Old Scrooge: A Christmas Carol in Five Staves.

Scro. To-night?

Spir. To-night, at midnight. (Exeunt.)

SCENE IV —Drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Fred Merry, Miss Julia Kemper, Miss Sarah Kemper, Mr. Thomas Topper, Mr. Henry Snapper, discovered seated around the dessert table. Servant serving coffee.

All. (Laughing) Ha, ha! ha, ha, ha, ha!

Enter Spirit and Scrooge, L

Fred. He said Christmas was a humbug, as I live.

All. Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Fred. He believed it, too.

Mrs. M. More shame for him, Fred!

Fred. He's a comical old fellow, that's the truth; and not so pleasant as he might be; however, his offenses carry their own punishment, and I have nothing to say against him.

Mrs. M. I'm sure he's very rich, Fred. At least you always tell me so.

Fred. What of that, my dear. His wealth is of no use to him. He don't do any good with it. He don't make himself comfortable with it. He hasn't the satisfaction of thinking – ha, ha, ha, ha! – that he is ever going to benefit us with it.

Mrs. M. I have no patience with him.

Julia. Neither have I for such a stingy old wretch!

Fred. Oh, I have. I am sorry for him; I couldn't be angry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always. Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dine with us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner.

Mrs. M. Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner.

Sarah. A much better one than he could have served up in his old dingy chambers.

Fred. Well, I'm very glad to hear it, because I haven't great faith in these young housekeepers. What do you say, Topper?

Topper. A bachelor like myself is a wretched outcast, and has no right to express an opinion on such an important subject.

Mrs. M. Do go on, Fred. He never finishes what he begins to say. He is such a ridiculous fellow.

Fred. I was only going to say, that the consequence of our uncle taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he finds in his own thoughts, either in his moldy old office or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it – I defy him – if he finds me going there, in good temper, year after year, and saying, Uncle Scrooge, I wish you A Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year! If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something; and I think I shook him yesterday. – Come, let us have some music. Here, Thomas, clear away.

[All rise and go to the piano. Waiter clears table during the singing of a Christmas carol or any selected piece.]

Fred. We must not devote the whole evening to music. Suppose we have a game?

All. Agreed.

Spir. Time flies; I have grown old. We must hasten on.

Scro. No, no! One half hour, Spirit, only one.

Fred. I have a new game to propose.

Sarah. What is it?

Fred. It is a game called Yes and No. I am to think of something and you are all to guess what it is. I am thinking of an animal, a live animal, rather a disagreeable animal, a savage animal that growls and grunts sometimes, and talks sometimes, and lives in London, and walks about the streets, and is not made a show of, and is not led by anybody and don't live in a menagerie, and is not a horse, a cow or a donkey or a bull. There, now guess?

Mrs. M. Is it a pig?

Fred. No.

Julia. Is it a tiger?

Fred. No.

Topper. Is it a dog?

Fred. No.

Sarah. Is it a cat?

Snapper. It's a monkey.

Fred. No.

Mrs. M. Is it a bear?

Fred. No.

Julia. I have found it out! I know what it is, Fred! I know what it is!

Fred. What is it?

Julia. It's your uncle Scro-o-o-oge!

Fred. Yes.

All. Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!

Mrs. M. It is hardly fair, you ought to have said yes, when I said, it's a bear.

Fred. He has given us plenty of merriment, I'm sure, and it would be ungrateful not to drink his health. Here is some mulled wine ready to our hand at the moment; and when you are ready I say uncle Scrooge! (Servant brings wine forward.)

All. Well! Uncle Scrooge!

Fred. A Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to the old man. He wouldn't take it from me, but may he have it, nevertheless. Uncle Scrooge!

All. Uncle Scrooge, uncle Scrooge!

(Scrooge seems to make efforts to reply to the toast, while spirit drags him away.)

CURTAIN

STAVE FOUR

SCENE I. —Scrooge's chambers

Scrooge discovered upon his knees

Scro. Can this be the Spirit of Christmas Future that I see approaching? shrouded in a black garment, which conceals its head, its form, its face, and leaves nothing visible save one outstretched hand. I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. It points onward with its hand. You are about to show me the shadows of things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us. Is that so, Spirit? (Rises and stands trembling.) Ghost of the Future, I fear you more than any spectre I have seen; but as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? It will not speak. The hand points straight before us. Lead on! Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit.

(Scrooge crosses stage, as if following Spirit to tormentor entrance, and remains while the scene changes.)

SCENE II. —A Street

Scro. Ah, here comes Stevens and there Jones. I have always made it a point to stand well in their esteem – that is in a business point of view.

Enter Mr. Stevens R. and Mr. Jones L., meeting

Stevens. How are you?

Jones. Pretty well. So Old Scratch has got his own, at last, hey?

Stev. So I am told. Cold, isn't it?

Jones. Seasonable for Christmas-time. You're not a skater, I suppose?

Stev. No, no. Something else to think of. Good morning. [Exeunt in opposite directions.]

Scro. Ah, here are more of my old business friends; the Spirit directs me to hear what they say.

Enter Mr. Fatchin, Mr. Snuffer and Mr. Redface

Mr. F. No; I don't know much about it, either way; I only know he's dead.

Mr. R. When did he die?

Mr. F. Last night, I believe.

Mr. S. Why, what was the matter with him? (Takes snuff out of a large snuff-box.) I thought he would never die.

Mr. F. I did not take the trouble to inquire.

Mr. R. What has he done with his money?

Mr. F. I haven't heard (yawning); left it to his company, perhaps. He hasn't left it to me. That's all I know. (All laugh.) It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life I don't know of any body to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?

Mr. R. I don't mind going if a lunch is provided. I must be fed if I make one. (All laugh.)

Mr. F. Well, I am the most disinterested, after all, for I never wear black gloves and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if any body else will. When I come to think of it, I am not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met.

Mr. S. I would volunteer, but that I have another little matter to attend to that will prevent me. However, I have no objections to joining you in a drink to his memory.

Mr. R. I am with you. Let us adjourn to the punch bowl. [Exeunt.]

Scro. To whom can these allusions refer; Jacob Marley has been dead these seven years, and surely those whom I have considered my best friends would not speak of my death so unfeelingly. I suppose, however, that these conversations have some latent moral for my own improvement, and as I have now resolved upon a change of life, I shall treasure up all I see and hear. Lead on, Shadow, I follow! (Crosses to the opposite entrance and remains.)

SCENE III. —Interior of a junk or pawn-shop

Enter Old Joe, ushering in Mrs. Mangle, Mrs. Dilber and Mr. Shroud, door in flat

Old Joe. You couldn't have met in a better place; come in. You were made free here long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There isn't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe, and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come, come! we are at home here. (Trims smoky lamp at table.)

Mrs. M. What odds, then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber? (Throws her bundle on the floor and sits on a stool, resting her elbows on her knees.) Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did.

Mrs. D. That's true, indeed! No man cared for himself more than he did.

Mrs. M. Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose?

Mr. Shroud. No, indeed! We should hope not.

Mrs. M. Very well, then: that's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose.

Mr. S. (Laughing.) No, indeed.

Mrs. M. If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked old Screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.

Mrs. D. It's the truest word ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him.

Mrs. M. I wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, Old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid to let them see it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe.

Mr. S. Oh, no; we don't mind showing what we have. Here, Joe, value these. (Mrs. D. and Mr. S. lay their packages on the table and Joe proceeds to examine them.)

Joe. (Chalking the figures on the wall as he names them.) A seal, eight shillings; pencil-case, three and six pence; pair of sleeve-buttons, five and four-pence; scarf-pin, ninepence. Nine and four, thirteen, and six, is nineteen – seven. One and five's six, and thirteen is nine, and eight makes seventeen. That's your account, and I wouldn't give another sixpence if I was to be boiled for it. Who's next?

Mrs. D. I hope you'll be more liberal with me, Mr. Joe. I'm a poor, lone widow, and it's hard for me to make a living.

Joe. I always give too much to the ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself. Under-clothing, sheets, towels, sugar-tongs; these tea-spoons are old-fashioned, and the boots won't bear mending. One pound six, that's your account. If you asked me another penny, and made it an open question I'd repent of being liberal, and knock off half a crown.

Mrs. M. Now, undo my bundle, Joe.

Joe. (Opening bundle.) What do you call this? Bed curtains?

Mrs. M. Ah! (Laughing.) Bed curtains.

Joe. You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with Old Scrooge lying there?

Mrs. M. Yes I do. Why not?

Joe. You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it.

Mrs. M. I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as he was, I promise you, Joe. Don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now.

Joe. His blankets?

Mrs. M. Whose else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say.

Joe. I hope he didn't die of anything catching. Eh? (Stopping his work and looking up.)

Mrs. M. Don't you be afraid of that: I ain't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things if he did. Ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one, too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me.

Joe. What do you call wasting of it?

Mrs. M. (laughing.) Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure. Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything. It's as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one.

Joe. Well, well! I'll ruin myself again. I'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (Takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts.)

Mrs. M. Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead.

All. Ha, ha, ha! [Exeunt door in flat, old Joe lighting them out.]

Scro. Spirit! I see, I see. This is my own case, if nothing happens to change it. My life tends this way. Spirit, in leaving this. I shall not leave its lesson; trust me. If there is any person in the city who feels the least emotion for the death here announced, show that person to me. [Crosses to L., while scene closes in.]

SCENE IV. —Street. Exterior of Scrooge & Marley's Counting House

Scro. Why, here is my place of business, and has been occupied by Scrooge & Marley for many years. I see the house, let me behold what I shall be in the days to come. Why, Spirit, the house is yonder. Why do you point away? (Goes to the window and looks in.) It is the old office still; the same furniture; but no one occupies my chair. Ah! some one comes.

Enter James Badger from Counting House, going off right, meets Mrs. Badger at right entrance

Mrs. B. Ah! James. I have waited for you so long. What news? Is it good or bad?

James. Bad.

Mrs B. We are quite ruined?

James. No. There is hope yet, Caroline.

Mrs. B. If he relents, there is. Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened.

James. He is past relenting. He is dead.

Mrs. B. Dead! Thank Heaven; we are saved. (Pause.) I pray forgiveness, I am sorry that I gave expression to the emotions of my heart.

James. What the half drunken woman, whom I told you of last night, said to me when I tried to see him and obtain a week's delay, and what I thought was a mere excuse to avoid me, turns out to have been quite true. He was not only very ill, but dying then.