Dickens at Christmas (Vintage Classics)

by Charles Dickens

  Bewildered by the host of shifting and extraordinary figures, as well as by the uproar of the Bells, which all this while were ringing, Trotty clung to a wooden pillar for support, and turned his white face here and there, in mute and stunned astonishment.

  As he gazed, the Chimes stopped. Instantaneous change! The whole swarm fainted; their forms collapsed, their speed deserted them; they sought to fly, but in the act of falling died and melted into air. No fresh supply succeeded them. One straggler leaped down pretty briskly from the surface of the Great Bell, and alighted on his feet, but he was dead and gone before he could turn round. Some few of the late company who had gambolled in the tower, remained there, spinning over and over a little longer; but these became at every turn more faint, and few, and feeble, and soon went the way of the rest. The last of all was one small hunchback, who had got into an echoing corner, where he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a long time; showing such perseverance, that at last he dwindled to a leg and even to a foot, before he finally retired; but he vanished in the end, and then the tower was silent.

  Then and not before, did Trotty see in every Bell a bearded figure of the bulk and stature of the Bell – incomprehensibly, a figure and the Bell itself. Gigantic, grave, and darkly watchful of him, as he stood rooted to the ground.

  Mysterious and awful figures! Resting on nothing; poised in the night air of the tower, with their draped and hooded heads merged in the dim roof; motionless and shadowy. Shadowy and dark, although he saw them by some light belonging to themselves – none else was there – each with its muffled hand upon its goblin mouth.

  He could not plunge down wildly through the opening in the floor, for all power of motion had deserted him. Otherwise he would have done so – aye, would have thrown himself, head-foremost, from the steeple-top, rather than have seen them watching him with eyes that would have waked and watched although the pupils had been taken out.

  Again, again, the dread and terror of the lonely place, and of the wild and fearful night that reigned there, touched him like a spectral hand. His distance from all help; the long, dark, winding, ghost-beleaguered way that lay between him and the earth on which men lived; his being high, high, high, up there, where it had made him dizzy to see the birds fly in the day; cut off from all good people, who at such an hour were safe at home and sleeping in their beds; all this struck coldly through him, not as a reflection but a bodily sensation. Meantime his eyes and thoughts and fears, were fixed upon the watchful figures; which, rendered unlike any figures of this world by the deep gloom and shade enwrapping and enfolding them, as well as by their looks and forms and supernatural hovering above the floor, were nevertheless as plainly to be seen as were the stalwart oaken frames, cross-pieces, bars and beams, set up there to support the Bells. These hemmed them, in a very forest of hewn timber; from the entanglements, intricacies, and depths of which, as from among the boughs of a dead wood blighted for their Phantom use, they kept their darksome and unwinking watch.

  A blast of air – how cold and shrill! – came moaning through the tower. As it died away, the great Bell, or the Goblin of the Great Bell, spoke.

  ‘What visitor is this!’ it said. The voice was low and deep, and Trotty fancied that it sounded in the other figures as well.

  ‘I thought my name was called by the Chimes!’ said Trotty, raising his hands in an attitude of supplication. ‘I hardly know why I am here, or how I came. I have listened to the Chimes these many years. They have cheered me often.’

  ‘And have you thanked them?’ said the Bell.

  ‘A thousand times!’ said Trotty.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I am a poor man,’ faltered Trotty, ‘and could only thank them in words.’

  ‘And always so?’ inquired the Goblin of the Bell. ‘Have you never done us wrong in words?’

  ‘No!’ cried Trotty eagerly.

  ‘Never done us foul, and false, and wicked wrong, in words?’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell.

  Trotty was about to answer, ‘Never!’ But he stopped, and was confused.

  ‘The voice of Time,’ said the Phantom, ‘cries to man, Advance! Time is for his advancement and improvement; for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his better life; his progress onward to that goal within its knowledge and its view, and set there, in the period when Time and He began. Ages of darkness, wickedness, and violence, have come and gone: millions uncountable, have suffered, lived, and died: to point the way Before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him on his course, arrests a mighty engine which will strike the meddler dead; and be the fiercer and the wilder, ever, for its momentary check!’

  ‘I never did so to my knowledge, Sir,’ said Trotty. ‘It was quite by accident if I did. I wouldn’t go to do it, I’m sure.’

  ‘Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its servants,’ said the Goblin of the Bell, ‘a cry of lamentation for days which have had their trial and their failure, and have left deep traces of it which the blind may see – a cry that only serves the Present Time, by showing men how much it needs their help when any ears can listen to regrets for such a Past – who does this, does a wrong. And you have done that wrong to us, the Chimes.’

  Trotty’s first excess of fear was gone. But he had felt tenderly and gratefully towards the Bells, as you have seen; and when he heard himself arraigned as one who had offended them so weightily, his heart was touched with penitence and grief.

  ‘If you knew,’ said Trotty, clasping his hands earnestly – ‘or perhaps you do know – if you know how often you have kept me company; how often you have cheered me up when I’ve been low; how you were quite the plaything of my little daughter Meg (almost the only one she ever had) when first her mother died, and she and me were left alone – you won’t bear malice for a hasty word!’

  ‘Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern regard, of any hope, or joy, or pain, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither; does us wrong. That wrong you have done us!’ said the Bell.

  ‘I have!’ said Trotty. ‘Oh forgive me!’

  ‘Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth: the Putters Down of crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive,’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell: ‘who does so, does us wrong. And you have done us wrong!’

  ‘Not meaning it,’ said Trotty. ‘In my ignorance. Not meaning it!’

  ‘Lastly, and most of all,’ pursued the Bell. ‘Who turns his back upon the fallen and disfigured of his kind; abandons them as Vile; and does not trace and track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by which they fell from Good – grasping in their fall some tufts and shreds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still when bruised and dying in the gulf below; does wrong to Heaven and Man, to Time and to Eternity. And you have done that wrong!’

  ‘Spare me,’ cried Trotty, falling on his knees; ‘for Mercy’s sake!’

  ‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

  ‘Listen!’ cried the other Shadows.

  ‘Listen!’ said a clear and child-like voice, which Trotty thought he recognised as having heard before.

  The organ sounded faintly in the church below. Swelling by degrees, the melody ascended to the roof, and filled the choir and nave. Expanding more and more, it rose up, up; up, up; higher, higher, higher up; awakening agitated hearts within the burly piles of oak, the hollow bells, the iron-bound doors, the stairs of solid stone; until the tower walls were insufficient to contain it, and it soared into the sky.

  No wonder that an old man’s breast could not contain a sound so vast and mighty. It broke from that weak prison in a rush of tears; and Trotty put his hands before his face.

  ‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

  ‘Listen!’ said the other Shadows.

  ‘Listen!’ said the child’s voice.


  A solemn strain of blended voices, rose into the tower.

  It was a very low and mournful strain: a Dirge: and as he listened, Trotty heard his child among the singers.

  ‘She is Dead!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Meg is dead! Her Spirit calls to me. I hear it!’

  ‘The Spirit of your child bewails the dead, and mingles with the dead – dead hopes, dead fancies, dead imaginings of youth,’ returned the Bell, ‘but she is living. Learn from her life, a living truth. Learn from the creature dearest to your heart, how bad the Bad are born. See every bud and leaf plucked one by one from off the fairest stem, and know how bare and wretched it may be. Follow her! To Desperation!’

  Each of the shadowy figures stretched its right arm forth, and pointed downward.

  ‘The Spirit of the Chimes is your companion,’ said the figure. ‘Go! It stands behind you!’

  Trotty turned, and saw – the child? The child Will Fern had carried in the street; the child whom Meg had watched, but now, asleep!

  ‘I carried her myself, tonight,’ said Trotty. ‘In these arms!’

  ‘Show him what he calls himself,’ said the dark figures, one and all.

  The tower opened at his feet. He looked down, and beheld his own form, lying at the bottom, on the outside: crushed and motionless.

  ‘No more a living man!’ cried Trotty. ‘Dead!’

  ‘Dead!’ said the figures all together.

  ‘Gracious Heaven! And the New Year –’

  ‘Past,’ said the figures.

  ‘What!’ he cried, shuddering. ‘I missed my way, and coming on the outside of this tower in the dark, fell down – a year ago?’

  ‘Nine years ago!’ replied the figures.

  As they gave the answer, they recalled their outstretched hands; and where their figures had been, there the Bells were.

  And they rung; their time being come again. And once again, vast multitudes of phantoms sprung into existence; once again, were incoherently engaged, as they had been before; once again, faded on the stopping of the Chimes; and dwindled into nothing.

  ‘What are these?’ he asked his guide. ‘If I am not mad, what are these?’

  ‘Spirits of the Bells. Their sound upon the air,’ returned the child. ‘They take such shapes and occupations as the hopes and thoughts of mortals, and the recollections they have stored up, give them.’

  ‘And you,’ said Trotty wildly. ‘What are you?’

  ‘Hush, hush!’ returned the child. ‘Look here!’

  In a poor, mean room; working at the same kind of embroidery which he had often, often seen before her; Meg, his own dear daughter, was presented to his view. He made no effort to imprint his kisses on her face; he did not strive to clasp her to his loving heart; he knew that such endearments were for him no more. But he held his trembling breath; and brushed away the blinding tears, that he might look upon her; that he might only see her.

  Ah! Changed. Changed. The light of the clear eye, how dimmed. The bloom, how faded from the cheek. Beautiful she was, as she had ever been, but Hope, Hope, Hope, oh where was the fresh Hope that had spoken to him like a voice!

  She looked up from her work, at a companion. Following her eyes, the old man started back.

  In the woman grown, he recognised her at a glance. In the long silken hair, he saw the self-same curls; around the lips, the child’s expression lingering still. See! In the eyes, now turned inquiringly on Meg, there shone the very look that scanned those features when he brought her home!

  Then what was this, beside him!

  Looking with awe into its face, he saw a something reigning there: a lofty something, undefined and indistinct, which made it hardly more than a remembrance of that child – as yonder figure might be – yet it was the same: the same: and wore the dress.

  Hark. They were speaking!

  ‘Meg,’ said Lilian, hesitating. ‘How often you raise your head from your work to look at me!’

  ‘Are my looks so altered, that they frighten you?’ asked Meg.

  ‘Nay dear! But you smile at that, yourself! Why not smile, when you look at me, Meg?’

  ‘I do so. Do I not?’ she answered: smiling on her.

  ‘Now you do,’ said Lilian, ‘but not usually. When you think I’m busy, and don’t see you, you look so anxious and so doubtful, that I hardly like to raise my eyes. There is little cause for smiling in this hard and toilsome life, but you were once so cheerful.’

  ‘Am I not now!’ cried Meg, speaking in a tone of strange alarm, and rising to embrace her. ‘Do I make our weary life more weary to you, Lilian!’

  ‘You have been the only thing that made it life,’ said Lilian, fervently kissing her; ‘sometimes the only thing that made me care to live so, Meg. Such work, such work! So many hours, so many days, so many long, long nights of hopeless, cheerless, never-ending work – not to heap up riches, not to live grandly or gaily, not to live upon enough, however coarse; but to earn bare bread; to scrape together just enough to toil upon, and want upon, and keep alive in us the consciousness of our hard fate! Oh Meg, Meg!’ she raised her voice and twined her arms about her as she spoke, like one in pain. ‘How can the cruel world go round, and bear to look upon such lives!’

  ‘Lilly!’ said Meg, soothing her, and putting back her hair from her wet face. ‘Why Lilly! You! So pretty and so young!’

  ‘Oh Meg!’ she interrupted, holding her at arm’s-length, and looking in her face imploringly. ‘The worst of all, the worst of all! Strike me old, Meg! Wither me, and shrivel me, and free me from the dreadful thoughts that tempt me in my youth!’

  Trotty turned to look upon his guide. But the Spirit of the child had taken flight. Was gone.

  Neither did he himself remain in the same place; for Sir Joseph Bowley, Friend and Father of the Poor, held a great festivity at Bowley Hall, in honour of the natal day of Lady Bowley. And as Lady Bowley had been born on New Year’s Day (which the local newspapers considered an especial pointing of the finger of Providence to number One, as Lady Bowley’s destined figure in Creation), it was on a New Year’s Day that this festivity took place.

  Bowley Hall was full of visitors. The red-faced gentleman was there, Mr Filer was there, the great Alderman Cute was there – Alderman Cute had a sympathetic feeling with great people, and had considerably improved his acquaintance with Sir Joseph Bowley on the strength of his attentive letter: indeed had become quite a friend of the family since then – and many guests were there. Trotty’s ghost was there, wandering about, poor phantom, drearily; and looking for its guide.

  There was to be a great dinner in the Great Hall. At which Sir Joseph Bowley, in his celebrated character of Friend and Father of the Poor, was to make his great speech. Certain plum puddings were to be eaten by his Friends and Children in another Hall first; and at a given signal, Friends and Children flocking in among their Friends and Fathers, were to form a family assemblage, with not one manly eye therein unmoistened by emotion.

  But there was more than this to happen. Even more than this. Sir Joseph Bowley, Baronet and Member of Parliament, was to play a match at skittles – real skittles – with his tenants.

  ‘Which quite reminds one,’ said Alderman Cute, ‘of the days of old King Hal, stout King Hal, bluff King Hal. Ah. Fine character!’

  ‘Very,’ said Mr Filer, dryly. ‘For marrying women and murdering ’em. Considerably more than the average number of wives by the bye.’

  ‘You’ll marry the beautiful ladies, and not murder ’em, eh?’ said Alderman Cute to the heir of Bowley, aged twelve. ‘Sweet boy! We shall have this little gentleman in Parliament now,’ said the Alderman, holding him by the shoulders, and looking as reflective as he could, ‘before we know where we are. We shall hear of his successes at the poll; his speeches in the House; his overtures from Governments; his brilliant achievements of all kinds; ah! we shall make our little orations about him in the Common Council, I’ll be bound; before we have time to look about us!’

  ‘Oh, the differ
ence of shoes and stockings!’ Trotty thought. But his heart yearned towards the child, for the love of those same shoeless and stockingless boys, predestined (by the Alderman) to turn out bad, who might have been the children of poor Meg.

  ‘Richard,’ moaned Trotty, roaming among the company, to and fro; ‘where is he? I can’t find Richard! Where is Richard?’

  Not likely to be there, if still alive! But Trotty’s grief and solitude confused him; and he still went wandering among the gallant company; looking for his guide, and saying, ‘Where is Richard? Show me Richard!’

  He was wandering thus, when he encountered Mr Fish, the confidential Secretary: in great agitation.

  ‘Bless my heart and soul!’ cried Mr Fish. ‘Where’s Alderman Cute? Has anybody seen the Alderman?’

  Seen the Alderman? Oh dear! Who could ever help seeing the Alderman? He was so considerate, so affable; he bore so much in mind the natural desire of folks to see him; that if he had a fault, it was the being constantly On View. And wherever the great people were, there, to be sure, attracted by the kindred sympathy between great souls, was Cute.

  Several voices cried that he was in the circle round Sir Joseph. Mr Fish made way there; found him; and took him secretly into a window near at hand. Trotty joined them. Not of his own accord. He felt that his steps were led in that direction.

  ‘My dear Alderman Cute,’ said Mr Fish. ‘A little more this way. The most dreadful circumstance has occurred. I have this moment received the intelligence. I think it will be best not to acquaint Sir Joseph with it till the day is over. You understand Sir Joseph, and will give me your opinion. The most frightful and deplorable event!’

  ‘Fish!’ returned the Alderman. ‘Fish! My good fellow, what is the matter? Nothing revolutionary, I hope! No – no attempted interference with the magistrates?’

  ‘Deedles, the banker,’ gasped the Secretary. ‘Deedles, Brothers – who was to have been here today – high in office in the Goldsmiths’ Company –’

  ‘Not stopped!’ exclaimed the Alderman. ‘It can’t be!’