The Enchanted Typewriter

  Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer

  THE ENCHANTED TYPEWRITER

  By John Kendrick Bangs

  I. THE DISCOVERY

  It is a strange fact, for which I do not expect ever satisfactorily toaccount, and which will receive little credence even among those whoknow that I am not given to romancing--it is a strange fact, I say, thatthe substance of the following pages has evolved itself during a periodof six months, more or less, between the hours of midnight and fouro'clock in the morning, proceeding directly from a type-writing machinestanding in the corner of my library, manipulated by unseen hands. Themachine is not of recent make. It is, in fact, a relic of the earlyseventies, which I discovered one morning when, suffering from a slightattack of the grip, I had remained at home and devoted my time topottering about in the attic, unearthing old books, bringing to thelight long-forgotten correspondences, my boyhood collections of "stuff,"and other memory-inducing things. Whence the machine came originally Ido not recall. My impression is that it belonged to a stenographer oncein the employ of my father, who used frequently to come to our house totake down dictations. However this may be, the machine had lain hiddenby dust and the flotsam and jetsam of the house for twenty years, when,as I have said, I came upon it unexpectedly. Old man as I am--I shallsoon be thirty--the fascination of a machine has lost none of itspotency. I am as pleased to-day watching the wheels of my watch "goround" as ever I was, and to "monkey" with a type-writing apparatus hasalways brought great joy into my heart--though for composing give methe pen. Perhaps I should apologize for the use here of the verb monkey,which savors of what a friend of mine calls the "English slanguage," todifferentiate it from what he also calls the "Andrew Language." But Ishall not do so, because, to whatever branch of our tongue the word maybelong, it is exactly descriptive, and descriptive as no other word canbe, of what a boy does with things that click and "go," and is thereforenot at all out of place in a tale which I trust will be regarded as apolite one.

  The discovery of the machine put an end to my attic potterings. I caredlittle for finding old bill-files and collections of Atlantic cable-endswhen, with a whole morning, a type-writing machine, and a screw-driverbefore me I could penetrate the mysteries of that useful mechanism. Ishall not endeavor to describe the delightful sensations of that hour ofscrewing and unscrewing; they surpass the powers of my pen. Suffice itto say that I took the whole apparatus apart, cleaned it well, oiledevery joint, and then put it together again. I do not suppose aseven-year-old boy could have derived more satisfaction from taking apiano to pieces. It was exhilarating, and I resolved that as a rewardfor the pleasure it had given me the machine should have a brand-newribbon and as much ink as it could consume. And that, in brief, is howit came to be that this machine of antiquated pattern was added to thelibrary bric-a-brac. To say the truth, it was of no more practicaluse than Barye's dancing bear, a plaster cast of which adorns mymantel-shelf, so that when I classify it with the bric-a-brac I do soadvisedly. I frequently tried to write a jest or two upon it, but theresults were extraordinarily like Sir Arthur Sullivan's experience withthe organ into whose depths the lost chord sank, never to return. Idashed off the jests well enough, but somewhere between the keys and thetypes they were lost, and the results, when I came to scan the paper,were depressing. And once I tried a sonnet on the keys. Exactly howto classify the jumble that came out of it I do not know, but it wascurious enough to have appealed strongly to D'Israeli or any othercollector of the literary oddity. More singular than the sonnet, though,was the fact that when I tried to write my name upon this strangemachine, instead of finding it in all its glorious length written uponthe paper, I did find "William Shakespeare" printed there in its stead.Of course you will say that in putting the machine together I mixed upthe keys and the letters. I have no doubt that I did, but when I tellyou that there have been times when, looking at myself in the glass, Ihave fancied that I saw in my mirrored face the lineaments of the greatbard; that the contour of my head is precisely the same as was his; thatwhen visiting Stratford for the first time every foot of it was pregnantwith clearly defined recollections to me, you will perhaps more easilypicture to yourself my sensations at the moment.

  However, enough of describing the machine in its relation to myself. Ihave said sufficient, I think, to convince you that whatever its make,its age, and its limitations, it was an extraordinary affair; and, onceconvinced of that, you may the more readily believe me when I tell youthat it has gone into business apparently for itself--and incidentallyfor me.

  It was on the morning of the 26th of March last that I discovered thecurious condition of affairs concerning which I have essayed to write.My family do not agree with me as to the date. They say that it was onthe evening of the 25th of March that the episode had its beginning; butthey are not aware, for I have not told them, that it was not evening,but morning, when I reached home after the dinner at the Aldus Club.It was at a quarter of three A.M. precisely that I entered my houseand proceeded to remove my hat and coat, in which operation I wasinterrupted, and in a startling manner, by a click from the darkrecesses of the library. A man does not like to hear a click whichhe cannot comprehend, even before he has dined. After he has dined,however, and feels a satisfaction with life which cannot come to himbefore dinner, to hear a mysterious click, and from a dark corner, atan hour when the world is at rest, is not pleasing. To say that my heartjumped into my mouth is mild. I believe it jumped out of my mouth andrebounded against the wall opposite back though my system into my boots.All the sins of my past life, and they are many--I once stepped upon acaterpillar, and I have coveted my neighbor both his man-servant and hismaid-servant, though not his wife nor his ass, because I don't like hiswife and he keeps no live-stock--all my sins, I say, rose up before me,for I expected every moment that a bullet would penetrate my brain,or my heart if perchance the burglar whom I suspected of levelling aclicking revolver at me aimed at my feet.

  "Who is there?" I cried, making a vocal display of bravery I did notfeel, hiding behind our hair sofa.

  The only answer was another click.

  "This is serious," I whispered softly to myself. "There are two of 'em;I am in the light, unarmed. They are concealed by the darkness and haverevolvers. There is only one way out of this, and that is by strategy.I'll pretend I think I've made a mistake." So I addressed myself aloud.

  "What an idiot you are," I said, so that my words could be heard by theburglars. "If this is the effect of Aldus Club dinners you'd better givethem up. That click wasn't a click at all, but the ticking of our neweight-day clock."

  I paused, and from the corner there came a dozen more clicks in quicksuccession, like the cocking of as many revolvers.

  "Great Heavens!" I murmured, under my breath. "It must be Ali Baba withhis forty thieves."

  As I spoke, the mystery cleared itself, for following close upon athirteenth click came the gentle ringing of a bell, and I knew thenthat the type-writing machine was in action; but this was by no means areassuring discovery. Who or what could it be that was engaged upon thetype-writer at that unholy hour, 3 A.M.? If a mortal being, why wasmy coming no interruption? If a supernatural being, what infernalcomplication might not the immediate future have in store for me?

  My first impulse was to flee the house, to go out into the night andpace the fields--possibly to rush out to the golf links and play a fewholes in the dark in order to cool my brow, which was rapidly becomingfevered. Fortunately, however, I am not a man of impulse. I never yieldto a mere nerve suggestion, and so, instead of going out into the stormand certainly contracting pneumonia, I walked boldly into the library toinvestigate the causes of the very extraordinary incident. You may restwell assured, however, that I took care to go armed
, fortifying myselfwith a stout stick, with a long, ugly steel blade concealed within it--acowardly weapon, by-the-way, which I permit to rest in my house merelybecause it forms a part of a collection of weapons acquired through thefailure of a comic paper to which I had contributed several articles.The editor, when the crash came, sent me the collection as part paymentof what was owed me, which I think was very good of him, because a greatmany people said that it was my stuff that killed the paper. But toreturn to the story. Fortifying myself with the sword-cane, I walkedboldly into the library, and, touching the electric button, soon hadevery gas-jet in the room giving forth a brilliant flame; but these,brilliant as they were, disclosed nothing in the chair before themachine.

  The latter, apparently oblivious of my presence, went clicking merrilyand as rapidly along as though some expert young woman were in charge.Imagine the situation if you can. A type-writing machine of ancientmake, its letters clear, but out of accord with the keys, confronted byan empty chair, three hours after midnight, rattling off page after pageof something which might or might not be readable, I could not at themoment determine. For two or three minutes I gazed in open-mouthedwonder. I was not frightened, but I did experience a sensation whichcomes from contact with the uncanny. As I gradually grasped thesituation and became used, somewhat, to what was going on, I ventured aremark.

  "This beats the deuce!" I observed.

  The machine stopped for an instant. The sheet of paper upon which theimpressions of letters were being made flew out from under the cylinder,a pure white sheet was as quickly substituted, and the keys clicked offthe line:

  "What does?"

  I presumed the line was in response to my assertion, so I replied:

  "You do. What uncanny freak has taken possession of you to-night thatyou start in to write on your own hook, having resolutely declined to doany writing for me ever since I rescued you from the dust and dirt andcobwebs of the attic?"

  "You never rescued me from any attic," the machine replied. "You'dbetter go to bed; you've dined too well, I imagine. When did you rescueme from the dust and dirt and the cobwebs of any attic?"

  "What an ungrateful machine you are!" I cried. "If you have sense enoughto go into writing on your own account, you ought to have mind enoughto remember the years you spent up-stairs under the roof neglected, andcovered with hammocks, awnings, family portraits, and receipted bills."

  "Really, my dear fellow," the machine tapped back, "I must repeat it.Bed is the place for you. You're not coherent. I'm not a machine, andupon my honor, I've never seen your darned old attic."

  "Not a machine!" I cried. "Then what in Heaven's name are you?--asofa-cushion?"

  "Don't be sarcastic, my dear fellow," replied the machine. "Of courseI'm not a machine; I'm Jim--Jim Boswell."

  "What?" I roared. "You? A thing with keys and type and a bell--"

  "I haven't got any keys or any type or a bell. What on earth are youtalking about?" replied the machine. "What have you been eating?"

  "What's that?" I asked, putting my hand on the keys.

  "That's keys," was the answer.

  "And these, and that?" I added, indicating the type and the bell.

  "Type and bell," replied the machine.

  "And yet you say you haven't got them," I persisted.

  "No, I haven't. The machine has got them, not I," was the response. "I'mnot the machine. I'm the man that's using it--Jim--Jim Boswell. Whatgood would a bell do me? I'm not a cow or a bicycle. I'm the editor ofthe Stygian Gazette, and I've come here to copy off my notes of what Isee and hear, and besides all this I do type-writing for various peoplein Hades, and as this machine of yours seemed to be of no use to you Ithought I'd try it. But if you object, I'll go."

  As I read these lines upon the paper I stood amazed and delighted.

  "Go!" I cried, as the full value of his patronage of my machine dawnedupon me, for I could sell his copy and he would be none the worseoff, for, as I understand the copyright laws, they are not designed tobenefit authors, but for the protection of type-setters. "Why, my dearfellow, it would break my heart if, having found my machine to yourtaste, you should ever think of using another. I'll lend you my bicycle,too, if you'd like it--in fact, anything I have is at your command."

  "Thank you very much," returned Boswell through the medium of the keys,as usual. "I shall not need your bicycle, but this machine is of greatvalue to me. It has several very remarkable qualities which I havenever found in any other machine. For instance, singular to relate,Mendelssohn and I were fooling about here the other night, and when hesaw this machine he thought it was a spinet of some new pattern; so whatdoes he do but sit down and play me one of his songs without words onit, and, by jove! when he got through, there was the theme of the wholething printed on a sheet of paper before him."

  "You don't really mean to say--" I began.

  "I'm telling you precisely what happened," said Boswell. "Mendelssohnwas tickled to death with it, and he played every song without wordsthat he ever wrote, and every one of 'em was fitted with words which hesaid absolutely conveyed the ideas he meant to bring out with the music.Then I tried the machine, and discovered another curious thing aboutit. It's intensely American. I had a story of Alexander Dumas' about hisMusketeers that he wanted translated from French into American, which isthe language we speak below, in preference to German, French, Volapuk,or English. I thought I'd copy off a few lines of the French original,and as true as I'm sitting here before your eyes, where you can't seeme, the copy I got was a good, though rather free, translation. Think ofit! That's an advanced machine for you!"

  I looked at the machine wistfully. "I wish I could make it work," Isaid; and I tried as before to tap off my name, and got instead only aconfused jumble of letters. It wouldn't even pay me the compliment oftransforming my name into that of Shakespeare, as it had previouslydone.

  It was thus that the magic qualities of the machine were made known tome, and out of it the following papers have grown. I have set themdown without much editing or alteration, and now submit them to yourinspection, hoping that in perusing them you will derive as muchsatisfaction and delight as I have in being the possessor of sowonderful a machine, manipulated by so interesting a person as "Jim--JimBoswell"--as he always calls himself--and others, who, as you will note,if perchance you have the patience to read further, have upon occasionshonored my machine by using it.

  I must add in behalf of my own reputation for honesty that Mr. Boswellhas given me all right, title, and interest in these papers in thisworld as a return for my permission to him to use my machine.

  "What if they make a hit and bring in barrels of gold in royalties," hesaid. "I can't take it back with me where I live, so keep it yourself."