Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, by the gravedigger and by Scrooge himself. Old Marley was as dead as a doornail.
People say “as dead as a doornail.” Personally, I don't see why a doornail is deader than any other nail. But our grandfathers said it, and I don't want to argue with them. So I will say it again: Marley was as dead as a doornail.
You must understand this clearly, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to tell you.
Did Scrooge know that Marley was dead? Of course he did! They had been partners for years. Scrooge was his only heir, his only friend and the only person who mourned him. But he was not very sad. On the very day of the funeral, he had made an excellent deal.
Scrooge had never painted out Marley's name. Years later, above the office door, you could still read: “Scrooge and Marley.” Sometimes new customers called him Mr. Scrooge, sometimes Mr. Marley. He answered to both names. It was all the same to him.
Oh, he was a mean old miser, that Scrooge! He took everything, he squeezed everything, he kept everything. He was as hard as stone, secretive, and as lonely as an oyster. The cold was inside him. It froze his face, nipped his nose and turned his lips blue. He carried this cold with him everywhere. In the middle of summer, his office was icy, and at Christmas he did not warm it by a single degree.
Nobody ever stopped him on the street to say, “My dear Scrooge, how are you?” No beggar asked him for a coin, and no child asked him the time. Even the blind men's dogs seemed to know him. When they saw him coming, they pulled their owners into a doorway to let him pass.
But what did Scrooge care? It was exactly what he wanted.
Once upon a time, on Christmas Eve — the best day of the year — an old miser was working in his office. It was Scrooge, of course. It was bitterly cold, and a thick fog covered the city. It was only three o'clock in the afternoon, but it was already dark. In the offices nearby, people had lit candles. The fog came in through every crack and every keyhole.
The door of Scrooge's office stayed open, because he wanted to keep an eye on his clerk, Bob Cratchit. Bob was copying letters in a small, dark, freezing room. Scrooge had a very small fire, but Bob's fire was even smaller: it looked like a single piece of coal. Bob could not add any more, because Scrooge kept the coal box in his own office. So Bob had put on his long white scarf, and he was trying to warm his hands at the candle.
“A merry Christmas, uncle!” cried a cheerful voice.
It was Fred, Scrooge's nephew. He had walked fast through the cold, and his cheeks were red and his eyes were shining.
“Bah!” answered Scrooge. “Humbug!”
“Christmas a humbug, uncle? You don't mean that!”
“I do. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? You're poor enough.”
“And you, uncle, what right have you to be sad? You're rich enough.”
Scrooge had no better answer. So he said again:
“Bah! Humbug!”
“Don't be cross, uncle!”
“How can I not be cross, in a world full of fools? Merry Christmas! What is Christmas? It's a time for paying bills without money. It's a time for being a year older, and not a penny richer. If I could have my way, every idiot who goes around saying ‘Merry Christmas’ would be boiled with his own pudding! And buried with a stake of holly through his heart!”
“Uncle!”
“Nephew, keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.”
“But you don't keep it!”
“Then let me forget it. Has Christmas ever brought you anything?”
“Many things have done me good without bringing me money,” answered Fred. “Christmas, for example. For me, Christmas has always been a good time: a kind, forgiving, generous time. It's the only time of the year when men and women open their hearts. Then they see poor people as fellow travelers, going to the same grave as they are. Christmas has never put a piece of gold in my pocket, uncle. But I believe it has done me good, and that it will do me good again. And so I say: God bless it!”
In his little room, Bob Cratchit clapped without thinking. He understood his mistake at once. Embarrassed, he tried to stir his fire, but he put out his last little flame.
“Let me hear another sound from you,” Scrooge told him, “and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your job! As for you, nephew, you speak so well that you should be in Parliament.”
“Don't be angry, uncle. Come and have dinner with us tomorrow!”
Scrooge told him to go to the devil.
“But why?” asked Fred. “Why?”
“Why did you get married?”
“Because I fell in love.”
“Because you fell in love!” growled Scrooge, as if that was the only thing in the world more ridiculous than Christmas. “Good afternoon!”
“I don't ask you for anything, uncle. Why can't we be friends?”
“Good afternoon!”
“I'm truly sorry. But I'll keep my Christmas good humor to the end. A merry Christmas, uncle!”
“Good afternoon!”
“And a happy New Year!”
“Good afternoon!”
Fred went out without an angry word. At the door, he stopped to wish Bob a merry Christmas. Bob was cold, but his heart was warmer than Scrooge's, and he answered him with joy.
“Another madman!” growled Scrooge. “My clerk, with fifteen shillings a week, and a wife and children, talking about a merry Christmas! I'll end up in the madhouse.”
Fifteen shillings a week was less than a pound: a very small wage to feed a family.
As he went out, Fred had let in two well-dressed gentlemen. They had taken off their hats, and they were holding papers in their hands.
“Scrooge and Marley's, I believe?” said one of them, looking at his list. “Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Scrooge, or Mr. Marley?”
“Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,” answered Scrooge. “He died on Christmas Eve. Seven years ago, this very night.”