state that my first
recollection dates back to a beautiful summer morning, when in a
lovely garden I opened my eyes and became conscious of two very
material facts: first, a charming woman arranging her hair in the
mirror-like waters of a silver lake directly before me; and, second,
a poignant pain in my side, as though I had been operated upon for
appendicitis, but which in reality resulted from the loss of a rib
which had in turn evoluted into the charming and very human being I
now saw before me. That woman was Eve; that mirror-like lake was set
in the midst of the Garden of Eden; I was Adam, and not this
watery-eyed antediluvian calling himself by my name, who is a
familiar figure in the Anthropological Society, an authority on
evolution, and a blot upon civilization.

I have little to say about this first existence of mine. It was
full of delights. Speech not having been invented, Eve was an
attractive companion to a man burdened as I was with
responsibilities, and until our children were born we went our way in
happiness and silence. It is not in the nature of things, however,
that children should not wish to talk, and it was through the
irrepressible efforts of Cain and Abel to be heard as well as seen
that first called the attention of Eve and myself to the desirability
of expressing our thoughts in words rather than by masonic signs.

I shall not burden my readers with further recollections of this
period. It was excessively primitive, of necessity, but before
leaving it I must ask the reader to put one or two questions to
himself in this matter.

1st. How is it that this bearded patriarch, who now poses as the
only original Adam, has never been able, with any degree of
positiveness, to answer the question as to whether or not he was
provided with a caudal appendage--a question which I am prepared to
answer definitely, at any moment, if called upon by the proper
authorities, and, if need be, to produce not only the tail itself,
but the fierce and untamed pterodactyl that bit it off upon that
unfortunate autumn afternoon when he and I had our first and last
conflict.

2d. Why is it that when describing a period concerning which he
is supposed to know all, he seems to have given voice to sentiments
in phrases which would have delighted Sheridan and shed added glory
upon the eloquence of Webster, at a time when, as I have already
shown, there was no such thing as speech?

Upon these two points alone I rest my case against Adam: the
first is the reticence of guilt--he doesn't know, and he knows he
doesn't know; the second is a deliberate and offensive prevarication,
which shows again that he doesn't know, and assumes that we are all
equally ignorant.

So much for Adam. Now for the cheap and year-ridden person who
has taken unto himself my second personality, Noah; and that other
strange combination of woe and wickedness, Jonah, who has chosen to
pre-empt my third. I shall deal with both at one and the same time,
for, taken separately, they are not worthy of notice.

Noah asserts that I know nothing of yachting. I will accept the
charge with the qualification that I know a great sight more about
Arking than he does; and as for Jonah, I can give Jonah points on
whaling, and I hereby challenge them both to a Memoir Match for $2000
a side, in gold, to see which can give to the world the most
interesting reminiscences concerning the cruises of the two craft in
question, the Ark and the Whale, upon neither of which did either of
these two anachronisms ever set foot, and of both of which I, in my
two respective existences, was commander-in-chief. The fact is that,
as in the case of the fictitious Adam, these two impersonators are
frauds. The man now masquerading as Noah was my hired man in the
latter part of the antediluvian period; was discharged three years
before the flood; was left on shore at the hour of departure, and
when last seen by me was sitting on the top of an apple-tree, begging
to do two men's work for nothing if we'd only let him out of the wet.
If he will at any time submit to a cross-examination at my hands as
to the principal events of that memorable voyage, I will show to any
fair-minded judge how impossible is his claim that he was in command,
or even afloat, after the first week. I have hitherto kept silent in
this matter, in spite of many and repeated outrageous flings, for the
sake of his--or rather my--family, who have been deceived, as have
all the rest of us, barring, of course, myself. References to
portraits of leading citizens of that period will easily show how
this can be. We were all alike as two peas in the olden days, and at
a time when men reached to an advanced age which is not known now, it
frequently became almost impossible to distinguish one old man from
another. I will say, finally, in regard to this person Noah that if
he can give to the public a statement telling the essential
differences between a pterodactyl and a double spondee that will not
prove utterly absurd to an educated person, I will withdraw my
accusation and resign from the club. But I know well he cannot do it,
and he does too, and that is about the extent of his knowledge.

Now as to Jonah. I really dislike very much to tread upon this
worthy's toes, and I should not do it had he not chosen to clap an
injunction upon a volume of Tales of the Whales, which I wrote for
children last summer, claiming that I was infringing upon his
copyright, and feeling that I as a self-respecting man would never
claim the discredit of having myself been the person he claims to
have been. I will candidly confess that I am not proud of my
achievements as Jonah. I was a very oily person even before I
embarked upon the seas as Lord High Admiral of H.M.S. Leviathan. I
was not a pleasant person to know. If I spent the night with a
friend, his roof would fall in or his house would burn down. If I bet
on a horse, he would lead up to the home-stretch and fall down dead
an inch from the finish. If I went into a stock speculation, I was
invariably caught on a rising or a falling market. In my youth I
spoiled every yachting-party I went on by attracting a gale. When I
came out the moon went behind a cloud, and people who began by
endorsing my paper ended up in the poor-house. Commerce wouldn't have
me. Boards of Trade everywhere repudiated me, and I gradually sank
into that state of despair which finds no solace anywhere but on the
sea or in politics, and as politics was then unknown I went to sea.
The result is known to the world. I was cast overboard, ingulfed by a
whale, which, in his defence let me be generous enough to say,
swallowed me inadvertently and with the usual result. I came back,
and life went on. Finally I came here, and when it got to the ears of
the authorities that I was in Hades, they sent me back for the fourth
time to earth in the person of William Shakespeare.

That is the whole of the Jonah story. It is a sad story, and I
regret it; and I am sorry for the impostor when I reflect that the
character he has assumed possesses attractions for him. His real life
must have been a fearful thing if he is happy in his impersonation,
and for his punishment let us leave him where he is. Having told the
truth, I have done my duty. I cheerfully resign my claim to the
personality he claims --I relinquish from this time on all right,
title, and interest in the name; but if he ever dares to interfere
with me again in the use of my personal recollections concerning the
inside of whales I shall hale him before the authorities.

And now, finally, I come to Shakespeare, whom I have kept for
the last, not because he was the last chronologically, but because I
like to work up to a climax.

Previous to my existence as Baron Munchausen I lived for a term
of years on earth as William Shakespeare, and what I have to say now
is more in the line of confession than otherwise.

In my boyhood I was wild and I poached. If I were not afraid of
having it set down as a joke, I should say that I poached everything
from eggs to deer. I was not a great joy to my parents. There was no
deviltry in Stratford in which I did not take a leading part, and
finally, for the good of Warwickshire, I was sent to London, where a
person of my talents was more likely to find congenial and
appreciative surroundings. A glance at such of my autographs as are
now extant will demonstrate the fact that I never learned to write; a
glance at the first folios of the plays attributed to me will
likewise show that I never learned to spell; and yet I walked into
London with one of the most exquisite poems in the English language
in my pocket. I am still filled with merriment over it. How was it,
the critics of the years since have asked--how was it that this
untutored little savage from leafy Warwickshire, with no training and
little education, came into London with "Venus and Adonis" in
manuscript in his pocket? It is quite evident that the critic
fraternity have no Sherlock Holmes in their midst. It would not take
much of an eye, a true detective's eye, to see the milk in that
cocoanut, for it is but a simple tale after all. The way of it was
this: On my way from Stratford to London I walked through Coventry,
and I remained in Coventry overnight. I was ill-clad and hungry, and,
having no money with which to pay for my supper, I went to the Royal
Arms Hotel and offered my services as porter for the night, having
noted that a rich cavalcade from London, en route to Kenilworth, had
arrived unexpectedly at the Royal Arms. Taken by surprise, and,
therefore, unprepared to accommodate so many guests, the landlord was
glad to avail himself of my services, and I was assigned to the
position of boots. Among others whom I served was Walter Raleigh,
who, noting my ragged condition and hearing what a roisterer and
roustabout I had been, immediately took pity upon me, and gave me a
plum-colored court-suit with which he was through, and which I
accepted, put upon my back, and next day wore off to London. It was
in the pocket of this that I found the poem of "Venus and Adonis."
That poem, to keep myself from starving, I published when I reached
London, sending a complimentary copy of course to my benefactor. When
Raleigh saw it he was naturally surprised but gratified, and on his
return to London he sought me out, and suggested the publication of
his sonnets. I was the first man he'd met, he said, who was willing
to publish his stuff on his own responsibility. I immediately put out
some of the sonnets, and in time was making a comfortable living,
publishing the anonymous works of most of the young bucks about town,
who paid well for my imprint. That the public chose to think the
works were mine was none of my fault. I never claimed them, and the
line on the title-page, "By William Shakespeare," had reference to
the publisher only, and not, as many have chosen to believe, to the
author. Thus were published Lord Bacon's "Hamlet," Raleigh's poems,
several plays of Messrs. Beaumont and Fletcher--who were themselves
among the cleverest adapters of the times--and the rest of that
glorious monument to human credulity and memorial to an impossible,
wholly apocryphal genius, known as the works of William Shakespeare.
The extent of my writing during this incarnation was ten autographs
for collectors, and one attempt at a comic opera called "A
Midsummer's Nightmare," which was never produced, because no one
would write the music for it, and which was ultimately destroyed with
three of my quatrains and all of Bacon's evidence against my
authorship of "Hamlet," in the fire at the Globe Theatre in the year
1613.

These, then, dear reader, are the revelations which I have to
make. In my next incarnation I was the man I am now known to be,
Baron Munchausen. As I have said, I make the exposure with regret,
but the arrogance of these impudent impersonators of my various
personalities has grown too great to be longer borne. I lay the
simple story of their villany before you for what it is worth. I have
done my duty. If after this exposure the public of Hades choose to
receive them in their homes and at their clubs, and as guests at
their functions, they will do it with a full knowledge of their
duplicity.

In conclusion, fearing lest there be some doubters among the
readers of this paper, I have allowed my friend, the editor of this
esteemed journal, which is to publish this story exclusively on
Sunday next, free access to my archives, and he has selected as
exhibits of evidence, to which I earnestly call your attention, the
originals of the cuts which illustrate this chapter--viz:

I. A full-length portrait of Eve as she appeared at our first
meeting.

II. Portraits of Cain and Abel at the ages of two, five, and
seven.

III. The original plans and specifications of the Ark.

IV. Facsimile of her commission.

V. Portrait-sketch of myself and the false Noah, made at the
time, and showing how difficult it would have been for any member of
my family, save myself, to tell us apart.

VI. A cathode-ray photograph of the whale, showing myself, the
original Jonah, seated inside.

VII. Facsimiles of the Shakespeare autographs, proving that he
knew neither how to write nor to spell, and so of course proving
effectually that I was not the author of his works.

It must be confessed that I read this article of Munchausen's
with amazement, and I awaited with much excited curiosity the coming
again of the manipulator of my type-writing machine. Surely a
revelation of this nature should create a sensation in Hades, and I
was anxious to learn how it was received. Boswell did not
materialize, however, and for five nights I fairly raged with the
fever of curiosity, but on the sixth night the familiar tinkle of the
bell announced an arrival, and I flew to the machine and breathlessly
cried:

"Hullo, old chap, how did it come out?"

The reply was as great a surprise as I have yet had, for it was
not Boswell, Jim Boswell, who answered my question.