A Christmas without Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol seems unthinkable, and therefore it’s eminently appropriate that this Penguin Books edition of A Christmas Carol and Other Christmas Writings by Dickens is introduced with the well-known anecdote of how a child in London responded to the news of Dickens’s 1870 passing - by crying out, “Dickens dead? Then will Father Christmas die too?” The great British novelist’s influence on how people around the world think about the Christmas holiday remains just as strong today as it was when A Christmas Carol was first published in 1842.
As Michael Slater of the University of London points out in a perceptive foreword, Dickens associated his writings about Christmas with the importance of memory, including the remembrance of loss. Additionally, Dickens achieved the neat trick of linking the holiday with Christian ideals of charity while avoiding any overt expressions of religious ideology that could be mistaken for sectarianism. That recipe for tempered holiday cheer has been charming readers for over 170 years now.
What makes this edition of A Christmas Carol a particularly good Christmas present for any thoughtful reader, and God bless us every one, is the way in which this edition situates A Christmas Carol within the larger context of Dickens’s writings about Christmas generally. The presence of these other writings reminds one that A Christmas Carol was neither the first nor the last time that Charles Dickens wrote about the Christmas holiday.
This Christmas collection proceeds chronologically, and begins with a brief 1835 newspaper sketch titled “Christmas Festivities.” The sketch is relatively general in nature, but looks ahead to A Christmas Carol in Dickens’s assertion that “That man must be a misanthrope indeed in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused – in whose mind some pleasant associations are not awakened – by the recurrence of Christmas” (p. 1) – a descriptor that could remind many readers of Ebenezer Scrooge.
The story that follows, “The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton,” is one that you may already have if you own a copy of Dickens’s first novel, The Pickwick Papers (1837), in which the story appears as Chapter 28. In its depiction of a mean-spirited sexton named Gabriel Grub (good Dickensian name, that) whose abduction by goblins late one Christmas Eve results in dramatic changes to his life and character, one sees a foreshadowing of the basic plotline of A Christmas Carol.
This first of Dickens’s ghost stories of Christmas is followed by what is described as “A Christmas Episode from Master Humphrey’s Clock,” the 1840-41 periodical for which Dickens was author and sole contributor. This concise episode looks ahead to A Christmas Carol in the way it depicts its narrator observing a lone diner in a tavern at Christmas, befriending him, and helping that stricken and lonely soul to move forward from the paralysis of grief with which “His mind was wandering among old Christmas Days” (p. 22).
And then there is A Christmas Carol itself. I have read it a number of times before, but a number of facets of the story stood out to me this time. First is the story’s brevity – 85 pages, in this edition. No wonder some of the “stand-alone” printings of A Christmas Carol have had to resort to expedients such as large type fonts and wide margins in order to extend the story to something seeming more like modern book length.
The story’s brevity has no doubt also contributed to the manner in which generations of filmmakers have been drawn to it; the Internet Movie Database lists over 200 Christmas Carol movies and TV episodes, including versions that feature the Muppets, Mr. Magoo, Mickey Mouse, the Smurfs, Barbie, the Flintstones, Dora the Explorer, Bugs Bunny, and the Jetsons, not to mention Christmas Carol-themed episodes of The Love Boat, Family Ties, and The Six Million Dollar Man. Indeed, it’s amazing that A Christmas Carol has survived all that so-often-uninspired adaptation.
It survives because it’s a great story, one that draws its characters quickly and economically. On my first reading of A Christmas Carol, many years ago, I was not over-optimistic at the story’s beginning, particularly when the narrator requires the whole first paragraph to inform the reader that Jacob Marley is dead, and the entire second paragraph to expatiate on the possible reasons for the existence of the phrase “dead as a doornail.” But from that point forward, the story moves forward like Yuletide gangbusters.
I find Scrooge to be more human and more believable than the cartoonish caricature of many of the adaptations. One mistake that many readers make is to think of Scrooge as a one-dimensional archetype of greed -- someone we can comfortably distance ourselves from, telling ourselves, "I could never be like that." The film adaptations usually make that mistake, too; as far as I'm concerned, Alastair Sim in the 1951 film adaptation and George C. Scott in the 1984 TV-movie are the only actors who've really gotten the character right. Scrooge is a man who became bitter and emotionally dead only by degrees. His anxiety that "There is nothing on which [the world] is so hard as poverty" (p. 65) has misled him, along a cold and lonely life path. How many of us, if we looked at our lives honestly, might not find ourselves somewhere along that grim continuum?
Consider, in that regard, the scene in which, the evening before his hauntings begin, Scrooge is shown taking some gruel. Film versions of A Christmas Carol conventionally treat that moment as if Scrooge is actually eating gruel for dinner, so that we can be knowing and superior while thinking, “What a cheapskate.” In fact, however, Scrooge has already taken “his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern” (p. 41), and is eating the gruel only because he “had a cold in his head” (p. 43). How many busy businesspeople today, here in this 21st-century Christmas season, took a melancholy dinner in a melancholy tavern last night – think of your least-favorite national chain restaurant, one of those that serve the oddly-coloured mixed drinks – and followed it up at home with their own favorite head-cold remedy, purchased perhaps at CVS or Walgreens? Perhaps there is more of Scrooge in all of us than many of us would care to admit.
Dickens's Christian-humanist ethic is on abundant display throughout A Christmas Carol, and is perhaps displayed most memorably in the scene from Stave One, "Marley's Ghost," when the ghost of Jacob Marley has just informed Scrooge of the impending visits of three Christmas Ghosts, and has then “floated out upon the bleak, dark night” (p. 52). Scrooge, “desperate in his curiosity”, looks out the window, and here is what he sees:
“The air filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. Every one of them wore chains like Marley's Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever.” (p. 52)
I find that passage to be one of the most powerful depictions of hell in all of literature. Dantean portrayals of Hadean cruelty have never done much for me; in such a moral system, the only reason for following the rules is in order to stay out of the cosmic equivalent of a medieval torture chamber or a Nazi death camp. But the idea that one day, our eyes could be opened, truly opened, to the evil we have done and the good we can no longer do? Terrifying. Fundamentally and existentially terrifying.
Dickens scholar Slater’s notes for the story are also helpful. I learned, for example, that when Dickens uses the phrase “the wisdom of our ancestors” early in the story, he is poking fun at Tory phraseology and policies of his time. Similarly, consider the famous moment from Stave Three when the Ghost of Christmas Present opens his green robe to reveal two hideous children. In the quoted passage below, I am boldfacing the passages that most adaptors of the story leave out:
“ ‘They are Man's,’ said the Spirit, looking down upon them. ‘And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!’ cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand toward the city. ‘Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And bide the end!’’ (p. 94)
As a footnote by Slater helpfully explains, this passage is not simply an all-purpose reminder that ignorance and want are bad things. Rather, the passage provides "A glance at something that always enraged Dickens, the delay in the reform of provisions for public education because of sectarian disputes about the nature of the religious instruction to be provided" (p. 280). This edition of A Christmas Carol is rich in contextual explanations of this kind, all of which help one look at Dickens's classic Christmas novella in new ways.
At the same time, in looking at all these subtle features of the story, I do not want to neglect Bob Cratchit, Tiny Tim, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come – all those features that have helped A Christmas Carol to live for generations of readers. It is a great story, pure and simple. And every time we read it, we behold Scrooge's transformation and reclamation, and hope for our own.
The subsequent Christmas stories and tales in this volume show that Dickens continued to return to the Christmas holiday as a subject, if not always with the same degree of success that he achieved in A Christmas Carol. The novella The Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain (1848) engages an interesting philosophical concept – that it is our memories of sorrow and loss that make us capable of compassion – but it is neither as concise nor as successful as A Christmas Carol. There is much that is interesting in the story’s account of the chemist Redlaw, who willingly accepts a phantom’s Christmastime offer to relieve him of his sad memories, only to find that in the process he has lost all that is good in his humanity, and that his malady of emotional death spreads to everyone he encounters – but it’s slow-paced and generally grim, like much of Dombey and Son (1848), the novel that Dickens was working on at the same time.
“A Christmas Tree” (1850) is a delightful essay in which Dickens evokes powerfully the way in which the ordinary toys and decorations of Christmastime can be strongly evocative of multiple layers of memory. “What Christmas Is, as We Grow Older” (1851) is a somewhat somber examination of how the meaning of the Christmas holiday changes, in some ways, and remains consistent in others, as people we love go before us, leaving us to observe future Christmases without them. And “The Seven Poor Travellers” (1854) provides a striking look at a Christmastime visit to a hostel in Dickens’s hometown of Rochester, Kent; founded by the bequest of a 16th-century nobleman, the hostel provides one night’s lodging to six poor travelers. Dickens makes himself a seventh of these poor travelers, and arranges a Christmas evening’s entertainment for them.
A Christmas Carol is the centerpiece of these Dickensian Christmas tales, as it should be; but this very fine volume shows where A Christmas Carol came from, and where it fits within Charles Dickens’s literary treatments of the holiday that would forever after be identified with him. I encourage you to make this edition of A Christmas Carol a part of your future Christmas celebrations.