Somebody's Luggage - Charles Dickens (ebook reader browser .txt) 📗

his eye rolled within, too evidently 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 of old Brown. 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 topped with coffee and a small glass. He dozed. I dozed. At last, “Waiter!”—and he ordered his bill. The moment was now at hand when we two must be locked in the deadly grapple.

Swift as the arrow from the bow, I had formed my resolution; in other words, I had hammered it out between nine and nine. It was, that I would be the first to open up the subject with a full acknowledgment, and would offer any gradual settlement within my power. He paid his bill (doing what was right by attendance) with his eye rolling about him to the last for any tokens of his Luggage. One only time our gaze then met, with the lustrous fixedness (I believe I am correct in imputing that character to it?) of the well-known Basilisk. The decisive moment had arrived.

With a tolerable steady hand, though with humility, I laid The Proofs before him.

“Gracious Heavens!” he cries out, leaping up, and catching hold of his hair. “What’s this? Print!”

“Sir,” I replied, in a calming voice, and bending forward, “I humbly acknowledge to being the unfortunate cause of it. But I hope, sir, that when you have heard the circumstances explained, and the innocence of my intentions—”

To my amazement, I was stopped short by his catching me in both his arms, and pressing me to his breast-bone; where I must confess to my face (and particular, nose) having undergone some temporary vexation from his wearing his coat buttoned high up, and his buttons being uncommon hard.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he cries, releasing me with a wild laugh, and grasping my hand. “What is your name, my Benefactor?”

“My name, sir” (I was crumpled, and puzzled to make him out), “is Christopher; and I hope, sir, that, as such, when you’ve heard my ex- “

“In print!” he exclaims again, dashing the proofs over and over as if he was bathing in them.—“In print!! O Christopher! Philanthropist! Nothing can recompense you,—but what sum of money would be acceptable to you?”

I had drawn a step back from him, or I should have suffered from his buttons again.

“Sir, I assure you, I have been already well paid, and—”

“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?”

However great my surprise, I naturally found words to say, “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 pounds acceptable. But—extremely obliged to you, sir, I’m sure;” for he had tumbled it out of his purse and crammed it in my hand in two bank-notes; “but I could wish to know, sir, if not intruding, how I have merited this liberality?”

“Know then, my Christopher,” he says, “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?”

Seeing the great danger I was in, I had the presence of mind to answer, “Never!” To make it more final, I added, “Never! Not from the cradle to the grave.”

“Well,” says he, thinking no more about that, and chuckling at his proofs again. “But I am in print! The first flight of ambition emanating from my father’s lowly cot is realised at length! The golden bow”—he was getting on,—“struck by the magic hand, has emitted a complete and perfect sound! When did this happen, my Christopher?”

“Which happen, sir?”

“This,” he held it out at arms length to admire it,—“this Per-rint.”

When I had given him my detailed account of it, he grasped me by the hand again, and said:

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

A passing Something of a melancholy cast put it into my head to shake it, and to say, “Perhaps we all are.”

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

“Pretty well, sir.” 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.)

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

He made hay of his hair after he said this, and he stood a-tiptoe.

“But,” he reminded himself in a state of excitement, “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.”

He smeared himself and he smeared the Proofs, the night through, to that degree that when Sol gave him warning to depart (in a four-wheeler), few could have said which was them, and which was him, and which was blots. His last instructions was, that I should instantly run and take his corrections to the office of the present Journal. I did so. They most likely will not appear in print, for I noticed a message being brought round from Beauford Printing House, while I was a throwing this concluding statement on paper, that the ole resources of that establishment was unable to make out what they meant. Upon which a certain gentleman in company, as I will not more particularly name,—but of whom it will be sufficient to remark, standing on the broad basis of a wave-girt isle, that whether we regard him in the light of,—{3} laughed, and put the corrections in the fire.

 

Footnotes:

{1} Its name and address at length, with other full particulars, all editorially struck out.

{2} The remainder of this complimentary sentence editorially struck out.

{3} The remainder of this complimentary parenthesis editorially struck out.

 

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Somebody’s Luggage by Charles Dickens