“What business has such a fellow to speak to Juno?” exclaimed Jove. “A mere mortal, a mere miserable mortal! You have the point. How I have been deceived in this fellow! Who ever could have supposed that, after all my generosity to him, he would ever have kept me waiting for dinner?”
“He was walking with Juno,” said Ganymede. “It was all a sham about their having met by accident. Cupid saw them.”
“Ha!” said Jupiter, turning pale; “you don’t say so! Repiqued, as I am a God. That is mine. Where is the Queen?”
“Talking to Ixion, sire,” said Mercury. “Oh, I beg your pardon, sire; I did not know you meant the queen of diamonds.”
“Never mind. I am repiqued, and I have been kept waiting for dinner. Accursed be this day! Is Ixion really talking to Juno? We will not endure this.”
VII
“Where is Juno?” demanded Jupiter.
“I am sure I cannot say,” said Venus, with a smile.
“I am sure I do not know,” said Minerva, with a sneer.
“Where is Ixion?” said Cupid, laughing outright.
“Mercury, Ganymede, find the Queen of Heaven instantly,” thundered the father of Gods and men.
The celestial messenger and the heavenly page flew away out of different doors. There was a terrible, an immortal silence. Sublime rage lowered on the brow of Jove like a storm upon the mountain-top. Minerva seated herself at the card-table and played at Patience. Venus and Cupid tittered in the background. Shortly returned the envoys, Mercury looking solemn, Ganymede malignant.
“Well?” inquired Jove; and all Olympus trembled at the monosyllable.
Mercury shook his head.
“Her Majesty has been walking on the terrace with the King of Thessaly,” replied Ganymede.
“Where is she now, sir?” demanded Jupiter.
Mercury shrugged his shoulders.
“Her Majesty is resting herself in the pavilion of Cupid, with the King of Thessaly,” replied Ganymede.
“Confusion!” exclaimed the father of Gods and men; and he rose and seized a candle from the table, scattering the cards in all directions. Every one present, Minerva and Venus, and Mars and Apollo, and Mercury and Ganymede, and the Muses, and the Graces, and all the winged Genii - each seized a candle; rifling the chandeliers, each followed Jove.
“This way,” said Mercury.
“This way,” said Ganymede.
“This way, this way!” echoed the celestial crowd.
“Mischief!” cried Cupid; “I must save my victims.”
They were all upon the terrace. The father of Gods and men, though both in a passion and a hurry, moved with dignity. It was, as customary in Heaven, a clear and starry night; but this eve Diana was indisposed, or otherwise engaged, and there was no moonlight. They were in sight of the pavilion.
“What are you?” inquired Cupid of one of the Genii, who accidentally extinguished his candle.
“I am a Cloud,” answered the winged Genius.
“A Cloud! Just the thing. Now do me a shrewd turn, and Cupid is ever your debtor. Fly, fly, pretty Cloud, and encompass yon pavilion with your form. Away! ask no questions; swift as my word.”
“I declare there is a fog,” said Venus.
“An evening mist in Heaven!” said Minerva.
“Where is Nox?” said Jove. “Everything goes wrong. Who ever heard of a mist in Heaven?”
“My candle is out,” said Apollo.
“And mine, too,” said Mars.
“And mine, and mine, and mine,” said Mercury and Ganymede, and the Muses and the Graces.
“All the candles are out!” said Cupid; “a regular fog. I cannot even see the pavilion: it must be hereabouts, though, said the God to himself. “So, so; I should be at home in my own pavilion, and am tolerably accustomed to stealing about in the dark. There is a step; and here, surely, is the lock. The door opens, but the Cloud enters before me. Juno, Juno,” whispered the God of Love, “we are all here. Be contented to escape, like many other innocent dames, with your reputation only under a cloud: it will soon disperse; and lo! the heaven is clearing.”
“It must have been the heat of our flambeaux” said Venus; “for see, the mist is vanished; here is the pavilion.”
Ganymede ran forward, and dashed open the door. Ixion was alone.
“Seize him!” said Jove.
“Juno is not here,” said Mercury, with an air of blended congratulation and disappointment.
“Never mind,” said Jove; “seize him! He kept me waiting for dinner.”
“Is this your hospitality, Aegiochus?” exclaimed Ixion, in a tone of bullying innocence. “I shall defend myself.”
“Seize him, seize him!” exclaimed Jupiter, “What! do you all falter? Are you afraid of a mortal?”
“And a Thessalian?” added Ganymede.
No one advanced.
“Send for Hercules,” said Jove.
“I will fetch him in an instant,” said Ganymede.
“I protest,” said the King of Thessaly, “against this violation of the most sacred rights.”
“The marriage tie?” said Mercury.
“The dinner-hour?” said Jove.
“It is no use talking sentiment to Ixion,” said Venus; “all mortals are callous.”
“Adventures are to the adventurous,” said Minerva.
“Here is Hercules! here is Hercules!”
“Seize him!” said Jove; “seize that man.”
In vain the mortal struggled with the irresistible demi-god.
“Shall I fetch your thunderbolt, Jove?” inquired Ganymede.
“Anything short of eternal punishment is unworthy of a God,” answered Jupiter, with great dignity. “Apollo, bring me a wheel of your chariot.”
“What shall I do tomorrow morning?” inquired the God of Light.
“Order an eclipse,” replied Jove. “Bind the insolent wretch to the wheel; hurl him to Hades; its motion shall be perpetual.”
“What am I to bind him with?” inquired Hercules.
“The girdle of Venus,” replied the Thunderer.
“What is all this?” inquired Juno, advancing, pale and agitated.
“Come along; you shall see,” answered Jupiter. “Follow me, follow me.”
They all followed the leader, all the Gods, all the Genii; in the midst, the brawny husband of Hebe bearing Ixion aloft, bound to the fatal wheel. They reached the terrace; they descended the sparkling steps of lapis-lazuli. Hercules held his burthen on high, ready, at a nod, to plunge the hapless but presumptuous mortal through space into Hades. The heavenly group surrounded him, and peeped over the starry abyss. It was a fine moral, and demonstrated the usual infelicity that attends unequal connections.
“Celestial despot!” said Ixion.
In a moment all sounds were hushed, as they listened to the last words of the unrivalled victim. Juno, in despair, leant upon the respective arms of Venus and Minerva.
“Celestial despot!” said Ixion, “I defy the immortal ingenuity of thy cruelty. My memory must be as eternal as thy torture: that will support me.”
CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870) was the most influential champion of fantastic fiction in nineteenth century Britain, although his support was compromised by the opinion that fantasy should be allowed free rein only in its proper place. As an editor, of Household Words and All the Year Round, Dickens used a good deal of fantastic fiction, but he saved most of it for the special Christmas numbers. His own fantasies are either anecdotal tales or novellas issued as “Christmas Books”. Several comic fantasies are incorporated into The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club (1836-37), including “The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton”, which imports the moral message later to be more elaborately developed in A Christmas Carol (1843).
Dickens was ambitious for his Christmas Book fantasies, but they fell victim to an irreconcilable conflict of format and ambition. The Chimes (1844) was intended to “strike a great blow for the poor” by spelling out the requirement
s for psychological survival in the face of economic misfortune, but it made its middle-class readers far too uneasy, and they much preferred the cosy sentimentality of The Cricket on The Hearth (1845). The Haunted Man and The Ghost’s Bargain (1848) plumbs murkier moral depths in a cautionary tale of a catastrophic infection which obliterates pain by spreading emotional and moral anaesthesia, but it too proved too discomfiting for an audience expecting light entertainment.
A Christmas Carol still reminds us, year in and year out, of the power which fantasy has to affect reality. Our contemporary ideas regarding the proper way to celebrate Christmas are mostly a product of that book, and the way in which its moral message has been converted by degrees into a species of crass commercial cant far more hypocritical than anything Dickens could ever have imagined provides a strikingly ironic example of a message commonly to be found in fantasies: the consequences of fantastic interventions never live up to the optimistic expectations of those who invoke them.
THE STORY OF
THE GOBLINS WHO
STOLE A SEXTON
by Charles Dickens
In an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long, while ago - so long, that the story must be a true one, because our great-grandfathers implicitly believed it - there officiated as sexton and grave-digger in the churchyard, one Gabriel Grub. It by no means follows that because a man is a sexton, and constantly surrounded by the emblems of mortality, therefore he should be a morose and melancholy man; your undertakers are the merriest fellows in the world; and I once had the honour of being on intimate terms with a mute, who in private life, and off duty, was as comical and jocose a little fellow as ever chirped out a devil-may-care song, without a hitch in his memory, or drained off the contents of a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But, notwithstanding these precedents to the contrary, Gabriel Grub was an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly fellow - a morose and lonely man, who consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle which fitted into his large deep waistcoat pocket - and who eyed each merry face, as it passed him by, with such a deep scowl of malice and ill-humour, as it was difficult to meet, without feeling something the worse for.
A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old churchyard; for he had got a grave to finish by next morning, and, feeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at once. As he went his way, up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam through the old casements, and heard the loud laughter and the cheerful shouts of those who were assembled around them; he marked the bustling preparations for next day’s cheer, and smelt the numerous savoury odours consequent thereupon, as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and when groups of children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road and were met, before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly-headed little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked upstairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet-fever, thrush, whooping-cough, and a good many other sources of consolation besides.
In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along: returning a short, sullen growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his neighbours as now and then passed him: until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard. Now, Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was, generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful place, into which the townspeople did not much care to go, except in broad daylight, and when the sun was shining; consequently, he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song about a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary, which had been called Coffin Lane ever since the days of the old abbey, and the time of the shaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew nearer, he found it proceeded from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join one of the little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself company, and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting out the song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until the boy came up, and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him over the head with his lantern five or six times, to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand to his head, singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very heartily to himself, and entered the churchyard, locking the gate behind him.
He took off his coat, put down his lantern, and getting into the unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so, with right good will. But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy matter to break it up, and shovel it out; and although there was a moon, it was a very young one, and shed little light upon the grave, which was in the shadow of the church. At any other time, these obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, but he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy’s singing, that he took little heed of the scanty progress he had made, and looked down into the grave, when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction: murmuring as he gathered up his things:
“Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,
A few feet of cold earth, when life is done;
A stone at the head, a stone at the feet
A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat;
Rank grass over head, and damp clay around,
Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!”
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat tombstone which was a favourite resting-place of his; and drew forth his wicker bottle. “A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas Box. Ho! ho! ho!”
“Ho! ho! ho!” repeated a voice which sounded close behind him.
Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle to his lips: and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him, was not more still and quiet, than the churchyard in the pale moonlight. The cold hoar frost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows of gems, among the stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard and crisp upon the ground; and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of earth so white and smooth a cover that it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene. Sound itself appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still.
“It was the echoes,” said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again.
“It was not,” said a deep voice.
Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and terror; for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.
Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange unearthly figure, whom Gabriel felt at once, was no being of this world. His long fantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and crossed after a quaint, fantastic fashion; his sinewy arms were bare; and his hands rested on his knees. On his short round body, he wore a close covering, ornamented with small slashes; a short cloak dangled at his back; the collar was cut into curious peaks, which served the goblin in lieu of ruff or neckerchief; and his shoes curled at his toes into long points. On his head, he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat, garnished with a single feather. The hat was covered with the white frost; and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very comfortably, for two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly still; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning at Gabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.
“It was not the echoes,” said the goblin
Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply.
“What do you do here on Christmas Eve?” said the goblin sternly.
“I came to dig a grave, sir,” stammered Gabriel Grub.
“What man wanders among graves and church
yards on such a night as this?” cried the goblin
“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to fill the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round - nothing was to be seen.
“What have you got in that bottle?” said the goblin.
“Hollands, sir,” replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; for he had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his questioner might be in the excise department of the goblins.
“Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as this?” said the goblin.
“Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!” exclaimed the wild voices again.
The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising his voice, exclaimed: “And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize?”
To this enquiry the invisible chorus replied, in a strain that sounded like the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the old church organ - a strain that seemed borne to the sexton’s ears upon a wild wind, and to die away as it passed onward; but the burden of the reply was still the same, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”
The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, “Well Gabriel, what do you say to this?”
The sexton gasped for breath.
“What do you think of this, Gabriel?” said the goblin, kicking up his feet in the air on either side of the tombstone, and looking at the turned-up points with as much complacency as if he had been contemplating the most fashionable pair of Wellingtons in all Bond Street.
“It’s - it’s - very curious sir,” replied the sexton, half dead with fright; “very curious, and very pretty, but I think I’ll go back and finish my work, sir, if you please.”
“Work!” said the goblin, “what work?”
“The grave, sir; making the grave,” stammered the sexton.
“Oh, the grave, eh?” said the goblin. “Who makes graves at a time when all other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?”
Again the mysterious voices replied, “Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!”
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy Page 14
