length it broke upon his listening ear.
"Ding, dong!"
"A quarter past," said Scrooge, counting.
"Ding, dong!"
"Half past," said Scrooge.
"Ding, dong!"
"A quarter to it," said Scrooge. "Ding, dong!"
"The hour itself," said Scrooge triumphantly, "and nothing else!"
He spoke before the hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep,
dull, hollow, melancholy ONE. Light flashed up in the room upon the
instant, and the curtains of his bed were drawn.
The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not the
curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face
was addressed. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge,
starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with
the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you,
and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.
It was a strange figure -- like a child: yet not so like a child as like an
old man, viewed through some supernatural medium, which gave him the
appearance of having receded from the view, and being diminished to a
child's proportions. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back,
was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it, and the
tenderest bloom was on the skin. The arms were very long and muscular;
the hands the same, as if its hold were of uncommon strength. Its legs and
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feet, most delicately formed, were, like those upper members, bare. It
wore a tunic of the purest white, and round its waist was bound a lustrous
belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly
in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its
dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was,
that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by
which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its
using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now
held under its arm.
Even this, though, when Scrooge looked at it with increasing
steadiness, was not its strangest quality. For as its belt sparkled and
glittered now in one part and now in another, and what was light one
instant, at another time was dark, so the figure itself fluctuated in its
distinctness: being now a thing with one arm, now with one leg, now with
twenty legs, now a pair of legs without a head, now a head without a body:
of which dissolving parts, no outline would be visible in the dense gloom
wherein they melted away. And in the very wonder of this, it would be
itself again; distinct and clear as ever.
`Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me.' asked
Scrooge.
`I am.'
The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so
close beside him, it were at a distance.
`Who, and what are you.' Scrooge demanded.
`I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.'
`Long Past.' inquired Scrooge: observant of its dwarfish stature.
`No. Your past.'
Perhaps, Scrooge could not have told anybody why, if anybody could
have asked him; but he had a special desire to see the Spirit in his cap; and
begged him to be covered.
`What.' exclaimed the Ghost,' would you so soon put out, with worldly
hands, the light I give. Is it not enough that you are one of those whose
passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to
wear it low upon my brow.'
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Scrooge reverently disclaimed all intention to offend or any
knowledge of having wilfully bonneted the Spirit at any period of his
life. He then made bold to inquire what business brought him there.
`Your welfare.' said the Ghost.
Scrooge expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking
that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end.
The Spirit must have heard him thinking, for it said immediately:
`Your reclamation, then. Take heed.'
It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the
arm.
`Rise. and walk with me.'
It would have been in vain for Scrooge to plead that the weather and
the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and
the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in
his slippers, dressing-gown, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him
at that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be
resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window,
clasped his robe in supplication.
`I am mortal,' Scrooge remonstrated, `and liable to fall.'
`Bear but a touch of my hand there,' said the Spirit, laying it upon his
heart,' and you shall be upheld in more than this.'
As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood
upon an open country road, with fields on either hand. The city had
entirely vanished. Not a vestige of it was to be seen. The darkness and the
mist had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold, winter day, with snow
upon the ground.
`Good Heaven!' said Scrooge, clasping his hands together, as he
looked about him. `I was bred in this place. I was a boy here.'
The Spirit gazed upon him mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been
light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of
feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each
one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares
long, long, forgotten.
`Your lip is trembling,' said the Ghost. `And what is that upon your
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cheek.'
Scrooge muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a
pimple; and begged the Ghost to lead him where he would.
`You recollect the way.' inquired the Spirit.
`Remember it.' cried Scrooge with fervour; `I could walk it blindfold.'
`Strange to have forgotten it for so many years.' observed the Ghost.
`Let us go on.'
They walked along the road, Scrooge recognising every gate, and post,
and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the distance, with its bridge,
its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were seen trotting
towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in
country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great
spirits, and shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of
merry music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it.
`These are but shadows of the things that have been,' said the Ghost.
`They have no consciousness of us.'
The jocund travellers came on; and as they came, Scrooge knew and
named them every one. Why was he rejoiced beyond all bounds to see
them. Why did his cold eye glisten, and his heart leap up as they went past.
Why was he filled with gladness when he heard them give each other
Merry Christmas, as they parted at cross-roads and bye-ways, for their
several homes. What was merry Christmas to Scrooge. Out upon merry
Christmas. What good had it ever done to him.
`The school is not quite deserted,' said the Ghost. `A solitary child,
neglected by his friends, is left there still.'
Scrooge said he knew it. And he sobbed.
They left the high-road, by a well-remembered lane, and soon
approached a mansion of dull red brick, with a little weathercock-
surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large
house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used,
their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates
decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses
and sheds were over-run with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its
ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the
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open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and
vast. There was an earthy savour in the air, a chilly bareness in the place,
which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light,
and not too much to eat.
They went, the Ghost and Scrooge, across the hall, to a door at the
back of the house. It opened before them, and disclosed a long, bare,
melancholy room, made barer still by lines of plain deal forms and desks.
At one of these a lonely boy was reading near a feeble fire; and Scrooge
sat down upon a form, and wept to see his poor forgotten self as he used to
be.
Not a latent echo in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice
behind the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the
dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent
poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a
clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with a softening
influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.
The Spirit touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self,
intent upon his reading. Suddenly a man, in foreign garments: wonderfully
real and distinct to look at: stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in
his belt, and leading by the bridle an ass laden with wood.
`Why, it's Ali Baba.' Scrooge exclaimed in ecstasy. `It's dear old honest
Ali Baba. Yes, yes, I know. One Christmas time, when yonder solitary
child was left here all alone, he did come, for the first time, just like that.
Poor boy. And Valentine,' said Scrooge,' and his wild brother, Orson; there
they go. And what's his name, who was put down in his drawers, asleep, at
the Gate of Damascus; don't you see him. And the Sultan's Groom turned
upside down by the Genii; there he is upon his head. Serve him right. I'm
glad of it. What business had he to be married to the Princess.'
To hear Scrooge expending all the earnestness of his nature on such
subjects, in a most extraordinary voice between laughing and crying; and
to see his heightened and excited face; would have been a surprise to his
business friends in the city, indeed.
`There's the Parrot.' cried Scrooge. `Green body and yellow tail, with a
thing like a lettuce growing out of the top of his head; there he is. Poor
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Robin Crusoe, he called him, when he came home again after sailing
round the island. `Poor Robin Crusoe, where have you been, Robin
Crusoe.' The man thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. It was the
Parrot, you know. There goes Friday, running for his life to the little creek.
Halloa. Hoop. Hallo.'
Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character,
he said, in pity for his former self, `Poor boy.' and cried again.
`I wish,' Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking
about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff: `but it's too late now.'
`What is the matter.' asked the Spirit.
`Nothing,' said Scrooge. `Nothing. There was a boy singing a
Christmas Carol at my door last night. I should like to have given him
something: that's all.'
The Ghost smiled thoughtfully, and waved its hand: saying as it did so,
`Let us see another Christmas.'
Scrooge's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became
a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked;
fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown
instead; but how all this was brought about, Scrooge knew no more than
you do. He only knew that it was quite correct; that everything had
happened so; that there he was, alone again, when all the other boys had
gone home for the jolly holidays.
He was not reading now, but walking up and down despairingly.
Scrooge looked at the Ghost, and with a mournful shaking of his head,
glanced anxiously towards the door.
It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boy, came darting in,
and putting her arms about his neck, and often kissing him, addressed him
as her `Dear, dear brother.'
`I have come to bring you home, dear brother.' said the child, clapping
her tiny hands, and bending down to laugh. `To bring you home, home,
home.'
`Home, little Fan.' returned the boy.
`Yes.' said the child, brimful of glee. `Home, for good and all. Home,
for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be, that home's
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like Heaven. He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to
bed, that I was not afraid to ask him once more if you might come home;
and he said Yes, you should; and sent me in a coach to bring you. And
you're to be a man.' said the child, opening her eyes,' and are never to
come back here; but first, we're to be together all the Christmas long, and
have the merriest time in all the world.'
`You are quite a woman, little Fan.' exclaimed the boy.
She clapped her hands and laughed, and tried to touch his head; but
being too little, laughed again, and stood on tiptoe to embrace him. Then
she began to drag him, in her childish eagerness, towards the door; and he,
nothing loth to go, accompanied her.
A terrible voice in the hall cried.' Bring down Master Scrooge's box,
there.' and in the hall appeared the schoolmaster himself, who glared on
Master Scrooge with a ferocious condescension, and threw him into a
dreadful state of mind by shaking hands with him. He then conveyed him
and his sister into the veriest old well of a shivering best-parlour that ever
was seen, where the maps upon the wall, and the celestial and terrestrial
globes in the windows, were waxy with cold. Here he produced a decanter
of curiously light wine, and a block of curiously heavy cake, and
administered instalments of those dainties to the young people: at the same
time, sending out a meagre servant to offer a glass of something to the
postboy, who answered that he thanked the gentleman, but if it was the
same tap as he had tasted before, he had rather not. Master Scrooge's trunk
being by this time tied on to the top of the chaise, the children bade the
schoolmaster good-bye right willingly; and getting into it, drove gaily
down the garden-sweep: the quick wheels dashing the hoar-frost and snow
from off the dark leaves of the evergreens like spray.
`Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered,' said
the Ghost. `But she had a large heart.'
`So she had,' cried Scrooge. `You're right. I will not gainsay it, Spirit.
God forbid.'
`She died a woman,' said the Ghost,' and had, as I think, children.'
`One child,' Scrooge returned.
`True,' said the Ghost. `Your nephew.'
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Scrooge seemed uneasy in his mind; and answered briefly, `Yes.'
Although they had but that moment left the school behind them, they
were now in the busy thoroughfares of a city, where shadowy passengers
passed and repassed; where shadowy carts and coaches battle for the way,
and all the strife and tumult of a real city were. It was made plain enough,
by the dressing of the shops, that here too it was Christmas time again; but
it was evening, and the streets were lighted up.
The Ghost stopped at a certain warehouse door, and asked Scrooge if
he knew it.
`Know it.' said Scrooge. `Was I apprenticed here.'
They went in. At sight of an old gentleman in a Welsh wig, sitting
behind such a high desk, that if he had been two inches taller he must have
knocked his head against the ceiling, Scrooge cried in great excitement:
`Why, it's old Fezziwig. Bless his heart; it's Fezziwig alive again.'
Old Fezziwig laid down his pen, and looked up at the clock, which
pointed to the hour of seven. He rubbed his hands; adjusted his capacious
waistcoat; laughed all over himself, from his shows to his organ of
benevolence; and called out in a comfortable, oily, rich, fat, jovial voice:
`Yo ho, there. Ebenezer. Dick.'
Scrooge's former self, now grown a young man, came briskly in,
accompanied by his fellow-prentice.
`Dick Wilkins, to be sure.' said Scrooge to the Ghost. `Bless me, yes.
There he is. He was very much attached to me, was Dick. Poor Dick. Dear,
dear.'
`Yo ho, my boys.' said Fezziwig. `No more work to-night. Christmas
Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer. Let's have the shutters up,' cried old
Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands,' before a man can say Jack
Robinson.'
You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it. They charged
into the street with the shutters -- one, two, three -- had them up in their
places -- four, five, six -- barred them and pinned then -- seven, eight, nine
-- and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-
horses.
`Hilli-ho!' cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with
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wonderful agility. `Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here.
Hilli-ho, Dick. Chirrup, Ebenezer.'
Clear away. There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or
couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a
minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public
life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were
trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug,
and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see
upon a winter's night.
In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk,
and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. In came
Mrs Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Miss
Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable. In came the six young followers whose
hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the
business. In came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the
cook, with her brother's particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy
from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from
his master; trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one,
who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all
came, one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some
awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and
everyhow. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round
and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and
round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always
turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon
as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.
When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to
stop the dance, cried out,' Well done.' and the fiddler plunged his hot face
into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose. But scorning rest,
upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no
dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on
a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or
perish.
There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances,
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and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of
Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were
mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came
after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind. The sort
of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him.)
struck up Sir Roger de Coverley.' Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance
with Mrs Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut
out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were
not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of
walking.
But if they had been twice as many -- ah, four times -- old Fezziwig
would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs Fezziwig. As to her,
she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not
high praise, tell me higher, and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue
from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons.
You couldn't have predicted, at any given time, what would have become
of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs Fezziwig had gone all
through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and
curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place;
Fezziwig cut -- cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and
came upon his feet again without a stagger.
When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up. Mr and Mrs
Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking
hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or
her a Merry Christmas. When everybody had retired but the two prentices,
they did the same to them; and thus the cheerful voices died away, and the
lads were left to their beds; which were under a counter in the back-shop.
During the whole of this time, Scrooge had acted like a man out of his
wits. His heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He
corroborated everything, remembered everything, enjoyed everything, and
underwent the strangest agitation. It was not until now, when the bright
faces of his former self and Dick were turned from them, that he
