By Charles Dickens
Stave 2: The First Of The Three Spirits
When Scrooge awoke, it was so dark, that looking out of bed, he could
scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of
his chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his
ferret eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four
quarters. So he listened for the hour.
To his great astonishment the heavy bell went on from six to seven,
and from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped.
Twelve. It was past two when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. An
icicle must have got into the works. Twelve.
He touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most
preposterous clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve: and stopped.
‘Why, it isn’t possible,’ said Scrooge, ‘that I can have slept through a
whole day and far into another night. It isn’t possible that anything
has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon.’
The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped
his way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the
sleeve of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could
see very little then. All he could make out was, that it was still very
foggy and extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people
running to and fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably
would have been if night had beaten off bright day, and taken
possession of the world. This was a great relief, because ‘three days
after sight of this First of Exchange pay to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge or his
order,’ and so forth, would have become a mere United States’ security
if there were no days to count by.
Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it
over and over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he
thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavored not
to think, the more he thought. Marley’s Ghost bothered him
exceedingly. Every time he resolved within himself, after mature
inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a
strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same
problem to be worked all through, ‘Was it a dream or not?’
Scrooge lay in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters
more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had warned
him of a visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to lie awake
until the hour was past; and, considering that he could no more go to
sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his
power.
The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he
must have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. At
length it broke upon his listening ear.
‘Ding, dong!’
‘A quarter past,’ said Scrooge, counting.
‘Ding dong!’
‘Half past!’ said Scrooge.
‘Ding dong!’
‘A quarter to it,’ said Scrooge.
‘Ding dong!’
‘The hour itself,’ said Scrooge, triumphantly,
‘and nothing else!’
He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep,
dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the
instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.
The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not
the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to
which his face was addressed. 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, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.
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 if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle
in it, and the tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very
long and muscular; the hands the same, as if its hold were of
uncommon strength. Its legs and feet, most delicately formed, were,
like those upper members, bare. It wore a tunic of the purest white,
and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which
was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in
singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed
with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from
the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which
all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using,
in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now
held under its arm.
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 one
instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its
distinctness: being now 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 to me?’ asked
Scrooge.
‘I am.’
The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so
close beside him, it were at a distance.
‘Who, and what are you?’ Scrooge demanded.
‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.’
‘Long Past?’ inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature.
‘No. Your past.’
Perhaps, Scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody could
have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the Spirit in his
cap; and begged him to be covered.
‘What!’ exclaimed the Ghost, ‘Would you so soon put out, with worldly
hands, the light I give? Is it not enough that you are one of those
whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of
years to wear it low upon my brow!’
Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend or any knowledge
of having willfully bonneted the Spirit at any period of his life. He then
made bold to inquire what business brought him there.
‘Your welfare,’ said the Ghost.
Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking
that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that
end. The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately:
‘Your reclamation, then. Take heed.’
It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the
arm.
‘Rise. And walk with me.’
It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and
the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was
warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was
clad but lightly in his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that
he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp, though gentle as a
woman’s hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the
Spirit made towards the window, clasped his robe in supplication.
‘I am mortal,’ Scrooge remonstrated, ‘and liable to fall.’
‘Bear but a touch of my hand there,’ said the Spirit, laying it upon his
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, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with
snow upon the ground.
‘Good Heaven!’ said Scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he looked
about him. ‘I was bred in this place. I was a boy here.’
The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been
light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man’s sense
of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air,
each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys,
and cares long, long, forgotten.
‘Your lip is trembling,’ said the Ghost. ‘And what is that upon your
cheek?’
Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a
pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would.
‘You recollect the way?’ inquired the Spirit.
‘Remember it!’ cried Scrooge with fervour – ‘I could walk it blindfold.’
‘Strange to have forgotten it for so many years,’ observed the Ghost.
‘Let us go on.’
They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every gate, and post,
and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its
bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were
seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to
other boys in country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys
were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields
were so full of merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it.
‘These are but shadows of the things that have been,’ said the Ghost.
‘They have no consciousness of us.’
The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge knew and
named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see
them. Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went
past? Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each
other Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and-bye ways,
for their several homes? What was merry Christmas to Scrooge? Out
upon merry Christmas! What good had it ever done to him?
‘The school is not quite deserted,’ said the Ghost. ‘A solitary child,
neglected by his friends, is left there still.’
Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.
They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon
approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-
surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. 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. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables;
and the coach-houses and sheds were over-run with grass. Nor was it
more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall,
and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them
poorly furnished, cold, and vast. There was an earthy savour in the
air, a chilly bareness in the place, which associated itself somehow
with too much getting up by candle-light, and not too much to eat.
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 barer still by lines of plain deal forms and
desks. At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and
Scrooge sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self
as he used to be.
Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice
behind the paneling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in
the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one
despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house
door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge
with a softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.
The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self,
intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign garments:
wonderfully real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window,
with an ax stuck in his belt, and leading by the bridle an ass laden
with wood.
‘Why, it’s Ali Baba!’ Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. ‘It’s dear old honest
Ali Baba. Yes, yes, I know. One Christmas time, when yonder solitary
child was left here all alone, he did come, for the first time, just like
that. Poor boy. And Valentine,’ said Scrooge, ‘and his wild brother,
Orson; there they go. And what’s his name, who was put down in his
drawers, asleep, at the Gate of Damascus; don’t you see him? And the
Sultan’s Groom turned upside down by the Genii; there he is upon his
head. Serve him right. I’m glad of it. What business had he to be
married to the Princess.’
To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such
subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying;
and to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a
surprise to his business friends in the city, indeed.
‘There’s the Parrot.’ cried Scrooge. ‘Green body and yellow tail, with a
thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is! Poor
Robin Crusoe, he called him, when he came home again after sailing
round the island. ‘Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin
Crusoe?’ The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn’t. It was the
Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for his life to the little
creek! Halloa! Hoop! Hallo!’
Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character,
he said, in pity for his former self, ‘Poor boy!’ and cried again.
‘I wish,’ Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking
about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: ‘but it’s too late now.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked the Spirit.
‘Nothing,’ said Scrooge. ‘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.’
The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did
so, ‘Let us see another Christmas!’
Scrooge’s former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a
little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked;
fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were
shown instead; but how all this was 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 walking up and down despairingly.
Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his
head, glanced anxiously towards the door.
It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting
in, and putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him,
addressed him as her ‘Dear, dear brother.’
‘I have come to bring you home, dear brother!’ said the child, clapping
her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. ‘To bring you home,
home, home!’
‘Home, little Fan?’ returned the boy.
‘Yes!’ said the child, brimful of glee. ‘Home, for good and all. Home, for
ever 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 more if you
might come home; and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a
coach to bring you. And you’re to be a man!’ said the child, opening
her eyes, ‘and are never to come back here; but first, we’re to be
together all the Christmas long, and have the merriest time in all the
world.’
‘You are quite a woman, little Fan!’exclaimed the boy.
She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but
being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him.
Then she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the
door; and he, nothing loth to go, accompanied her.
A terrible voice in the hall cried. ‘Bring down Master Scrooge’s box,
there!’ And in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared
on Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into
a dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. He then
conveyed him and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering
best-parlour that ever was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and
the celestial and terrestrial globes in the windows, were waxy with
cold. Here he produced a decanter of curiously light wine, and a block
of curiously heavy cake, and administered installments of those
dainties to the young people: at the same time, sending out a meagre
servant to offer a glass of ‘something’ to the postboy, who answered
that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the same tap as he had
tasted before, he had rather not. Master Scrooge’s trunk being by this
time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the
schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove gaily
down the garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost and
snow from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.
‘Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered,’ said
the Ghost. ‘But she had a large heart!’
‘So she had,’ cried Scrooge. ‘You’re right. I’ll not gainsay it, Spirit. God
forbid!’
‘She died a woman,’ said the Ghost, ‘and had, as I think, children.’
‘One child,’ Scrooge returned.
‘True,’ said the Ghost. ‘Your nephew!’
Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, ‘Yes.’
Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they
were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy
passengers passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches
battle for the way, and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It
was made plain enough, by the dressing of the shops, that here too it
was Christmas time again; but it was evening, and the streets were
lighted up.
The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if
he knew it.
‘Know it!’ said Scrooge. ‘Was I apprenticed here?’
They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting
behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he
must have knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great
excitement:
‘Why, it’s old Fezziwig! Bless his heart; it’s 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
capacious waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shows to his
organ of benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat,
jovial voice:
‘Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!’
Scrooge’s former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in,
accompanied by his fellow-prentice.
‘Dick Wilkins, to be sure,’ said Scrooge to the Ghost. ‘Bless me, yes.
There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick.
Dear, dear.’
‘Yo ho, my boys!’ said Fezziwig. ‘No more work to-night. Christmas
Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer. Let’s have the shutters up,’ cried old
Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, ‘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 then – seven,
eight, nine – and came back before you could have got to twelve,
panting like race-horses.
‘Hilli-ho!’ cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with
wonderful agility. ‘Clear away, my lads, and let’s have lots of room
here. Hilli-ho, Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer.’
Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn’t have cleared away, or
couldn’t have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done
in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed
from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the
lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the
warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room,
as you would desire to see 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, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In
came Mrs Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the 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 came the housemaid, with her cousin,
the baker. In came the cook, with her brother’s particular friend, the
milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of
not having board enough from his master; trying to hide himself
behind the girl from next door but one, who was proved to have had
her ears pulled by her mistress. 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 all went, twenty couple 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; old top couple always turning
up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as
they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help
them. When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his
hands to stop the dance, cried out, ‘Well done!’ and the fiddler
plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that
purpose. But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly
began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler
had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-
new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.
There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances,
and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece
of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there
were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening
came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind!
The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could
have told it him!) struck up ‘Sir Roger de Coverley.’ Then old Fezziwig
stood out to dance with Mrs Fezziwig. Top couple too; with a good stiff
piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of
partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would
dance, and had no notion of walking.
But if they had been twice as many – ah, four times – old Fezziwig
would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs Fezziwig. As to
her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If
that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it. A positive light
appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s calves. They shone in every part of
the dance like moons. You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time,
what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and
Mrs Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both
hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-
needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig cut – cut so deftly,
that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again
without a stagger.
When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr and
Mrs Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and
shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out,
wished him or her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired
but the two prentices, they did the same to them; and thus the
cheerful voices died away, and the lads were left to their beds; which
were under a counter in the back-shop.
During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out of his
wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self.
He corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed
everything, and underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until
now, when the bright faces of his former self and Dick were turned
from them, that he remembered the Ghost, and became conscious
that it was looking full upon him, while the light upon its head burnt
very clear.
‘A small matter,’ said the Ghost, ‘to make these silly folks so full of
gratitude.’
‘Small!’ echoed Scrooge.
The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were
pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he had done
so, said,
‘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,’ said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking
unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. ‘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. Say that his power lies in
words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is
impossible to add and count them up: what then? The happiness he
gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.’
He felt the Spirit’s glance, and stopped.
‘What is the matter?’ asked the Ghost.
‘Nothing in particular,’ said Scrooge.
‘Something, I think?’ the Ghost insisted.
‘No,’ said Scrooge, ‘No. I should like to be able to say a word or two to
my clerk just now! That’s all.’
His former self turned down the lamps as he gave utterance to the
wish; and Scrooge and the Ghost again stood side by side in the open
air.
‘My time grows short,’ observed the Spirit. ‘Quick!’
This was not addressed to Scrooge, or to any one whom he could see,
but it produced an immediate effect. For again Scrooge saw himself.
He was older now; a man in the prime of life. His face had not the
harsh and rigid lines of later years; but it had begun to wear the signs
of care and avarice. There was an eager, greedy, restless motion in the
eye, which showed the passion that had taken root, and where the
shadow of the growing tree would fall.
He was not alone, but sat by the side of a fair young girl in a
mourning-dress: in whose eyes there were tears, which sparkled in
the light that shone out of the Ghost of Christmas Past.
‘It matters little,’ she said, softly. ‘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 grieve.’
‘What Idol has displaced you?’ he rejoined.
‘A golden one.’
‘This is the even-handed dealing of the world!’ he said. ‘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,’ she answered, gently. ‘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. Have I not?’
‘What then?’ he retorted. ‘Even if I have grown so much wiser, what then? I am not changed towards you.’
She shook her head.
‘Am I?’
‘Our contract is an old one. It was made when we were both poor and
content to be so, until, in good season, we could improve our worldly
fortune by our patient industry. You are changed. When it was made,
you were another man.’
‘I was a boy,’ he said impatiently.
‘Your own feeling tells you that you were not what you are,’ she
returned. ‘I am. That which promised happiness when we were one in
heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two. How often and how
keenly I have thought of this, I will not say. It is enough that I have
thought of it, and can release you.’
‘Have I ever sought release?’
‘In words? No. Never.’
‘In what, then?’
‘In a changed nature; in an altered spirit; in another atmosphere of
life; another Hope as its great end. In everything that made my love of
any worth or value in your sight. If this had never been between us,’
said the girl, looking mildly, but with steadiness, upon him; ‘tell me,
would you seek me out and try to win me now? Ah, no!’
He seemed to yield to the justice of this supposition, in spite of
himself. But he said with a struggle,’ You think not?’
‘I would gladly think otherwise if I could,’ she answered, ‘Heaven
knows. When I have learned a Truth like this, I know how strong and
irresistible it must be. But if you were free to-day, to-morrow,
yesterday, can even I believe that you would choose a dowerless girl –
you who, in your very confidence with her, weigh everything by Gain:
or, choosing her, if for a moment you were false enough to your one
guiding principle to do so, do I not know that your repentance and
regret would surely follow? I do; and I release you. With a full heart,
for the love of him you once were.’
He was about to speak; but with her head turned from him, she
resumed.
‘You may – the memory of what is past half makes me hope you will
– have pain in this. A very, very brief time, and you will dismiss the
recollection of it, gladly, as an unprofitable dream, from which it
happened well that you awoke. May you be happy in the life you have
chosen.’
She left him, and they parted.
‘Spirit!’ said Scrooge, ‘show me no more! Conduct me home. Why do
you delight to torture me?’
‘One shadow more!’ exclaimed the Ghost.
‘No more!’ cried Scrooge! ‘No more, I don’t wish to see it! Show me no
more!’
But the relentless Ghost pinioned him in both his arms, and forced
him to observe what happened next.
They were in another scene and place; a room, not very large or
handsome, but full of comfort. Near to the winter fire sat a beautiful
young girl, so like that last that Scrooge believed it was the same,
until he saw her, now a comely matron, sitting opposite her daughter.
The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, for there were more
children there, than Scrooge in his agitated state of mind could count;
and, unlike the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not forty
children conducting themselves like one, but every child was
conducting itself like forty. The consequences were uproarious beyond
belief; but no one seemed to care; on the contrary, the mother and
daughter laughed heartily, and enjoyed it very much; and the latter,
soon beginning to mingle in the sports, got pillaged by the young
brigands most ruthlessly. What would I not have given to one of them.
Though I never could have been so rude, no, no! I wouldn’t for the
wealth of all the world have crushed that braided hair, and torn it
down; and for the precious little shoe, I wouldn’t have plucked it off,
God bless my soul! to save my life. As to measuring her waist in sport,
as they did, bold young brood, I couldn’t have done it; I should have
expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never
come straight again. And yet I should have dearly liked, I own, to have
touched her lips; to have questioned her, that she might have opened
them; to have looked upon the lashes of her downcast eyes, and never
raised a blush; to have let loose waves of hair, an inch of which would
be a keepsake beyond price: in short, I should have liked, I do confess,
to have had the lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man
enough to know its value.
But now a knocking at the door was heard, and such a rush
immediately ensued that she with laughing face and plundered dress
was borne towards it the centre of a flushed and boisterous group,
just in time to greet the father, who came home attended by a man
laden with Christmas toys and presents. Then the shouting and the
struggling, and the onslaught that was made on the defenceless
porter. The scaling him with chairs for ladders to dive into his
pockets, despoil him of brown-paper parcels, hold on tight by his
cravat, hug him round his neck, pommel his back, and kick his legs
in irrepressible affection. The shouts of wonder and delight with which
the development of every package was received. The terrible
announcement that the baby had been taken in the act of putting a
doll’s frying-pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected of
having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on a wooden platter. The
immense relief of finding this a false alarm. The joy, and gratitude,
and ecstasy. They are all indescribable alike. It is enough that by
degrees the children and their emotions got out of the parlour, and by
one stair at a time, up to the top of the house; where they went to bed,
and so subsided.
And now Scrooge looked on more attentively than ever, when the
master of the house, having his daughter leaning fondly on him, sat
down with her and her mother at his own fireside; and when he
thought that such another creature, quite as graceful and as full of
promise, might have called him father, and been a spring-time in the
haggard winter of his life, his sight grew very dim indeed.
‘Belle,’ said the husband, turning to his wife with a smile, ‘I saw an
old friend of yours this afternoon.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Guess!’
‘How can I? Tut, don’t I know,’ she added in the same breath,
laughing as he laughed. ‘Mr. Scrooge.’
‘Mr. Scrooge it was. I passed his office window; and as it was not shut
up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him. His
partner lies upon the point of death, I hear; and there he sat alone.
Quite alone in the world, I do believe.’
‘Spirit!’ said Scrooge in a broken voice, ‘remove me from this place.’
‘I told you these were shadows of the things that have been,’ said the
Ghost. ‘That they are what they are, do not blame me!’
‘Remove me!’ Scrooge exclaimed, ‘I cannot bear it!’
He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a
face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the
faces it had shown him, wrestled with it.
‘Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!’
In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the Ghost
with no visible resistance on its own part was undisturbed by any
effort of its adversary, Scrooge observed that its light was burning
high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over
him, he seized the extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed
it down upon its 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 the light, which streamed from under it, in an
unbroken flood upon the ground.
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 had barely time
to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.
