“And might I entrust to you one last thing?” Dickens asked, handing him the red-sealed letter. “If you make certain that the very first copy boards the train for Scotland, with this letter, I would be eternally grateful.”
The apprentice took the letter gladly, having memorized every word of his mission down to the last possible detail. Dickens shook his hand and wished him a happy Christmas.
“The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice…”
And so it was, two days and two nights later, the book ran on two shiny new cylinder presses all the way from Germany, with Hall looking sternly on and Chapman mopping his brow.
“A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas…”
Slender volumes in festive green wrappers flew off the shelves of every bookshop within two hundred miles. People lined up, clamored, borrowed, and pleaded to hear it.
“No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge…”
Silence in a courtroom at the Old Bailey one morning found even Magistrate Laing himself, stone-cold sober, reading a fresh copy on the bench while a jury waited, holding its collective breath as the head juror read aloud to them.
“Once upon a time—of all the good days in the year, on Christmas eve—old Scrooge sat busy in his countinghouse. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal…”
At home, Thackeray’s daughters took excited turns with the book, reading to each other, while their father sat in his thinking chair, tugging at his brows.
“‘Bah!’ said Scrooge, ‘Humbug!… Out upon merry Christmas! What’s Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money…’”
Ill-clad illiterates squeezed together on benches in a spruced-up gin shop to hear it. The men crushed their hats in their hands; women worried the cloth of their skirts, hanging on each new word.
“‘At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,’ said the gentleman, taking up a pen, ‘it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time…’”
The five ragged boys sat front and center. Their three-coated captain bit his lip and gazed upward, closing his eyes to listen better with his ears.
“‘Are there no prisons?’ asked Scrooge…”
At Furnival’s, the desk clerk leaned over his very own copy, the first book he’d ever owned and already his proudest possession, which was given him by the resident of No. 13, who signed it and tied it with a bow. The clerk’s glasses were thick with steam and fright. His finger moved along the text word by word, each one read with great deliberation.
“… it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. And upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, ‘I know him; Marley’s ghost!…’”
At Artillery Place, Maria Beadnell, in a high-collared silk nightdress and lace cap, sat in a canopied bed beside her beloved Henry, older and weaker, taking their morning tea. Open on her tray was a note signed, “Affectionately yours, C.D.” and a check scrawled with his name. She held the book with one hand, her husband’s hand with the other, and read to him, content.
“‘You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!…’”
In his elegant dining room at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, John Forster sat at one end of his long table, cutting his boiled beef crisscross hard, trying not to care as Mary sat at the other end, reading out loud.
“‘I wear the chain I forged in life,’ replied the Ghost. ‘I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it…’”
Forster chewed fast, then slow, then stopped altogether, setting his fork and knife on his plate, as quiet as church, so as not to miss a word.
“‘Business!’ cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. ‘Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence, were, all, my business…’”
Far away in Scotland, Katey, Mamie, Charley, Walter, and Frank sat at Catherine’s knee or on her lap, or leaned against one another’s shoulders on a nearby settee, as she read to them with eyes full of feeling. Her husband’s letter lay by her elbow, with a look of having been read many times.
“… They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty.… But, they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time.…”
Catherine paused to consider her own children, their eager eyes and apple cheeks. She put one hand on her newborn, fast asleep beside her, to feel his tiny beating heart.
Little Frank tugged at her hem to read on.
42
On Christmas Eve day at Furnival’s Inn, Dickens had two tablespoons of rum with fresh cream for breakfast, a pint of champagne for tea, and two hours later a raw egg beaten into a tumbler of sherry with a biscuit on the side. The desk clerk made sure of it. Topping brought him his full evening dress with plaited shirt-frill and white neckerchief, punctuated by a snappy buttonhole and purple waistcoat, at his master’s request, and before leaving fortified him with a cup of beef tea. Dickens couldn’t bring himself to ask whether there’d been news of his family; Topping would have said so straightaway. But when he reached into his pocket on the way out the door, he found Katey’s list of their Christmas wishes, folded neatly into a square. He knew he had Topping to thank for putting it there; it was just the thing to set him right for reading.
It was a fine afternoon under a pearl winter sky as a great throng of merry Londoners outside the new hall at Long Acre poured past a placard—CHARLES DICKENS READS A CHRISTMAS CAROL! PROCEEDS BENEFIT THE FIELD LANE RAGGED SCHOOL!—having been earnestly requested to be in their places by ten minutes to four o’clock, and please, all top hats and bonnets to be removed upon entering.
Inside, the hall and galleries filled quickly; those who couldn’t sit stood at the back, shoulder to shoulder, glad for their small square of space. The stage was set. A deep maroon backdrop, a row of gaslights, and a fine Turkish carpet, on which sat a reading desk specially built in two days for just this occasion, according to specifications drawn by the author himself. It was straight up and down, nothing fussy about it except for a trim of gold fringe, a small box on top where he could rest an elbow, and a pitcher of water and a glass on a small side wing. Dickens waited, unseen, for a quiet to settle on the crowd, but heard only rowdy applause and loud murmurs.
He peered around a heavy gold curtain to see rows upon rows of hatless heads, eager faces, people leaning out of the galleries, nearly hanging from the rafters. How he wished his family were here, but at least he had Timothy, right in front where he’d installed him, hair combed half-heartedly to the side, brogans dangling off his chair. It gave him strength.
Dickens was waiting for a quiet inside himself, but every atom in his body took a turn at somersaults. He was like a child at Christmastime himself, palpable excitement, his own long list of impossible wishes. He wanted everyone to feel what he did, see with his eyes. He wanted to deal a sledgehammer blow for the poor, wanted to lift the thin veil that separates one person from another and in its place raise the flag of fellow feeling, selflessness, charity, and return Christmas to the little child whose story had begun it. But he knew, too, for the first time, what had always been true—that he wanted them to love him. In some shadow-corner of his being, he was the eleven-year-old at Warren’s Blacking even now, a boy all al
one in the world, who wanted only to be seen and cared for. If they might only treasure the part of him that Eleanor had reawakened.
And so, with hands pressed together in gratitude, Dickens at last emerged from the wings to wild clapping, the waving of kerchiefs, the stomping of winter boots. A great calm came over him when he took his place at the reading desk. He blinked his eyes at Timothy, who blinked back; set his white gloves and cloud of silk kerchief on the side wing, opened his book and pressed it to his chest. The preface he knew by heart.
“I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt your houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it. For I am, ever your faithful friend and servant, Charles Dickens.”
He bowed his head. A muted thrill, a shudder of anticipation, swept through the crowd until, at long last, came the silence that begged to be filled. Dickens said a little prayer to the gaslights above, cleared his throat, took in a breath all the way to his toes, and began.
“A Christmas Carol … Stave One … Marley’s Ghost…”
And without a single prop or a snippet of costume, he did fill it, peopling the entire hall with his extended family of characters, who became intimate companions to everyone present. From the first stave to the last spirit, he was all his creations at once. For Scrooge, he became the old man that Eleanor had made him, with a croaking voice and a pinched, sneering face, neck drawn in or thrust out of his collar like a big old turtle. For Fezziwig’s party, he danced his fingers on the podium in a mad display of two-fingered hops, arabesques, and pirouettes. He was timid Bob Cratchit, kind nephew Fred, the beaming moon-face of his long-lost fiancée. For Tiny Tim, he was Timothy, in every detail. With a wave of his hand, a drumming of fingers, a flutter of his kerchief, he was one person and then another, man or woman, young or old, rich or poor. The audience seemed to fall into a kind of universal trance. No fidgeting, no rustling. Even a dropped pin might have caused an uproar of annoyance.
“‘Spirit,’ said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before, ‘tell me if Tiny Tim will live.’ ‘I see a vacant seat,’ replied the Ghost, ‘in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die…’”
Dickens told the story as if his life—as if all life—depended on it. Everything he had felt, hoped, lost, and regained came together in that moment. It was a crisp, startling, rattling tale. But it was all heart, or nothing.
“… every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas day…”
Well-dressed men perched at the edge of their seats. Hardened carpenters cried and trembled. Macready was undisguisedly sobbing. Women, young and old, dabbed their eyes, or all-out wept, gripping each other’s hands.
“He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world…”
Dickens looked at Timothy, and something in the boy, of Eleanor, nearly toppled him. He had to look away, somewhere, down at his book, though he didn’t need it anymore. The words were inside him.
“Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset.… His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him…”
His voice stalled in his throat. Dickens paused to press the kerchief to his lips so no one would see them straight-out quivering. He put a finger on the text where he’d left off, but his hand was shaking, too. When he gazed out, it seemed that no one was breathing. Their eyes were upon him—two thousand pairs—sunken, crooked, squinty, kindly, wistful, glad, red-rimmed, clear whites, deep blues. Across the sea of faces he found such varieties of beauty, and felt a rush of inexplicable tenderness for each of them, awe for their own lives and loves, disappointments and frailties, but hopes, most of all hopes. Eleanor had been right. No matter their faults or weaknesses, their station in life, he felt only kinship. And that they knew him, too, offered their tenderness in return.
He could tell in the way they waited for him, not Charles Dickens the author but the man, just a man, trying to gather himself to finish what he’d begun.
“And it was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge…”
He stopped again, filling his chest with air.
“May that be truly said of us, and all of us!… And so, as Tiny Tim observed…”
And then, somewhere between a bellow and a whisper, a godsend and a cheer, he found the strength to say—
“God Bless Us, Every One.”
*
Dickens pressed his eyes shut against tears. Tears everywhere, Timothy in his seat, Macready a mess, the Carlyles holding each other, Hall dabbing his eyes, Chapman all but blubbering. The theater was bone-still and quiet but for the whimpers, sniffles, and sobs; two thousand souls struck dumb as if each had been lifted high enough to look down upon his or her own life and find it not wanting, but giving. And then a thundercrack of applause. It started at the back and grew to a booming crescendo as it rumbled toward him across the hall. People leapt to their feet, clapping, voices calling out, each on top of the other, “Bravo! Bravo!”
Dickens took it all in with a hand on his heart. Men stomped their feet as if to say, Give us one word more, we will hear it! Women called out, too, and would have listened again, from the very first word. Each turned to the person next to them, in front and behind, still applauding, but for each other now, and the great gift of being alive.
Dickens bowed, long and low. His heart was thundering inside him, too, louder than all the clapping, which seemed not to subside at all. He needed the moment. It was as if he’d come to the crest of a great mountain peak and, though panting and spent, could see all the world. And how vivid a view. Even the Turkish carpet under his boots was every color imaginable, an alchemy of alum, copper, and chrome mixed with madder root, indigo, poppy, and sage. What magic there was all around him. Words were inadequate, but all he had. He didn’t know where they came from or why, but it was how we told one another what the world was and might be. Who we were, and might become. It was the only magic he had. Everything else was faith.
He felt blessed and grateful.
He rose, clasping his hands together, and tucked his chin to his chest. When he lifted his gaze, he looked for Timothy. The first person to hear the story; it was his story, too. But the seat was empty. The one small, safe place in the world he’d reserved for the boy couldn’t hold him. Dickens looked to the right and left, up the aisle, across and down again. Panic swelled inside him. He leapt off the stage in a rush toward the door, intercepted by a throng of well-wishers.
“Ah, Mr. Dickens, what a book it is!”
“I’ve a Tiny Tim myself, sir.”
“Ooh, I shall never think of Christmas in the same way again!”
Macready was too tear-stricken to speak. Thomas Carlyle bellowed over ten heads, “Boz, I’m going to buy a turkey this minute! For everyone I know!”
Chapman and Hall brought up the rear, bubbling like champagne. “Charles!” said Hall, clapping him on the back. “Six thousand sold the first day!”
“There’s to be a second printing before New Year!” added Chapman.
Dickens looked past them, where the small slip of a boy disappeared through a door at the top of the hall. He wanted to lunge for him, but found an ocean of bobbing admirers blocking his way. “Forgive me,” he said, pushing through the crowd.
He broke out of the hall, out of the building, and onto the street like a madman escaped from Bedlam, but there was no sign of the boy at all. Only bell ringers, muffin men, shoppers, a
nd carolers, bustling to the last possible hour of Christmas Eve. But no Timothy. He careened down the street, legs pumping, across a small quarter of the city, down the snicket, up the cobbles, all the way to the rusted churchyard gate, standing ajar. He stepped through the threshold and followed a set of small footprints in the snow that ended where Timothy sat on the ground, knees pulled to his chest, head buried in his folded arms. Even in the twilight, Dickens recognized the marker for his father’s grave. But next to it, by the boy’s feet, was an even smaller wooden marker, hand-carved with rough, simple letters, that read: Eleanor Lovejoy, 1815–1842.
Dickens sat beside him on the cold ground and waited, saying nothing. He watched Timothy heave in quiet sobs, his shoulder blades like little bird wings arrowing out of his coat. He put a hand lightly on the back of the boy’s collar and let him cry. Finally, Timothy raised his face, wiping it roughly with a sleeve.
“Hearin’ yer story this time,” he said between sniffles and gasps, “I thought I might never know Christmas again.”
The boy dropped his head into his hands, threading his mop of hair through his fingers. Dickens turned to the sky above, dotted with faint stars, clouds skimming the moon. “I remember a time when I felt the same,” he said.
Timothy lifted his face, all snot and tears. Dickens handed him a kerchief and sighed, pulling Katey’s list from his pocket. He unfolded it with great care.
“This is a list of my children’s Christmas wishes. They work so hard on it, year-round, all that thinking and hoping and imagining. But you see here, at the bottom, they’ve left room for one more wish.”
Mr. Dickens and His Carol Page 20
