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A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens
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A Christmas Carol
Charles Dickens
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HarperCollins is proud to present a range of best-loved, essential classics.
'I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,' said the Spirit. 'Look upon me!'
A celebration of Christmas, a tale of redemption and a critique on Victorian society, Dickens' atmospheric novella follows the miserly, penny-pinching Ebenezer Scrooge who views Christmas as 'humbug'. It is only through a series of eerie, life-changing visits from the ghost of his deceased business partner Marley and the spirits of Christmas past, present and future that he begins to see the error of his ways. With heart-rending characters, rich imagery and evocative language, the message of A Christmas Carol remains as significant today as when it was first published.
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Sujet
LetteraturaSous-sujet
ClassiciCHAPTER 1
Marleyâs Ghost
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 Scroogeâs name was good upon âChange, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.
Mind! I donât 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 Countryâs done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a doornail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I donât know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, 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 business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain.
The mention of Marleyâs 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 Hamletâs 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 â say Saint Paulâs Churchyard for instance â literally to astonish his sonâs weak mind.
Scrooge never painted out Old Marleyâs name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse 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 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, 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 eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didnât thaw it one degree at Christmas.
External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, nor 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 didnât 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 âcame downâ handsomely, and Scrooge never did.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, âMy dear Scrooge, how are you? when will you come to see me?â No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was oâclock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blindmenâs 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, âNo eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!â
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, was what the knowing ones call ânutsâ to Scrooge.
Once upon a time â of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve â 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 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. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.
The door of Scroogeâs counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerkâs fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldnât 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 a strong imagination, he failed.
âA merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!â cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scroogeâs nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.
âBah!â said Scrooge, âHumbug!â
He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scroogeâs, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.
âChristmas a humbug, uncle!â said Scroogeâs nephew. âYou donât mean that, I am sure?â
âI do,â said Scrooge. âMerry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? Youâre poor enough.â
âCome, then,â returned the nephew gaily. âWhat right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? Youâre rich enough.â
Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, âBah!â again; and followed it up with âHumbugâ.
âDonât be cross, uncle,â said the nephew.
âWhat else can I be,â returned the uncle, âwhen I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas! Whatâs Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, and not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in âem through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will,â said Scrooge, indignantly, âevery idiot who goes about with âMerry Christmasâ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!â
âUncle!â pleaded the nephew.
âNephew!â returned the uncle, sternly, âkeep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.â
âKeep it!â repeated Scroogeâs nephew. âBut you donât keep it.â
âLet me leave it alone, then,â said Scrooge. âMuch good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!â
âThere are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,â returned the nephew: âChristmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round â apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that â as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, 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!â
The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded: becoming immediately sensible of the impropriety, he poked the fire, and extinguished the last frail spark for ever.
âLet me hear another sound from you,â said Scrooge, âand youâll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. Youâre quite a powerful speaker, sir,â he added, turning to his nephew. âI wonder you donât go into Parliament.â
âDonât be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow.â
Scrooge said that he would see him â yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that extremity first.
âBut why?â cried Scroogeâs nephew. âWhy?â
âWhy did you get married?â said Scrooge.
âBecause I fell in love.â
âBecause you fell in love!â growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. âGood afternoon!â
âNay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?â
âGood afternoon,â said Scrooge.
âI want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?â
âGood afternoon,â said Scrooge.
âI 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 Iâll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!â
âGood afternoon,â said Scrooge.
âAnd A Happy New Year!â
âGood afternoon!â 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.
âThereâs another fellow,â muttered Scrooge; who overheard him: âmy clerk, with fifteen shillings a-week, and a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas. Iâll retire to Bedlam.â
This lunatic, in letting Scroogeâs nephew out, had let two other people in. They were portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, and now stood, with their hats off, in Scroogeâs office. They had books and papers in their hands, and bowed to him.
âScrooge and Marleyâs, I believe,â said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. âHave I the pleasure of addressing Mr Scrooge, or Mr Marley?â
âMr Marley has been dead these seven years,â Scrooge replied. âHe died seven years ago, this very night.â
âWe have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,â said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.
It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word âliberalityâ, Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.
âAt this festive season of the year, Mr Scrooge,â said the gentleman, taking up a pen, âit is more than usually desirable 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; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.â
âAre there no prisons?â asked Scrooge.
âPlenty of prisons,â said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.
âAnd the Union workhouses?â demanded Scrooge. âAre they still in operation?â
âThey are. Still,â returned the gentleman, âI wish I could say they were not.â
âThe Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?â said Scrooge.
âBoth very busy,â
âOh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,â said Scrooge. âIâm very glad to hear it.â
âUnder the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,â returned the gentleman, âa 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?â
âNothing!â Scrooge replied.
âYou wish to be anonymous?â
âI wish to be left alone,â said Scrooge. âSince you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I donât make merry myself at Christmas, and I canât 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.â
âMany canât go there; and many would rather die.â
âIf they would rather die,â said Scrooge, âthey had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides â excuse me â I donât know that.â
âBut you might know it,â observed the gentleman.
âItâs not my business,â Scrooge returned. âItâs enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other peopleâs. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!â
Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion 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, proffering their services to go before horses in carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge out of a gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards, 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 labourers 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 sullenly 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. Poulterersâ and grocersâ trades became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to impossible 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 Mayorâs household should; and even the little tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up tomorrowâs pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to buy the beef.
Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good Saint Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spiritâs nose with a touch of such weather as that, instead of using his familiar we...