A Christmas Carol | Page 6

there was nothing at all particular about the
knocker on the door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact that
Scrooge had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in
that place; also that Scrooge had as little of what is called fancy about
him as any man in the City of London, even including--which is a bold
word--the corporation, aldermen, and livery. Let it also be borne in
mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley since his
last mention of his seven-years'-dead partner that afternoon. And then
let any man explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Scrooge,

having his key in the lock of the door, saw in the knocker, without its
undergoing any intermediate process of change--not a knocker, but
Marley's face.
Marley's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow, as the other objects
in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a
dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Scrooge as
Marley used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly
forehead. The hair was curiously stirred, as if by breath of hot air; and,
though the eyes were wide open, they were perfectly motionless. That,
and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in
spite of the face, and beyond its control, rather than a part of its own
expression.
As Scrooge looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.
To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a
terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would
be untrue. But he put his hand upon the key he had relinquished, turned
it sturdily, walked in, and lighted his candle.
He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door;
and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half expected to be
terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall. But
there was nothing on the back of the door, except the screws and nuts
that held the knocker on, so he said, "Pooh, pooh!" and closed it with a
bang.
The sound resounded through the house like thunder. Every room
above, and every cask in the wine merchant's cellars below, appeared to
have a separate peal of echoes of its own. Scrooge was not a man to be
frightened by echoes. He fastened the door, and walked across the hall,
and up the stairs: slowly, too: trimming his candle as he went.
You may talk vaguely about driving a coach and six up a good old
flight of stairs, or through a bad young Act of Parliament; but I mean to
say you might have got a hearse up that staircase, and taken it
broadwise, with the splinter-bar towards the wall, and the door towards

the balustrades: and done it easy. There was plenty of width for that,
and room to spare; which is perhaps the reason why Scrooge thought he
saw a locomotive hearse going on before him in the gloom.
Half-a-dozen gas-lamps out of the street wouldn't have lighted the entry
too well, so you may suppose that it was pretty dark with Scrooge's dip.
Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and
Scrooge liked it. But, before he shut his heavy door, he walked through
his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of
the face to desire to do that.
Sitting-room, bedroom, lumber-room. All as they should be. Nobody
under the table, nobody under the sofa; a small fire in the grate; spoon
and basin ready; and the little saucepan of gruel (Scrooge had a cold in
his head) upon the hob. Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet;
nobody in his dressing-gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious
attitude against the wall. Lumber-room as usual. Old fire-guard, old
shoes, two fish baskets, washing-stand on three legs, and a poker.
Quite satisfied, he closed his door, and locked himself in; double
locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against
surprise, he took off his cravat; put on his dressing-gown and slippers,
and his nightcap; and sat down before the fire to take his gruel.
It was a very low fire indeed; nothing on such a bitter night. He was
obliged to sit close to it, and brood over it, before he could extract the
least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fire-place
was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and paved all
round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate the Scriptures.
There were Cains and Abels,