Disney''s a Christmas Carol

  Copyright © 2009 Disney/IMD

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number on file.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-1790-2

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Jacob Marley was dead.

  That much is certain. There will be points during this story when a reader might wonder if in fact he was still alive or perhaps if it was merely a rumor that he had died. But rest assured that Jacob Marley took his last living breath in London on Christmas Eve 1836.

  His lifeless body was laid to rest in a plain wooden coffin in a dank woodworking shop behind a mortuary. There were no flowers to brighten the mood, no somber organ music to mark the occasion, no friends or family sobbing at the loss of the dearly departed. The only ones in attendance were a dour undertaker, his young apprentice, and Marley’s longtime business partner, Ebenezer Scrooge.

  It is worth noting that in this very cold and dark room, on a snowy winter’s day, there was nothing as cold and dark as the heart that beat inside Ebenezer Scrooge. As he looked down at the corpse of the man who had been his partner for as long as anyone could remember, there was no emotion or sense of loss.

  If anything, Scrooge seemed annoyed at the necessity of having to come down to identify the body and serve as a witness at the funeral.

  Marley’s bony hands were folded just above his waist, his thinning hair had been pulled back, and his tiny spectacles rested on his pale, colorless forehead. He looked as if he might be asleep—except for two very notable exceptions. The first was the bandage that ran under his chin and was tied at the top of his head. This was not because of any wound or injury. It was to keep Marley’s face from contorting in death. The second was the fact that, as was the custom, a copper penny had been placed on each of Marley’s cold, dead eyes.

  “Yes,” Scrooge said with no hint of sadness in his voice. “Quite dead. As a doornail.”

  Scrooge looked out the open door and saw a team of black horses hitched to a gleaming black hearse. Steam continuously flowed from their nostrils into the cold December air. They would carry Marley’s body to its final resting place.

  Scrooge could scarcely entertain the thought that Marley might still impact his life from the grave. In fact, all he was thinking about was the waste of money this extravagance represented. To his figuring, a simple wagon with a single horse could have done the job for less money.

  Although Scrooge had no warmth in his heart for his dead partner, or for any living person for that matter, there was one thing he loved: money. His entire life had been dedicated to earning and holding on to as much money as possible. He was very good at it and had become a wealthy man.

  He also begrudged every penny that left his greedy fingers. That explained why Jacob Marley’s funeral was taking place in a woodworking shop surrounded by half-finished cabinets and barrels rather than in a funeral home.

  There was no minister with a sermon, and Scrooge was not about to give a eulogy, so the only official duty that needed to be attended to was the signing of the death certificate. The undertaker handed the document to Scrooge, who examined it carefully before scrawling his wretched signature across the line marked Executor.

  When he handed the document back to the undertaker, Ebenezer had an uneasy look about his face. Something was upsetting him. This emotion, however, had nothing to do with the passing of Jacob Marley and everything to do with the passing of money from him to the undertaker. His craggy fingers reached into his purse and painfully pulled out three coins to pay the man.

  Oh, what a tightfisted, squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner this Scrooge was! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck a spark of warmth. This cold within him froze his features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheeks and made his eyes red and his lips blue.

  Those thin, blue lips were closed as tight as his purse as he handed the money to the undertaker. They remained that way until the young apprentice started to close the lid on the coffin.

  “Stop! You fool!” Scrooge barked.

  Both the undertaker and his apprentice stepped back. They thought that maybe this horrid man was finally ready to show an appropriate emotion. They wondered if he wanted to take one last look at his friend. Maybe he wanted to whisper some earthly farewell.

  Scrooge sneered at them in disgust, reached over and plucked the copper pennies off the dead man’s eyes.

  The two men watching him gasped, but Scrooge cared not one bit. He slipped the money into his purse and turned his cold red eyes toward theirs.

  “Tuppence,” he said, using the English term for two pennies, “is tuppence!”

  Scrooge did not even give his dead partner a final look! He just turned and went out into the snowy afternoon.

  As Scrooge walked back to his office, he was surrounded by the sights and sounds of the holiday. Green garlands and Christmas wreaths hung in every doorway. Last-minute shoppers and street vendors crowded the narrow cobblestoned streets. Children and carolers assaulted his pointy ears with their joyous laughter and singing.

  It was almost more than he could bear.

  He saw two young boys secretly grab hold of the back of a passing carriage. It pulled them along the icy bricks as if they were on skates. They were as happy as could be at their little game, but Scrooge just shook his head in disgust.

  “Delinquents!” he muttered as he continued his trek along Whitechapel High Street.

  If Scrooge hadn’t been in such a hurry to get back to his office and earn some more money, he might have noticed an amazing occurrence. Despite the fact that Whitechapel was the poorest section of London, the people were surprisingly happy. They didn’t have much, but the spirit of Christmas had moved them to celebrate what was good in their lives.

  Although Scrooge undoubtedly had more money than any of the people he pushed by that Christmas Eve, he was also the least happy.

  It is no coincidence that the word miser, which is used to describe someone who is stingy with his money, also contains the first five letters of the word miserable. Both of these words described Ebenezer Scrooge.

  But what did he care? He liked to edge his way along the crowded paths of life, his cold, heartless eyes warning everybody to keep their distance. It would take much more than the spirit of Christmas joy to warm the heart of Ebenezer Scrooge.

  And, for the next seven years, no one even tried.

  It was seven years to the day since Jacob Marley had died, and Ebenezer Scrooge had not changed one bit. He still only cared about money, and he still detested the happy people walking up and down the streets wishing one another a Merry Christmas. Not even the weathered sign outside his office had changed. Despite the fact that his partner had long been in the grave, it continued to read: scrooge and marley.

  He hadn’t kept both names on the sign as some sort of tribute to or remembrance of Marley. He simply refused to spend the money it would have cost to have a new sign made.

  Scrooge and Marley was a countinghouse, a business that traded and loaned money. Scrooge’s fortune was earned through the troubles of others. In moments of emergency or great need, businesses
and people came to him to borrow money. He loaned it under the condition that in addition to repaying the loan, they also paid an exorbitant fee.

  Times were hard, which meant that business was good. Scrooge’s company was very successful. But none of those profits had been used to improve the looks and conditions of the bleak and dreary offices.

  On this Christmas Eve, Ebenezer was hunched over the desk in his darkened room as he carefully counted the coins from an iron strongbox, a thick metal box that he used to hold and protect his money. While he did, he made notations in a ledger book that tracked each and every penny that passed through the company.

  He always kept his office door open so that he could keep a watchful eye on his one employee, a clerk named Bob Cratchit.

  Cratchit was the opposite of his boss in almost every way. While the old man was rich and kept his riches for himself, the clerk used his meager salary to support his loving wife and children. His mood was also very different from Scrooge’s. He was kind and friendly and usually had a bright smile on his round face.

  This Christmas Eve, however, his teeth were too busy chattering to smile. The countinghouse was so cold that the ink in his inkwell had frozen solid. In order to make a mark on his ledger, Cratchit had to hold the tip of his quill pen over a candle to warm it enough to melt a spot of ink.

  There was a heating stove by Cratchit’s desk, but it offered no warmth. Scrooge only allowed him to burn a single lump of coal at a time. It scarcely provided the slightest bit of heat.

  Cratchit looked at it and saw that it was barely glowing.

  Cratchit desperately wanted to pull a few more pieces from the coal box inside Scrooge’s office, but he knew that it was pointless to even wish for such things. Ebenezer kept the box locked and hung the key from his belt. If Cratchit wanted any warmth, the best he could do was to rub his hands over the small candle on his desk.

  When a sudden gust of wind caused the flame to flicker, Cratchit turned to see the door swing open. It was Scrooge’s nephew, Fred, whose cheerful voice boomed a greeting as he closed the door behind him. “A merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!”

  At first glance, it was hard to imagine that Fred and Scrooge were related in any way. The young man was tall and handsome with a ruddy complexion, his face red from having walked through the cold.

  Despite the lively entrance, Ebenezer barely looked up from his desk. “Bah, humbug!” he spat out as he continued his counting.

  “Christmas a humbug?” Fred laughed. “Uncle, you don’t mean that!”

  Scrooge momentarily stopped his counting and looked up at his nephew. “Merry Christmas,” he muttered. “What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

  Fred shook his head in disbelief. “What right have you to be so dismal?” he retorted. “You’re rich enough!”

  Scrooge didn’t know what to say to this, so he resorted to his favorite term. “Humbug!”

  Fred was determined to cheer his uncle. “Don’t be cross,” he said as he walked over to his desk.

  Scrooge would have none of it. “What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools as this?” he asked. “Merry Christmas? What’s Christmastime to you but a time for paying bills without money? A time for finding yourself a year older and not a penny richer?!”

  To emphasize his point, Ebenezer waved a ruler at his nephew. “If I could work my will,” he said, his voice filling with anger, “every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”

  “Uncle!” Fred cried. Even for Scrooge this was mean-spirited.

  “Keep Christmas in your own way,” the old man continued. “And let me keep it in mine.”

  “But you don’t keep it.”

  “Let me leave it alone then,” Scrooge replied. “Much good it has ever done you.”

  Fred grabbed hold of his lapels as if he were giving an important speech. “There are many things from which I have derived good and have not profited. Christmas being among them,” he proclaimed. “But I’ve always thought of Christmas as a kind, charitable time when men open their shut-up hearts and think of all people as fellow travelers to the grave and not some other race of creatures bound on other journeys. Therefore, Uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pockets, I believe it has done me good, and I say, God bless it!”

  Bob Cratchit was so impressed with Fred’s little speech that he couldn’t help but burst into applause.

  Scrooge spun around and waved his ruler at Cratchit. “Let me hear another sound out of you,” he warned the clerk, “and you’ll keep Christmas by losing your situation.”

  Cratchit tried to look innocent. He quickly stumbled off his stool and poked at the lone lump of coal in his stove.

  Scrooge snickered and turned back to Fred. “You’re quite a powerful speaker,” he taunted. “It’s a wonder you don’t go into Parliament.”

  “Don’t be angry, Uncle,” Fred begged him. “Come, dine with us tomorrow.”

  Scrooge narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the young man. “I’ll see you in hell first.”

  Cratchit couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Neither could Fred. But rather than anger he only felt sorrow for his uncle.

  “Why so coldhearted?” he asked.

  “Good afternoon,” Scrooge said, dismissing him.

  “I want nothing from you,” Fred said, unwilling to budge. “I ask nothing of you. Why can’t we be friends?”

  “Good afternoon,” Scrooge said, turning back to his work.

  Fred merely shook his head. “I’m sorry with all my heart to find you so resolute,” he said. “But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas. Therefore, a merry Christmas, Uncle! And a happy New Year!”

  “Good afternoon!” Scrooge said for the final time.

  On his way out the door, Fred stopped by Cratchit’s desk and shook the clerk’s hand.

  “A very merry Christmas to you, Mr. Cratchit.”

  “And merry Christmas to you, sir,” Cratchit replied with a hearty smile.

  Upon hearing this, Scrooge stopped counting and looked up at his employee. “There’s another one,” he said, scowling. “A clerk making fifteen shillings a week, and with a wife and family, talking about a merry Christmas.”

  The smile quickly disappeared from Cratchit’s face and he went to latch the door behind Fred. Before he could, two portly men came in carrying books and papers.

  “Good afternoon,” one of them said as he checked a list he was carrying. “Scrooge and Marley’s, I believe?”

  Cratchit pointed toward Scrooge’s office. They took off their hats and presented Scrooge with credentials that showed that they worked for charity.

  “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr.

  Scrooge or Mr. Marley?” asked one of the men.

  Scrooge hardly looked up from his work. “Mr. Marley has been dead these seven years,” he said with a scowl. “He died seven years ago this very night.”

  The man nodded solemnly. “We have no doubt his generosity is well represented by his surviving partner,” the man replied.

  “At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute. Many thousands are in want of common comforts,” he said, hoping that Scrooge would donate to their good charity.

  He had no idea what kind of man he was dealing with.

  Scrooge narrowed his unforgiving eyes. “Are there no prisons?” he asked.

  The men weren’t sure what he meant by that. “Plenty of prisons,” one replied.

  “And the union workhouses,” Scrooge continued, referring to the dreadful institutions where those who were too poor to support themselves were forced to live. “Are they still in operation?”

  “They are,” the other man answered. “I wish I could say they were not.”

  “Good!” Scrooge said, feeling that prisons and inst
itutions were all the poor deserved. “I was afraid something had occurred to stop them in their useful course.”

  The two men exchanged a worried look.

  “At this festive season,” one responded, “a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the poor some meat and drink and means of warmth. What can we put you down for?”

  “Nothing!” Scrooge spat. “I can’t afford to make idle people merry! I support the establishments I have mentioned, and those who are badly off must go there.”

  “Many can’t go there,” the other man tried to reason. “And many would rather die.”

  This brought a smile to Scrooge’s face. “Then they had better do it,” he told them. “And decrease the surplus population! Good afternoon, gentlemen!”

  The two men exchanged horrified looks and quickly left the countinghouse. There were no more disturbances for the remaining hours, and not a word was spoken until it was time to close up shop.

  “You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose,” Scrooge sneered, angered at the mere idea of having to give the clerk a day off for Christmas.

  Cratchit gulped. “If quite convenient, sir.”

  Scrooge shook his head. “It’s not convenient, and it’s not fair,” he replied.

  “It’s only once a year, sir,” Cratchit said hopefully.

  “A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December,” Scrooge said as he put away his ledger book and pulled on his coat. “But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here earlier the next morning.”

  Cratchit quietly put out his candle, arranged his desk, and headed for the door. He watched as Scrooge carefully triple-locked the door and turned to walk home. Only when the old man had started up the street one way did Cratchit run off in the opposite direction.

  In a matter of seconds, the clerk weaved through the crowds of people like a happy child excited about the holiday. Around the corner he came across a group of children taking turns sliding down an icy hill.

  “In honor of Christmas Eve,” he announced as he joined them. He tried to slide down the hill carefully, but quickly picked up speed, lost his balance, and fell on his bottom. The children erupted in cheers and laughter.