It is a strange fact, for which I do not expect ever satisfactorily to account, and which will receive little credence1 even among those who know that I am not given to romancing—it is a strange fact, I say, that the substance of the following pages has evolved itself during a period of six months, more or less, between the hours of midnight and four o'clock in the morning, proceeding2 directly from a type-writing machine standing3 in the corner of my library, manipulated by unseen hands. The machine is not of recent make. It is, in fact, a relic4 of the early seventies, which I discovered one morning when, suffering from a slight attack of the grip, I had remained at home and devoted5 my time to pottering about in the attic6, unearthing7 old books, bringing to the light long-forgotten correspondences, my boyhood collections of “stuff,” and other memory-inducing things. Whence the machine came originally I do not recall. My impression is that it belonged to a stenographer8 once in the employ of my father, who used frequently to come to our house to take down dictations. However this may be, the machine had lain hidden by 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 shall soon be thirty—the fascination9 of a machine has lost none of its potency10. I am as pleased to-day watching the wheels of my watch “go round” as ever I was, and to “monkey” with a type-writing apparatus11 has always brought great joy into my heart—though for composing give me the pen. Perhaps I should apologize for the use here of the verb monkey, which savors12 of what a friend of mine calls the “English slanguage,” to differentiate13 it from what he also calls the “Andrew Language.” But I shall not do so, because, to whatever branch of our tongue the word may belong, it is exactly descriptive, and descriptive as no other word can be, of what a boy does with things that click and “go,” and is therefore not at all out of place in a tale which I trust will be regarded as a polite one.
The discovery of the machine put an end to my attic potterings. I cared little for finding old bill-files and collections of Atlantic cable-ends when, with a whole morning, a type-writing machine, and a screw-driver before me I could penetrate14 the mysteries of that useful mechanism15. I shall not endeavor to describe the delightful16 sensations of that hour of screwing and unscrewing; they surpass the powers of my pen. Suffice it to say that I took the whole apparatus apart, cleaned it well, oiled every joint18, and then put it together again. I do not suppose a seven-year-old boy could have derived19 more satisfaction from taking a piano to pieces. It was exhilarating, and I resolved that as a reward for the pleasure it had given me the machine should have a brand-new ribbon and as much ink as it could consume. And that, in brief, is how it came to be that this machine of antiquated21 pattern was added to the library bric-a-brac. To say the truth, it was of no more practical use than Barye's dancing bear, a plaster cast of which adorns22 my mantel-shelf, so that when I classify it with the bric-a-brac I do so advisedly. I frequently tried to write a jest or two upon it, but the results were extraordinarily23 like Sir Arthur Sullivan's experience with the organ into whose depths the lost chord sank, never to return. I dashed off the jests well enough, but somewhere between the keys and the types they were lost, and the results, when I came to scan the paper, were depressing. And once I tried a sonnet24 on the keys. Exactly how to classify the jumble25 that came out of it I do not know, but it was curious enough to have appealed strongly to D'Israeli or any other collector of the literary oddity. More singular than the sonnet, though, was the fact that when I tried to write my name upon this strange machine, instead of finding it in all its glorious length written upon the paper, I did find “William Shakespeare” printed there in its stead. Of course you will say that in putting the machine together I mixed up the keys and the letters. I have no doubt that I did, but when I tell you that there have been times when, looking at myself in the glass, I have fancied that I saw in my mirrored face the lineaments of the great bard26; that the contour of my head is precisely27 the same as was his; that when visiting Stratford for the first time every foot of it was pregnant with clearly defined recollections to me, you will perhaps more easily picture to yourself my sensations at the moment.
However, enough of describing the machine in its relation to myself. I have said sufficient, I think, to convince you that whatever its make, its age, and its limitations, it was an extraordinary affair; and, once convinced of that, you may the more readily believe me when I tell you that it has gone into business apparently28 for itself—and incidentally for me.
It was on the morning of the 26th of March last that I discovered the curious 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 on the evening of the 25th of March that the episode had its beginning; but they 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 house and proceeded to remove my hat and coat, in which operation I was interrupted, and in a startling manner, by a click from the dark recesses29 of the library. A man does not like to hear a click which he cannot comprehend, even before he has dined. After he has dined, however, and feels a satisfaction with life which cannot come to him before dinner, to hear a mysterious click, and from a dark corner, at an hour when the world is at rest, is not pleasing. To say that my heart jumped into my mouth is mild. I believe it jumped out of my mouth and rebounded30 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 a caterpillar31, and I have coveted32 my neighbor both his man-servant and his maid-servant, though not his wife nor his ass17, because I don't like his wife 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 a clicking revolver at me aimed at my feet.
“Who is there?” I cried, making a vocal33 display of bravery I did not feel, 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 concealed34 by the darkness and have revolvers. 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 the burglars. “If this is the effect of Aldus Club dinners you'd better give them up. That click wasn't a click at all, but the ticking of our new eight-day clock.”
I paused, and from the corner there came a dozen more clicks in quick succession, like the cocking of as many revolvers.
“Great Heavens!” I murmured, under my breath. “It must be Ali Baba with his forty thieves.”
As I spoke35, the mystery cleared itself, for following close upon a thirteenth click came the gentle ringing of a bell, and I knew then that the type-writing machine was in action; but this was by no means a reassuring36 discovery. Who or what could it be that was engaged upon the type-writer at that unholy hour, 3 A.M.? If a mortal being, why was my coming no interruption? If a supernatural being, what infernal complication might not the immediate37 future have in store for me?
My first impulse was to flee the house, to go out into the night and pace the fields—possibly to rush out to the golf links and play a few holes in the dark in order to cool my brow, which was rapidly becoming fevered. Fortunately, however, I am not a man of impulse. I never yield to a mere38 nerve suggestion, and so, instead of going out into the storm and certainly contracting pneumonia39, I walked boldly into the library to investigate the causes of the very extraordinary incident. You may rest well assured, however, that I took care to go armed, fortifying40 myself with a stout stick, with a long, ugly steel blade concealed within it—a cowardly weapon, by-the-way, which I permit to rest in my house merely because it forms a part of a collection of weapons acquired through the failure of a comic paper to which I had contributed several articles. The editor, when the crash came, sent me the collection as part payment of what was owed me, which I think was very good of him, because a great many people said that it was my stuff that killed the paper. But to return to the story. Fortifying myself with the sword-cane, I walked boldly into the library, and, touching41 the electric button, soon had every gas-jet in the room giving forth42 a brilliant flame; but these, brilliant as they were, disclosed nothing in the chair before the machine.
The latter, apparently oblivious43 of my presence, went clicking merrily and as rapidly along as though some expert young woman were in charge. Imagine the situation if you can. A type-writing machine of ancient make, its letters clear, but out of accord with the keys, confronted by an empty chair, three hours after midnight, rattling44 off page after page of something which might or might not be readable, I could not at the moment determine. For two or three minutes I gazed in open-mouthed wonder. I was not frightened, but I did experience a sensation which comes from contact with the uncanny. As I gradually grasped the situation and became used, somewhat, to what was going on, I ventured a remark.
“This beats the deuce!” I observed.
The machine stopped for an instant. The sheet of paper upon which the impressions of letters were being made flew out from under the cylinder45, a pure white sheet was as quickly substituted, and the keys clicked off the 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 that you start in to write on your own hook, having resolutely46 declined to do any writing for me ever since I rescued you from the dust and dirt and cobwebs of the attic?”
“You never rescued me from any attic,” the machine replied. “You'd better go to bed; you've dined too well, I imagine. When did you rescue me from the dust and dirt and the cobwebs of any attic?”
“What an ungrateful machine you are!” I cried. “If you have sense enough to go into writing on your own account, you ought to have mind enough to remember the years you spent up-stairs under the roof neglected, and covered with hammocks, awnings47, 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, and upon my honor, I've never seen your darned old attic.”
“Not a machine!” I cried. “Then what in Heaven's name are you?—a sofa-cushion?”
“Don't be sarcastic48, my dear fellow,” replied the machine. “Of course I'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 you talking 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'm not the machine. I'm the man that's using it—Jim—Jim Boswell. What good would a bell do me? I'm not a cow or a bicycle. I'm the editor of the Stygian Gazette, and I've come here to copy off my notes of what I see and hear, and besides all this I do type-writing for various people in Hades, and as this machine of yours seemed to be of no use to you I thought 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 patronage49 of my machine dawned upon me, for I could sell his copy and he would be none the worse off, for, as I understand the copyright laws, they are not designed to benefit authors, but for the protection of type-setters. “Why, my dear fellow, it would break my heart if, having found my machine to your taste, 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 great value to me. It has several very remarkable50 qualities which I have never found in any other machine. For instance, singular to relate, Mendelssohn and I were fooling about here the other night, and when he saw this machine he thought it was a spinet51 of some new pattern; so what does he do but sit down and play me one of his songs without words on it, and, by jove! when he got through, there was the theme of the whole thing 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. “Mendelssohn was tickled52 to death with it, and he played every song without words that he ever wrote, and every one of 'em was fitted with words which he said absolutely conveyed the ideas he meant to bring out with the music. Then I tried the machine, and discovered another curious thing about it. It's intensely American. I had a story of Alexander Dumas' about his Musketeers that he wanted translated from French into American, which is the 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 see me, the copy I got was a good, though rather free, translation. Think of it! That's an advanced machine for you!”
I looked at the machine wistfully. “I wish I could make it work,” I said; and I tried as before to tap off my name, and got instead only a confused jumble of letters. It wouldn't even pay me the compliment of transforming my name into that of Shakespeare, as it had previously53 done.
It was thus that the magic qualities of the machine were made known to me, and out of it the following papers have grown. I have set them down without much editing or alteration54, and now submit them to your inspection55, hoping that in perusing56 them you will derive20 as much satisfaction and delight as I have in being the possessor of so wonderful a machine, manipulated by so interesting a person as “Jim—Jim Boswell”—as he always calls himself—and others, who, as you will note, if perchance you have the patience to read further, have upon occasions honored my machine by using it.
I must add in behalf of my own reputation for honesty that Mr. Boswell has given me all right, title, and interest in these papers in this world 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,” he said. “I can't take it back with me where I live, so keep it yourself.”
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1
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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2
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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3
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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7
unearthing
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| 发掘或挖出某物( unearth的现在分词 )； 搜寻到某事物，发现并披露 | |
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8
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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10
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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12
savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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13
differentiate
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| vi.(between)区分；vt.区别；使不同 | |
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14
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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16
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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17
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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18
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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19
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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28
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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29
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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30
rebounded
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| 弹回( rebound的过去式和过去分词 )； 反弹； 产生反作用； 未能奏效 | |
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caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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32
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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33
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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35
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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36
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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37
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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38
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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39
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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40
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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41
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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42
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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43
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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44
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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45
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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46
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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47
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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48
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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49
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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50
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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51
spinet
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| n.小型立式钢琴 | |
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52
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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53
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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54
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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55
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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56
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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