I'm Keith Morrison, and this is episode four of Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol. These days, we'd probably call Ebenees or Scrooge a hater. What else do you call a man who doesn't like babies or Christmas or people, really? That is, until the Ghost of Christmas passed and the Ghost of Christmas present got their hands on Scrooge, got him thinking about charity and kindness and what it means to be happy and to make others happy. But as we rejoin our story, Scrooge doesn't have time to think too hard about any of that. Because heading his way is something dark, and Scrooge is seized by a cold fear. The phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee, for in the very air through which this spirit moved, it seemed to scatter glue and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible, save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded. He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread.

He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved. Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas yet to come? Said Scrooge. The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand. You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened but will happen in the time before us, Scrooge pursued. Is that so, Spirit? The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received. Though well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment as observing his condition and giving him time to recover. But Scrooge was all the worst for this. It thrilled him with a vague, uncertain horror to know that behind the Dusty's Shrowd, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him. Well, he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of lack. Ghost of the future, he explained.

I fear you more than any specter 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 will do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me? It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them. Lead on, said Scrooge. Lead on. The night is waning fast and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit. The phantom moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along. They scarcely seemed to enter the city, for the city rather seemed to spring up about them and encompass them of its own act. But there they were in the heart of it amongst the merchants who hurried up and down and chinked the money in their pockets and converse in groups and looked at their watches and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals and so forth, as Scrooge had seen them often do. The spirit stopped beside one little knot of businessman.

Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk. No, said a great fat man with a monstrous chin. I don't know much about it either way. I only know he's dead. When did he die? Inquired another. Last night, I believe. What was the matter with him? Asked a third. Taking a great, vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff box. I thought he'd never die. God knows. Said the first with a yawn. What has he done with his money? Asked a red-faced gentleman. I haven't heard, said the man with the large chin, yawning again, left it to his company, perhaps. He doesn't left it to me. That's all I know. This pleasantry was received with a general laugh. It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, said the same speaker, For upon my life, I don't know of anybody to go to it. Speakers and listeners strolled away and mixed with other groups. Scrooge knew the man and looked towards the spirit for an explanation. The phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two-person's meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here.

He knew these men also perfectly. They were men of business, very wealthy and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem, in a business point of view that is strictly on a business point of view. How are you? Said one. How are you? Returned the other. Well, said the first. Old Scratch has got his own at last, eh? So I'm told, returned the second. Cold, isn't it? Seasonable for Christmas time. You're not a skater, I suppose. No, something else to think of. The morning. Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their partying. Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the spirits should attach importance to conversations apparently so trivial. But feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was past, and this Ghost's province was the future. Nor could he think of anyone immediately connected with himself to whom he could apply them. He resolved to treasure up every word he heard and everything he saw, and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared, for he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him the clue he missed and would render the solution to these riddles easy.

He looked about in that very place for his own image. But another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the porch. It gave him little surprise, however, for he had been resolving in his mind a change of life and thought and hoped he saw his newborn resolutions carried out in this. Quiet and dark beside him stood the phantom with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand and its situation in reference to himself that the unseen eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder and feel very cold.

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The Ghost of Christmas to come has shown Scrooge a glimpse of his own future. So much of it is familiar, the gossiping man of business, the city streets. But the dead man, he can't make sense of that or doesn't want to. As you'll hear, the ghost is far from done with Scrooge yet. Here is the writing of Charles Dickens once again. They left the busy scene and went into an obscure part of the town where Scrooge had never penetrated before, though he recognized its situation and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow, the shops and houses wretched, the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alley and archways like so many cesspools discord their offenses of smell and dirt and life on the straggling streets, and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, misery. Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed beatling shop below a penthouse roof where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy, awful were bought. Upon the floor within were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Sitting in amongst the wares he dealt in by a charcoal stove made of old bricks, was a gray haired rascal, nearly 70 years of age, who had screened himself from the cold air without by a frowzy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters, hung upon a line, and smoked his pipe in the luxury of calm retirement.

Scrooge and the Phantom came into the presence of this man just as a woman with a heavy bundle slunk into the shop. But she had scarcely entered when another woman similarly-laden came in too, and she was closely followed by a man in faded black who was no less startled by the sight of them than they had been upon the recognition of each other. After a short period of blank astonishment in which the old man with the pipe had joined them. The all three burst into a laugh. Look here, old Joe. Here's a chance. If we haven't all three met here without meaning it, cried she who had entered first. You couldn't have met in a better place, said old Joe, removing his pipe from his mouth, come into the parlor. The old man raked the fire together with an old stair rod and having trimmed his smoky lamp, for it was night with the stem of his pipe, put it in his mouth again. Well, he did this. The woman who had already spoken threw her bundle on the floor and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool, crossing her elbows on her knees and looking with a bold defiance of the other two.

What odds then? What odds, Mrs. Dielber? Said the woman. Every person has a right to take care of themselves. He always did. Who's the worst for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose. No, indeed, said Mrs. Dielber, laughing. If he wanted to keep him after he was dead, wicked old miser pursued the woman, why wasn't he kinder in his lifetime? 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 beside himself. It's the truest word that was ever spoke, said Mrs. Dylbert. It's a judgment on him. I wish it was a little heavier judgment, replied the woman, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, old and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid for them to 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. But the gallatory of her friends would not allow this.

And the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A seal or two, a pencil case, a pair of sleeve buttons, and a brooch of no great value were all. They were several examined and appraised by old Joe, who chalked the sums he was disposed to give for each upon the wall and added them up to a total when he found there was nothing more to come. That's your account, said Joe, and I wouldn't give another six pence if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who's next? Mrs. Dielber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two old fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of sugar tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner. And now undo my bundle, Joe, said the first woman. Joe went down on his knees for the greater convenience of opening it, and having unfastened a great many knots, dragged out a large and heavy roll of some dark stuff. What do you call this? Said Joe, bed curtains. I returned the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. Bed curtains.

You don't mean to say you took him down, rings and all with him lying there? Said Joe. Yes, I do, replied the woman. Why not? You were born to make your fortune, said Joe, and you'll certainly do it. I certainly shant stay my hand for the sake of such a man as he was. I promise you, Joe, returned the woman coolly. Don't drop that oil upon the blankets now. His blankets? Asked Joe. Who else do you think?, replied the woman. He isn't likely to take cold without him, I dare say. I hope he didn't die of anything catching, eh? Said old Joe, stopping his work and looking up. Don't you be afraid of that? Returned the woman. Yeah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it, not a threadbear place. It's the best one he had and a fine one too. They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me. What do you call wasting of it? Asked old Joe. Putting it on him to be buried in, replied the woman with a laugh. Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again.

Scrooge listened to this dialog in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust which could hardly have been greater though they had been obscene demons marketing the itself. Laughed the same woman when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out the several gains upon the ground. This was the end of it, you see. He frightened everyone away from him when was alive to profit us when he was dead. Spirit, said Scrooge, shuddering from head to foot. I see. I see the case of this unhappy man might be my own. My life tends that way now. Merciful heaven, what is this? He recoiled in terror, for the scene had changed, and now he almost touched a bed, a bare, uncurtained bed, on which beneath a ragged sheet there lay something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language. The room was very dark, too dark to be observed with any accuracy. Though Scrooge glanced about it in obedience to a secret impulse, anxious to know what room it was. A pale light rising in the outer air fell straight upon the bed and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwep, uncared for, was the body of this man.

Scrooge glanced toward the phantom. Its steady hand was pointed to the head. The cover was so carelessly adjusted that the slightest raising of it, the motion of a finger upon Scrooge's part would have disclosed the face. He thought of it, felt how easy it would be to do, and long to do it, but had no more power to withdraw the veil than to dismiss the specter at his side. Spirit, he said, This is a fearful place. In leaving it, I shall not leave its lesson. Trust me, let us go. Still, the Spirit pointed with an unmoved finger to the head. I understand you, Scrooge returned, and I would do it if I could. But I have not the power, Spirit. I have not the power. If there's any person in the town who feels emotion caused by this man's death, said Scrooge, quite agonized, show that person to me, Spirit. I beseech you.

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Wherever you get your podcasts. The sight of a dead man, unmourned, robbed of his blankets and shirt, has left Scrooge on board. As we return to our tale, he begs the Coast to show him someone who cares that the man is dead. And there is someone, but not the way Scrooge expects. The phantom spread its dark robe before him for a moment like a wing, and withdrawing it revealed a room by daylight where a mother and her children were. She was expecting someone, and with anxious eagerness, for she walked up and down the room, started at every sound, looked out from the window, glanced at the clock, tried but in vain to work with her needle, and could hardly bear the voices of the children in their play. At length, the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door and met her husband, a man whose face was careworn and depressed though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now, a serious delight of which he felt ashamed, in which he struggled to repress. He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire. And when she asked him faintly what news, which was not until after a long silence, he appeared embarrassed how to answer.

Is it good, she said, or bad to help him? Bad, he answered. We are quite ruined. No, there is hope yet, Caroline. If he relents, she said, amazed, there is. Nothing is past hope if such a miracle has happened. He is past relenting, said her husband. He is dead. She was a mild and patient creature if her face spoke truth, but she was thankful in her soul to hear it, and she said so with clasped hands. She prayed forgiveness in the next moment and was sorry, but the first was the emotion of her heart. To whom will our debt be transferred? I don't know. But before that time, we shall be ready with the money. And even though we were not, it would be a bad fortune indeed to find so merciless a creditor in his successor. We may sleep tonight with light hearts, Caroline. Yes, soften it as they would. Their hearts were lighter. The children's faces hushed and clustered round to hear what they so little understood were brighter, and it was a happier house for this man's death. The only emotion that the ghosts could show him, caused by the event, was one of pleasure.

Let me see some tenderness connected with the death, said Scrooge, or that dark chamber spirit which we left just now will be forever present to me. The ghost conducted him through several streets, familiar to his feet. And as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Cratchett's house, the dwelling he had visited before, and found the mother and the children seated around the fire, quiet, very quiet. The noisy little Cratchett's were as still as statues in one corner and sat looking up at Peter, who had a book before him. The mother and her daughters were engaged in sewing, but surely they were very quiet. The mother laid her work upon the table and put her hand up to her face. The color hurts my eyes, she said. The color? Oh, poor, tiny Tim. They're better now again, said Cratchet's wife. It makes them weak by the light, and I wouldn't show weak eyes to your father when he comes home for the world. It must be near his time. Passed it, rather, Peter answered, shutting up his book. Then I think he has walked a little slower than he used to these past evenings, Mother.

They were very quiet again, and at last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice that only faltered once, I have known him walk with tiny Tim upon his shoulder very fast indeed. And so have I, cried Peter often, and so have I, slain to another and so have I. But he was very light to carry. She resumed to tend upon her work, and his father loved him so that it was no trouble, no trouble. And there is your father at the door. She hurried out to meet him, and little Bob, in his comforter, he had need of it, poor fellow, came in. His tea was ready for him on the stove, and they all tried who should help him to it most. Then the two young Cratchets got upon his knees and laid each child a little cheek against his face as if they said, Don't be minded, Father. Don't be grieved. Bob was very cheerful with them and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchett and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.

Sunday? You went today then, Robert? Said his wife. Yes, my dear return, Bob. I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you'll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on Sunday. My little little child, Gred Bob, my little child. He broke down all at once. He couldn't help it. They drew about to fire and talked. The girls and mother working still. Bob told them of the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Scrooge's nephew, whom he had scarcely seen but once, and who meeting him in the street that day and seeing that he looked a little just a little down, said Bob, inquired what had happened to distress him. On which, said Bob, for he is the pleasiest, spoken gentleman you have ever heard, I told him, I'm heartily sorry for it, Mr. Cratchett, he said, and heartily sorry for your good wife. If I can be of service to you in any way, he said, giving me his card, That's where I live, pray come to me. Now, it wasn't, cried Bob, for the sake of anything he might be able to do for us so much as for his kind way, and that was quite delightful.

It really seemed as if he had known our tiny Tim and felt with us. I'm sure he's a good soul, said Mrs. Cratchett. You would be sure of it, my dear, returned Bob, if you saw and spoke to him. I shouldn't be at all surprised, mark what I say. If he got Peter a better situation. Hold me here to that, Peter, said Mrs. Cratchet. And then, cried one of the girls, Peter will be keeping company with someone and setting up for himself. Get along with you, retorted Peter, Grinny. It's just as likely as not, said Bob, one of these days, though there's plenty of time for that, my dear. But however and whenever we part from one another, I am sure we shall none of us forget poor tiny Tim, shall we? Or this first parting that there was among us? Never, Father, cried they all. And I know, said Bob, I know, my dears, that when we recollect how patient and how mild he was, though he was little, a little child, we shall not quarrel easily among ourselves and forget poor, tiny Tim, and doing it. No, never, Father, they all cried again.

I'm very happy, said little Bob. I'm very happy. Mrs. Cratchett kissed him. His daughters kissed him. The two young Cratchett's kissed him, and Peter and himself shook hands. Specter, said Scrooge. Something informs me that our parting moment is at hand. I know it, but I know not how. Tell me what man that was whom we saw lying dead. The Ghost of Christmas yet to come conveyed him as before. This court, said Scrooge, through which we hurry now, is where my place of occupation is and has been for a length of time. I see the house. Let me behold what I shall be in days to come. The Spirit stopped. The hand was pointed elsewhere. The house is yonder, Scrooge exclaimed. Why do you point away? The inexorable finger underwent no change. Scrooge hastened to the window of his office and looked in. It was an office still, but not his. The furniture was not the same, and the figure in the chair was not himself. The phantom pointed as before. He joined it once again, and wondering why and whether he had gone, accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. He paused to look around before entering.

A churchyard. Here then, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place, walled in by houses overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetations, death, not life, choked up with too much burying, fat with repleted appetite, a worthy place. The Spirit stood among the graves. He stood across and pointed down to one. He advanced toward it, trembling. The phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape. Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point, said Scrooge, answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they the shadows of things that may be only? Still, the ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood. Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went, and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, Ebenezer Scrooge. Am I that man who lay upon the bed? He cried upon his knees. The finger pointed from the grave to him and back again. No, Spirit. Oh, no, no. The finger still was there.

Spirit, he cried, tight clutching at its robe. Hear me. I am not the man I was. Why show me this if I am past all hope? For the first time, the hand appeared to shake. Good spirit, he pursued. As down on the ground, he fell before it, your nature intercede for me and pities me. Assure me that I may yet change these shadows you have shown me by an altered life. The kind hand trembled. I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the past, the present, and the future. The spirits of all three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone. In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty and detained it. The Spirit, stronger still, repulsed him, holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed. He saw an alteration in the phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost. And so Charles Dickens slams the chapter shut on Scrooge as he lies in bed tormented by a vision of his own lonely death, desperate for a second chance that will not come.

Unless… Well, it is Christmas after all. Hey, guys. Willy Geist here reminding you to check out the Sunday Sitdown Podcast. On this week's episode, I get.

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