A CHRISTMAS CAROL (IN PROSE BEING, A Ghost Story of Christmas)<\/p>\n
by Charles Dickens<\/p>\n
(OCF editing – Part 4)<\/p>\n
Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual<\/strong><\/p>\n melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and<\/strong><\/p>\n beguiled the rest of the evening with his<\/strong><\/p>\n banker’s-book, went home to bed. He lived in<\/strong><\/p>\n chambers which had once belonged to his deceased<\/strong><\/p>\n partner. They were a gloomy suite of rooms, in a<\/strong><\/p>\n lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so<\/strong><\/p>\n little business to be, that one could scarcely help<\/strong><\/p>\n fancying it must have run there when it was a young<\/strong><\/p>\n house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses,<\/strong><\/p>\n and forgotten the way out again. It was old enough<\/strong><\/p>\n now, and dreary enough, for nobody lived in it but<\/strong><\/p>\n Scrooge, the other rooms being all let out as offices.<\/strong><\/p>\n The yard was so dark that even Scrooge, who knew<\/strong><\/p>\n its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands.<\/strong><\/p>\n The fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway<\/strong><\/p>\n of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of<\/strong><\/p>\n the Weather sat in mournful meditation on the<\/strong><\/p>\n threshold.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all<\/strong><\/p>\n particular about the knocker on the door, except that it<\/strong><\/p>\n was very large. It is also a fact, that Scrooge had<\/strong><\/p>\n seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence<\/strong><\/p>\n in that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what<\/strong><\/p>\n is called fancy about him as any man in the city of<\/strong><\/p>\n London, even including–which is a bold word–the<\/strong><\/p>\n corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be<\/strong><\/p>\n borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one<\/strong><\/p>\n thought on Marley, since his last mention of his<\/strong><\/p>\n seven years’ dead partner that afternoon. And then<\/strong><\/p>\n let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened<\/strong><\/p>\n that Scrooge, having his key in the lock of the door,<\/strong><\/p>\n saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate<\/strong><\/p>\n process of change–not a knocker, but Marley’s face.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Marley’s face. It was not in impenetrable shadow<\/strong><\/p>\n as the other objects in the yard were, but had a<\/strong><\/p>\n dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark<\/strong><\/p>\n cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked<\/strong><\/p>\n at Scrooge as Marley used to look: with ghostly<\/strong><\/p>\n spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. The<\/strong><\/p>\n hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air;<\/strong><\/p>\n and, though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly<\/strong><\/p>\n motionless. That, and its livid colour, made it<\/strong><\/p>\n horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the<\/strong><\/p>\n face and beyond its control, rather than a part of<\/strong><\/p>\n its own expression.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it<\/strong><\/p>\n was a knocker again.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n To say that he was not startled, or that his blood<\/strong><\/p>\n was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it<\/strong><\/p>\n had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue.<\/strong><\/p>\n But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished,<\/strong><\/p>\n turned it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n He did pause, with a moment’s irresolution, before<\/strong><\/p>\n he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind<\/strong><\/p>\n it first, as if he half expected to be terrified with the<\/strong><\/p>\n sight of Marley’s pigtail sticking out into the hall.<\/strong><\/p>\n But there was nothing on the back of the door, except<\/strong><\/p>\n the screws and nuts that held the knocker on, so he<\/strong><\/p>\n said “Pooh, pooh!” and closed it with a bang.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n The sound resounded through the house like thunder.<\/strong><\/p>\n Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant’s<\/strong><\/p>\n cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal<\/strong><\/p>\n of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to<\/strong><\/p>\n be frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and<\/strong><\/p>\n walked across the hall, and up the stairs; slowly too:<\/strong><\/p>\n trimming his candle as he went.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n You may talk vaguely about driving a coach-and-six<\/strong><\/p>\n up a good old flight of stairs, or through a bad<\/strong><\/p>\n young Act of Parliament; but I mean to say you<\/strong><\/p>\n might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken<\/strong><\/p>\n it broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall<\/strong><\/p>\n and the door towards the balustrades: and done it<\/strong><\/p>\n easy. There was plenty of width for that, and room<\/strong><\/p>\n to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge<\/strong><\/p>\n thought he saw a locomotive hearse going on before<\/strong><\/p>\n him in the gloom. Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of<\/strong><\/p>\n the street wouldn’t have lighted the entry too well,<\/strong><\/p>\n so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with<\/strong><\/p>\n Scrooge’s dip.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that.<\/strong><\/p>\n Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. But before<\/strong><\/p>\n he shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms<\/strong><\/p>\n to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection<\/strong><\/p>\n of the face to desire to do that.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they<\/strong><\/p>\n should be. Nobody under the table, nobody under<\/strong><\/p>\n the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon and basin<\/strong><\/p>\n ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had<\/strong><\/p>\n a cold in his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the<\/strong><\/p>\n bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing-gown,<\/strong><\/p>\n which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude<\/strong><\/p>\n against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard,<\/strong><\/p>\n old shoes, two fish-baskets, washing-stand on three<\/strong><\/p>\n legs, and a poker.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked<\/strong><\/p>\n himself in; double-locked himself in, which was not his<\/strong><\/p>\n custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off<\/strong><\/p>\n his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and<\/strong><\/p>\n his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take<\/strong><\/p>\n his gruel.<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a<\/strong><\/p>\n bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it, and<\/strong><\/p>\n brood over it, before he could extract the least<\/strong><\/p>\n sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel.<\/strong><\/p>\n The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch<\/strong><\/p>\n merchant long ago, and paved all round with quaint<\/strong><\/p>\n Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures.<\/strong><\/p>\n There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh’s daughters;<\/strong><\/p>\n Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending<\/strong><\/p>\n through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams,<\/strong><\/p>\n Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats,<\/strong><\/p>\n hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts;<\/strong><\/p>\n and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came<\/strong><\/p>\n like the ancient Prophet’s rod, and swallowed up the<\/strong><\/p>\n whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first,<\/strong><\/p>\n