A Christmas Carol | Page 7

Pharaoh's daughters, Queens of Sheba,
Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather
beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in
butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts; and yet that
face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod,
and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at
first, with power to shape some picture on its surface from the
disjointed fragments of his thoughts, there would have been a copy of
old Marley's head on every one.

"Humbug!" said Scrooge; and walked across the room.
After several turns he sat down again. As he threw his head back in the
chair, his glance happened to rest upon a bell, a disused bell, that hung
in the room, and communicated, for some purpose now forgotten, with
a chamber in the highest story of the building. It was with great
astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that, as he looked,
he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly in the outset that it
scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every
bell in the house.
This might have lasted half a minute, or a minute, but it seemed an hour.
The bells ceased, as they had begun, together. They were succeeded by
a clanking noise, deep down below, as if some person were dragging a
heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant's cellar. Scrooge then
remembered to have heard that ghosts in haunted houses were
described as dragging chains.
The cellar door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the
noise much louder on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then
coming straight towards his door.
"It's humbug still!" said Scrooge. "I won't believe it."
His colour changed, though, when, without a pause, it came on through
the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its
coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "I know him!
Marley's Ghost!" and fell again.
The same face: the very same. Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat,
tights, and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and
his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was
clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail;
and it was made (for Scrooge observed it closely) of cash-boxes, keys,
padlocks, ledgers, deeds, and heavy purses wrought in steel. His body
was transparent; so that Scrooge, observing him, and looking through
his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had
never believed it until now.
No, nor did he believe it even now. Though he looked the phantom
through and through, and saw it standing before him; though he felt the
chilling influence of its death-cold eyes; and marked the very texture of
the folded kerchief bound about its head and chin, which wrapper he
had not observed before; he was still incredulous, and fought against
his senses.
"How now!" said Scrooge, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want
with me?"
"Much!"--Marley's voice, no doubt about it.
"Who are you?"
"Ask me who I was."
"Who were you, then?" said Scrooge, raising his voice. "You're
particular, for a shade." He was going to say "to a shade," but
substituted this, as more appropriate.
"In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley."
"Can you--can you sit down?" asked Scrooge, looking doubtfully at
him.
"I can."
"Do it, then."
Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so
transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt
that, in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity
of an embarrassing explanation. But the Ghost sat down on the opposite
side of the fire-place, as if he were quite used to it.
"You don't believe in me," observed the Ghost.

"I don't," said Scrooge.
"What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your own
senses?"
"I don't know," said Scrooge.
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight disorder
of the stomach makes them cheats. 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!"
Scrooge was not much in the habit of cracking jokes, nor did he feel in
his heart by any means waggish then. The truth is, that he tried to be
smart, as a means of distracting his own attention, and keeping down
his terror; for the