圣诞颂歌 A Christmas Carol 02

THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS




When Scrooge awoke it was so dark, that, looking out of bed, he could
scarcely distinguish the transparent window from the opaque walls of his
chamber. He was endeavouring to pierce the darkness with his ferret
eyes, when the chimes of a neighbouring church struck the four quarters.
So he listened for the hour.


To his great astonishment, the heavy bell went on from six to seven, and
from seven to eight, and regularly up to twelve; then stopped. Twelve!
It was past two when he went to bed. The clock was wrong. An icicle must
have got into the works. Twelve!


He touched the spring of his repeater, to correct this most preposterous
clock. Its rapid little pulse beat twelve, and stopped.


'Why, it isn't possible,' said Scrooge, 'that I can have slept through a
whole day and far into another night. It isn't possible that anything
has happened to the sun, and this is twelve at noon!'


The idea being an alarming one, he scrambled out of bed, and groped his
way to the window. He was obliged to rub the frost off with the sleeve
of his dressing-gown before he could see anything; and could see very
little then. All he could make out was, that it was still very foggy and
extremely cold, and that there was no noise of people running to and
fro, and making a great stir, as there unquestionably would have been if
night had beaten off bright day, and taken possession of the world. This
was a great relief, because 'Three days after sight of this First of
Exchange pay to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge or his order,' and so forth, would
have become a mere United States security if there were no days to count
by.


Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over
and over, and could make nothing of it. The more he thought, the more
perplexed he was; and, the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he
thought.


Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly. Every time he resolved within
himself, after mature inquiry that it was all a dream, his mind flew
back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and
presented the same problem to be worked all through, 'Was it a dream or
not?'


Scrooge lay in this state until the chime had gone three-quarters more,
when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had warned him of a
visitation when the bell tolled one. He resolved to lie awake until the
hour was passed; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than
go to heaven, this was, perhaps, the wisest resolution in his power.


The quarter was so long, that he was more than once convinced he must
have sunk into a doze unconsciously, and missed the clock. At 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 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
sprang 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 behind 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?'


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 its robe in supplication.


'I am a 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
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 by-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 weather-cock 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 overrun with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient
state within; for, entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the
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 had 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 waterspout in the
dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent
poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty storehouse door, no, not a
clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with 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 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! Halloo!'


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
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 loath 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.


[Illustration: HE PRODUCED A DECANTER OF CURIOUSLY LIGHT WINE, AND A
BLOCK OF CURIOUSLY HEAVY CAKE]


'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!'


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 re-passed; where shadowy carts and coaches battled 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 shoes 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 'em up in their
places--four, five, six--barred 'em and pinned 'em--seven, eight,
nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like
racehorses.