Somebody's Luggage Part 7 by Charles Dickens

In this final part of the series, called "His Wonderful End", our waitering hero Mr Christopher returns - and he is a worried man. He has successfully sold the stories discovered in Somebody's luggage to a publisher. Now he waits in fear lest the author should show up and claim them as his rightful own.  A new guest does arrive; the fateful Room 24B is mentioned; the tension mounts. Is he Somebody? Will Mr Christopher's livelihood and reputation survive if it is him?  Dickens keeps him and us hanging on almost to the very enjoyable end.

Episode 7 of 7

Transcript

FX Intro theme music 

 Somebody’s Luggage

 Episode 7 – His Wonderful End by Charles Dickens

 Resume of episodes 1 to 6

 FX flashback voice/effects

 Mr Christopher

He was a smeary writer and wrote a dreadful bad hand.  Utterly regardless of ink, he lavished it on every undeserving object – on his clothes, desk, hat, the handle of his toothbrush, even his umbrella. Ink was found freely on the coffee room carpet by No 4 table, and two blots was on his restless couch.  

 He had put no headings to any of his writings.  In some cases such as his Boots, he would appear to have hid the writings; thereby involving his style in greater obscurity.  But his boots was at least pairs – and no two of his writings can put in any claim to be so regarded.  

So here follows the writings what was found…

 FX medley of short excerpts from Episodes 2 to 6

 FX flashback voice/effects fade out

 SCENE: Interior

 Mr Christopher

It may not have been ‘ere now perceived that I sold these writings – but I did, and they have been accepted, despite their smeary, smudgy presentation.  Having parted with them on most satisfactory terms, I resumed my usual functions. Waitering. But I too soon discovered that peace of mind had fled from a brow that, up to then, Time had merely took the hair off, leaving an unruffled expanse within. It were superfluous to hide it – the brow to which I allude is my own.

Over that brow, queasiness gathered like the sable wing of the fabled bird. The reflection that the writings must now inevitably get into print, and that the Somebody in whose luggage I found the writings might yet live and meet with them. 

The elasticity of my spirits departed. Fruitless was the Bottle – whether wine or medicine. I had recourse to both, and the effect of them upon my system was witheringly lowering. What could I ever say if he – the unknown Somebody – was to appear in the Coffee Room and demand reparation?

FX sound of crackling fire

One forenoon in this last November, I received a turn that appeared to be given to me by the finger of Fate and Conscience, hand in hand.  I was alone in the Coffee Room and had just poked the fire into a blaze and was standing with my back to it.

 FX door opening

 Printer’s Boy

"Mr Christopher, the Head Waiter?"

 Mr Christopher

"The same."

Printer’s Boy

"The Proofs."

Mr Christopher

(Reading out) "The Proofs A.Y.R."  A.Y.R.  And You Remember: was that his meaning?  At Your Risk: were the letters short for that reminder? Anticipate Your Retribution: did they stand for that warning?  

I opened the packet and found the contents were the printed writings. In vain was the reassuring note for A.Y.R. – the publication called All the Year Round. It could not cancel the proofs. Too appropriate a name. The proofs of my having sold the writings. My wretchedness daily increased. I had not thought of the risk I ran and the defying publicity I put my head into, until all was done and in print. 

 And I could not give up the money to be off the bargain and prevent publication. My family was down in the world. Christmas was coming on: a brother in the hospital and a sister in the rheumatics could not be entirely neglected. And it was not only the ‘ins’ in the family that had told on the resources of one unaided Waiter. 

 ‘Outs’ were not wanting either.  A brother out of a situation, another brother out of money, another out of his mind, and another out at New York (not the same, though it might appear so): these had all really and truly brought me to a standstill, until I could turn myself around.

I got worse and worse in my meditations, constantly reflecting on ‘The Proofs’ and that when Christmas drew nearer and the Proofs were published, there could be no safety from hour to hour but that he might confront me in the Coffee Room and, in the face of day and his country, demand his rights.

It was November still, but the last echoes of Guy Fawkes had long ceased to reverberate. We was slack in the Coffee House – several joints below our average mark and wine proportionate.  So slack had we become that, having took their six o’clock dinners and dozed over their respective pints, bed numbers 26, 27, 28 and 31 had drove away in their cabs for their respective night mail trains, and left us empty.

FX snoring

 Mr Christopher

I had took the evening paper to No 6 table – which was warm and most to be preferred – and lost in the all-absorbing topics of the day, had dropped into a slumber.

 Somebody

"Waiter!"

Mr Christopher

(Waking up suddenly) "Huh!"  

I found a gentleman standing at No 4 table.

 "Sir?"

He had one of those new-fangled uncollapsible bags in his hand (which I am against for I don’t see why you shouldn’t collapse, while you are about it, as your fathers collapsed before you).

 Somebody

"I want to dine waiter. I shall sleep here tonight."

 Mr Christopher

"Very good sir. What will you take for dinner, sir?"

 Somebody

"Soup, bit of codfish, oyster sauce, and the joint."

Mr Christopher

"Thank you, sir."

I rang the chambermaid’s bell, and Mrs Pratchett marched in, according to the custom, demurely carrying a lighted flat candle before her, as if she was one of a long public procession, all the other members of which was invisible.

In the meantime, the gentleman had gone to the front of the fire and laid his forehead against the mantelpiece.

Somebody

(“Tremenjous sigh”)  "Haaaa!"

 Mr Christopher

His hair was long and lightish, and when he laid his forehead against the mantelpiece, his hair fell in a dusty fluff together over his eyes; when he then turned around and then lifted up his head, it all fell in a dusty fluff over his ears, giving him a wild appearance similar to a blasted heath.

 Somebody

"Oh, the chambermaid. (Turning something over in his mind) Ahh! To be sure. Yes. I won’t go upstairs now.  If you will take my bag?  It will be enough for the present to know my room number – can you give me 24B?"

 FX arresting sound

 Mr Christopher

He went back before the fire and fell a biting his nails.

 Somebody

"Waiter! (bite) Give me (bite) pen and paper, and in five minutes (bite), let me have, if you please (bite) a (bite) Messenger."

 FX spitting out a nail

 Mr Christopher

Unmindful of his waning soup, he wrote and sent off six notes before he touched his dinner. Three were City – Cornhill, Ludgate Hill, and Farringdon Street; three West End – Great Marlborough Street, New Burlington Street and Piccadilly. I later interrogated our light porter.

 Light Porter

"There was not a vestige of an answer from any of ‘em. All booksellers."

 Mr Christopher

But before then, the gentleman had cleared off his dinner and his bottle of wine and knocked a plate of biscuits off the table with his agitated elber (but without breakage) and demanded boiling brandy and water.

Now fully convinced that this was Somebody, I perspired with the utmost freedom. 

 Somebody

"Waiter, a pen and paper please!"

 Mr Christopher

He then passed the next two hours feverishly producing a manuscript, which he then put in the fire when completed, and went up to bed, attended by Mrs Pratchett who then came down.

 FX steps on the staircase

 Mr Christopher

"What happened?"

 Mrs Pratchett

"His eye was rolling into every corner of the passages and staircases, as if in search of his Luggage, and as I looked back while shutting the door of 24B, I perceived him with his coat already thrown off, immersing himself bodily under the bedstead, like a chimly sweep before the application of machinery."  

 Mr Christopher

After for myself the horrors of that night, the next day was very foggy in our part of London, insomuch as it was necessary to light the Coffee Room. We was still alone, and no feverish words of mine can do justice to the fitfulness of his appearance as he sat at No 4 table.

Having again ordered his dinner, he went out for the best part of two hours before returning.

Somebody

"Are there any answers to my notes sent last night?"

 Mr Christopher

"None, sir."

 Somebody

"Hmmph. Bring me some mulligatawny soup, the cayenne pepper and orange brandy."

 Mr Christopher

Feeling that the mortal struggle was now at hand, I also felt that I must be equal to him, and with that view resolved that whatever he took, I would take – behind my partition, but keeping my eye on him over the curtain.

 Throughout that awful day, he walked about the Coffee House continually in search of any signs of his Luggage. Half past six came, and I laid his cloth. He ordered a bottle of Old Brown. I likewise ordered a bottle. He drank his. I drank mine (as nearly as my duties would permit) glass for glass against his. He topped with coffee and a small glass. I did likewise.  We both dozed. 

FX snoring x 2

 FX disturbed waking up

 Somebody

"Waiter! - my bill!"

FX begin suspense music/sound

Mr Christopher

The moment was now at hand when we two must be locked in deadly grapple. Swift as the arrow from a bow, I had formed my resolution. It was to be that I would be the first to open up the subject with a full acknowledgement, and would offer any gradual settlement within my power. He paid his bill with his eye rolling about him to the last for any tokens of his Luggage. The decisive moment had arrived. I took action.

 FX suspense music hits crescendo and stops

FX sound of papers landing on a table

 Mr Christopher

"The Proofs!"

 Somebody

"Gracious Heavens! What’s this? Print!"

 Mr Christopher

(Calmly) "Sir. I humbly acknowledge to being the unfortunate cause of it. But I hope, sir, that when you have heard the circumstance explained, and the innocence of my intentions..."

 Somebody

"Ha ha!  Ooooh wonderful!  How marvellous!  What is your name, my Benefactor?"

 Mr Christopher

"My name sir is Christopher, and I hope, sir, that as such when you’ve heard my expl..."

 FX shuffling of paper

 Somebody

(Interrupting) "In print! In print! Oh Christopher! Philanthropist! Nothing can recompense you – but what sum of money would be acceptable to you?"

 Mr Christopher

(Confused) "Sir, I assure you I have already been well paid, and..."

 Somebody

"No, no Christopher! Don’t talk like that! What sum of money would be acceptable to you, Christopher?  Would you find twenty pounds acceptable, Christopher?"

 Mr Christopher

"Sir, I am not aware that the man was ever yet born without more than the average amount of water on the brain, as would not find twenty pound acceptable. But.." 

 Somebody

"There you go then."

Mr Christopher

"Extremely obliged to you, sir, I’m sure, but I could wish to know sir, if not intruding, how have I merited this liberality?"

 Somebody

"Know then, my Christopher, that from boyhood’s hour, I have unremittingly, and unavailingly endeavoured to get into print. Know, Christopher, that all the Booksellers alive – and several dead – have refused to put me into print. Know, Christopher, that I have written unprinted Reams. But they shall be read to you, my friend, and brother. You sometimes have a holiday?" 

Mr Christopher

(To himself) Never!  (To Somebody) "Never! Not from the cradle to the grave."

Somebody

"Well enough. Ha ha ha!  But I am in print! The first flight of ambition emanating from my father’s lowly cot is realised at last! The golden bowl, forged by the magic hand, has emitted a complete and perfect sound! When did this happen, my Christopher?"

Mr Christopher

"Which happen sir?"

 Somebody

"This. This Per-rint!"

 Mr Christopher

When I had given him my detailed account of it, he grasped me by the hand.

 Somebody

"Dear Christopher, it should be gratifying to you to know that you are an instrument in the hands of Destiny. Because you are."

 Mr Christopher

(Downbeat) "Perhaps we all are."

 Somebody

"I don’t mean that. I don’t take that wide range; I confine myself to the special case. Observe me well, my Christopher! Hopeless of getting rid of, through any effort of my own, any of the manuscripts among my luggage – send them where I would, they were always coming back to me – it is now some seven years since I left that Luggage here. Left on the desperate chance, either that the too, too faithful manuscripts would come back to me no more, or that someone less accursed than I might give them to the world. You follow me, my Christopher?"

 Mr Christopher

"Pretty well sir." (Aside) I followed him so far as to judge that he had a weak head, and that the Orange, the Boiling, and Old Brown combined was beginning to tell (The Old Brown being heady, is best adapted to seasoned cases).

 Somebody

"Years elapsed, and those compositions slumbered in dust. At length, Destiny chose her agent from all mankind and sent You here, Christopher.  And lo! The Casket was burst asunder and the Giant was free!" 

"But we must sit up all night, my Christopher. I must correct these Proofs for the Press. Fill all the inkstands, and bring me several new pens."

 FX pen scratching and bumbling noises from Somebody, continuing in background 

 Mr Christopher

He smeared himself and he smeared the Proofs all the night through to the degree that, when the sun rose, few could have said which was them, which was him, and which was blots. His last instruction was that I should instantly run and take his corrections to the Printer’s office. I did so.  

FX exit music begins

Mr Christopher

But they will not appear in print, for I noticed a message being brought round from Beaufort Printing House that the ‘ole resources of that establishment was unable to make out what any of his corrections meant. Upon which a certain gentleman in company laughed. And put the corrections in the fire.

 FX exit music fades out

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