Portrait of Charles Dickens in 1842, by the American artist Francis Alexander. This oil painting is currently (2010) housed in Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts.

Born into a relatively affluent family in Portsmouth in 1812, Charles Dickens experienced both a comfortable life style during his childhood and a most uncomfortable one after his father was punished for living beyond his means by being thrown into a debtors’ jail called Marshalsea (as in “Little Dorrit”). Charles was sent to work at a rat-infested ‘blacking’ warehouse, where he had to work long hours putting tops onto pots of black boot polish under appalling conditions. What he witnessed there, as well as on the streets of London, and when he visited the Cornish tin mines made a great impression on him and deeply influenced his writing in later years. The many vivid, and often nasty characters who appear in his stories are largely based on people he encountered during this period of his life. His experiences in England, and also in the USA during his first visit in 1842, made him determined to expose the shocking gulf between wealth and poverty and to fight, not only for an improvement in living and working standards of the poor, but also for the abolition of slavery in America.

Going back to our image of an idyllic Christmas in Britain in Charles Dickens’ time, the mid 1800s, this is definitely that of the rich. Actually, in the early 1840s, the celebration of Christmas, (which was a combination of the Christian celebration of the birth of Christ, together with remnants of the Roman festival Saturnalia and a Druid ceremony marking the winter solstice) was waning in popularity. This was partly on account of Oliver Cromwell’s puritanical disapproval of the merrymaking of Christmas, and the fact that the poor had neither time nor money for it anyway! Being concerned, as he was, about the plight of the poor, Dickens must have been especially moved by the hardship of the disadvantaged at Christmas, supposedly a time to celebrate and make merry!

In 1843 Dickens wrote the first of his Christmas stories, “A Christmas Carol”. There can hardly be anyone who needs reminding of the story of Scrooge, as it is the most performed as play, musical, opera, ballet or pantomime, and the most filmed of any of Dickens’ works – IMDb.com quotes more than 25 major feature or TV films of this name, ranging from the 1910 version, to Robert Zemeckis’ latest 2009 IMAX 3D experience, animated film, with an all-star voice cast, including Jim Carrey, Gary Oldman and Colin Firth. Click on the amazon widget on the right to hear the soundtrack of the latter. IMDb.com also quotes many, many other variations on the title, including Flintstones, Barbie, Sesame Street, and Muppet Christmas Carol! If we were to include all of the amateur productions of this story (amateur dramatics groups/schools/clubs, etc., etc.) together with the countless professional ones, the numbers would run into thousands! There is a rendering of Dickens’ story to suit everybody. Reports on Zemeckis’ latest spectacle, using a highly advanced form of performance capture animation, range from how utterly amazing the visual effects are, to how very dark and sinister it is (well justifying its PG rating in Britain – scary for young ones) but all agree that it is pretty impressive!

Briefly, Ebenezer Scrooge, despite all his money, was a miserable, unhappy man and a hard, cruel boss to his clerk Bob Cratchet, who was a kind, lovable man, despite his circumstances. Scrooge begrudged him even one day free per year to celebrate Christmas, and made him work long hours in a freezing-cold office, paying him a pitence, on which medical help for his sick son, Tiny Tim, was out of the question. As the story unfolds, Scrooge is visited first by the ghost of his late partner, Jacob Marley, warning him to change his miserly ways before it is too late, and later by a succession of three spirits. The first one, “The spirit of Christmas past” shows him how lucky he was as a child; then “The spirit of Christmas present” shows him what a miserable soul he has become and the circumstances of others, and “The spirit of Christmas yet to come” shows him the dire consequences unless he does something about it. Between them, they succeed in changing his heart and mind, such that he discovers the joy of giving and sharing, as well as receiving: the joy of Christmas!

Why did Dickens choose the name “A Christmas Carol”? Well he wrote his story in five ‘staves’ instead of the normal ‘chapters’ implying that he wanted it to read like a piece of music, perhaps a carol, rather than just a story. There is also a mention of a lone, brave carol-singer attempting to sing a carol to Scrooge through his keyhole on the Christmas Eve in question, and being driven away by the wielding of a threatening ruler by Scrooge. The singing of carols was definitely a community-minded activity, precisely not something for Scrooge!

Illustration by John Leech (‘Punch’ magazine cartoonist) showing Jacob Marley’s ghost visiting Scrooge in Charles Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’ (first edition, published by London-based Chapman & Hall in 1843).

The character Ebenezer Scrooge was very likely based on a real-life, eccentric gentleman, John Elwes, whose biography by Edward Topham published in 1790 instantly became a national bestseller. Dickens was a well-read man and would most certainly have read it. Elwes, born Meggot, assumed the name Elwes on being named heir to his bachelor uncle, Sir Hervey Elwes. He was never short of money as his father Robert Meggot was a wealthy brewer. Elwes was a patron of architects and was responsible for building half of Georgian London: the most part of St. James’s, Mayfair, Picadilly, Portland Place, Baker Street, Marylebone, and Oxford Circus. Despite being a millionaire, in later life he became a famous miser, dressing in rags and eating food full of maggots. He and the fictional Scrooge had other things in common, such as a jolly nephew and a skinny face with a pointed nose. However, there was one enormous difference: John Elwes inflicted his miserliness only on himself, always being kind, loving, and charming to others, and everybody adored him! A big difference, but still, the inspiration could have been there.

“A Christmas Carol” was not Charles Dickens greatest work. He completed it within six weeks just before Christmas 1843 to booster his faltering income from his novel “Martin Chuzzlewit”, which was being published in monthly installments. He was having big problems with his publisher, and he badly needed some ready cash as his wife was expecting their fifth child. On publication, which he ended up paying for himself, the book received a flood of criticism from powerful industrialists for being an indictment of industrial capitalism of the time. So why, despite not being his greatest masterpiece and its poor initial reception by “the people who mattered”, did “A Christmas Carol” go on to become probably his most popular book, and to even being credited with bringing back the merriment of Christmas?

Well, Christmas comes but once a year (once too often, some cynics might say), while for those of us who love Christmas, this annual event, including the build-up to, it is something very special! Of course, it is the celebration of the gift of the baby Jesus, born simply in a stable to bring hope and to lighten and brighten our world, with all its bad news. It is also the time to enjoy being with our loved ones (if at all possible), giving, sharing, eating and drinking and hopefully relaxing together, no matter how much or little money we have to spend on it. Not to forget the annual ritual: the sending of Christmas cards, which helps us reconnect with old friends and family members who we don’t get to see too often – very nice that the multitude of charity cards now help us to remember the disadvantaged at the same time. So the fact that Christmas comes round faithfully every year gives this story a head start. Like the pop stars with their Christmas hits, if Dickens were still alive he would be able to cash in on the royalties of his story each year, with all those countless performances, not to mention the book, which has apparently never been out of print! A charming children’s pop-up version of the book, illustrated by Victor G. Ambrus and published by Methuen in 1986, is certainly out of print but good second-hand copies are still available from used-book sellers.

A fun, children’s pop-up version of “A Christmas Carol”, illustrated by Victor G. Ambrus (published by Methuen in 1986).

So what can account for the allure of Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”? Partly we may feel that we have to thank Dickens for re-energizing the festival which was once flagging and for giving us the nostalgic images of Christmastime in days gone by – but most especially, to my mind, the key is the opportunity given and taken to change for the better (it’s never too late) and the message of love and generosity which is embodied in the joy and wonder of Christmas.

How better to finish than with the original ending!

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was a second father. 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. 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; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!

THE END.

The story was one of many that were published in “Children’s and Household Tales” (Kinder und Hausmärchen) by the the German brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (the Brothers Grimm) in 1812. This book contained three elf stories, all given under the 39^th entry named “The Elves” (Die Wichtelmänner).

Margaret Hunt translated the story from German into English in 1884. However, the English version given below was translated from German by Lucy Crane. This version was published in “Household Stories” in 1886. The illustrations in the book were done by Lucy’s brother, Walter Crane.

There was once a shoemaker, who, through no fault of his own, became so poor that at last he had nothing left but just enough leather to make one pair of shoes. He cut out the shoes at night, so as to set to work upon them next morning; and as he had a good conscience, he laid himself quietly down in his bed, committed himself to heaven, and fell asleep. In the morning, after he had said his prayers, and was going to get to work, he found the pair of shoes made and finished, and standing on his table. He was very much astonished, and could not tell what to think, and he took the shoes in his hand to examine them more nearly; and they were so well made that every stitch was in its right place, just as if they had come from the hand of a master-workman.

Soon after a purchaser entered, and as the shoes fitted him very well, he gave more than the usual price for them, so that the shoemaker had enough money to buy leather for two more pairs of shoes. He cut them out at night, and intended to set to work the next morning with fresh spirit; but that was not to be, for when he got up they were already finished, and a customer even was not lacking, who gave him so much money that he was able to buy leather enough for four new pairs. Early next morning he found the four pairs also finished, and so it always happened; whatever he cut out in the evening was worked up by the morning, so that he was soon in the way of making a good living, and in the end became very well to do.

One night, not long before Christmas, when the shoemaker had finished cutting out, and before he went to bed, he said to his wife,

“How would it be if we were to sit up to-night and see who it is that does us this service?”

His wife agreed, and set a light to burn. Then they both hid in a corner of the room, behind some coats that were hanging up, and then they began to watch. As soon as it was midnight they saw come in two neatly-formed naked little men, who seated themselves before the shoemaker’s table, and took up the work that was already prepared, and began to stitch, to pierce, and to hammer so cleverly and quickly with their little fingers that the shoemaker’s eyes could scarcely follow them, so full of wonder was he. And they never left off until everything was finished and was standing ready on the table, and then they jumped up and ran off.

The next morning the shoemaker’s wife said to her husband, “Those little men have made us rich, and we ought to show ourselves grateful. With all their running about, and having nothing to cover them, they must be very cold. I’ll tell you what; I will make little shirts, coats, waistcoats, and breeches for them, and knit each of them a pair of stockings, and you shall make each of them a pair of shoes.”

The husband consented willingly, and at night, when everything was finished, they laid the gifts together on the table, instead of the cut-out work, and placed themselves so that they could observe how the little men would behave. When midnight came, they rushed in, ready to set to work, but when they found, instead of the pieces of prepared leather, the neat little garments put ready for them, they stood a moment in surprise, and then they testified the greatest delight. With the greatest swiftness they took up the pretty garments and slipped them on, singing,

“What spruce and dandy boys are we!
No longer cobblers we will be.”

Then they hopped and danced about, jumping over the chairs and tables, and at last they danced out at the door.

From that time they were never seen again; but it always went well with the shoemaker as long as he lived, and whatever he took in hand prospered.

A slightly modified version of the story was beautifully portrayed in the 1962 movie “The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grimm”, starring Karlheinz Böhm and Laurence Harvey. In this version, the shoemaker spends Christmas Eve carving toy elves for some local orphans. Although he then tries to repair his customers’ shoes, he is just too tired and dozes off. When the clock strikes midnight, the toy elves come to life and complete his unfinished work whilst singing “Ah Umm”.

It was on the twentieth of December last that I received an invitation from my friend, Mr. Phiggins, to dine with him in Mark Lane, on Christmas Day. I had several reasons for declining this proposition. The first was that Mr. P. makes it a rule, at all these festivals, to empty the entire contents of his counting-house into his little dining parlor; and you consequently sit down to dinner with six white-waistcoated clerks, let loose upon a turkey. The second was that I am not sufficiently well read in cotton and sugar, to enter with any spirit into the subject of conversation. And the third was, and is, that I never drink Cape wine. But by far the most prevailing reason remains to be told. I had been anticipating for some days, and was hourly in the hope of receiving, an invitation to spend my Christmas Day in a most irresistible quarter. I was expecting, indeed, the felicity of eating plum-pudding with an angel; and, on the strength of my imaginary engagement, I returned a polite note to Mr. P., reducing him to the necessity of advertising for another candidate for Cape and turkey.

The twenty-first came. Another invitation—to dine with a regiment of roast-beef eaters, at Clapham. I declined this also, for the above reason, and for one other, viz., that, on dining there ten Christmas Days ago, it was discovered, on sitting down, that one little accompaniment of the roast beef had been entirely overlooked. Would it be believed!—but I will not stay to mystify—I merely mention the fact. They had forgotten the horseradish.

The next day arrived, and with it a neat epistle, sealed with violet-colored wax, from Upper Brook street. “Dine with the ladies—at home on Christmas Day.” Very tempting, it is true; but not exactly the letter I was longing for. I began, however, to debate within myself upon the policy of securing this bird in hand, instead of waiting for the two that were still hopping about the bush, when the consultation was suddenly brought to a close, by a prophetic view of the portfolio of drawings fresh from boarding-school—moths and roses on embossed paper;—to say nothing of the album, in which I stood engaged to write an elegy on a Java sparrow, that had been the favorite in the family for three days. I rung for gilt-edged, pleaded a world of polite regret, and again declined.

The twenty-third dawned; time was getting on rather rapidly; but no card came. I began to despair of any more invitations, and to repent of my refusals. Breakfast was hardly over, however, when the servant brought up—not a letter—but an aunt and a brace of cousins from Bayswater. They would listen to no excuse; consanguinity required me, and Christmas was not my own. Now my cousins kept no albums; they are really as pretty as cousins can be; and when violent hands, with white kid gloves, are laid on one, it is sometimes difficult to effect an escape with becoming elegance. I could not, however, give up my darling hope of a pleasanter prospect. They fought with me in fifty engagements—that I pretended to have made. I showed them the Court Guide, with ten names obliterated—being those of persons who had not asked me to mince-meat and mistletoe; and I ultimately gained my cause by quartering the remains of an infectious fever on the sensitive fears of my aunt, and by dividing a rheumatism and a sprained ankle between my sympathetic cousins.

As soon as they were gone, I walked out, sauntering involuntarily in the direction of the only house in which I felt I could spend a “happy” Christmas. As I approached, a porter brought a large hamper to the door. “A present from the country,” thought I, “yes, they do dine at home; they must ask me; they know that I am in town.” Immediately afterward a servant issued with a letter; he took the nearest way to my lodgings, and I hurried back by another street to receive the so-much-wished-for invitation. I was in a state of delirious delight.

I arrived—but there was no letter. I sat down to wait, in a spirit of calmer enjoyment than I had experienced for some days; and in less than half an hour a note was brought to me. At length, the desired despatch had come; it seemed written on the leaf of a lily with a pen dipped in dew. I opened it—and had nearly fainted with disappointment. It was from a stock-broker, who begins an anecdote of Mr. Rothschild before dinner, and finishes it with the fourth bottle—and who makes his eight children stay up to supper and snap-dragon. In macadamizing a stray stone in one of his periodical puddings, I once lost a tooth, and with it an heiress of some reputation. I wrote a most irritable apology, and despatched my warmest regards in a whirlwind.

December the twenty-fourth—I began to count the hours, and uttered many poetical things about the wings of Time. Alack! no letter came;—yes, I received a note from a distinguished dramatist, requesting the honor, etc. But I was too cunning for this, and practiced wisdom for once. I happened to reflect that his pantomime was to make its appearance on the night after, and that his object was to perpetrate the whole programme upon me. Regret that I could not have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Paulo, and the rest of the literati to be then and there assembled, was of course immediately expressed.

My mind became restless and agitated. I felt, amidst all these invitations, cruelly neglected. They served, indeed, but to increase my uneasiness, as they opened prospects of happiness in which I could take no share. They discovered a most tempting dessert, composed of forbidden fruit. I took down “Childe Harold,” and read myself into a sublime contempt of mankind. I began to perceive that merriment is only malice in disguise, and that the chief cardinal virtue is misanthropy.

I sat “nursing my wrath,” till it scorched me; when the arrival of another epistle suddenly charmed me from this state of delicious melancholy and delightful endurance of wrong. I sickened as I surveyed, and trembled as I opened it. It was dated——, but no matter; it was not the letter. In such a frenzy as mine, raging to behold the object of my admiration condescend, not to eat a custard, but to render it invisible—to be invited perhaps to a tart fabricated by her own ethereal fingers; with such possibilities before me, how could I think of joining a “friendly party,”—where I should inevitably sit next to a deaf lady, who had been, when a little girl, patted on the head by Wilkes, or my Lord North, she could not recollect which—had taken tea with the author of “Junius,” but had forgotten his name—and who once asked me “whether Mr. Munden’s monument was in Westminster Abbey or St. Paul’s?”—I seized a pen, and presented my compliments. I hesitated—for the peril of precariousness of my situation flashed on my mind; but hope had still left me a straw to catch at, and I at length succeeded in resisting this late and terrible temptation.

After the first burst of excitement, I sunk into still deeper despondency. My spirit became a prey to anxiety and remorse. I could not eat; dinner was removed with unlifted covers. I went out. The world seemed to have acquired a new face; nothing was to be seen but raisins and rounds of beef. I wandered about like Lear—I had given up all! I felt myself grated against the world like a nutmeg. It grew dark—I sustained a still gloomier shock. Every chance seemed to have expired, and everybody seemed to have a delightful engagement for the next day. I alone was disengaged—I felt like the Last Man! To-morrow appeared to have already commenced its career; mankind had anticipated the future; “and coming mince pies cast their shadows before.”

In this state of desolation and dismay, I called—I could not help it—at the house to which I had so fondly anticipated an invitation, and a welcome. My protest must here however be recorded, that though I called in the hope of being asked, it was my fixed determination not to avail myself of so protracted a piece of politeness. No: my triumph would have been to have annihilated them with an engagement made in September, payable three months after date. With these feelings, I gave an agitated knock—they were stoning the plums, and did not immediately attend. I rung—how unlike a dinner bell it sounded! A girl at length made her appearance, and, with a mouthful of citron, informed me that the family had gone to spend their Christmas Eve in Portland Place. I rushed down the steps, I hardly knew whither. My first impulse was to go to some wharf and inquire what vessels were starting for America. But it was a cold night—I went home and threw myself on my miserable couch. In other words, I went to bed.

I dozed and dreamed away the hours till day-break. Sometimes I fancied myself seated in a roaring circle, roasting chestnuts at a blazing log: at others, that I had fallen into the Serpentine while skating, and that the Humane Society were piling upon me a Pelion, or rather a Vesuvius of blankets. I awoke a little refreshed. Alas! it was the twenty-fifth of the month—It was Christmas Day! Let the reader, if he possess the imagination of Milton, conceive my sensations.

I swallowed an atom of dry toast—nothing could calm the fever of my soul. I stirred the fire and read Zimmermann alternately. Even reason—the last remedy one has recourse to in such cases—came at length to my relief: I argued myself into a philosophic fit. But, unluckily, just as the Lethean tide within me was at its height, my landlady broke in upon my lethargy, and chased away by a single word all the little sprites and pleasures that were acting as my physicians, and prescribing balm for my wounds. She paid me the usual compliment, and then—”Do you dine at home to-day, sir?” abruptly inquired she. Here was a question. No Spanish inquisitor ever inflicted such complete dismay in so short a sentence. Had she given me a Sphynx to expound, a Gordian tangle to untwist; had she set me a lesson in algebra, or asked me the way to Brobdingnag; had she desired me to show her the North Pole, or the meaning of a melodrama:—any or all of these I might have accomplished. But to request me to define my dinner—to inquire into its latitude—to compel me to fathom that sea of appetite which I now felt rushing through my frame—to ask me to dive into futurity, and become the prophet of pies and preserves!—My heart died within me at the impossibility of a reply.

She had repeated the question before I could collect my senses around me. Then, for the first time it occurred to me that, in the event of my having no engagement abroad, my landlady meant to invite me! “There will at least be the two daughters,” I whispered to myself; “and after all, Lucy Matthews is a charming girl, and touches the harp divinely. She has a very small, pretty hand, I recollect; only her fingers are so punctured by the needle—and I rather think she bites her nails. No, I will not even now give up my hope. It was yesterday but a straw—to-day it is but the thistledown; but I will cling to it to the last moment. There are still four hours left; they will not dine till six. One desperate struggle, and the peril is past; let me not be seduced by this last golden apple, and I may yet win my race.” The struggle was made—”I should not dine at home.” This was the only phrase left me, for I could not say that “I should dine out.” Alas! that an event should be at the same time so doubtful and so desirable. I only begged that if any letter arrived, it might be brought to me immediately.

The last plank, the last splinter, had now given way beneath me. I was floating about with no hope but the chance of something almost impossible. They had “left me alone,” not with my glory, but with an appetite that resembled an avalanche seeking whom it might devour. I had passed one dinnerless day, and half of another; yet the promised land was as far from sight as ever. I recounted the chances I had missed. The dinners I might have enjoyed, passed in a dioramic view before my eyes. Mr. Phiggins and his six clerks—the Clapham beef-eaters—the charms of Upper Brook street—my pretty cousins, and the pantomime writer—the stock broker, whose stories one forgets, and the elderly lady who forgets her stories—they all marched by me, a procession of apparitions. Even my landlady’s invitation, though unborn, was not forgotten in summing up my sacrifices. And for what?

Four o’clock. Hope was perfectly ridiculous. I had been walking upon the hair-bridge over a gulf, and could not get into Elysium after all. I had been catching moonbeams, and running after notes of music. Despair was my only convenient refuge; no chance remained, unless something should drop from the clouds. In this last particular I was not disappointed; for, on looking up, I perceived a heavy shower of snow, yet I was obliged to venture forth; for being supposed to dine out, I could not of course remain at home. Where to go I knew not: I was like my first father—”the world was all before me.” I flung my coat round me, and hurried forth with the feelings of a bandit longing for a stiletto. At the foot of the stairs, I staggered against two or three smiling rascals, priding themselves upon their punctuality. They had just arrived—to make the tour of Turkey. How I hated them!—As I rushed by the parlor, a single glance disclosed to me a blazing fire, with Lucy and several lovely creatures in a semi-circle. Fancy, too, gave me a glimpse of a sprig of mistletoe—I vanished from the house, like a spectre at day-break.

How long I wandered about is doubtful. At last I happened to look through a kitchen window, with an area in front, and saw a villain with a fork in his hand, throwing himself back in his chair choked with ecstasy. Another was feasting with a graver air; he seemed to be swallowing a bit of Paradise, and criticising its flavor. This was too much for mortality—my appetite fastened upon me like an alligator. I darted from the spot; and only a few yards further discerned a house with rather an elegant exterior, and with some ham in the window that looked perfectly sublime. There was no time for consideration—to hesitate was to perish. I entered; it was indeed “a banquet-hall deserted.” The very waiters had gone home to their friends. There, however, I found a fire; and there—to sum up all my folly and felicity in a single word—I DINED.