It is a strange fact, for which I do not expect ever satisfactorily to
account, and which will receive little credence 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, proceeding directly from a type-writing machine
standing in the corner of my library, manipulated by unseen hands. The
machine is not of recent make. It is, in fact, a relic of the early
seventies, which I discovered one morning when, suffering from a slight
attack of the grip, I had remained at home and devoted my time to
pottering about in the attic, unearthing 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 stenographer 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 fascination of a machine has lost none of its
potency. 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 apparatus 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 savors of what a friend of mine calls the “English slanguage,” to
differentiate 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 penetrate the mysteries of that useful mechanism. I
shall not endeavor to describe the delightful 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 joint, and then put it together again. I do not suppose a
seven-year-old boy could have derived 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 antiquated 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 adorns 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 extraordinarily 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 sonnet on the keys. Exactly how
to classify the jumble 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
bard; that the contour of my head is precisely 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 apparently 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
recesses 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
rebounded 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
caterpillar, and I have coveted my neighbor both his man-servant and his
maid-servant, though not his wife nor his ass, 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 vocal 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 concealed 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 spoke, 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
reassuring 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 immediate 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 mere nerve suggestion, and so, instead of going out into the storm
and certainly contracting pneumonia, 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, fortifying 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, touching the electric button, soon had
every gas-jet in the room giving forth a brilliant flame; but these,
brilliant as they were, disclosed nothing in the chair before the
machine.
The latter, apparently oblivious 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, rattling 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 cylinder,
a pure white sheet was as quickly substituted, and the keys clicked off
the line:
“What does?”