Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas
Present stood in the city streets on Christmas morning, where (for the weather
was severe) the people made a rough but brisk and not unpleasant kind of music,
in scraping the snow from the pavement in front of their dwellings, and from the
tops of their houses, whence it was mad delight to the boys to see it come
plumping down into the road below, and splitting into artificial little
snowstorms.The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows
blacker, contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and
with the dirtier snow upon the ground, which last deposit had been ploughed up
in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and wagons; furrows that crossed
and recrossed each other hundreds of times where the great streets branched off,
and made intricate channels, hard to trace, in the thick yellow mud and icy
water. The sky was gloomy, and he shortest streets were choked up with a dingy
mist, half thawed, half frozen, whose heavier particles descended in a shower of
sooty atoms, as if all the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught
fire, and were blazing away to their dear heart's content. There was nothing
very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet was there an air of
cheerfulness abroad that the dearest summer air and brightest summer sun might
have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.
For the people who were shoveling away on the housetops were
jovial and full of glee, calling out to one another from the parapets, and now
and then exchanging a facetious snowball--better-natured missile far than many a
wordy jest--laughing heartily if it went right, and not less heartily if it went
wrong. The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were
radiant in their glory. There were great, round, potbellied baskets of
chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the
doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence.
There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish onions,
shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish friars, and winking, from
their shelves, in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced
demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustering high
in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shop-keeper's
benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water
gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling,
in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle
deep through withered leaves; there were Norfolk biffins, squab and swarthy,
setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness
of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in
paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set forth
among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and
stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going on; and,
to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in slow and
passionless excitement.
The grocers'! oh, the grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two
shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone
that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine
and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and
down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee
were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and
rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and
straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted
with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint, and subsequently
bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums
blushed in modest tartness from their highly decorated boxes, or that everything
was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so
hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day that they tumbled up
against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left
their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and
committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humor possible; while the
grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with
which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside
for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at, if they chose.
But soon the steeples called good people all to church and
chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes,
and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of
by-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their
dinners to the bakers' shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to
interest the Spirit very much, for he stood, with Scrooge beside him, in a
baker's doorway, and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled
incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of
torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some
dinner-carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them
from it, and their good-humour was restored directly. For they said it was a
shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was!
In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet
there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners, and the progress of
their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven, where the
pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too.
"Is there a peculiar flavor in what you sprinkle from your
torch?" asked Scrooge.
"There is. My own."
"Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked
Scrooge.
"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."
"Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge.
"Because it needs it most."
They went on, invisible, as they had been before, into the
suburbs of the town. It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had
observed at the baker's) that, notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could
accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof
quite as gracefully, and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he
could have done in any lofty hall.
And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing
off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and
his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for
there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the
threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's
dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen
"bob" a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his
Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed
house!
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; while 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 honor 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 exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud,
although his collar 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 warn'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. "Hurrah!
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 officious zeal.
"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl,
"and had to clear away this morning, mother!"
"Well, never mind so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit.
"Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"
"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 crutch, and had
his limbs supported by an iron frame!
"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, looking around.
"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.
"Not coming?" said Bob, with a sudden declension in his high
spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from the 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 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."
Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled
more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came
Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to
his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs--as if, poor
fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby--compounded some hot mixture
in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round, and put it on the
hob to simmer, Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch
the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the
rarest of all birds--a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter
of course--and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs.
Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot;
Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened
up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him
in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody,
not forgetting themselves, and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons
into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to
be helped. At last the dishes were set on. and grace was said. It was succeeded
by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving
knife, prepared to plunge it into the breast; but when she did, and when the
long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all
round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on
the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried, "Hurrah!"
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't believe there
ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness,
were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed
potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs.
Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the
dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the
youngest Cratchits in particular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows!
But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room
alone--too nervous to bear witnesses--to take the pudding up, and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in
turning out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose--a supposition at which the two
young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper.
A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house and
a pastry-cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that!
That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered--flushed, but
smiling proudly--with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and
firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with
Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, too,
that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since
their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that, now the weight was off her mind, she
would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had
something to say about it, but nobody thought or said it was at all a small
pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any
Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the
hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and
considered perfect, tipples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovelful
of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth in
what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's
elbow stood the family display of glass--two tumblers and a custard-cup without
a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as
golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while
the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:
"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!"
Which all the family reechoed.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
