I have endeavored this ghostly little book to
raise the ghost of an idea which shall not put
my readers out of humor with themselves, with
each other, with the season, or with me. May
it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one
wish to lay it. Marley was dead, to begin with.
There is no doubt whatever about it. The register
of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the
clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.
Scrooge signed it, and Scrooge's name was good
for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old
Marley was as dead as a doornail. This must be
distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can
come of the story I am going to relate. Regulators
Productions presents Charles Dickens' A Christmas
Carol, adapted by Robin Schilke and Matthew Bishop,
starring the not -pretty -enough -for -TV players
with Cliff Bowen as Scrooge. Once upon a time,
of all good days in the year, On Christmas Eve,
old Scrooge sat busy in his counting house. It
was cold, bleak, biting weather. The city clocks
had just gone three, but it was quite dark already,
and candles were flaring in the windows of the
neighboring offices, like ready smears upon the
palpable brown hair. A door of Scrooge's office
was opened that he might keep his eye upon his
clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond was
copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire,
but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller
that it looked like one coal. Wherefore, the
clerk put on his white comforter and tried to
warm himself at the candle, in which effort,
not being a man of strong imagination, he failed.
Suddenly, in much to Scrooge's displeasurement,
his cheerful nephew came running in. A Merry
Christmas, Uncle! God save you! Bah! Humbug!
Christmas? A humbug, Uncle. You don't mean that,
I'm sure. I do. Merry Christmas. What right have
you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry?
You're poor enough. What right have you to be
dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're
rich enough. Bah. Humbug. Don't be cross, Uncle.
What else can I be when I live in such a world
of fools as this? Merry Christmas. Out upon Merry
Christmas! What's Christmas time to you but a
time for paying bills without money? A time for
finding yourself a year older and not an hour
richer? A time for balancing your books and having
every item in and through a round dozen of months
presented dead against you? If I could work my
will. Every idiot who goes about with Merry Christmas
on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding
and buried with a stake of holly through his
heart, he should. Uncle! Nephew! They stared
at each other a long moment, but Scrooge is not
a man who ever backed down. Keep Christmas in
your own way and let me keep it in mine. Keep
it? You can't keep it in your own way because
you don't keep it at all. Let me leave it alone,
then. Much good may it do you. Much good it has
ever done you. There are many things by which
I might have derived good, by which I have not
profited, I dare say. Christmas among the rest.
But I am sure I have always thought of Christmastime
as a good time, a kind, forgiving, charitable,
pleasant time. The only time I know of in the
long calendar year when men and women seem by
one consent to open up their shut -up hearts
freely and to think of people below them as if
they really were fellow passengers to the grave
and not another race of creatures bound on other
journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has
never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket,
I believe it has done me good, and it will do
me good, and I say, God bless it. Hear, hear.
Scrooge gave a wary eye to the clerk. You'll
keep your Christmas by losing your situation.
Don't be angry, uncle. Come, dine with us tomorrow.
I should think not. But why? Why did you get
married? Because I fell in love. Because you
fell in love. Scrooge looked at his nephew as
if he had said the one thing in the world more
ridiculous than a Merry Christmas. Good afternoon.
I want nothing from you. I ask nothing of you.
Why can't we be friends? Good afternoon. I am
sorry with all my heart to find you so resolute.
We have never had any quarrel. I've come here
in the spirit of Christmas, and I'll keep my
Christmas humor to the last. So, a Merry Christmas,
Uncle. Good afternoon. And a Happy New Year!
Good afternoon! His nephew left the room without
an angry word. Have a Merry Christmas, Mr. Cratchit.
To you as well, sir. There's another fellow,
my clerk, with 15 shillings a week, and a wife
and a family, talking about a Merry Christmas.
It'll drive me crazy. The clerk, in letting Scrooge's
nephew out, had let two other people in. They
were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and
now stood with their hats off in Scrooge's office.
They had books and papers in their hands and
bowed to him. Scrooge and Marley's, I believe.
Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge
or Mr. Marley? Mr. Marley has been dead these
seven years. Dead this very night. Well, sir,
no doubt you then will share the generosity of
the holiday. At this festive season of the year,
Mr. Scrooge, it is more than usually desirable
that we should make some slight provision for
the poor and destitute who suffer greatly at
the present time. Are there no prisons? There
are plenty of prisons. Are there no workhouses?
There are. Though I wish I could say there were
not. Oh, I was afraid, from what you said at
first, that something had occurred to stop them
in their useful course. I'm very glad to hear
it. Uh, but... But, sir, they scarcely furnish
Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude.
What shall I put you down for? Nothing. You wish
to be anonymous. I wish to be left alone. I don't
make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford
to make idle people merry. I hope to support
the establishments I have mentioned. They cost
enough, and those who are badly off must go there.
Many can't go there. And many would rather die.
If they would rather die, they'd better do it
and decrease the surplus population. Besides,
it's not my business. It's enough for a man to
understand his own business and not interfere
with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly.
Good afternoon, gentlemen. Seeing clearly that
it would be useless to pursue their point, the
gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labors
with an improved opinion of himself and in a
more satisfied manner than was usual with him.
Meanwhile, the fog and darkness thickened. The
ancient tower of a church whose gruff old bell
was always peeping slyly down at Scrooge out
of a gothic window in the wall became invisible
and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds
with tremulous vibrations afterwards, as if its
teeth were chattering in its frozen head. The
cold became intense. A piercing, searching, biting
cold. The owner of one scant young nose, gnawed
and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed
by dogs, stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to
regale him with a Christmas carol. Dashing through
the snow, in the one -horse open sleigh, o 'er
the fields we go. Get out of here, you little
rat! Scrooge ran towards the door with such energy
of action that the singer fled in terror, leaving
the keyhole to the fog and even more congenial
frost. You want all day tomorrow off, I suppose?
If quite convenient, sir. It's not convenient.
Do you think it's fair when I pay a day's wages
for no work? It's only once a year, sir. A poor
excuse for picking a man's pocket every 25th
of December. But I suppose you must have the
whole day, however be here all the earlier next
morning. Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Scrooge walked
out with a growl. The office was closed in a
twinkling, and the clerk, with the long ends
of his white comforter dangling below his waist,
for he boasted no great coat, ran home to Camden
Town as hard as he could. Scrooge took his melancholy
dinner in his usual melancholy tavern, having
read all the newspapers and beguiled the rest
of the evening with his banker's book, went home
to go to bed. He lived in chambers which had
once belonged to his deceased partner. Now, they
were quite a gloomy suite of rooms. It was old
enough now and dreary enough for nobody lived
in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being all
let out as offices. The yard was so dark that
even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, didn't
venture to it often. The fog and frost so hung
about the black old gateway of the house that
it seemed as if the genius of the weather sat
in mournful meditation on the threshold. It's
all a humbug, I tell you, this season, this weather.
Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all
particular about the knocker on the door, except
that it was very large. Let it also be borne
in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought
on Marley since his last mention of his seven
years dead partner that afternoon. And let any
man explain to me, if he can, how it happened
that Scrooge, having his key in his hand and
then in the lock of the door, saw not a knocker,
but Marley's face. Marley's face. The hair was...
curiously stirred as if by breath or hot air,
and though the eyes were wide open, they were
perfectly motionless. As Scrooge looked further
at this phenomenon, it was a knocker yet again.
To say he was not startled, or that his blood
was not conscious of a terrible sensation to
which it had been a stranger from infancy, would
be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he
had relinquished, turned it sturdily, walked
in, and lit his candle. He quickly slammed the
door shut, reverberating through the house like
thunder. He fastened the door and walked across
the hall and up the stairs. Up Scrooge went.
But before he opened the heavy bedroom door,
he walked through his rooms just to see that
they were all right. Sitting room, bedroom, lumber
room. All as they should be. Nobody under the
table, nobody under the sofa. A small fire in
the grate, spoon and basin ready, and the little
saucepan of oats upon the hob. Nobody under the
bed, nobody in the closet, nobody in his dressing
gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude
against the wall. I must be coming down with
something. But quite satisfied, he closed his
door and locked himself in. Double locked himself
in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against
surprise, he took off his cravat, put on his
dressing gown and slippers and his nightcap,
and sat down before the fire to eat his oats.
It was a very low fire indeed, nothing on such
a bitter night. The fireplace was an old one,
and paved all around with quaint Dutch tiles
designed to illustrate the scriptures. There
were canes and ables, pharaoh's daughters, queens
of Sheba, hundreds of figures, and yet the face
of Marley, seven years dead, was all of a sudden
upon everyone. Humbug! He got up and he walked
around the room. After several turns, he sat
down again, and as he threw his head back in
the chair, his glance happened to rest upon a
bell. It was with great astonishment and with
a strange, inexplicable dread that as he looked,
he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so
softly in the outset that it scarcely made a
sound. but soon it rang out loudly, and so did
every bell in the house. This might have lasted
for a few seconds, but it seemed an hour. The
bells ceased as they had begun, together. They
were succeeded by a clanking noise deep down
below, as if some person were dragging a heavy
chain. These oaks must be going bad. He heard
the cellar door fly open with a booming sound.
and then he heard the noise much louder on the
floors below, then coming up the stairs, then
coming straight towards his door. It's humbug
still. I won't believe it. His color changed,
though, when, without a pause, a specter came
on through the heavy door and passed in the room
before his eyes. The same face, the very same
from the knocker. The chain he drew was clasped
about his middle. It was long and round about
him like a tail, and it was made of cash boxes,
keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses
wrought in steel, though his body was transparent.
Scrooge, he could not believe it. Though he had
looked the phantom through and through and saw
it standing before him, though he felt the chilling
influence of his death -cold eyes and marked
the very texture of the folded bandages bound
around its head and chin, he was still incredulous
and fought against his senses. What do you want
with me? Much. Who are you? Ask me who I was,
sir. Who were you, then? You're particular for
a ghost? In life, I was your pa. Jacob Marley.
Can you... Can you sit down? I can. Do it, then.
You don't believe in me. I don't. What evidence
would you have of my reality beyond that of your
own senses? I don't know. Why do you doubt your
senses? Because just a little thing can affect
one's senses. A slight stomachache, for example.
You may be an undigested bit of beef. A blot
of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of
an undone potato. There's more of gravy than
a grave about you, whatever you are. Silence!
Do you mock your own destiny? Mercy? Treadful
apparition, why do you trouble me? Man of worldly
mind, do you believe in me or not? I must! But
why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they
come to me? It is required of every man that
his spirit should walk among his fellow men and
travel far and wide. And if that spirit does
not go forth in life, it is condemned to do so
after death. It is doomed to wander through the
world all alone with me and witness what it cannot
share, but might have shared on earth and turned
to happiness. You're bound by chains. Tell me
why. I wear the chain I forged in life. I made
it link by link and yard by yard. I got it. It's
of my own free will. It's of my own free will.
I want it. Is there a pattern strange to you?
Would you know the weight and length of the strong
chain you bear yourself? It was as full, as heavy,
and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago,
when I died. You have labored on it since. It
is an abondant chain indeed. Jacob. Oh, Jacob
Marley. Tell me more. Speak comfort to me, Jacob.
I... have none to give. I cannot rest. I cannot
stay. I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never
walked beyond our counting house. Mark me. And
life, my spirit never rode beyond the narrow
limits of our money -changing home. And witty
journeys lie before me. You must have been very
slow about it, Jacob. Slow? Seven years dead
and traveling all the time. The whole time? No
rest, no peace. It's sauce that touts your remorse.
You travel fast? On the wings of the wind. You
might have got over a great quantity of ground
in seven years. O captive -bound and double -ironed,
not to know the ages of incessant labor by immortal
creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity
before the good of which is susceptible is all
developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit,
working kindly in its little sphere, whatever
it may be, will find its mortal life too short
for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know
that no space of regret can make amends for one's
life's opportunities misused. Yet such was I.
Oh, such was I. But you were always a good man
of business, Jacob. Business? Mankind was my
business. The common welfare was my business.
Charity, mercy, balance, and benevolence were
all my business. The dealings of my trade were
but a drop of water and the comprehensive ocean
of my business. At this time of the rolling year,
I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds
of fellow beings with my eyes turned down, never
to raise them to the blessed star which led to
the wise men to the poor bold? where there are
no poor homes to which it's light that have conducted
me. Don't be so hard upon me, dear partner. Hear
me! I will, I will. I have sat invisible beside
you many a day, partner. Scrooge trembled more
and more. That is no light part of my benefit.
I am here tonight to warn you that you have a
chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance
and hope of my procuring evidence. You were always
a good friend to me, Jacob. You will be haunted,
old friend, by three spirits. Is that the chance
and hope you mentioned, Jacob? It is. I think
I'd rather not. Without their visits, you cannot
hope to shun the path I tread. Expect a first
tomorrow when the bells Couldn't I take them
all at once and have it over, Jacob? Expect a
second on the next night, on the same hour. The
third upon the next, when the last stroke of
twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me
no more, and look that, for your own sake, you
remember what has passed between us. When it
had said these words, the spectre took its bandage
from the table and bound it round its head as
before. The apparition walked backwards from
him, and at every step it took, the window raised
itself a little, so that when the specter finally
reached it, it was wide open. Sounds of lamentation
and regret came from the window, wailings inexpressibly
sorrowful and self -accusatory. The specter,
after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful
dirge and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.
Scrooge followed to the window, desperate in
his curiosity, and looked out. The air was filled
with phantoms, wandering in restless haste and
moaning as they went. Every one of them wore
chains like Marley's ghost. Some few, they might
have been guilty politicians, were linked together,
but none were free. Whether these creatures faded
into mist or mist enshrouded them, he could not
tell. But they and their spirit and voices faded
together. and the light became as it had been
before when he walked home. Scrooge closed the
window and examined the door by which the ghost
had entered. It was double -locked, as he had
locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were
undisturbed. He tried to say his normal, miserable
phrase, but couldn't. He found himself exceedingly
tired, whether it had been from working, the
conversation with the ghost, or lateness in the
hour, he did not care. He went straight to bed,
without undressing, and fell asleep upon the
instant. It's not the first tomorrow when the
bell tolls one. Light flashed up in the room
upon the instant, and the curtains of the bed
were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. The
curtains of his bed were drawn aside, and Scrooge,
starting up into a half -recumbent attitude,
found himself face to face with the unearthly
visitor who drew them, as close to it as I am
now to you. It was a strange figure, like a child,
yet not so like a child as like an old man, viewed
through some supernatural medium which gave him
the appearance of having receded from the view
and being diminished to a child's proportions.
Its hair, which hung about its neck and down
its back, was white as with age, and yet the
face had not a wrinkle in it, and the tenderest
bloom was on the skin. But the strangest thing
about it was that from the crown of its head
sprung a bright, clear jet. of light. Even this,
though when Scrooge looked at it with increasing
steadiness, was not its strangest quality. For
as its belt sparkled and glittered now in one
part and now in another, and what was light in
one instance at another time was dark, so the
figure itself fluctuated in its distinctiveness.
Now being a thing with one arm, now with one
leg, now with twenty legs, now a pair of legs
without a head, now a head without a body, of
which dissolving parts no outline would be visible
in the dense gloom wherein they melted away.
And in the very wonder of this, it would be itself
again, distinct and clear as ever. Are you the
spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold in me?
I am. Who and what are you? I am the ghost of
Christmas past. Long past? No, your past. I can't
tell you why, but sir, I beg you to put that
cap on your head. Would you so soon put out with
worldly hands the light? Is it not enough that
you are one of the people who made this cap and
forced me to wear it? I meant no offense, sir.
And I did not know that I somehow contributed
to the making of the cap. But what brings you
here? Your welfare. My welfare? Thank you. But
a good night's rest would have better suited
that goal. Your reclamation, then. Rise and walk
with me. He rose. but finding that the spirit
made towards the window clasped its road in supplication.
I am mortal and liable to fall. Just touch my
heart, and you shall be upheld in more than this.
As the words were spoken, they passed through
the wall and stood upon an open country road,
with fields on either hand. The city had entirely
vanished, not a vestige of it was to be seen.
The darkness and the mist had vanished with it,
and for as a clear... cold winter day with snow
upon the ground. Good heaven! I was raised in
this place. I was a boy here. Your lip is trembling.
And what is that upon your cheek? Oh, it must
be a pimple. Please, take me to our destination.
You remember the way? Remember it? I could walk
it blindfolded. Then let us go on. Look! It's
James. And there, Charles. Oh, my goodness. Little
Sarah Adams. What a cute girl she was. These
are but shadows of the things that have been.
They have no consciousness of us. They left the
high road by a well -remembered lane and soon
approached a mansion of dull red brick. Ah, the
schoolhouse. It is not quite deserted. A solitary
child. neglected by his friends, is left there
still. I know. It was a large house, but one
of broken fortunes, for the spacious offices
were little used. Their walls were damp and mossy,
their windows broken, and their gates decayed.
There was an earthly savor in the air, chilly
bareness in the place. They went, the ghost and
Scrooge, across the hall to a door at the back
of the house. It opened before them and disclosed
a long, bare, melancholy room made bare still
by lines of desks. At one of these, a lonely
boy was reading near a feeble fire. I only had
myself to rely on. Even then. Even as a boy.
Suddenly a man in foreign garments, wonderfully
real and distinct to look at, stood outside the
window with an axe stuck in his belt and leading
a mule laden with wood by the brittle. Merry
Christmas, my boy. Come outside. Join me. Why,
it's Alibaba. It's dear, old, honest Alibaba.
Yes, yes, I know. One Christmas time, I was left
here all alone. He did come for the first time.
Just like that. It seems not everyone forgot
the boy. I wish. But it doesn't matter now. What
is the matter? Nothing. Nothing. There was a
boy singing a Christmas carol at my door last
night. I should like to have given him something,
that's all. Let us see another Christmas. The
ghost smiled thoughtfully and waved its hand.
Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words.
The room became a little darker and more dirty.
The panels shrunk, the windows cracked, fragments
of plaster fell out of the ceiling. But how all
this brought about, Scrooge knew no more than
you do. He only knew that it was quite correct
that everything had happened so, that there he
was, alone again, when all the other boys had
gone home for the jolly holidays. He was not
reading now, but walked up and down despairingly.
Scrooge looked at the ghost, and with a mournful
shaking of his head, glanced anxiously toward
the door. It opened, and a little girl, much
younger than the boy, came darting in and putting
her arms around his neck, often kissing him.
Oh, dear, dear brother, I have come to bring
you home, dear brother. To bring you home, home,
home. Home, little femme. Yes, home for good
and all. Home forever and ever. Father is so
much kinder than he used to be, that home's like
heaven. He spoke so gently to me one dear night
when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid
to ask him once if he might come home. And he
said, yes, you should. You are quite a woman,
little femme. Always a delicate creature, whom
a breath might have withered. but she had a large
heart. So she had. You're right. I'll not say
it, spirit. God forbid. She died a woman and
had, as I think, children. One child. True. Your
nephew. They left the school behind them. They
were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city
where shadowy passengers passed, where shadowy
carts and coaches battled for the way, and all
the strife and tumult of a real city were. Here,
too, it was Christmastime again, but it was evening
and the streets were lit up. The ghost stopped
at a certain warehouse door. They went in. Do
you know this place? Know it? I was apprenticed
here. Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his heart.
Is Fezziwig alive again? Old Fezziwig laid down
his pen and looked up at the clock, which pointed
to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands, adjusted
his large pants, laughed all over himself, from
his shoes to his organ of benevolence, and called
out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial
voice. Yo -ho there, Ebenezer! Dick! Dick Wilkins,
to be sure. Bless me, yes. There he is. He was
very much attached to me, was Dick. Scrooge's
former self, now a grown young man, came briskly
in, accompanied by his fellow apprentice. Ho,
ho, my boys! No more work tonight! It's Christmas
Eve, Dick! Christmas, Ebenezer! Let's have the
shutters up before a man can say, Jack Robinson!
You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went
at it. They charged into the street with the
shutters, one, two, three, had them up in their
places, four, five, six, barred them and pinned
them, seven, eight, nine, and came back before
you could count to twelve, panting like racehorses.
Fezziwig, despite his heft, skipped down from
his high desk with wonderful agility. Clear away,
my lads, and let's have lots of room here. Hilly
-ho, Dick! Cheer up, Ebenezer! It was done in
a minute. Every movable was packed off as if
it were dismissed from public life forevermore.
The floor was swept and mopped, the lamps were
trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire, and the
warehouse was as snug and warm and dry and bright
a ballroom as anyone would desire to have upon
a winter's night. In came a fiddler with a music
book and went up to the lofty desk and made an
orchestra of it. He was soon joined by a cellist,
flautist, and portly old fellow intent to keep
time. They formed a merry little band for a wondrous
night. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial
smile. In came three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming
and lovable. In came the six young followers
whose hearts they broke. In came all the young
men and women employed in the business. In they
all came, one after another, some shyly, some
boldly, some gracefully, some awkwardly, some
pushing, some pulling. In they all came, anyhow
and everyhow. Away they went dancing, twenty
couples at once, hands half round and back again
the other way, down the middle and up again,
round and round in various stages of affectionate
grouping. When this result was brought about,
old Fezziwig clapped his hands to stop the dance.
Well done! Well done! A small matter to make
these silly folks so full of gratitude. Small!
Why, is it not? He has spent but a few pounds
of your mortal money. Three or four, perhaps.
Is that so much that he deserves this praise?
It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render
us happy or unhappy, to make our service light
or burdensome, a pleasure or a toil. The happiness
he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.
Spirit, you can't... What is the matter? Nothing
particular. I think it's something. No, it's
just... I should like to be able to say a word
or two to my clerk just now. That's all. My time
grows short. Quick! This was not addressed to
Scrooge or to anyone he could see, but it produced
an immediate effect. For again, Scrooge saw himself.
He was older now, a man in the prime of his life.
His face had not the harsh or rigid lines of
later years, but had begun to wear the signs
of care and avarice. He was not alone, but sat
by the side of a fair young woman in a mourning
dress, and whose eyes there were tears which
sparked in the light that shone out of the ghost
of Christmas past. It matters little, to you
very little. Another idol has displaced me, and
if it can cheer and comfort you in time to come,
As I would have tried to do. I have no just cause
to grief. What idol has displaced you? A golden
one. This is the even -handed dealing of the
world. There is nothing on which it is so hard
as poverty. And there is nothing it professes
to condemn with such severity as the pursuit
of wealth. You fear the world too much. All your
other hopes have merged into the hope of being
beyond the chance of its sordid reproach. I have
seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by
one until the master passion, gain, engrosses
you. Am I wrong? What then? I am not changed
towards you. Am I? Our contract is an old one.
It was made when we were both poor and content
to be so. It was made with love. You are changed.
When it was made, you were another man. I was
a boy. No. It was when you were Ebenezer. My
Ebenezer. Now you are just Mr. Scrooge. We were
once of one heart, a happy one. Now that we are
two, we are fraught with misery. I know you can't
see it because you are blinded by the coin, but
I have thought about it, cried about it, night
after night, and now I can release you. Have
I ever sought release? In words? No, never. In
what, then? In a changed nature. In an altered
spirit. Have I not given you everything? What
is it you want, Belle? You. I wanted you, Ebenezer.
But you can't say the same about me as you cannot
profit from my love. Tell me, if we had never
met, would you seek me out and try to win me
now? You think not. I would gladly think otherwise
if I could. But how can I believe that you would
choose a dowerless girl, you who, in your very
confidence with her, weigh everything by game?
So even if I tell you I want to be with you,
you will not believe me? Even if I believed you
today, what about tomorrow? Even if you could
set aside your guiding principle, I know regret
would come. And regret is soon followed by disdain.
Belle, I... I... You may. Have pain in this,
at least for a brief time. But soon you will
forget about it. Forget about me as an unprofitable
dream. May you be happy in the life you have
chosen. She left him, and they parted. They were
in another scene and place, a room not very large
or handsome, but full of comfort. Nearer to the
winter fire sat a beautiful young girl, so like
the last that Scrooge believed it was the same,
until he saw her, now a comely matron, sitting
opposite her daughter. And now Scrooge looked
on more attentively than ever, when the master
of the house came into the room and sat down
with his daughter and his wife at his own fireside.
Then Scrooge thought that such a daughter, quite
as graceful and as full of promise, might have
called him father. and been a springtime in the
haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very
dim indeed. The man's eyes sparkled when he looked
at Belle and gave her a handsome smile. Belle,
I saw an old friend of yours this afternoon.
Who was it? Guess. How can I? Come on, try. Oh,
I don't know. Mr. Scrooge. Mr. Scrooge it was.
His office window was open, and I couldn't resist
taking a peek. His partner lies on the point
of death, I hear, and there he sat alone. Quite
alone in the world, I do believe. Spirit, remove
me from this place! I told you, these were shadows
of the things that have been. They are what they
are. Do not blame me. Remove me. I cannot bear
it. He turned upon the ghost, and seeing that
it looked upon him, he saw in the specter's face
fragments of all the faces it had shown him and
wrestled with it. Leave me. Take me back. Haunt
me no longer. So he seized the extinguisher cap
and by a sudden action pressed it down upon his
head. The spirit dropped beneath it so that the
extinguisher covered its whole form, but though
Scrooge pressed it down with all his force, he
could not hide from the light which streamed
from under it, an unbroken flood above the ground
until finally it was out. He was conscious of
being exhausted and overcome by an irresistible
drowsiness, and further of being in his own bedroom,
he gave the cap a parting squeeze in which his
hand relaxed, and he had barely enough time to
reel to bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.
Awaking in the middle of a prodigiously tough
snore and sitting up in bed to get his thoughts
together, Scrooge had no occasion to be told
that the bell was again upon the stroke of one.
Expect the second! on the next night at the same
hour. What will you send me now, spirits? Perhaps
a rhinoceros? I'm sorry, I did not mean it. A
blaze of ruddy light began to shine on him. What
is this? Am I to spontaneously combust? This
idea taking full possession of his mind, he got
up softly and shuffled in his slippers to the
door. The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock,
it called. Ebenezer. Ebenezer Scrooge. Come.
Enter. He obeyed and entered. It was his own
room. There was no doubt about that. But it had
undergone a surprising transformation. The walls
and ceiling were so hung with living green that
it looked a perfect grove, for every part of
which bright gleaming berries glistened. Heaped
up on the floor to form a kind of throne were
turkeys, geese, game, poultry, long wreaths of
sausages, and red -hot chestnuts that made the
chamber dim with their delicious steam. In an
easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly
giant, glorious to see, who bore a glorying torch
and held up high to shed its light on Scrooge
as he came peeping around the door. Scrooge entered
timidly and hung his head before the spirit.
I am the ghost of Christmas present. Look upon
me. I am, but I am confused, spirit. You wear
a green robe with mink around the corners and
a holly wreath around your dark hair like a queen.
Yet you also wear an empty scabbard that is eaten
with rust. Are you an ancient Amazon? Or perhaps
Athena herself? You have never seen the likes
of me before. Never. Perhaps you have walked
with my brothers? I don't think I have. Have
you had many brothers, Spirit? More than eighteen
hundred. Tremendous family to provide for. Speak
up, little man. Oh, nothing. Anything worth saying
must be proclaimed, lest I speak it at all. Spirit,
conduct me where you will. Scrooge did as he
was told and held it fast. They vanished from
the warmth and cornucopia of the house and stood
in the city streets on Christmas morning, where
the people made a rough but brisk and not unpleasant
kind of music in scraping the snow from the pavement
in front of their dwellings. They soon went to
the neighborhood bakery where the baker was arguing
with a customer. What do you mean you sold out
of rolls? I specifically put in an advance order
to prevent this. Those were my rolls. Well, maybe
you shouldn't have waited until Christmas Day
to pick them up. Such a shame to quarrel on Christmas
Day. The spirit sprinkled a few drops of perfumed
water from her torch on their heads and then
on some pastries. I'm sorry. You're right. I
should not have waited until Christmas. Oh, nonsense.
It is on me. Here, take these croissants. Is
there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle
from your torch? There is. My own. Would it apply
to any kind of dinner on this day? To any kind
of dinner. To a poor one, most. Why to a poor
one, most? Because it needs it most. And perhaps
it was the pleasure the good spirit had in showing
off this power of hers that led her straight
to Scrooge's clerks. For there she went and took
Scrooge with her, holding to her robe, and on
the threshold of the door the spirit smiled and
stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with
the sprinklings of its watch. There they saw
Mrs. Cratchit dressed out but poorly in a second
-hand gown, but with many colorful ribbons, which
cost only pennies. She was making Christmas dinner,
being assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of
her daughters, also brave in ribbons, while Master
Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan
of potatoes. Where in heavens is your precious
father with Tiny Tim? Bob Cratchit, the father,
came in, his threadbare clothes pressed and brushed
to look seasonable. and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder.
Alas, for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch and
had his limbs supported by an iron frame. And
how did Little Tim behave? As good as gold, and
better. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by
himself so much and thinks the strangest things
you ever heard. He told me coming home that he
hoped the people saw him in the church because
he was a cripple and it might help them remember
who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.
Tiny Tim's active little crutch was heard upon
the floor. Back came Tiny Tim before another
word was spoken, escorted by his brother and
sister to his stool beside the fire. Master Peter
and the two ubiquitous young cratchits went to
fetch the goose, which they had soon returned
in high procession. Would you say grace, dear?
Of course. Everybody bow their heads now. Miraculously,
all the children obeyed. Dear Lord, thank you
for this most wonderful and plentiful feast you
have provided. May we revel on this holiest of
days and may have another year of good fortune.
Amen. Amen. Fortune. What fortune has he? A fortune
you may never have, Ebenezer. Watch. What a goose
this is. I don't think there ever was such a
wonderful bird cooked. It's no turkey, but I
suppose it'll do. Well, I must say, Miss Cratchit,
this may have been your greatest success since
you married me. Oh, that's my greatest success,
huh? A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God
bless us. God bless us. God bless us, everyone.
Tiny Tim sat very close to his father's side
upon his little stool. Bob held his withered
little hand in his as if he loved the child and
wished to keep him by his side and dreaded that
he might be taken from him. Spirit, tell me if
Tiny Tim will live. I see a vacant seat in the
little corner by the fireplace and a crutch without
an owner carefully preserved. If these shadows
remain unaltered by the future, the child will
die. None other of my race can save him. No.
No. Oh, no. Kind spirit, say he will be spared.
What then? If he be like to die, he had better
do it and decrease the surplus population. I
didn't mean it like that. How do you know what
the surplus is and where it is? Will you decide
what men shall live, what men shall die? It may
be that in the sight of heaven, you are more
worthless and less fit to live than millions
like this poor man's child. Scrooge bent before
the ghost's rebuke and trembling cast his eyes
upon the ground. But he raised him speedily on
hearing his own name. Mr. Scrooge. I'll give
you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast. The
founder of the feast, indeed. I wish I had him
here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast
upon. And I hope he'd have a good appetite for
it. My dear, not in front of the children. It's
Christmas Day. Christmas Day. Why should one
drink to the health of such an odious, stingy,
hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge? You know
he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you
do. My dear, it's Christmas. I'll drink to his
health for your sake and the day's. Long life
to him. A merry Christmas and a happy new year.
He'll be very merry and very happy, I have no
doubt. Scrooge was the ogre of the family. The
mention of his name cast a dark shadow in the
party, which was not dispelled for a full five
minutes. They are not a handsome family. They're
not well -dressed, their shoes have holes, and
Bob has likely seen the inside of a pawnbroker's.
But they have more wealth here than you have
ever seen. What wealth, my lady? They are happy,
grateful, and pleased with one another. There
is love here. With that, the ghost sprinkled
them all with her magical concoction as Scrooge
kept his eye on Tiny Tim. And now, without a
word of warning from the ghost, they stood upon
a large field. where monstrous masses of rude
stone were cast about, as though it were the
burial place of giants. What place is this? A
place where miners live, who labor in the bowels
of the earth. But they know me. Watch. At a small
camp outside the cave, a small group of miners
were huddled in a cabin around a bare tree with
candles hanging from it. They held hands and
hummed. The spirit quickly whisked him away,
passing through mud and stone when they happened
upon a small cottage. Inside, a woman whose face
showed the lines of a long life sat rocking in
a chair. Though she was alone, the miners' voices
somehow joined hers as if the Christmas spirit
connected them. The stars in the bright sky looked
down. The spirit did not dally here, but bade
Scrooge hold her rope and passed on above the
moor into the sea. Built upon a dismal reef of
sunken rocks, miles from the shore, there stood
a solitary lighthouse. But even here, two men
who watched the light had made a fight. The elder
man, with his face all damaged and scarred with
hard weather, as the figurehead of an old ship
might be, struck up a sturdy song that was like
a gale in itself. The cattle are lowing, the
baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus, no crying
he makes. The young man soon harmonized. I love
thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky and
stay. The spirit then joined in, but it was not
just her voice that came from her mouth, but
those of all that had seen that night. It was
a great surprise to Scrooge while listening to
this mystical chorus that he heard a hearty laugh.
It was a much greater surprise to Scrooge to
recognize it as his own nephews and to find himself
in a bright, dry, gleaming room with the spirit
standing, smiling by his side and looking at
that same nephew with a proving affability. When
Scrooge's nephew laughed in this way, holding
his sides, rolling his head, and twisting his
face into the most extravagant contortions, Scrooge's
niece, by marriage, laughed as heartily as he.
She was exceedingly pretty and was quite a match
for his nephew. She smiled with her dimpled cheeks
as she kissed him. And their assembled friends,
being not a bit behind, roared out. And he said
that Christmas was a humbug. He believed it,
too. More shame for him, Fred. He's a comical
old fellow, that's the truth, and not so pleasant
as he might be. However, his offenses carry their
own punishment, and I have nothing to say against
him. I'm sure he's very rich, Fred. At least
you always tell me so. What of that, Madeline?
His wealth is of no use to him. He doesn't do
any good with it. He doesn't make himself comfortable
with it. He's a miserly old fool. I have no patience
with him. Oh, I have. I'm sorry for him. I couldn't
be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by
his ill whims? Himself. Always. Here he takes
it into his head to dislike us and he won't come
and dine with us. What's the consequences? He
doesn't lose much of a dinner. I think he loses
a very good dinner, dear. But do go on, Fred.
You never finished what you were going to say.
I was only going to say... that the consequences
of his taking a dislike to us and not making
merry with us is that he loses some pleasant
moments which could do him no harm. I mean to
give him the same chance every year, whether
he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail
at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help
thinking better of it. I defy him. If he finds
me going there in good temper year after year
and saying, Uncle Scrooge, how are you? If it
only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk
some money, that's something. And actually, I
think I shook him yesterday. Laugh if you want,
but I won't stop. Not till he's cold in the grave,
I tell you. Soon they moved on from the topic
of Scrooge and began to sing their own carol.
There might have been twenty people there, young
and old, but they all sang. The ghost turned
to see Scrooge, a bright smile on his face, as
he joined in, even if they couldn't hear him.
Oh, spirit, may I stay, please? Just until everyone
departs. I'm sorry, but it cannot be done. It
would be ungrateful to at least not drink to
the health of the old man. He has definitely
given us merriment tonight. You're insufferable,
dear. Here is a glass of wine ready to our hand
at the moment. And I say to Uncle Scrooge. Uncle
Scrooge! A merry Christmas and a happy new year
to the old man wherever he is. He wouldn't take
it from me, but he may have it nevertheless.
Uncle Scrooge! It was a long night, if it were
only a night, but Scrooge had his doubts of this,
because the Christmas holidays appeared to be
condensed into the space of time they passed
together. It was strange, too, that while Scrooge
remained unaltered in his outward form, the ghost
grew older, clearly older. Are spirits' lives
so short? My life upon this globe is very brief.
It ends tonight. Tonight? Tonight at midnight.
But it is already a quarter till. Yes, my time
is drawing near. Forgive me if I am not justified
in what I ask, but I see something strange and
not belonging to yourself protruding from your
skirts. Is it a foot or a claw? It might be a
claw. For it is flesh. Look here. From the foldings
of its robe it brought two children. Wretched,
abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt
down at its feet and clung upon the outside of
its garment. Scrooge immediately diverted his
eyes. Do not avert your eyes! Look at this boy
and girl. Yellow, ragged, scowling. Yet they
are weak and meager. Where graceful youth should
fill their features, a stale and shriveled hand
has pinched and twisted them. Where angels might
have sat enthroned, devils lurked and glared
out menacing. Scrooge startled back, appalled.
Are they your spirit? They are man's, and they
cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This
boy is ignorance. This girl is want. Beware them
both and all of their degree. But most of all
beware this boy. For on his brow I see the written
which is due unless the writing be erased. This...
this can't be. Do you deny it? You who make it
worse and bide the end. Have they no refuge or
resource? Are there no prisons? Are there no
workhouses? The bell struck twelve. Scrooge looked
about for the ghost and saw it not. As the last
stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction
of old Jacob Marley. Three spirits! The third
when the last stroke of twelve ceased to vibrate!
A phantom, draped and hooded, came toward Scrooge
like a mist along the ground. The phantom slowly,
gravely, silently approached. When it came near
him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee, for in
the very air through which this spirit moved,
it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was
shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed
its head, its face, its form, and left nothing
of it visible save for one outstretched, pale
hand. He felt that it was tall and stately when
it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence
filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more,
for the spirit neither spoke nor moved. Am I
in the presence of the ghost of Christmas yet
to come? The spirit answered not, but pointed
downward with its hand. You are about to show
me shadows of the things that have not happened,
but will happen in the time before us. Is that
so? The spirit inclined its head. The only answer
Scrooge received. Ghost of the future, I fear
you more than any specter I have seen. But as
I know your purpose is to do me good, and as
I hope to live to be another man from what I
was, I am prepared to bear you company and do
it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak
to me? It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed
straight before them. Lead on. The night is waning
fast, and it is precious time to me. I know.
Lead on, spirit. They went into an obscure part
of town where Scrooge had never penetrated before,
although he recognized its situation and its
bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow, the
shops and houses wretched, the people half -naked,
drunken, slipshod, and ugly. Alleys and archways,
like so many cesspools, disgorged their offenses
of smell and dirt and life upon these straggling
streets. And the whole quarter reeked with crime,
filth, and misery. Far in this den of infamous
resort, there was a lowbrow beetling shop. Sitting
in among the wares was a gray -haired rascal
known as Old Joe, nearly 70 years of age, and
smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement.
Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence
of this man just as the woman with the heavy
bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely
entered when another woman, carrying a suspiciously
similar load, came in as well, and she was closely
followed by a man in faded black who was no less
startled by the sight of them as they recognized
each other. After a short period of blank astonishment,
in which the old man with the pipe had joined
them, they all three burst into a laugh. Well,
look at us, the maid, laundress, and undertaker,
all here at the same time, no less. I suppose
we all came as fast as we could. We couldn't
have met in a better place. Now let's do business.
The maid threw her bundle on the floor and sat
down in a flaunting manner on a stool, crossing
her elbows on her knees and looking with a bold
defiance at the other two. What odds, then? What
odds? Mrs. Dilba, every person has a right to
take care of themselves. He always did. That's
true indeed, no man more so. Who's the worst
for the loss of a few things like these? Not
a dead man, I suppose. No, indeed. If he wanted
to keep him after he was dead, wicked old screw,
why wasn't he good in his lifetime? If he had
been, he'd had somebody to look after him when
he was struck with death. It's the truest word
that ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him.
Old Joe unraveled what the maid had brought him.
What do you call this? Bed curtains? Exactly
what they are. You don't mean to say you took
them down, rings and all, with him lying there?
Yes, I do. Why not? You were born to make your
fortune, and you'll certainly do it. I certainly
won't hold my hand for the sake of such a man
as he was. I promise you, Joe, don't drop that
oil upon the blankets now. His blankets. Who
else's do you think? Well, I hope he didn't die
of anything catching, eh? You don't be afraid
of that. He was just old. Old and cranky. But
take a look at that shirt there. You won't find
a hole in it. It's the best he had, and a fine
one, too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't
been for me. What do you mean, wasted it? Putting
it on him to be buried in. After thoroughly going
through the contents, Old Joe gave the maid a
flannel bag with money in it. This is the...
end of it, you see. He frightened everyone away
from him when he was alive to profit us when
he was dead. Spirit, I see. I see. The case of
this unhappy man may be my own. My life tends
that way now. Merciful heaven, what is this?
He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed,
and now he almost touched a bed. A bare, uncurtained
bed on which beneath a ragged sheet there lay
something covered up, which announced itself
in awful language. This man lay in a dark, empty
house with not a man, woman, or child to say
he was kind. If there is any person in the town
who feels emotion caused by this man's death,
show that person to me, spirit. I beg you. The
phantom spread its dark robe before him for a
moment like a wing, and withdrawing it revealed
a room by daylight where a mother and her children
were. She was expecting someone, and with anxious
eagerness, for she walked up and down the room,
startled at every sound. Oh, God! It's just you.
I thought for sure they'd come for the house.
Here, I made you some dinner. Thank you, dear.
Any news? Um... Is it good, or... Or bad. Please
tell me. I can't bear it. Do you believe in hope,
Caroline? Are we ruined? I knew it. Maybe, uh,
maybe, maybe he can relent. Miracles do happen,
you know. He has passed relenting. That miserable
old fool. Of course he would throw a family on
the streets on Christmas. No, Caroline. He has
passed relenting because... Well, he's... he's
dead. What? You're kidding me. Our luck is not
that good. No, turns out he was not trying to
avoid me last week. He was dying. This... this
is wonderful. A true Christmas miracle. To whom
will our debt be transferred? I don't know, but
they can't possibly be as merciless as he was.
We may sleep with light hearts tonight, Caroline.
The only emotion that the ghost could show him
caused by the event was one of pleasure. Let
me see some tenderness connected with a death.
The ghost conducted him through several streets.
They entered poor Bob Cratchit's house, the dwelling
he had visited before, and found Bob and his
wife sitting at the table, Bob sipping a cup
of tea his wife had made him. You went today
then, Robert? Yes, my dear. I wish you could
have gone. It would have done you good to see
how green a place it is. But you'll see it often.
I promised him that we would walk there every
Sunday. My little, little child. My little child.
You are such a good wife, my dear. However and
whenever we part from one another, I am sure
none of us will forget poor tiny Timmy. Never,
dear. We will all remember how patient and how
sweet he was, although he was a little, little
child. Mrs. Cratchit hugged Bob with all her
strength as they cried in solemn unity. Spirit
of Tiny Tim, thy childish essence was from God.
Spectre, I feel that our parting moment is at
hand. I'm certain of it, though I don't know
how. Tell me. Who was the man under those sheets?
The ghost of Christmas yet to come conducted
him through time and place again as Scrooge followed
until they reached an iron gate. He paused to
look around before entering. A church room. Here,
the wretched man whose name he had now to learn
lay underneath the ground. The spirit stood among
the graves and pointed down to one. Scrooge advanced
towards it, trembling. The phantom was exactly
as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw a
new meaning in its solemn shape. Before I draw
near to that stone to which you point, answer
me one question. Are these the shadows of the
things that will be, or are they the shadows
of the things that only may be? Still the ghost
pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.
Tell me these courses may be changed. Say this
is what you show me, spirit. The spirit was immovable
as ever. Scrooge crept towards it, trembling
as he went, and following the finger read upon
the stone of the neglected grave, Ebenezer Scrooge!
Am I that man who lay upon the bed? The finger
pointed from the grave to him and back again.
No, spirit! Oh, no, no! The finger was still
there. Spirit, hear me. I am not the man I was
before. Why show me this if I am past all hope?
Assure me that I may yet change these shadows
you have shown me by an altered life. I will
honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it
all the year. I will live in the past, the present,
and the future. The spirits of all three shall
strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons
that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away
the writing on this stone. In his agony, he caught
the spectral hand. It sought to free itself,
but Scrooge detained it. The spirit, stronger
yet, repulsed him, holding up his hands in one
last prayer to have his fate reversed. He saw
an alteration in the phantom's hood and dress.
It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into
a bedpost. Yes, a bedpost. And the bedpost was
his own. The bed was his own. The room was his
own. Best and happiest of all, the time before
him was his own to make amends in. And he quickly
scrambled out of bed. I will live in the past,
the present, and the future. The spirits of all
three shall strive within me. O Jacob, Marley,
heaven, and the Christmas time be praised for
this. I say it on my knees, O Jacob, on my knees.
He inspected his bed curtains, folding them in
his arm. They are not torn down. They are not
torn down. Rings and all, they are here. I am
here. The shadows of the things that would have
been may be dispelled. They will be. I know they
will. It's all right. It's all true. It all happened.
I don't know what day of the month it is. I don't
know how long I've been among the spirits. I
don't know anything. I'm quite a baby. Never
mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hooray!
Running to the window, he opened it and put out
his head. No fog, no mist, clear, bright, jovial,
stirring, cold, cold, piping for the blood to
dance to, golden sunlight, heavenly sky, sweet,
fresh air, merry bells. He then looked down upon
a boy who was staring up at him, no doubt curious
for all the noise Scrooge was making. My dear
boy, what is today? What's today, my fine fellow?
Today? Why, Christmas Day, of course. It's Christmas
Day. I haven't missed it. The spirits have done
it all in one night. They can do anything they
like. Of course they can. Of course they can.
A great day, my fine fellow. A great day, sir.
Do you know the butcher at the corner? I should
hope so. An intelligent boy. A remarkable boy.
Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey
that was hanging up there? Not the little prize
turkey. The big one. The one as big as me? Yes,
that one. It's hanging there now. Is it? Go and
buy it. You're crazy, mister. No, no, I'm in
earnest. Go and buy it and tell them to bring
it here that I may give them the direction where
to take it. Come back with the man and I'll give
you a dollar. Come back with him in less than
five minutes, and I'll give you twenty. The boy
was off like a shot. I'll send it to Bob Cratchits.
He won't know who sends it. It's twice the size
of Tiny Tim. The hand in which he wrote the address
was not a steady one, but righted he did, and
went downstairs to open the street door ready
for the coming of the butcher's man. As he stood
there waiting for his arrival, the knocker caught
his eye. I shall love it as long as I live. I
scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest
expression it has in its face. It's a wonderful
knocker. You wanted this turkey, sir? Ah, yes,
the turkey. Hello! This is quite the turkey.
He never could have stood on his own legs, that
bird. He would have snapped them off like sticks
of ceiling wax. Okay, okay. Where do you want
it? Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden
Town. You must have a cab. He dressed himself
at his best and went out into the streets. Scrooge
regarded everyone with a delighted smile. He
had not gone far when he happened upon the gentleman
who had asked him for a donation yesterday and
took him with both hands, which slightly frightened
the man. My dear sir, how do you do? I hope you
succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you.
A Merry Christmas to you, sir. Mr. Scrooge? Yes,
that is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant
to you. Allow me to ask your pardon, and allow
me to write you a check. My dear Mr. Scrooge,
are you serious? If you please, and not a cent
less. A great many back payments are included
in it, I assure you. Oh, my dear sir, I don't
know what to say to such benevolence. Don't say
anything, please. Come and see me. Will you come
and see me? I will. Thank you. I am much obliged
to you. I thank you 50 times. Bless you. He had
never dreamed that any walk, that anything, could
give him so much happiness. In the afternoon,
he turned his steps towards his nephew's house.
He must have passed by the door a dozen times
before he had the courage to go up and knock.
But he made a dash and did it. Fred! Why, bless
my soul! Is this who I think it is? It's I, your
Uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you
have me, friend? Of course, Uncle, of course.
Madeline, you'll believe who's here. Scrooge
very much enjoyed himself, just as he imagined
with the ghost the past night. Wonderful party,
wonderful games, wonderful fraternity, wonderful
happiness. But he was early at the office the
next morning. If he could only be there first
and catch Bob Cratchit coming in late. Cratchit!
What do you mean by coming here at this time
of day? I'm very sorry, sir. I am behind my time.
Yes, I think you are. A full eighteen and a half
minutes late. Step this way, if you please. It's
only once a year, sir. It shall not be repeated.
I was making rather merry yesterday, sir. Now
I'll tell you what, Mr. Cratchit. I am not going
to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore...
Scrooge jumped out of his chair and Bob retreated
back into his cell, fearful of what was next.
And therefore, I am to raise your salary. What's
that? Merry Christmas, Bob. Marrier Christmas,
Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for
many a year. You called me Bob. You've never
done that. Just one of many offenses I intend
to rectify. I'll raise your salary and endeavor
to assist your struggling family, and we will
discuss your affairs this very afternoon over
a fine sherry bob. Scrooge was better than his
word. He did it all and infinitely more. And
to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second
father. He became as good a friend, as good a
master, as good a man as the good old city knew.
He had no further interactions with spirits,
but it was always said of him that he knew how
to keep Christmas well. May that be truly said
of us and all of us. And so, as Tiny Tim observed,
God bless us, everyone. A Christmas Carol was
produced and engineered by Matthew Bishop and
features The Not Pretty Enough for TV Players
with Mack Mitchell as the ghost of Christmas
Past and Young Scrooge, Raven McGowan as the
ghost of Christmas Present and Caroline, Caleb
Henry as Fred, Slade Haney as Bob Cratchit, Grace
Reeves as Belle, Jamie Shannon Ferguson as Mrs.
Cratchit and Old Woman, Michael Kinslow as Fezziwig
and Old Joe, Elaine Ray as The Maid, Christine
Callahan as Sister, Martha Menefree as Cratchit
Child and Chorus, and Matthew Bishop as Marley
and the narrator. All other parts were played
by members of the cast. Recorded at LaGrange
Studios in Ridgeland, Mississippi.