Old Scrooge: A Christmas Carol in Five Staves.. Dickens Charles

M. Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude, a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We chose 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?

      Scro. Nothing.

      Mr. M. You wish to be anonymous?

      Scro. I wish to be left alone. Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't 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.

      Mr. B. Many can't go there; and many would rather die.

      Scro. If they had rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides, excuse me, I don't know that.

      Mr. B. But you might know it.

      Scro. It's not my business. It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen.

      Mr. M. It is useless, we may as well withdraw. [Exeunt. As they go out Bob is seen to hand them money.]

(Voice at door R. singing.)

      God bless you, merry gentlemen.

      May nothing you dismay —

      Scro. (Seizes ruler and makes a dash at the door.) Begone! I'll have none of your carols here. (Makes sign to Bob, who extinguishes his candle and puts on his hat and enters.) You'll want all day to morrow, I suppose?

      Bob. If quite convenient, sir.

      Scro. It's not convenient, and its not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound? (Bob smiles faintly.) And yet you don't think me ill-used when I pay a day's wages for no work.

      Bob. It's only once a year, sir.

      Scro. A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December. (Buttoning up his great coat to the chin.) But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. (Exit C.)

      Bob. I will, sir. You old skinflint. If I had my way, I'd give you Christmas. I'd give it to you this way (Dumb show of pummelling Scrooge.) Now for a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of Christmas Eve, and then for Camden Town as hard as I can pelt. (Exit C., with sliding motions, closing doors after him.)

      SCENE II. —Scrooge's apartments. Grate fire, L. 2, Window, R. C. Door, L. C. in flat. Table, L. 4. Spoon and basin on table. Saucepan on hob. Two easy chairs near fire. Lights down.

[Scrooge in dressing gown and night-cap, discovered, with candle, searching the room.]

      Scro. Pooh! pooh! Marley's dead seven years to night. Impossible. Nobody under the table, nobody under the couch, nobody in the closet, nobody nowhere (Yawns). Bah, humbug! (Locks door R. and seats himself in easy chair; dips gruel from saucepan into basin, and takes two or three spoonsful. Yawns and composes himself for rest.)

      [One or two stanzas of a Christmas carol may be sung outside, at the close of which a general ringing of bells ensues, succeeded by a clanking noise of chain.]

      Enter Jacob Marley's ghost. R., with chain made of cash-boxes, keys, padlocks, ledgers, deeds, purposes, etc. Hair twisted upright on each side to represent horns. White bandage around jaws.

      Scro. It's humbug still! I won't believe it. [Pause, during which Ghost approaches the opposite side of the mantel.] How now. What do you want with me?

      Ghost. Much.

      Scro. Who are you?

      Gho. Ask me who I was.

      Scro. Who were you then? You're particular, for a shade.

      Gho. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.

      Scro. Can you – can you sit down?

      Gho. I can.

      Scro. Do it, then.

      Gho. You don't believe in me?

      Scro. I don't.

      Gho. What evidence do you require of my reality beyond that of your senses?

      Scro. I don't know.

      Gho. Why do you doubt your senses?

      Scro. Because 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 under-done potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are. You see this tooth-pick?

      Gho. I do.

      Scro. You are not looking at it.

      Gho. But I see it, notwithstanding.

      Scro. Well! I have but to swallow this, and be for the rest of my days persecuted by a legion of gobblins, all of my own creation. Humbug, I tell you; humbug. (Ghost rattles chain, takes bandage off jaws, and drops lower jaw as far as possible.)

      Scro. (Betrays signs of fright.) Mercy! dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?

      Gho. Man of the worldly mind, do you believe in me, or not?

      Scro. I do. I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?

      Gho. It is required of every man 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 can not share, but might have shared on earth, turned to happiness. [Shakes chain and wrings his hands.]