Howard G. Pfrommer: Mr. Dickens is "Recalled to Life"
One afternoon — if there are afternoons "up there" — Charles Dickens and John Forster sat chatting over their tea — or whatever they call tea. I am quite sure it was nothing stronger, for that would be inconsistent with the general idea of the place. At any rate, there they sat — and now and then a wisp of cloud passed about their heads.
Mr. Dickens: Forster, what on earth do you suppose those enormous bird-like objects are down there? They can't be birds, either, because they seem to have a perpetual roar, and yet they do seem to lay, or rather drop, tremendous eggs. And there is an awful thud every time those eggs hit earth — there, did you hear that one?
Mr. Forster: Yes, I heard it. I really don't know what to say, "Inimitable." I have been watching those creatures, or whatever they are, and the peace which I enjoyed when I first arrived here is mysteriously disturbed. I had thought of asking leave to return and look into things, but I really do not have the reportorial mind and ability to bring back a good story. Say! there's a thought now — you, "Inimitable" would be just the one to go and look things over. With that photographic pen of yours, you could give us something really descriptive and detailed. But, I suppose you wouldn't want to do anything like that because (Forster smile knowingly) it couldn't be copyrighted, you know — and there could be no Beading Tours under our present circumstances!
Mr. Dickens: Well, Forster, you never favoured my taking long journeys into other hemispheres — you recall the fuss you made when I went to America! But, since you seem to have changed your attitude, do you suppose you could arrange with St. Peter for me to return to earth for a few days?
Mr. Forster: No sooner said than done, my dear fellow. I have been on my good behaviour and only the other day St. Peter remarked that some little reward might be coming my way. You know I just got in here by the so-called "skin of my teeth." I have been very thankful.
Mr. Dickens: Well, do arrange for me to revisit the earth. I do so want to go. I am afraid, though, that I do not stand so well with Peter. You know there was a very careful investigation of me when I applied for entrance here because of the dressing-down I gave some of those clergymen; but after Peter met Stiggins he came round to my view of things!
And in a space — there seem to be no clocks or seconds, minutes, hours, there — Forster returned with the permission, the necessary personal adornments, money, and hotel reservations — and what seemed most important, a kind of vest, which, when worn, had the magic power of making those whom Dickens met not wish to ask too intimate questions. Dickens looked the things over.
Mr. Dickens: Well, the styles have certainly toned down since our day — how I should have liked one of those bright waistcoats I used to affect. But, Forster, what name is this on these visiting cards and on this hotel reservation! D-E-L-L-A-C-E-R O'T-E-F-I-L. "Dellacer O'Tefll." In my wildest fancy I never concocted one like that!
Mr. Forster: Why, Inimitable, Peter says it's simply a re-arrangement of the letters of the very first words from one of your novels—but for the life of me, I don't recall it, do you?
Mr. Dickens: We'll talk about it later, Forster. If I am to start before the sun sets on things down there, I had best get going. What conveyance do I use?
Mr. Forster: Peter has kept that a secret. He suggested that you take a bit of a nap now . . .
The scene now changes to the lobby of a Bath hotel. Mr. Dickens is discovered nodding in one of the easy chairs. He awakens abruptly as he feels the broom of one of the porters strike his foot.
The Porter: Well, now you know, sir, begging your pardon, sir, but the clerk says it isn't the thing to sleep here all the evening; you've been here since four you know, and if you are to stop the night and want a bite of supper, you had best sign the register and get into the coffee-room before it closes.
How did he get here? Mr. Dickens did not know. And nobody seemed to think his presence unusual. Where was he? Mr. Dickens did not know that either. But, Mr. Dickens was never one to fail to adapt himself to untoward circumstances; and so he stretched, stifled a yawn, and strode to the desk and asked for a room with a bit of fire and " would they send up his dinner?" Mr. Dickens was writing his assumed name as he asked this and he noted from the register that he was in Bath.
The Clerk: The name is Delaccer O'Tefil. Oh, yes, we have been expecting you. A reservation came in just after noon. You must have had a tiresome journey, sir. Here, boy (the boy was about 52), take Mr. O'Tefil up immediately. What's that you said? (turning to Dickens) dinner in your room? A roast fowl with the usual trimmings, a pie and incidentals? You will have your Dickensian joke, won't you? A newspaper reporter, I suppose!
Mr. Dickens: I beg your pardon. I have done something in the reporting way, yes — but I don't altogether relish your familiarity.
The Clerk: Oh, I say — no offence, my dear sir. I do think there is something left from dinner. Have you your ration book?
Mr. Dickens: Ration book! What do you mean, sir?
The Clerk: (Under his breath) Dear me, this man is a little bit off, I am afraid — or is he trying to pull my leg. (Aloud) We were very fortunate to-day; we got a dozen eggs and very likely there is one left — you know you are entitled to one every two weeks — I hope you haven't used your coupons; we shall require them as you are staying more than five nights.
And now Mr. Dickens mused, "Of a certainty, I am in a madhouse. Coupons — one egg every two weeks — what can the fellow mean and where does he get such ideas?"
II
Well, Dickens must have some supper. True, meals were very light "up there," but then activities were light also, and they did not require much to keep them going — but Dickens found that down here appetite was a villainous thing and must be satisfied.
He entered the coffee-room and sat down. The waiter (another juvenile of about sixty-two) came over somewhat impatiently as much as to say "He would wait until five minutes to closing-time." Up to this point, Dickens had been only extremely confused. But, from this point on, the adverb to intensify his confusion is not to be found. Another madman — only much more mad than any — insanely mad, growing violently and progressively madder all the time; and the conversation went round and round in a dizzy whirl all about coupons for this, coupons for that, coupons for the other — ending with a blast' from the three-score youngster when there was no ration book in any of Dickens's pockets — and a threat from Dickens, fearful to hear and not proper to repeat, but ending with "the management shall hear of this, my fine fellow." Just the way Dickens finished off that word "fellow" would have made anyone but a hardened waiter tremble.
Poor Dickens, he was now quite knocked-up; he was terribly hungry; and yet rather than do anything to cause more trouble he thought he would retire — maybe this was to be expected — maybe it was a sort of transitory state — and maybe in the morning matters would be clearer.
Dickens slept. At least, his eyes were shut. But, his appetite did not sleep. He dreamed of those dinners he used to have with Forster and the others to celebrate the completion of one or other of the novels; he dreamed that he was a character in one of those novels, a sort of unexpected guest at Wardle's Christmas party and every time he was about to put a choice morsel into his mouth the Fat Boy woke up and snatched it away! In desperation Dickens found himself looking for the potatoes in Mrs. Jellyby's coal-scuttle; and he got quite a chill because in his sleep he pulled down the sheets and looked for the roast fowl that Pip once put in bed, preliminary to serving. But he could not even locate the spots of congealed gravy! Poor Dickens just tossed and tossed . . .
He was awakened at that darkest period before morning. He had been pushed. That's what it seemed like; just an enormous push; only this push did not come from one direction; it was an all-round push; it came from all directions at once, and then there was an enormous BANG! It wasn't a bag, either; that is much too mild a word. It was so loud you could taste, hear, feel, yes, almost smell it. For once the great master of words was at a loss to describe a physical sensation. He could only refer to the experience as "It."
"What is it," he shouted as he appeared in the lobby just about half-dressed — that is, the lower part of him was dressed, the upper part was quite naked — he had even forgotten his miracle vest. Oh, yes, he did have his hat! All in all, he looked somewhat like one of his own eccentrics.
But there was no uproar. The staff went about their business as usual. The clerk was scratching with his pen; the half-century boy was, like another more famous boy, sitting there, eyes wide open but sound asleep; the porter was wiping the sills; the three-score waiter was standing just inside the door of the coffee-room; they all (except the half-century boy) seemed rather tense, but there was no outward excitement. It was very, very quiet — unnaturally quiet — except for a continual whine outdoors, and when that ceased the clerk remarked casually, " Well, they've gone again. I'll go and see what happened."
Dickens returned to his room, arranged his clothes, donned the magic vest, and then made his way to the street. It was getting light. He happened to glance overhead and there was one of those enormous mechanical birds just over the Royal Crescent — and several more in the near distance.
"What are they?" asked Dickens of a bystander.
"Can't you see — they're ours," was the growled reply.
Dickens at once realised that he had asked the obvious. He arrived at the Crescent and — but let us hear him tell it as he told it to Forster.
III
Mr. Forster: Wake up there! So you've come back. Tell me all about it.
Mr. Dickens (not sure where he is): Oh, dear me, I'm so hungry; I do wish I had one of those coupon things. Why didn't Peter send one of them with me? Oh! it's you, Forster! Did you bring the coupons? What? I'm back? Well, I didn't get about to see any of the things I really wanted to see. Why did Peter bring me back so soon?
Mr. Forster: Well, Inimitable, Peter realised just after he trans- ported you (if I may use that term) that he had forgotten your ration book containing the coupons you need to get food down here in these times — and so when you settled down for a rest after your walk about town, he brought you back. You know, you might have become very "mortal" if your hunger continued! It's all right for you as a novelist to have ghosts walking all over the place; but it is strictly against Peter's scheme of things; and it would have been embarrassing for him to have a real ghost discovered! Besides, Peter did not want to give Sir Oliver Lodge a chance to prove his theory. Tell me, Dickens, what did you see!
Mr. Dickens: Oh, Forster, those birds! Do you know what they really are? They used to talk about such things in our time. Tennyson wrote a poem predicting it, you recall. They are sky battleships! They travel under their own power, with a regular crew just like a ship; with guns and ammunition, and, worst of all, with enormous bombs which they drop. It's all a part of the war now going on. The Germans send their birds over our cities and try to blast the population into terror, and we send our birds over their cities. Horrible! Think of it, Forster, in front of No. 17 Royal Crescent — your remember the Royal Crescent? — Winkle ran a race there once when he was locked out in his night-shirt — well, Forster, in front of No. 17 — that's the house where Pitman lived; he published his system of shorthand the same year that I published Pickwick.
Mr. Forster (impatiently): Come, come, Dickens, tell me what was in front of No. 17.
Mr. Dickens: Just this, Forster. One of those enormous bombs dropped there and you can get no idea of its power and devastation. It left a crater so large that well, well you could easily tuck away most of that great thunderhead over there. Had the bomb landed on the Crescent itself there would be no Crescent. Of the Assembly Rooms only the outer wall remains — just a blackened shell. I was told another bomb was dropped in the row which contains the house where Sam Weller attended the footmen's "Swarry." Forster, I could never have believed it. I talked with bystanders and read some newspapers and they said that in one night a part of London was completely blown away. It really is true, isn't it? I really did go, didn't I? Or are you fooling me? Maybe I simply dreamed it!
Mr. Forster: You really did go, Inimitable; but I certainly didn't expect this sort of report from you. It seems to me that your imagination has really lost its perspective. I am afraid Peter won't appreciate your exaggerations. Your powers of invention are certainly not waning. What stories you could still write! What a great story Drood could have been. Why did you ever leave that story half-finished for well-intentioned, but nevertheless presumptuous amateurs to pick about and try to finish? Tell me, Dickens, how was that story to end?
Mr. Dickens: I really don't know, Forster. I never did know the end of my stories until I got there myself. True, I had outlines, but I didn't follow them closely; the characters took hold of things and kept the ending a secret. My people always told me what they wanted to do, and apparently the folks in Drood weren't quite ready to let me know their plans.
Mr. Forster: I always suspected as much.
Mr. Dickens: Tell me, Forster, where did Peter get that name for me?
Mr. Forster: He said he would tell us, let's call on him. But here he comes now.
St. Peter: Oh, there you are! I was hoping to meet you on my way.
Mr. Forster: Yes, the Inimitable is returned, St. Peter. He wants to know where you got that name; yes, Mr. Dickens has a report for you, although I do not think you are going to like it — his imagination is entirely out of bounds; but first, we are both consumed with curiosity, where did you get that name?
St. Peter: You'll find it at the head of the first chapter of one of your books. I just reversed the spelling of the words. And now, Mr. Dickens, tell me about your being "Recalled to Life."
Mr. Dickens: I am too shocked. You wouldn't believe my story,
St. Peter: Forster doesn't believe it. I saw and heard very little on earth, but even that little is far, far too much. I am so discouraged — men seem to have grown worse instead of better. Part of the beautiful city of Bath is a shambles. I heard that much of London is obliterated. So many of the old places all over the country that I saw and wrote about are gone. The Church with the clock that told David Copperfield the time is now a mere shell. Dr. Johnson's house is a pile of rubbish. Gog and Magog of the Guildhall were incinerated; Thavies' Inn is no more. And Dover — think of it, the Dover of Betsey Trotwood is subjected day after day to the bombardment of long distance cannon from across the channel. There are more than donkeys to churn up the flower beds in Betsey's front garden these days. I was sickened by the little I saw and heard. I do not think I could stand more. It seems as though all England is doomed.
St. Peter: Do not lose heart, Mr. Dickens. I knew all this before I gave permission for you to go. I am rather sorry now that I arranged it and am glad you are back. But, Mr. Dickens, there is one thing that will never be. No matter how much of England is wiped away in this awful conflict, there will always be an England; it will always live in your books! The world is more than ever indebted to you for those novels which you left as a heritage to all English-speaking people for all time to come!
St. Peter slowly walks on. He has discipline to administer. It seems that Sam Weller has been behaving in a manner most undignified, and entirely inconsistent with the celestial code.
First published in "The Dickensian", 1944