Mr. Munchausen <br />Being a True Account of Some of the Recent Adventures beyond the Styx of the L, John Kendrick Bangs [great novels of all time .txt] 📗
- Author: John Kendrick Bangs
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Mr. MUNCHAUSEN
Being a TRUE ACCOUNT of some of the RECENT ADVENTURES beyond the STYX of the late HIERONYMUS CARL FRIEDRICH, sometime BARON MUNCHAUSEN of BODENWERDER, as originally reported for the SUNDAY EDITION of the GEHENNA GAZETTE by its SPECIAL INTERVIEWER the late Mr. ANANIAS formerly of JERUSALEM and now first transcribed from the columns of that JOURNAL by
Embellished with Drawings by
PETER NEWELL
BOSTON: Printed for NOYES, PLATT & COMPANY and published by them at their offices in the PIERCE Building in COPLEY Square, A.D. 1901
Copyright, 1901, by
NOYES, PLATT & COMPANY,
(Incorporated)
Entered at Stationers’ Hall
The lithographed illustrations are printed in eight colours by George H. Walker and Company, Boston
Press of
Riggs Printing and Publishing Co.
Albany, N. Y., U. S. A.
and
DEDICATION
In order that there may be no misunderstanding as to the why and the wherefore of this collection of tales it appears to me to be desirable that I should at the outset state my reasons for acting as the medium between the spirit of the late Baron Munchausen and the reading public. In common with a large number of other great men in history Baron Munchausen has suffered because he is not understood. I have observed with wondering surprise the steady and constant growth of the idea that Baron Munchausen was not a man of truth; that his statements of fact were untrustworthy, and that as a realist he had no standing whatsoever. Just how this misconception of the man’s character has arisen it would be difficult to say. Surely in his published writings he shows that same lofty resolve to be true to life as he has seen it that characterises the work of some of the high Apostles of Realism, who are writing of the things that will teach future generations how we of to-day ordered our goings-on. The note of veracity in Baron Munchausen’s early literary venturings rings as clear and as true certainly as the similar note in the charming studies of Manx Realism that have come to us of late years from the pen of Mr. Corridor Walkingstick, of Gloomster Abbey and London. We all remember the glow of satisfaction with which we read Mr. Walkingstick’s great story of the love of the clergyman, John Stress, for the charming little heroine, Glory Partridge. Here was something at last that rang true. The picture was painted in the boldest of colours, and, regardless of consequences to himself, Mr. Walkingstick dared to be real when he might have given rein to his imagination. Mr. Walkingstick was, thereupon, lifted up by popular favour to the level of an apostle—nay, he even admitted the soft impeachment—and now as a moral teacher he is without a rival in the world of literature. Yet the same age that accepts this man as a moral teacher, rejects Baron Munchausen, who, in different manner perhaps, presented to the world as true and life-like a picture of the conditions of his day as that given to us by Mr. Walkingstick in his deservedly popular romance, “Episcopalians I have Met.” Of course, I do not claim that Baron Munchausen’s stories in bulk or in specified instances, have the literary vigour that is so marked a quality of the latter-day writer, but the point I do wish to urge is that to accept the one as a veracious chronicler of his time and to reject the other as one who indulges his pen in all sorts of grotesque vagaries, without proper regard for the facts, is a great injustice to the man of other times. The question arises, why is this? How has this wrong upon the worthy realist of the eighteenth century been perpetrated? Is it an intentional or an unwitting wrong? I prefer to believe that it is based upon ignorance of the Baron’s true quality, due to the fact that his works are rarely to be found within the reach of the public: in some cases, because of the failure of librarians to comprehend his real motives, his narratives are excluded from Public and Sunday-School libraries; and because of their extreme age, they are not easily again brought into vogue. I have, therefore, accepted the office of intermediary between the Baron and the readers of the present day, in order that his later work, which, while it shows to a marked degree the decadence of his literary powers, may yet serve to demonstrate to the readers of my own time how favourably he compares with some of the literary idols of to-day, in the simple matter of fidelity to fact. If these stories which follow shall serve to rehabilitate Baron Munchausen as a lover and practitioner of the arts of Truth, I shall not have made the sacrifice of my time in vain. If they fail of this purpose I shall still have the satisfaction of knowing that I have tried to render a service to an honest and defenceless man.
Meanwhile I dedicate this volume, with sentiments of the highest regard, to that other great realist
MR. CORRIDOR WALKINGSTICK
of
GLOOMSTER ABBEY
J. K. B.
PAGE
I Encounter the Old Gentleman 3 The Sporting Tour of Mr. Munchausen 13 Three Months in a Balloon 26 Some Hunting Stories for Children 37 The Story of Jang 49 He Tells the Twins of Fire-Works 61 Saved by a Magic Lantern 73 An Adventure in the Desert 85 Decoration Day in the Cannibal Islands 95 Mr. Munchausen’s Adventure with a Shark 105 The Baron as a Runner 116 Mr. Munchausen Meets His Match 129 Wriggletto 143 The Poetic June-Bug, Together with Some Remarks on the Gillyhooly Bird 155 A Lucky Stroke 168Facing Page
“There was the whale, drawn by magnetic influence to the side of The Lyre” 20 “As their bullets got to their highest point and began to drop back, I reached out and caught them” 34 “I got nearer and nearer my haven of safety, the bellowing beasts snorting with rage as they followed” 46 “Jang buzzed over and sat on his back, putting his sting where it would do the most good” 56 “Out of what appeared to be a clear sky came the most extraordinary rain storm you ever saw” 68 “‘I am your slave,’ he replied to my greeting, kneeling before me, ‘I yield all to you’” 82 “I reached the giraffe, raised myself to his back, crawled along his neck and dropped fainting into the tree” 94 “They were celebrating Decoration Day, strewing flowers on the graves of departed missionaries” 102 “I laughed in the poor disappointed thing’s face, and with a howl of despair he rushed back into the sea” 114 “This brought my speed down ten minutes to the mile which made it safe for me to run into a haystack” 126 “At the first whoop Mr. Bear jumped ten feet and fell over backward on the floor” 140 “He used to wind his tail about a fan and he’d wave it to and fro by the hour” 152 “Most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse” 164 “Again I swung my red-flagged brassey in front of the angry creature’s face, and what I had hoped for followed” 170An Account of His
Recent Adventures
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 Veracité. 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
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