John Bangs - Mr. Munchausen

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.

“Good morning, Mr. Munchausen,” said the interviewer of the Gehenna Gazette entering the apartment of the famous traveller at the Hotel Deville, where the late Baron had just arrived from his sporting tour in the Blue Hills of Cimmeria and elsewhere.

“The interests of truth, my dear Ananias,” replied the Baron, grasping me cordially by the hand, “require that I should state it as my opinion that it is not a good morning. In fact, my good friend, it is a very bad morning. Can you not see that it is raining cats and dogs without?”

“Sir,” said I with a bow, “I accept the spirit of your correction but not the letter. It is raining indeed, sir, as you suggest, but having passed through it myself on my way hither I can personally testify that it is raining rain, and not a single cat or canine has, to my knowledge, as yet fallen from the clouds to the parched earth, although I am informed that down upon the coast an elephant and three cows have fallen upon one of the summer hotels and irreparably damaged the roof.”