Dickens' A Christmas Carol, Stave 1. Marley's Ghost

Charles Dickens's Christmas classic about wealth, poverty, and generosity of spirit probably needs no introduction, so just relax and enjoy this new version, abridged especially for Insight Timer by our very own Mandy Sutter.

In Stave One, Scrooge locks up his office on Christmas Eve, grudgingly giving his clerk the day off tomorrow. Little does he know that he will have a series of ghostly visitors during the night, who will change the course of his life irrevocably.

Music by William King

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me tonight and I'm really delighted to be starting the Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens,

Part one,

Or as Dickens calls it,

Stave One,

Marley's Ghost.

Now this edition is abridged especially for Insight Timer by yours truly Mandy Sutter.

To just let you know a little bit about Charles Dickens that maybe you didn't know.

I'm sure you've heard of him and I'm sure you know that he was considered one of the greatest novelists of the Victorian era,

If not the greatest novelist.

His full name was Charles John Hoffham Dickens and when his father was incarcerated in a debtor's prison when he was 12 he was forced to leave school and work in a boot blacking factory.

He worked there for three years and then returned to school before beginning his literary career as a journalist and as you may know he published a lot of his works in serial form in journals.

Christmas Carol has been one of his most popular works and is still beloved generations later.

But before I begin please go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

Just settle down into whatever surface you happen to be sitting or lying on.

That's it,

Relax your hands,

Relax your shoulders,

Relax your jaw.

That's great,

So if you're comfortable I'll begin.

Stave 1,

Marley's Ghost.

Marley was dead,

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.

Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.

Mind,

I don't mean to say that I know of my own knowledge what there is particularly dead about a doornail.

I might have been inclined 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 permit me to repeat emphatically that Marley was as dead as a doornail.

Scrooge knew he was dead,

How could it be otherwise?

Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years.

Scrooge was his sole executor,

His sole administrator,

His sole friend and his sole mourner.

And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event.

So there's no doubt that Marley was dead.

This must be distinctly understood or nothing wonderful can come of the story I'm going to relate.

Scrooge had never painted out old Marley's name.

The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley.

Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge and sometimes they called him Marley but he answered to both names.

It was all the same to him.

Oh but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone,

Scrooge.

A squeezing,

Wrenching,

Grasping,

Scraping,

Clutching,

Covetous old sinner.

Hard and sharp as flint from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire.

Secret and self-contained and solitary as an oyster.

The cold within him froze his old features,

Nipped his pointed nose,

Shriveled his cheek,

Stiffened his gait and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice.

He carried his own low temperature always about with him.

He iced his office and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

No warmth could warm him,

No wintry weather chill him,

No wind that blew was bitterer than he,

No falling snow was more intent 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 to bestow a trifle,

No children asked 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 blind men'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.

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 sympathy to keep its distance.

On Christmas Eve old Scrooge sat busy in his counting house.

It was cold,

Bleak,

Biting weather,

Foggy with all,

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 neighbouring 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 opposite were mere phantoms.

The door of Scrooge's counting house was open 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,

But he couldn't replenish it,

For Scrooge kept the coal box in his own room.

The clerk put on his white comforter and tried to warm himself at the candle,

In which effort,

Not being a man of a strong imagination,

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'm 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 so 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!

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.

Oh,

Don't be angry,

Uncle.

Come,

Dine with us tomorrow.

Scrooge said that he would see him.

Yes,

Indeed he did.

He went the whole length of that 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 Christmas.

Good afternoon.

Nay,

Uncle,

But you never came to see me before that happened.

Why give it as a reason for not coming now?

Good afternoon,

Said Scrooge.

I want nothing from you.

I ask nothing of you.

Why cannot we be friends?

Good afternoon,

Said Scrooge.

His nephew left the room without an angry word.

He stopped at the outer door to bestow his greetings of the season on the clerk,

Who,

Cold as he was,

Was warmer than Scrooge,

For he returned it cordially.

In letting Scrooge's nephew out,

The clerk 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 either 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,

Liberality,

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,

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,

Hundreds of thousands are in want of common comfort,

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 they still in operation?

They are still,

Returned the gentleman.

I wish I could say they were not.

The treadmill and the poor law are in full vigour then,

Said Scrooge.

We're both very busy,

Sir.

I was afraid from what you said at first,

That something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,

Said Scrooge.

I'm very glad to hear it.

Under the impression that they scarcely furnished Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,

Returned the gentleman,

A few of us are endeavouring 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.

Good afternoon,

Gentlemen.

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point,

The gentleman withdrew.

Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him.

The cold became intense.

In the main street at the corner of the court,

Some labourers were repairing the gas pipes and had lit 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 brightness of the shops,

Where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lampeat of the windows,

Made pale faces ruddy as they passed.

Foggier yet and colder.

Piercing,

Biting cold.

The owner of one young knows,

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 gentlemen,

Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action that the singer fled in terror.

At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived.

With an ill-will,

Scrooge dismounted from his stool,

And the expectant clerk in the cell instantly 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,

Said Scrooge,

Buttoning his greatcoat 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 ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt to play at blind man'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,

He went home to bed.

He lived in chambers which had once belonged to his deceased partner.

They were a gloomy suite of rooms,

And the yard was so dark that even Scrooge,

Who knew its every stone,

Was fain to grope with his hands.

The fog and frost hung about the black old gateway of the house.

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.

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 lobster in a dark cellar.

It was not angry or ferocious,

But looked at Scrooge just 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 colour,

Made it horrible,

But its horror seemed to be in spite of the face,

And beyond its control,

Rather than 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,

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 lighted his candle.

He did pause,

With a moment's irresolution,

Before he shut the door,

And he did look cautiously behind it first,

As if he half expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall.

But there was nothing on the back of the door,

Except the screws and nuts that held the knocker on,

So he closed it with a bang.

He fastened the door and walked across the hall and up the stairs,

Trimming his candle as he went.

It was pretty dark,

But up Scrooge went,

Not caring a button for that.

Darkness is cheap,

And Scrooge liked it.

But before he shut his heavy door,

He walked through his rooms to see that all was right.

He had just enough recollection of the face to desire to do that.

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 gruel 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.

Lumber-room,

As usual,

Old fire-guard,

Old shoes,

Two baskets,

Washing-stand on three legs,

And a poker.

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 take his gruel.

It was a very low fire indeed,

Nothing on such a bitter night.

He was obliged to sit close to it and brood over it,

Before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel.

The fireplace was an old one,

Built by some Dutch merchant long ago,

And paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles,

Designed to illustrate the scriptures.

There were Cain's and Abel's,

Pharaoh's daughters,

Queens of Sheba,

Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds,

Abrahams,

Belshazzars,

Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats,

Hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts,

And yet that face of Marley,

Seven years dead,

Came like the ancient prophet's rod and swallowed up the whole.

If each shmood tile had been a blank at first,

With power to shape some picture on its surface from the disjointed fragments of his thoughts,

There would have been a copy of old Marley's head on every one.

Humbug,

Said Scrooge,

And walked across the room.

After several turns he sat down again,

And he threw his head back in the chair.

His glance happened to rest upon a bell,

A disused bell that hung in the room,

And communicated for some purpose now forgotten,

With a chamber in the highest storey of the building.

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 half a minute or a minute,

But it seemed an hour.

Then 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 over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar.

Scrooge then remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains.

The cellar door flew 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,

Said Scrooge,

I won't believe it.

His colour changed though when,

Without a pause,

It came on through the heavy door and passed into the room before his eyes.

Marley in his pigtail,

His usual waistcoat,

Tights and boots,

The tassels on the latter bristling like his pigtail,

And his coat skirts and the hair upon his head.

The chain he drew was clasped about his middle.

It was long and wound about him like a tail,

And it was made,

For Scrooge observed it closely,

Of cash boxes,

Keys,

Padlocks,

Ledgers,

Deeds,

And heavy purses wrought in steel.

His body was transparent so that Scrooge observing him and looking through his waistcoat could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Though he looked the phantom through and through and saw it standing before him,

Though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes,

He was still incredulous and fought against his senses.

How now,

He said,

Caustic and cold as ever,

What do you want with me?

Much,

Marley's voice,

No doubt about it.

Who are you?

Ask me who I was.

Who were you then?

Said Scrooge.

In life I was your partner,

Jacob Marley.

Can you sit down?

Asked Scrooge,

Looking doubtfully at him.

I can.

Do it then.

Scrooge asked the question because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair,

And felt that in the event of its being impossible,

It might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation.

But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace as if he were quite used to it.

You don't believe in me,

Observed the ghost.

I don't,

Said Scrooge.

Why do you doubt your senses?

Because,

Said Scrooge,

A little thing affects them.

A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats.

You may be an undigested bit of beef,

A blot of mustard,

A crumb of cheese,

A fragment of an underdone potato.

There's more of gravy than of grave about you,

Whatever you are.

Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes,

Nor did he feel in his heart by any means waggish just then.

The truth is that he tried to be smart as a means of distracting his own attention and keeping down his terror,

For the spectre's voice disturbed the very marrow in his bones.

To sit staring at those fixed glazed eyes in silence for a moment would play,

Scrooge felt,

The very juice with them.

There was something very awful too in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own.

Scrooge could not feel it himself,

But it was clearly the case,

For though the ghost sat perfectly motionless,

Its hair and skirts and tassels were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

You see this toothpick,

Said Scrooge,

Wishing to divert the vision's stony gaze from himself.

I do,

Replied the ghost.

You're not looking at it,

Said Scrooge.

But I see it,

Said the ghost,

Notwithstanding.

Humbug,

I tell you,

Returned Scrooge.

Humbug!

At this,

The spirit raised a frightful cry and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise that Scrooge fell down upon his knees and clasped his hands before his face.

Mercy,

He said,

Dreadful apparition,

Why do you trouble me?

Man of the worldly mind,

Replied the ghost,

Do you believe in me or not?

I do,

Said Scrooge.

I must,

But why do spirits walk the earth and why do they come to me?

It is required of every man,

The ghost returned,

That the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow men and travel far and wide,

And if that spirit goes not forth in life,

It is condemned to do so after death.

It is doomed to wander through the world,

Oh woe is me,

And witness what it cannot share but might have shared on earth and turned to happiness.

Again,

The spectre raised a cry and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

You are fettered,

Said Scrooge,

Trembling.

Tell me why.

I wear the chain I forged in life,

Replied the ghost.

I made it link by link and yard by yard.

I girded it on of my own free will and of my own free will I wore it.

Is its pattern strange to you?

Scrooge trembled more and more.

Or would you know,

Pursued the ghost,

The weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself?

It was full as heavy and long as this seven Christmas eves ago.

You have laboured on it since.

It is a ponderous chain.

Scrooge glanced about him on the floor,

In the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some 50 or 60 fathoms of iron cable,

But he could see nothing.

Jacob,

He said imploringly,

Oh Jacob Marley,

Tell me more.

Speak comfort to me,

Jacob.

I have none to give,

The ghost replied.

It comes from other regions,

Ebenezer Scrooge,

And is conveyed by other ministers to other kinds of men.

Nor can I tell you what I would.

A very little more is all permitted to me.

I cannot rest,

I cannot stay,

I cannot linger anywhere.

It held up its chain at arm's length,

As if that were the cause of all its unavailing grief,

And flung it heavily upon the ground again.

At this time of year,

The spectre said,

I suffer most.

Why did I walk through crowds of fellow beings with my eyes turned down,

And never raise them to that blessed star which led the wise men to a poor abode?

How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see,

I may not tell.

I have sat invisible beside you,

Many and many a day.

This was not an agreeable idea.

Scrooge shivered and wiped the perspiration from his brow.

I am here tonight to warn you,

Pursued the ghost.

You have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate,

A chance and hope of my procuring,

Ebenezer.

You were always a good friend to me,

Said Scrooge,

Thank ye.

You will be haunted,

Resumed the ghost,

By three spirits.

Is that the chance and hope you mentioned,

Jacob?

He demanded in a faltering voice.

It is.

I think I'd rather not,

Said Scrooge.

Without their visits,

Said the ghost,

You cannot hope to shun the path I tread.

Expect the first tomorrow,

When the bell tolls one.

Couldn't I take them all at once and have it over with Jacob?

Hinted Scrooge.

Expect the second on the next night at the same hour.

The third upon the next night,

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.

The apparition walked backwards from him,

And at every step it took,

The window raised itself a little,

So that when the spectre reached it,

It was wide open.

It beckoned Scrooge to approach,

Which he did.

When they were within two paces of each other,

Marley's ghost held up its hand,

Warning him to come no nearer.

Scrooge stopped.

He became sensible of confused noises in the air,

Incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret,

Wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory.

The spectre,

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,

He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms,

Wandering hither and thither in restless haste,

And moaning as they went.

Every one of them wore chains like Marley's ghost.

Some few,

They might be guilty governments,

Were linked together.

None were free.

Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives.

He had been quite familiar with one old ghost,

In a white waistcoat,

With a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle,

Who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant whom it saw below upon a doorstep.

The misery with them all was clearly that they sought to interfere for good in human matters,

And had lost the power forever.

Whether these creatures faded into mist,

Or mist enshrouded them,

He couldn't tell.

But they and their spirit voices faded together,

And the night became as it had been 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 humbug,

But stopped at the first syllable.

And being,

From the emotion he had undergone,

Or the fatigues of the day,

Or his glimpse of the invisible world,

Or the awful conversation of the ghost,

Or the lateness of the hour,

Much in need of repose,

Went straight to bed,

Without undressing,

And fell asleep upon the instant.

To be continued.

Reviews

So perfect to listen to on a snowy December morning here in New York. Thanks Mandy 🙏🏻❄️

I love this story and I love to hear you read it! Thank you!

What grimly well written prose! Knowing the story well and hearing it read aloud are two entirely different things! Still got me to sleep a few different times in the night, so thank you!🙏🏼❤️

I played this in the middle of the night and didn't hear much of it! Thank you.