Christmas With Dickens - A Christmas Carol 3

A Christmas Carol recounts the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, an elderly miser who is visited by the ghost of his former business partner Jacob Marley and the spirits of Christmas Past, Present and Yet to Come. After their visits, Scrooge is transformed into a kinder, gentler man.

Transcript

This is S.

D.

Hudson Magic.

Welcome to my Christmas series.

These extracts are taken from a Christmas carol written by Charles Dickens in the 19th century.

Here's wishing all my loyal listeners a very peaceful and restful Christmas and Happy New Year.

Stave 2.

Extract 4.

Bell.

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 which 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 are 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?

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 today,

Tomorrow,

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 she 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.

Belle's new family.

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 at 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 around 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 was more than suspected of having followed a fictitious turkey glued on a wooden platter.

The immense relief of finding this false alarm,

The joy and gratitude and ecstasy.

They are all indescribable alike.

It is enough that by degrees the children in their emotions got out of the parlour and one by one,

Stare 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 springtime in the haggard winter of his life,

Scrooge's 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?

I don't 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 the 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 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 his 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 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 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 off to bed before he sank into a heavy sleep.

Stave 3 The Ghost of Christmas Present The moment Scrooge's hand was on the lock,

A strange voice called him by his name and bade him enter.

He obeyed.

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 like a perfect grove,

From every part of which bright gleaming berries glistened.

The crisp leaves of holly,

Mistletoe and ivy reflected back the light as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there.

And such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney as that dull petrification of a hearth had never known in Scrooge's time,

Or Marley's,

Or for many and many a winter season gone.

Heaped up on the floor to form a kind of throne were turkeys,

Geese,

Game,

Poultry,

Brawn,

Great joints of meat,

Sucking pigs,

Long wheeze of sausages,

Mince pies,

Plum puddings,

Barrels of oysters,

Red-hot chestnuts,

Cherry-cheeked apples,

Juicy oranges,

Luscious pears,

Immense twelfth cakes,

And seething bowls of a punch that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam.

In easy state upon this couch there sat a jolly giant,

Glorious to see,

Who bore a glowing torch in shape not unlike plenty's horn,

And held it up high up to shed its light on Scrooge as he came peeping round the door.

Come in!

Exclaimed the ghost.

Come in and know me better,

Man!

Scrooge entered timidly and hung his head before this spirit.

He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been,

And though the spirit's eyes were clear and kind,

He did not like to meet them.

I am the ghost of Christmas present,

Said the spirit.

Look upon me!

Scrooge reverently did so.

It was clothed in one simple green robe or mantle,

Bordered with white fur.

This garment hung so loosely on the figure that its capacious breast was bare,

As if disdaining to be warded or concealed by any artifice.

Its feet,

Observable beneath the ample folds of the garment,

Were also bare,

And on its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath set here and there with shining icicles.

Its dark brown curls were long and free,

Free as its genial face.

Its sparkling eye,

Its open hand,

Its cheery voice,

Its unconstrained demeanour,

And its joyful air.

Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard,

But no sword was in it,

And the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

You have never seen the like of me before,

Exclaimed the spirit.

Never,

Scrooge made answer to it.

Have never walked forth with the younger members of my family,

Meaning,

For I am very young,

My elder brothers born in these later years,

Pursued the phantom.

I don't think I have,

Said Scrooge.

I'm afraid I have not.

Have you had many brothers,

Spirit?

More than eight hundred,

Said the ghost.

The Cratchits.

Then up rose Mrs Cratchit,

Cratchit's wife,

Dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown,

But brave in ribbons which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence.

And she laid the cloth,

Assisted by Belinda Cratchit,

Second of her daughters,

Also brave in ribbons,

Whilst Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes,

And getting the corners of his monstrous shirt collar,

Bob's private property conferred upon his son and heir in honour of the day,

Into his mouth,

Rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired,

And yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks.

And now two smaller Cratchits,

Boy and girl,

Came tearing in,

Screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose and known it for their own.

And basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion,

These young Cratchits danced about the table and exhorted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies while he,

Not proud although his collars nearly choked him,

Blew the fire until the slow potatoes bubbling up,

Knocked loudly at the saucepan lid,

To be let out and peeled.

What has ever got your precious father then?

Said Mrs Cratchit,

And your brother Tiny Tim,

And Martha weren't as late last Christmas Day by half an hour.

Here's Martha,

Mother,

Said a girl,

Appearing as she spoke.

Here's Martha,

Mother,

Cried the two young Cratchits.

Hooray,

There's such a goose,

Martha.

Why bless your heart alive,

My dear,

How late you are,

Said Mrs Cratchit,

Kissing her a dozen times and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with a vicious zeal.

We had a deal of work to finish up last night,

Replied the girl,

And had to clear away this morning,

Mother.

Well,

Never mind,

As long as you've come,

Said Mrs Cratchit,

Sit you down before the fire,

My dear,

And have a warm Lord blessing.

No,

No,

There's Father coming,

Cried the two young Cratchits,

Who were everywhere at once.

Hide,

Martha,

Hide!

So Martha hid herself,

And in came little Bob,

The father,

With at least three feet of comforter,

Exclusive of the fringe,

Hanging down before him,

And his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable,

And Tiny Tim upon his shoulder.

Alas for Tiny Tim,

He bore a little crotch and had his limbs supported by an iron frame.

Why,

Where's our Martha?

Cried Bob Cratchit,

Looking round.

Not coming,

Said Mrs Cratchit.

Not coming?

Said Bob,

With a sudden declension in his high spirits,

For he had been Tim's bloodhorse all the way from church and had come home rampant.

Not coming upon Christmas Day?

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed,

If it were only in joke,

So she came out prematurely from behind the closet door and ran into his arms,

While the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim and bore him off into the wash house,

That he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

And how did little Tim behave?

Asked Mrs Cratchit,

When she had rallied Bob on his credulity,

And Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

As good as gold,

Said Bob,

And better.

Somehow he gets thoughtful,

Sitting by himself so much,

And thinks the strangest things you've 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 be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day,

Who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.

Reviews

Gorgeous and what a simple and sweet gift the last sentence read was! Thank you.