A Christmas Carol — Stave One : Marley's Ghost (part 1)

by Charles Dickens

   Marley was dead, to begin with.  There is no      
doubt whatever about that.  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 upon       
'Change for anything he chose to put his hand to.         
   Old Marley was dead as a door-nail.      
   Mind!  I don't mean to say that I know, of     
my own knowledge, what there is particularly     
dead about a door-nail.  I might have been in-       
clined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the      
deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade.  But      
the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile;       
and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or     
the Country's done for.  You will therefore per-      
mit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was        
as dead as a door-nail.       
   Scrooge knew he was dead?  Of course he did.      
How could it be otherwise?  Scrooge and he     
were partners for I don't know how many years.      
Scroog was his sole executor, his sole adminis-      
trator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee,     
his sole friend, and sole mourner.  And even      
Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad      
event but that he was an excellent man of busi-       
ness on the very day of the funeral, and solem-         
nized it with a undoubted bargain.         
   The mention of Marley's funeral brings me      
back to the point I started from.  There is no      
doubt that Marley was dead.  This must be       
distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can      
come of the story I am going to relate.  If we       
were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's        
Father died before the play began, there would      
be nothing more remarkable in his taking a      
stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his       
own ramparts, than there would be in any other       
middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after      
dark in a breezy spot — say Saint Paul's Church-      
yard — for instance — literally to astonish his        
son's weak mind.        
   Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name.      
There it stood, years afterward, above the ware-      
house door:  Scrooge and Marley.  The firm        
was known as Scrooge and Marley.  Sometimes      
people new to the business called Scrooge      
Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered      
to both names.  It was all same to him.           
   Oh!  But he was a tight-fisted hand at the        
grindstone.  Scrooge! a wheezing, wrenching     
grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sin-     
ner!  Hard and sharp as flint, from which no      
steel had ever struck out a generous fire; secret,     
and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.        
The cold within him froze his old features,      
nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek,       
stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin     
lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating     
voice.  A frosty rime was on his head, and on      
his eye-brows, and his wiry chin.  He carried      
his own low temperature always about with     
him; he iced his office in dog-days; and didn't         
thaw it one degree at Christmas.         
   External heat and cold had little influence on     
Scrooge.  No warmth could warm, no wintery     
weather chill him.  No wind that blew was        
bitterer than he, no falling snow was more in-     
tent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open      
to entreaty.  Foul weather didn't know where      
to have him.  The heaviest rain, and snow, and      
hail, and sleet,  could boast of the advantage over     
him in only one respect.  They often "came            
down" handsomely, and Scrooge never did.           
   Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say,     
with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are      
you?  When will you come to see me?"  No      
beggars implored him what it was o'clock, no man     
or woman ever once in all his life inquired the        
way to such and such a place of Scrooge.  Even       
the blindmen's dogs appeared to know him; and       
when they saw him coming on, would tug their      
owners into doorways and up courts and then        
would wag their tails as though they said, No     
eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!"           
   But what did Scrooge care!  It was the very     
thing he liked.  To edge his way along the      
crowded paths of life, warning all human sym-        
pathy to keep its distance, was what the know-      
ing ones called "nuts" to Scrooge.         
   Once upon a time — of all the good days in the      
year, on Christmas Eve — old Scrooge sat busy      
in his counting-house.  It was cold, bleak, biting     
weather, foggy withal: and he could hear the     
people in the court outside, go wheezing up and     
down, beating their hands upon their breasts,     
and stamping their feet upon the pavement       
stones to warm them.  The city clocks had only      
just gone three, but it was quite dark already —        
it had not been light all day — and candles were      
flaring in the windows of the neighboring offices,      
like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air.       
The fog came pouring in at every chink and      
keyhole, and was so dense without, that although       
the court was of the narrowest, the houses op-        
posite were mere phantoms.  To see the dingy     
cloud come dropping down, obscuring everything,       
one might have thought that Nature lived hard       
by, and was brewing on a large scale.        
   The door of Scrooge's counting-house was       
open, that he might keep his eye upon the clerk,    
who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank,     
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.  But he        
couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-       
box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk      
came in with the shovel the master predicted      
that it would be necessary for them to part.        
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 imag-     
ination, he failed.          
   "A merry Christmas uncle!  God save you!:      
cried a cheerful voice.  It was the voice of     
Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so      
quickly that this was the first intimation he     
had of his approach.           
   "Bah!" said Scrooge.  "Humbug!"       
   He had so heated himself with rapid walking       
in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's,       
that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy     
and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath     
smoked again.         
   "Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Scrooge's         
nephew.  "You don't mean that, I am sure?"       
   "I do," said Scrooge.  "Merry Christmas!  What       
right have you to be merry?  What reason have     
you to be merry?  You're poor enough."          
   "Come, then," returned the nephew, gaily,      
"What right have you to be dismal?  What      
reason have you to be morose?  You're rich     
enough."           
   Scrooge having no better answer ready on      
the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!" again,        
and followed it up with "Humbug!"        
   "Don't be cross, uncle!" said the nephew.       
"What else can I be," returned the uncle,      
"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 find-        
ing yourself a year older, and not an hour      
richer; a time for balancing your books and     
having every item in 'em through a round       
dozen of months presented dead against you?        
If I could work my will," said Scrooge indig-       
nantly, "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!" pleaded the nephew.     
   "Nephew!" returned the uncle, sternly, "keep     
Christmas in your own way, and let me keep     
it in mine."      
   "Keep it!" repeated Scrooge's nephew.  "But      
you don't keep it."         
   "Let me leave it alone, then," said Scrooge.     
"Much good it may do you!  Much good it    
has ever done you!"         
   "There are many things from which I might      
have derived good, by which I have not prof-       
ited, I dare say," returned the nephew.  "Christ-        
mas among the rest.  But I am sure I have         
always thought of Christmas time, when it     
has come round — apart from the veneration     
due to its sacred name and origin, if any-      
thing belonging to it can be apart from that —       
as a good time; a kind, forgiving , charitable,     
pleasant time; the only time I know of the       
long calendar of the year, when men and      
women seem by one consent to open their shut-        
up hearts freely, and to thin of people be-      
low them as if they really were fellow-passen-      
gers to the grave, and not another race of         
creatures bound on other journeys.  And, there-     
fore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap      
of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that      
it has done me good, and will do me good;        
and I say, God bless it!"           
   The clerk in the tank involuntarily ap-        
plauded.  Becoming immediately sensible of the      
impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished     
the last frail spark forever.        
   "Let me hear another sound from you,"        
said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christ-     
mas by losing your situation.  You're quite        
a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to      
his nephew.  "I wonder you don't go into Par-       
liament."         
   "Don't be angry, uncle.  Come!  Dine with     
us to-morrow."         
   Scrooge said that he would see him — yes,     
indeed he did.  He went the whole length of       
the expression, and said that he would see him    
in that extremity first.           
   "But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew.  "Why?"         
   "Why did you get married?" said Scrooge.       
   "Because I fell in love."       
   "Because you fell in love!" growled Scrooge,      
as if that were the only one thing in the         
world more ridiculous than a merry Christ-      
mas.  "Good-afternoon!"             
   "Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me        
before that happened.  Why give it as a rea-     
son for not coming now?"      
   "Good afternoon," said Scrooge.      
   "I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you     
so resolute.  We have never had any quarrel,     
to which I have been a party.  But I have      
made the trial in homage to Christmas, and      
I'll keep my Christmas humor to the last.  So,      
A Merry Christmas, uncle!"          
   "Good-afternoon!" said Scrooge.           
   "And, A Happy New Year!"       
   "Good-afternoon!" said Scrooge.      
   His nephew left the room without an angry     
word, notwithstanding.  He stopped at the outer      
door to bestow the greetings of the season on       
the clerk, who, cold as he was, was warmer than     
Scrooge; for he returned them cordially.           
   "There's another fellow," muttered Scrooge,     
who overheard him; "my clerk, with fifteen shil-     
lings a weeks, and a wife and a family, talking        
about a merry Christmas.  I'll retire to Bedlam."           
   This lunatic, 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," said one of     
the gentlemen, referring to his list.  "Have I the          
pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr.     
Marley?"         
   "Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,"     
Scrooge replied.  "He died seven years ago, this      
very night."              
   "We have no doubt his liberality is well    
represented by his surviving partner," said the      
gentleman, presenting his credentials.       
   It certainly was; for they had been two     
kindred spirits.  At the ominous word, "lib-      
erality," Scrooge frowned, and shook his head,     
and handed the credentials back.          
   "At this festive season of the year, Mr.        
Scrooge," said the gentleman, taking up a pen,         
"it is more than usually desireable that we     
should make some slight provision for the poor     
and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present      
time.  Many thousands are in want of common      
necessaries; hundred of thousands are in want       
of common comforts, sir."       
   "Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge.    
"Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, laying         
down the pen again.           
   "And the Union workhouses?" demanded     
Scrooge.  "Are the still in operation?"         
   "They are.  Still," returned the gentleman,       
"I wish I could say they were not."       
   "TheTreadmill and the Poor Law are in full    
vigor, then?" said Scrooge.       
   "Both very busy, sir."       
   "Oh!  I was afraid, from what you said at     
first, that something had occurred to stop them     
in their useful course," said Scrooge.  "I am      
very glad to hear it."           
   "Under the impression that they scarcely fur-      
nish Christian cheer of mind or body to the     
multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of     
us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the     
Poor some meat and drink, and means of     
warmth.  We choose this time, because it is a      
time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt,     
and Abundance rejoices.  What shall I put you     
down for?"              
   "Nothing!" Scrooge replied.       
   "You wish to be anonymous?"      
   "I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge.  "Since     
you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my         
answer.  I don't make merry myself at Christ-     
mas, and I can't afford to make idle people     
merry.  I help to support the establishments I    
have mentioned — they cost enough: and those      
who are badly off must go there."             
   "Many can't go there; many would rather die."       
   "If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they       
had better do it, and decrease the surplus popu-     
lation.  Besides — excuse me — I don't know that."         
   "But you might know it, observed the gentle-    
man.       
   "It's not my business," Scrooge replied.  "It's      
enough for a man to understand his own busi-     
ness, and not to interfere with other people's.     
Mine occupies me constantly.  Good-afternoon    
gentlemen!"            
   Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pur-     
sue their point, the gentlemen withdrew.  Scrooge     
resumed his labor with an improved pinion of        
himself, and in a more facetious temper than       
was usual with him.            
   Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so,     
that people ran about with flaring links, proffer-     
ing their services to go before horses in car-       
riages, and conduct them on their way.  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 tremendous vibrations afterward, as if its       
teeth were chattering in its frozen head up     
there.  The cold became intense.  In the main      
street, at the corner of the court, some laborers      
were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a         
great fire in a brazier, round which a party of     
ragged men and boys were gathered: warming           
their hands and winking their eyes before the         
blaze in rapture.  The water-plug being left in     
solitude, its overflowings suddenly congealed, and       
turned to misanthropic ice.  The brightness of       
the shops where holly sprigs and berries crackled     
in the lamp heat of the windows, made pale             
faces ruddy as they passed.  Poulterers' and       
grocers' trades became a splendid joke: a glori-     
ous pageant, with which it was next to impos-      
sible to believe that such dull principles as      
bargain and sale had anything to do.  The Lord      
Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty Mansion     
House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers      
to keep Christmas as a Lord Mayor's household      
should; and even the little tailor, whom he had       
fined five shillings on the previous Monday for        
being drunk and bloodthirsty in the streets,    
stirred up tomorrow's pudding in his garret,      
while his lean wife and the baby sailed out to     
buy the beef.            
   Foggier yet, and colder!  Piercing, searching,      
biting cold.  If the good St. Dunstan had but      
nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of      
such weather as that, instead of using his     
familiar weapons, then indeed he would have       
roared to lusty purpose.  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: but at the first sound of        

       "God bless you, merry gentleman,       
        May nothing you dismay!"          

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of     
action, that the singer fled in terror, leaving the      
keyhole to the fog, and even more congenial frost.          
   At length the hour of shutting up the count-       
ing-house arrived.  With an ill-will Scrooge dis-       
mounted from the stool, and tacitly admitted the     
fact to the expectant clerk in the tank, who in-       
stantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.        
   "You'll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?"        
said Scrooge.          
   "If quite convenient, sir."        
   "It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's      
not fair.  If I was to stop half-a-crown for it,       
you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound?"       
The clerk smiled faintly.      
   "And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think me     
ill-used, when I pay a day's wages for no work."          
   The clerk observed that it was only once a      
year.      
   "A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket      
every twenty-fifth of December!" said Scrooge,     
buttoning his great-coat to the chin.  "But I      
suppose you must have the whole day.  Be here     
all the earlier next morning."           
   The clerk promised that he would; and 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), went down a       
slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys,     
twenty times, in honor of its being Christmas    
Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town as hard    
as he could pelt, to play a Blindman's buff.             
   Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his     
usual melancholy tavern; and having read all     
the newspapers and beguiled the rest of the      
evening with his banker's-book, went home to         
bed.  He lived in chambers which had once be-          
longed to his deceased partner.  They were a          
gloomy suite of rooms, in a lowering pile of       
building up a yard, where it had so little busi-     
ness to be, that one could scarcely help fancying     
it must have run there when it was a young        
house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses,     
and having forgotten the way out again.  It was      
old enough now, and dreary enough; for nobody     
lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms being       
let out as offices.  The yard was so dark that         
even Scrooge, who knew its every stone, was fain      
to grope with his hands.  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.           
   Now it is a fact that there was nothing at all     
particular about the knocker on the door, except       
that it was very large.  It is also a fact that        
Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during       
his whole residence in that place; also that       
Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy       
about him as any man in the City of London,      
even including — which is a bold word — the cor-       
poration, aldermen, and livery.  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 then let any man explain to me, if he can,       
how it happened that Scrooge, having his key       
in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker,       
without its undergoing any intermediate process      
of change — not a knocker, but Marley's face.       
   Marley's face.  It was not in impenetrable     
shadow, as the other objects in the yard were,     
but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lob-       
ster in a dark cellar.  It was not angry or fero-          
cious, but looked at Scrooge as Marley used to       
look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its      
ghostly forehead.  The hair was curiously stirred,      
as if by breath or hot air; and though the eyes    
were wide open, they were perfectly motionless.     
That, and its livid color, made it horrible; but         
its horror seemed to be in spite of the face, and      
beyond its control, rather than a part of its        
own expression.        
   As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon,     
it was a knocker again.       
   To say that he was not startled, or that his      
blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation,      
would be untrue.  But he put his hand upon the       
key he had relinquished, he turned it sturdily,     
walked in, and lighted his candle.   

Robert K. Haas, Inc., Publishers, New York, N.Y.
Little Leather Edition, pp. 3 - 18