A CHRISTMAS CAROL

IN PROSE

A Ghost Story of Christmas

by Charles Dickens

PREFACE

In this spooky little book, I have tried to bring to life the ghost of an idea. I hope this idea does not make my readers unhappy with themselves, with each other, with the Christmas season, or with me. I hope it visits their homes in a pleasant way, and that no one wants to make it leave.

Your faithful friend,
C. D.
December, 1843.

CONTENTS

Stave I: Marley's Ghost
Stave II: The First of the Three Spirits
Stave III: The Second of the Three Spirits
Stave IV: The Last of the Spirits
Stave V: The End of It

STAVE I: MARLEY'S GHOST

MARLEY was dead. Let's start there. There is no doubt about it at all. The record of his burial was signed by the minister, the church clerk, the undertaker (the person who arranges funerals), and the main mourner. Scrooge signed it, and Scrooge's name meant something on the stock exchange—people trusted whatever he put his name to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.

Now, I don't really know what makes a doornail more dead than anything else. I might think a coffin-nail is the deadest piece of metal there is. But this old saying has been passed down for years, and I won't be the one to change it, or the whole country might fall apart! So let me say it again, clearly: Marley was as dead as a doornail.

Did Scrooge know Marley was dead? Of course he did. How could he not? Scrooge and Marley had been business partners for many years. Scrooge was the only person in charge of handling Marley's belongings and money after his death, his only friend, and his only mourner. Even so, Scrooge wasn't too sad about it. In fact, he was busy doing good business on the very day of the funeral.

Talking about Marley's funeral brings me back to my point: there is no doubt that Marley was dead. You must understand this clearly, or nothing strange in this story will make sense. Think of it this way: if we weren't sure that Hamlet's father died before the play began, it wouldn't be surprising at all for him to walk around his own castle walls at night. It would just seem like an ordinary man out for a walk after dark—say, in a churchyard—just trying to scare his son.

Scrooge never removed Old Marley's name from the sign above the warehouse door. Years later, it still read: Scrooge and Marley. People sometimes called Scrooge by his own name, and sometimes by Marley's—he answered to both. It didn't matter to him either way.

Oh, but Scrooge was a tight, stingy old man! He squeezed every penny, grasped, scraped, and clutched his money like a greedy old sinner. He was as hard and cold as flint, a rock that never gave off a warm spark. He kept to himself, closed off like an oyster in its shell. The coldness inside him showed on his face—it froze his sharp nose, wrinkled his cheeks, and stiffened the way he walked. His eyes were red, his thin lips blue, and his voice was sharp and scratchy. Frost seemed to sit on his hair, eyebrows, and wiry chin. He carried his own coldness with him everywhere. His office was icy even in the hottest days of summer, and it didn't warm up one bit at Christmas either.

The weather outside didn't affect Scrooge much. No warmth could warm him, and no cold could make him colder. No wind was ever more bitter than he was. No falling snow tried harder to get its way. No pouring rain was less likely to listen to pleading. Bad weather simply didn't know what to do with him. The only thing rain, snow, hail, and sleet could do better than Scrooge was "come down" generously—Scrooge never did that.

No one ever stopped him on the street to say happily, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you visit me?" No beggars asked him for money. No children asked him for the time. No one ever asked Scrooge for directions. Even blind men's guide dogs seemed to recognize him. When they saw him coming, they would pull their owners into doorways, as if to say, "No eyes at all are better than these unfriendly ones!"

But Scrooge didn't care. That's exactly how he liked it. Walking through busy streets while keeping everyone at a distance—avoiding any kindness or friendliness—was exactly what he wanted.

One Christmas Eve, of all days, old Scrooge sat busy working in his office. It was cold, gray, and foggy outside. He could hear people in the street outside, walking heavily, rubbing their hands together and stamping their feet to stay warm. The city clocks had just struck three, but it was already dark—it had been dark and gloomy all day. Candles glowed in the windows of nearby offices like reddish smudges in the thick brown fog. The fog crept in through every crack and keyhole. It was so thick outside that even though the street was narrow, the buildings across the way looked like ghostly shapes. Watching the dark, heavy fog roll in, you might have thought that Nature herself lived nearby and was brewing something huge.

The door to Scrooge's office stood open so he could keep an eye on his clerk (his employee who copied letters and did paperwork). The clerk worked in a small, gloomy room nearby, almost like a tank. Scrooge's fire was small, but the clerk's fire was even smaller—it looked like just one lonely piece of coal. The clerk couldn't add more coal, though, because Scrooge kept the coal box locked in his own office. Whenever the clerk came in holding the shovel, hoping for more coal, Scrooge would warn him that they might have to "part ways"—meaning the clerk could lose his job. So instead, the clerk put on his white scarf and tried to warm himself with the candle flame. It didn't work very well.

"A merry Christmas, uncle! God bless you!" called a cheerful voice. It was Scrooge's nephew, who arrived so quickly that Scrooge didn't hear him coming until he spoke.

"Bah!" said Scrooge. "Humbug!" (Meaning: nonsense!)

Scrooge's nephew had walked fast through the cold, foggy streets, and his face glowed red and healthy. His eyes sparkled, and you could see his breath in the cold air.

"Christmas, a humbug, uncle!" said the nephew. "You can't mean that!"

"I do," said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What right do you have to be merry? What reason do you have? You're poor enough."

"Well then," the nephew answered cheerfully. "What right do you have to be so gloomy? What reason do you have to be grumpy? You're rich enough!"

Scrooge couldn't think of a good answer right away, so he just said, "Bah! Humbug!" again.

"Don't be cross, uncle," said the nephew.

"How else can I be," Scrooge replied, "when I live in a world full of fools? Merry Christmas! What is Christmas to you but a time to pay bills you can't afford, a time to feel a year older but not a penny richer? If I had my way," Scrooge said angrily, "every person who goes around saying 'Merry Christmas' should be boiled with their own pudding and buried with a stick of holly through their heart!"

"Uncle!" the nephew said.

"Nephew!" Scrooge answered sternly. "You keep Christmas your way, and let me keep it mine."

"Keep it?" the nephew repeated. "But you don't keep it at all."

"Then let me leave it alone," said Scrooge. "Much good it's ever done you!"

"There are many things that might have done me good that I haven't used well, I'm sure," said the nephew. "Christmas included. But whenever Christmas comes around, I always think of it—setting aside its sacred and holy meaning—as a good time. A kind, forgiving, generous, happy time. It's the only time all year when people seem to open up their hearts and think of others as fellow travelers heading toward the same journey, rather than as another kind of person entirely. So, uncle, even though Christmas has never put a single coin in my pocket, I believe it has done me good, and will keep doing me good. I say, God bless it!"

The clerk in his little "tank" room clapped without meaning to. Realizing this wasn't a good idea, he quickly poked at the fire and put out its last tiny spark for good.

"Let me hear one more sound from you," Scrooge said, "and you'll spend your Christmas looking for a new job! You're quite the talker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "I'm surprised you're not in Parliament."

"Don't be angry, uncle. Come have dinner with us tomorrow!"

Scrooge said he'd see him—yes, he really did say that. He finished the sentence by saying he'd see him someplace very unpleasant first.

"But why?" cried the nephew. "Why won't you come?"

"Why did you get married?" Scrooge asked.

"Because I fell in love."

"Because you fell in love!" Scrooge grumbled, as if that were an even sillier reason than being merry at Christmas. "Good afternoon!"

"But uncle, you never visited me even before I got married. Why use that as an excuse now?"

"Good afternoon," said Scrooge.

"I don't want anything from you. I'm not asking you for anything. Why can't we just be friends?"

"Good afternoon," said Scrooge.

"I'm truly sorry to see you so stubborn. We've never actually argued, at least not because of me. But I tried, in the spirit of Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas cheer to the very end. So, Merry Christmas, uncle!"

"Good afternoon!" said Scrooge.

"And Happy New Year!"

"Good afternoon!" said Scrooge.

Even so, his nephew left the room without a single angry word. On his way out, he stopped to wish the clerk a merry Christmas too. Cold as the clerk was, he was still warmer-hearted than Scrooge, and he returned the greeting kindly.

"There's another one," Scrooge muttered, overhearing him. "My clerk, earning only fifteen shillings a week, with a wife and children to support, talking about a merry Christmas! I should be locked up."

This "madman," in letting Scrooge's nephew out, had let two other visitors in. They were two well-dressed, pleasant-looking gentlemen who now stood in Scrooge's office with their hats off. They carried books and papers, and they bowed politely to him.

"Scrooge and Marley's, I believe?" said one gentleman, checking his list. "Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?"

"Mr. Marley has been dead for seven years," Scrooge replied. "He died seven years ago tonight, in fact."

"We're sure his generosity lives on through his surviving partner," said the gentleman, holding out his papers.

That was certainly true—Marley and Scrooge had been very much alike. At the word "generosity," Scrooge frowned, shook his head, and handed the papers back.

"At this special time of year, Mr. Scrooge," the gentleman said, picking up a pen, "it's especially important that we help provide for the poor. Many people are struggling right now. Thousands lack basic necessities, and hundreds of thousands lack basic comforts, sir."

"Are there no prisons?" asked Scrooge.

"Plenty of prisons," said the gentleman, setting the pen back down.

"And the workhouses?" Scrooge asked. "Are th—"