Dickens' A Christmas Carol, Stave 4: The Last Of The Spirits

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

In Stave Four, Scrooge is visited by The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, who takes him forward in time and forces him to witness the aftermath of a death, with unscrupulous people robbing a corpse and others seeming unmoved, and even happy that the man has died. Scrooge is desperate to learn who this man might be, but the faceless Spirit will not speak, merely point.

Music by William King

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens and we'll be listening to Stave 4 tonight,

The Last of the Spirits.

Dickens was extremely influential in helping to change people's view of Christmas.

He wasn't the only person to feel that Christmas should be a time of kindness and charity to others,

But his stories made the idea much easier for people to grasp than,

Say,

Attending a lecture or being preached to in church.

Before I begin,

Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable in whatever way you choose.

Relax your hands,

Relax your shoulders,

And relax your jaw.

That's lovely.

Stave 4,

The Last of the Spirits.

The phantom slowly,

Gravely,

Silently approached.

When it came near him,

Scrooge bent down upon his knee,

For in the very air through which this spirit moved,

It seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment which concealed its head,

Its face,

Its form,

And left nothing of it visible except one outstretched hand.

But for this,

It would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night.

When it came beside him,

Its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread.

He knew no more,

For the spirit neither spoke nor moved.

Am I in the presence of the ghost of Christmas yet to come?

Asked Scrooge.

The spirit answered not,

But pointed onward with its hand.

You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened,

But will happen in the time before us,

Scrooge pursued.

Is that so,

Spirit?

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds,

As if the spirit had inclined its head.

That was the only answer Scrooge received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time,

Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him,

And he found he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it.

The spirit paused a moment,

As if observing his condition and giving him time to recover.

But Scrooge was all the worse for this.

It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him,

While he,

Though he stretched his own to the utmost,

Could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.

Ghost of the future,

He exclaimed,

I fear you more than any spectre I have seen,

But as I know your purpose is to do me good,

And as I hope to live to be another man from what I was,

I am prepared to bear you company and do it with a thankful heart.

Will you not speak to me?

It gave him no reply.

The hand was pointed straight before them.

Lead on,

Said Scrooge,

The night is waning fast and it is precious time to me I know.

Lead on spirit.

The phantom moved away.

Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress,

Which bore him up,

He thought,

And carried him along.

The city seemed to spring up about them and encompass them of its own act.

There they were in the heart of it among the merchants who hurried up and down and chinked the money in their pockets and conversed in groups and looked at their watches and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals and so on and so forth as Scrooge had seen them often.

The spirit stopped beside one little knot of businessmen.

Observing that the hand was pointed to them,

Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk.

No,

Said a great fat man with a monstrous chin.

I don't know much about it either way.

I only know he's dead.

When did he die?

Inquired another.

Last night,

I believe.

Why?

What was the matter with him?

Asked a third,

Taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff box.

I thought he'd never die.

God knows,

Said the first with a yawn.

What has he done with his money?

Asked a red-faced gentleman.

I haven't heard,

Said the man with the large chin yawning again.

Left it to his company,

Perhaps.

He hasn't left it to me,

That's all I know.

This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.

It's likely to be a very cheap funeral,

Said the same speaker,

For upon my life I don't know of anybody to go to it.

Suppose we make up a party and volunteer.

I don't mind going if a lunch is provided.

Observed the red-faced gentleman.

Another laugh.

Well,

I am the most disinterested among you after all,

Said the first speaker,

But I never wear black gloves and I never eat lunch.

But I'll offer to go.

I'm not at all sure that I wasn't his best friend,

For we used to stop and speak whenever we met.

Bye-bye.

Speakers and listeners strolled away and mixed with other groups.

Scrooge knew the man and looked towards the spirit for an explanation.

The phantom glided on into a street.

Its finger pointed to two persons meeting.

Scrooge listened again.

The explanation might lie here.

He knew these men also.

They were men of business,

Very wealthy and of great importance.

He had always made a point of standing well in their esteem,

From a business point of view that is.

How are you,

Said one.

How are you,

Returned the other.

Well,

Said the first.

Old Scratch has got his own at last,

Eh?

So I'm told,

Returned the second.

Cold,

Isn't it?

Seasonable for Christmas time.

You're not a skater I suppose?

No,

No,

Something else to think of.

Good morning.

Not another word.

That was their meeting,

Their conversation and their parting.

Scrooge was surprised that the spirit should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial.

But feeling they must have some hidden purpose,

He set himself to consider what it was likely to be.

They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob,

His old partner,

For that was past and this ghost's province was the future.

Nor could he think of anyone immediately connected with himself to whom he could apply them.

But he resolved to treasure up every word he heard and everything he saw.

For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed and would render the solution of these riddles easy.

He looked about in that very place for himself,

But another man stood in his accustomed corner and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there,

He saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the porch.

Quiet and dark,

Behind him stood the phantom with its outstretched hand.

When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest,

He fancied that the unseen eyes were looking at him keenly.

It made him shudder and feel very cold.

They left the busy scene and went into an obscure part of the town where Scrooge had never been before,

Although he recognised its situation and its bad repute.

The ways were foul and narrow,

The shops and houses wretched,

The people half-naked,

Drunken,

Slipshod,

Ugly.

Far in this den of infamous resort,

There was a low-browed beetling shop below a penthouse roof where iron,

Old rags,

Bottles,

Bones and greasy offal were bought.

Upon the floor within were piled up heaps of rusty keys,

Nails,

Chains,

Hinges,

Files,

Scales,

Weights and refuse iron of all kinds.

Sitting in among the wares he dealt in by a charcoal stove made of old bricks was a grey-haired rascal nearly 70 years of age who had screened himself from the cold air by a curtaining of miscellaneous tatters hung upon a line,

And he smoked his pipe in all the luxury of calm retirement.

Scrooge and the phantom came into the presence of this man just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop,

But she had scarcely entered when another woman similarly laden came in too,

And she was closely followed by a man in faded black who was no less startled by the sight of them than they had been upon the recognition of each other.

After a short period of blank astonishment in which the old man with the pipe joined them,

They all three burst into a laugh.

Let the charwoman be the first,

Cried she who had entered first.

Let the laundress be the second,

And let the undertaker's man be third.

Look here old Joe,

Here's a chance if we haven't all three met here without meaning it.

You couldn't have met in a better place,

Said old Joe,

Removing his pipe from his mouth.

Come into the parlour.

Stop till I shut the door of the shop.

Ah,

How it squeaks!

There aren't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges,

I believe,

And I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine.

Huh,

We're all suitable to our calling,

We're well matched.

Come into the parlour.

The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags.

The old man raked the fire together with an old stair rod,

And having trimmed his smoky lamp,

For it was night,

With the stem of his pipe,

Put it in his mouth again.

While he did this,

The woman who'd already spoken,

Threw her bundle onto the floor,

And sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool,

Crossing her elbows on her knees,

And looking with a bold defiance at the other two.

What odds then,

What odds Mrs Dilber,

Said the woman.

Every person has a right to take care of themselves,

He always did.

That's true indeed,

Said the laundress,

No man more so.

Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these,

Cried the woman,

Not a dead man.

Huh,

No indeed,

Said Mrs Dilber,

Laughing.

If he wanted to keep him after he was dead,

A wicked old screw,

Pursued the woman,

Why wasn't he natural in his lifetime?

If he had been,

He'd have had somebody to look after him,

When he was struck with death,

Instead of lying gasping out his last there,

Alone by himself.

It's the truest word that was ever spoke,

Said Mrs Dilber,

It's a judgment on him.

I wish it was a little heavier judgment,

Replied the woman.

Open that bundle old Joe,

And let me know the value of it.

Speak out plain,

I'm not afraid to be the first,

Nor afraid for them to see it.

We know pretty well that we were helping ourselves before we met here,

It's no sin.

Open the bundle Joe.

But the gallantry of her friends would not allow this,

And the man in faded black,

Mounting the breach first,

Produced his plunder.

It wasn't extensive,

A seal or two,

A pencil case,

A pair of sleeve buttons,

And a brooch of no great value was all.

They were severally examined and appraised by old Joe,

Who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each upon the wall,

And added them up into a total,

When he found there was nothing more to come.

Mrs Dilber was next.

Sheets and towels,

A little wearing apparel,

Two old-fashioned silver teaspoons,

A pair of sugar tongs,

And a few boots.

Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner.

I always give too much to ladies,

It's a weakness of mine,

And that's the way I ruin myself,

Said old Joe.

And now undo my bundle Joe,

Said the first woman.

Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it,

And having unfastened a great many knots,

Dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff.

What do you call this,

Said Joe,

Bed curtains.

Ah,

Returned the woman,

Laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms,

Bed curtains.

You don't mean to say you took them down,

Rings and all,

With him lying there,

Said Joe.

Yes I do,

Replied the woman,

Why not?

You were born to make your fortune,

Said Joe,

And you'll certainly do it.

I certainly shan't hold my hand when I can get anything in it by reaching it out,

For the sake of such a man as he was,

I promise you Joe,

Returned the woman,

Coolly.

Don't drop that oil upon the blankets now.

His blankets,

Asked Joe.

Whose else's do you think,

Replied the woman,

He isn't likely to take cold without them now.

I hope he didn't die of anything catching,

Eh,

Said old Joe,

Stopping in his work and looking up.

Don't you be afraid of that,

Returned the woman.

Duh,

You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache,

But you won't find a hole in it,

Nor a threadbare place.

It's the best he had,

And a fine one too.

They'd have wasted it,

If it hadn't been for me.

What do you call wasting it,

Asked Joe.

Putting it on him,

To be buried in,

To be sure,

Replied the woman,

With a laugh.

Someone was fool enough to do it,

But I took it off again.

If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose,

It ain't good enough for anything.

It's quite as becoming to a body.

He can't look uglier than he did in that one.

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror,

As they sat grouped about their spoil in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp.

He viewed them with a detestation and disgust,

Which could hardly have been greater,

If they'd been obscene demons selling the corpse itself.

Ha,

Laughed the same woman,

When old Joe,

Producing a flannel bag with money in it,

Told out their several gains upon the ground.

This is the end of it,

You see.

He frightened everyone away from him,

When he was alive,

To profit us when he was dead.

Spirit,

Spirit,

Said Scrooge,

Shuddering from head to foot.

I see,

I see,

The case of this unhappy man might be my own.

My life turns that way now.

Merciful heaven,

What is this?

He recoiled in terror,

For the scene had changed,

And now he almost touched a bed,

A bare,

Uncurtained bed,

On which,

Beneath a ragged sheet,

There lay something covered up,

Which,

Though it was dumb,

Announced itself in awful language.

The room was very dark,

Too dark to be observed with any accuracy,

Though Scrooge glanced around it in obedience to a secret impulse,

Anxious to know what kind of room it was.

A pale light,

Rising in the outer air,

Fell straight upon the bed,

And on it,

Plundered and bereft,

Unwatched,

Unwept,

Uncared for,

Was the body of a man.

Scrooge glanced towards the phantom.

Its steady hand was pointed to the head.

The cover was so carelessly adjusted,

That the slightest raising of it,

The motion of a finger upon Scrooge's part,

Would have disclosed the face.

He thought of it,

Felt how easy it would be to do,

And longed to do it,

But had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the spectre at his side.

Oh,

Cold,

Rigid,

Dreadful death,

Set up thine altar here,

And dress it with such terrors as thou hast at thy command,

For this is thy dominion.

But of the loved,

Revered,

And honoured head,

Thou canst not turn one hair to thy dread purposes,

Or make one feature odious.

It is not that the hand is heavy,

And will fall down when released.

It is not that the heart and pulse are still,

But that the hand was open,

Generous,

And true,

The heart brave,

Warm,

And tender,

And the pulse a man's.

No voice pronounced these words in Scrooge's ears,

And yet he heard them when he looked upon the bed.

He thought,

If this man could be raised up now,

What would be his foremost thoughts?

Avarice,

Hard dealing,

Griping cares,

They have brought him to a rich end,

Truly.

He lay in the dark empty house,

With not a man,

A woman,

Or a child,

To say that he was kind to me in this or that,

And for the memory of one kind word,

I will be kind to him.

A cat was staring at the door,

And there was a sound of gnawing rats beneath the hearthstone.

What they wanted in the room of death,

And why they were so restless and disturbed,

Scrooge did not dare to think.

Spirit,

He said,

This is a fearful place.

In leaving it,

I shall not leave its lesson.

Trust me,

Let us go.

Still,

The ghost pointed with an unmoved finger to the head.

I understand you,

Scrooge returned,

And I would do it if I could,

But I have not the power,

Spirit,

I have not the power.

Again,

It seemed to look upon him.

If there is any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death,

Said Scrooge,

Quite agonized,

Show that person to me,

Spirit,

I beseech you.

The phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment,

Like a wing,

And withdrawing it,

Revealed a room by daylight,

Where a mother and her children were.

She was expecting someone,

And with anxious eagerness,

For she walked up and down the room,

Started at every sound,

Looked out from the window,

Glanced at the clock,

Tried in vain to work with her needle,

And could hardly bear the voices of the children in their play.

At length,

The long-expected knock was heard.

She hurried to the door and met her husband,

A man whose face was careworn and depressed,

Though he was young.

There was a remarkable expression in it now,

A kind of delight of which he felt ashamed,

And which he struggled to repress.

He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire,

And when she asked him faintly what news,

He appeared embarrassed how to answer.

Is it good,

She said,

Or bad,

To help him?

Bad,

He answered.

We are quite ruined.

No,

There is hope yet,

Caroline.

If he relents,

She said,

Amazed,

There is.

Nothing is past hope,

If such a miracle has happened.

He is past relenting,

Said her husband.

He is dead.

She was a mild and patient creature,

If her face spoke truth,

But she was thankful in her soul to hear it,

And she said so.

She prayed forgiveness the next moment and was sorry,

But the first was the emotion of her heart.

What the half-drunken woman whom I told you of last night said to me when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay,

And what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me,

Turns out to have been quite true,

Said the husband.

He was not only very ill,

But dying then.

To whom will our debt be transferred?

I don't know,

But before that time,

We should be ready with the money,

And even though we were not,

It would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor.

We may sleep tonight with lighter hearts,

Caroline.

Yes,

Soften it as they would.

Their hearts were lighter.

The children's faces hushed and clustered round to hear what they so little understood were brighter,

And it was a happier house for this man's death.

The only emotion that the ghost could show him,

Caused by the event,

Was one of pleasure.

Let me see some tenderness connected with a death,

Said Scrooge,

Or that dark chamber spirit which we left just now will be forever present to me.

The ghost conducted him through several streets familiar to his feet,

And as they went along,

Scrooge looked here and there to find himself,

But nowhere was he to be seen.

They entered poor Bob Cratchit's house,

The dwelling he'd visited before,

And found the mother and the children seated around the fire.

Quiet,

Very quiet.

The noisy little Cratchits were as still as statues in one corner,

And sat looking at Peter,

Who had a book before him.

The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing,

But they were very quiet.

The mother laid her work upon the table,

And put her hand up to her face.

The colour hurts my eyes,

She said.

It makes them weak by candlelight,

And I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home,

For the world,

It must be nearly time.

Past it rather,

Peter answered,

Shutting up his book,

But I think he has walked a little slower than he used these last few evenings,

Mother.

They were very quiet again.

At last she said,

And in a steady voice that only faltered once,

I have known him walk with tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed.

And so have I,

Cried Peter,

Often.

And so have I,

Exclaimed another,

And so had all.

But he was very light to carry,

She resumed,

Intent upon her work,

And his father loved him so,

That it was no trouble,

No trouble.

Ah,

There is your father at the door.

She hurried out to meet him,

And little Bob,

In his comforter,

He had need of it,

Poor fellow,

Came in.

His tea was ready for him on the hob,

And they all tried who should help him to it most.

Then the two young Cratchits got on his knees,

And laid each child a little cheek against his face,

As if they said,

Don't mind it,

Father,

Don't be grieved.

Bob spoke pleasantly to all the family.

He looked at the work upon the table,

And praised the industry and speed of Mrs Cratchit and the girls.

They would be done long before Sunday,

He said.

Sunday?

You went today then,

Robert,

Said his wife.

Yes,

My dear,

Returned Bob.

I wish you could have gone.

It would have done you good to see how green a place it is.

But you'll see it often.

I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday.

My little,

Little child,

Cried Bob.

He broke down all at once.

He couldn't help it.

He left the room,

And went upstairs into the room above,

Which was lighted cheerfully,

And hung with Christmas.

There was a chair set close beside the child,

And there were signs of someone having been there lately.

Poor Bob sat down in it,

And when he had thought a little,

And composed himself,

He kissed the little face.

He was reconciled to what had happened,

And he went down again.

They drew about the fire,

And talked,

The girls and mother working still.

Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr.

Scrooge's nephew,

Whom he had scarcely seen but once,

And who,

Meeting him in the street that day,

And seeing that he looked just a little down,

You know,

Inquired what had happened to distress him.

On which,

Said Bob,

I told him.

I am heartily sorry for it,

Mr.

Cratchit,

He said,

And heartily sorry for your good wife.

By the by,

How he ever knew that,

I don't know.

Knew what,

My dear?

Why,

That you were a good wife,

Replied Bob.

Everybody knows that,

Said Peter.

Very well observed,

My boy,

Cried Bob.

I hope they do.

Heartily sorry,

He said,

For your good wife.

If I can be of service to you in any way,

He said,

Giving me his card,

This is where I live.

Pray come to me.

Now it wasn't,

Cried Bob,

For the sake of anything he might be able to do for us,

So much as for his kind way,

That this was quite delightful.

It really seemed as if he had known our tiny Tim,

And felt with us.

I'm sure he's a good soul,

Said Mrs.

Cratchit.

You would be sure of it,

My dear,

Returned Bob,

If you saw and spoke to him.

I shouldn't be at all surprised,

Mark what I say,

If he got Peter a better situation.

Only hear that,

Peter,

Said Mrs.

Cratchit.

And then,

Cried one of the girls,

Peter will be keeping company with someone,

And setting up for himself.

Get along with you,

Retorted Peter,

Grinning.

It's just as likely as not,

Said Bob,

But however and whenever we part from one another,

I am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny Tim,

Shall we,

Or this first parting that there was among us.

Never father,

Cried they all.

And I know,

Said Bob,

I know,

My dears,

That when we recollect how patient and how mild he was,

Although he was a little,

Little child,

We shall not quarrel easily among ourselves,

And forget poor tiny Tim in doing it.

No,

Never father,

They all cried again.

Mrs.

Cratchit kissed him,

His daughters kissed him,

The two young Cratchits kissed him,

And Peter and himself shook hands.

Spirit of tiny Tim,

Thy childish essence was from God.

Spectre,

Said Scrooge,

Something informs me that our parting moment is at hand.

I know it,

But I know not how.

Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead.

The ghost of Christmas yet to come conveyed him as before,

Though at a different time,

He thought.

Indeed,

There seemed no order in these latter visions,

Save that they were in the future,

Into the resorts of businessmen,

But still showed him not himself.

This court,

Said Scrooge,

Through which we hurry now,

Is where my place of occupation is,

And has been for a length of time.

I see the house,

Let me behold that I shall be in days to come.

The spirit stopped,

The hand was pointed elsewhere.

The house is yonder,

Scrooge exclaimed.

Why do you point away?

The inexorable finger underwent no change.

Scrooge hastened to the window of his office,

And looked in.

It was an office still,

But not his.

The furniture was not the same,

And the figure in the chair was not himself.

The phantom pointed,

As before.

He joined it once again,

And wondering why and whither he had gone,

Accompanied it until they reached an iron gate.

He paused to look round before entering.

A churchyard.

Here then,

The wretched man,

Whose name he had now to learn,

Lay underneath the ground.

Walled in by houses,

Overrun by grass and weeds,

The growth of vegetation's death,

Not life,

Choked up with too much burying.

The spirit stood among the graves,

And pointed to one.

Scrooge advanced towards it,

Trembling.

The phantom was exactly as it had been,

But he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.

Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,

Said Scrooge,

Answer me one question.

Are these the shadows of the things that will be,

Or are they the shadows of things that may be only?

Still the ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.

Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends,

To which,

If persevered in,

They must lead,

Said Scrooge.

But if the courses be departed from,

The ends will change.

Say it is thus with what you show me.

The spirit was immovable as ever.

Scrooge crept towards it,

Trembling as he went,

And following the finger read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name,

Ebenezer Scrooge.

Am I that man who lay upon the bed,

He cried,

Upon his knees?

No spirit,

Oh no,

No.

Spirit,

He cried,

Clutching at its robe,

Hear me.

I am not the man I was.

I will not be the man I must have been but for this intervention.

Why show me this if I am past all hope?

For the first time the spirit's hand appeared to shake.

Good spirit,

Pursued Scrooge,

As down upon the ground he fell before it,

Your nature intercedes for me and pities me.

Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life.

The kind hand trembled.

I will honour Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year.

I will live in the past,

The present and the future.

The spirits of all three shall strive within me.

I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.

Oh tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone.

In his agony he caught the spectral hand.

It sought to free itself but he was strong in his entreaty and detained it.

Then the spirit,

Stronger yet,

Repulsed him.

Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed,

He saw an alteration in the phantom's hood and dress.

It shrunk,

Collapsed and dwindled down into a bedpost.

To be continued.

Reviews

“I will try to keep it within my heart all year ‘round!” Ah, if only.
Beautiful reading, Mandy, thank you. 🙏 ❤️

For such a harrowing tale to be soothing, it can only be your voice and the music, Mandy! Well written and well read, as always! Took numerous times to get to the end, with delightful sleep between. ❤️🙏🏼

Again, I love this story - I appreciate your introductions - but I’ll have to listen again because i slept through most of it. 🥱😴💤💤💤