The Surprising Adventures of Baron Munchausen | Page 9

a man
of so much experience. A smile never traversed his face as he related
the least credible of his tales, which the less intimate of his
acquaintance began in time to think he meant to be taken seriously. In
short, so strangely entertaining were both manner and matter of his

narratives, that "Munchausen's Stories" became a by-word among a
host of appreciative acquaintance. Among these was Raspe, who years
afterwards, when he was starving in London, bethought himself of the
incomparable baron. He half remembered some of his sporting stories,
and supplemented these by gleanings from his own commonplace book.
The result is a curious medley, which testifies clearly to learning and
wit, and also to the turning over of musty old books of /facetiæ/ written
in execrable Latin.
The story of the Baron's horse being cut in two by the descending
portcullis of a besieged town, and the horseman's innocence of the fact
until, upon reaching a fountain in the midst of the city, the insatiate
thirst of the animal betrayed his deficiency in hind quarters, was
probably derived by Raspe from the /Facetiæ Bebelianæ/ of Heinrich
Bebel, first published at Strassburgh in 1508.
There it is given as follows: "De Insigni Mendacio. Faber clavicularius
quem superius fabrum mendaciorum dixi, narravit se tempore belli,
credens suos se subsecuturos equitando ad cujusdam oppidi portas
penetrasse: et cum ad portas venisset cataractam turre demissam,
equum suum post ephippium discidisse, dimidiatumque reliquisse,
atque se media parte equi ad forum usque oppidi equitasse, et caedem
non modicam peregisse. Sed cum retrocedere vellet multitudine
hostium obrutus, tum demum equum cecidisse seque captum fuisse."
The drinking at the fountain was probably an embellishment of Raspe's
own. Many of Bebel's jests were repeated in J. P. Lange's /Deliciœ
Academicœ/ (Heilbronn, 1665), a section of which was expressly
devoted to "Mendacia Ridicula"; but the yarn itself is probably much
older than either. Similarly, the quaint legend of the thawing of the
horn was told by Castiglione in his /Cortegiano/, first published in 1528.
This is how Castiglione tells it: A merchant of Lucca had travelled to
Poland in order to buy furs; but as there was at that time a war with
Muscovy, from which country the furs were procured, the Lucchese
merchant was directed to the confines of the two countries. On reaching
the Borysthenes, which divided Poland and Muscovy, he found that the
Muscovite traders remained on their own side of the river from distrust,
on account of the state of hostilities. The Muscovites, desirous of being
heard across the river announced the prices of their furs in a loud voice;
but the cold was so intense that their words were frozen in the air

before they could reach the opposite side. Hereupon the Poles lighted a
fire in the middle of the river, which was frozen into a solid mass; and
in the course of an hour the words which had been frozen up were
melted, and fell gently upon the further bank, although the Muscovite
traders had already gone away. The prices demanded were, however, so
high that the Lucchese merchant returned without making any purchase.
A similar idea is utilised by Rabelais in /Pantagruel/, and by Steele in
one of his /Tatlers/. The story of the cherry tree growing out of the
stag's head, again, is given in Lange's book, and the fact that all three
tales are of great antiquity is proved by the appearance of counterparts
to them in Lady Guest's edition of the /Mabinogion/. A great number of
/nugœ canorœ/ of a perfectly similar type are narrated in the sixteenth
century "Travels of the Finkenritter" attributed to Lorenz von
Lauterbach.
To humorous waifs of this description, without fixed origin or
birthplace, did Raspe give a classical setting amongst embroidered
versions of the baron's sporting jokes. The unscrupulous manner in
which he affixed Munchausen's own name to the completed /jeu
d'esprit/ is, ethically speaking, the least pardonable of his crimes; for
when Raspe's little book was first transformed and enlarged, and then
translated into German, the genial old baron found himself the victim
of an unmerciful caricature, and without a rag of concealment. It is
consequently not surprising to hear that he became soured and reticent
before his death at Bodenwerder in 1797.
Strangers had already begun to come down to the place in the hope of
getting a glimpse of the eccentric nobleman, and foolish stories were
told of his thundering out his lies with apoplectic visage, his eyes
starting out of his head, and perspiration beading his forehead. The
fountain of his reminiscences was in reality quite dried up, and it must
be admitted that this excellent old man had only too good reason to
consider himself an injured person.
In this way, then, came to be written the