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Dining With Scrooge
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Twan
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Dec 24, 2006 10:14 PST
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Dining With Scrooge
http://www.lewrockwell.com/north/north498.html
by Gary North
~~~~ I have endeavoured in this Ghostly little book, to raise the
Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with
themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt
their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.
~ Charles Dickens (December, 1843). ~~~~
Little did Charles Dickens suspect in 1843, when he sat down to write "A
Christmas Carol" in the hope of earning enough royalty income to pay off
a debt, that his story would become the most popular piece of fiction in
the English language. Generations that ceased to read it have seen it
performed on stage and on screen, both large and small. I doubt that any
other work of literature has been transferred from the printed page to
the silver and digital screens with such artistic faithfulness to the
original. In the case of Alastair Sim’s 1951 portrayal of Scrooge, the
movie version is better than the original.
The book sold out the entire edition of 6,000 copies in its first week:
the week before Christmas.
It was in 1843 that the phrase "Merry Christmas and a happy New Year"
first became popular, due to Dickens’s story and the first Christmas
card.
Dickens was obsessed with debt. His father had been imprisoned for debt,
and Dickens was taken out of school and put to work to support his
family. He made Scrooge a money-lender.
The story of Scrooge is the story of a redemption – the buying back of a
lost soul. G. K. Chesterton was correct when he observed that Scrooge’s
redemption was like the redemption of a sinner at a Salvation Army
meeting, with this exception: The Salvation Army’s redeemed man was
likely redeemed from the punchbowl, whereas Scrooge was redeemed to it.
Dickens saw Christmas as a festival: a celebration marked by feasting.
All around Scrooge on the day before Christmas, there were preparations
for a feast. From rich to poor, men were preparing for a great meal.
Scrooge makes no such preparations. Indeed, his rejection of an
invitation to a feast is at the heart of his stiff-necked ways. When his
nephew Fred, a poor man compared to Scrooge, invites him to Christmas
meal, Scrooge resists to the point of rudeness, and not mere rudeness: a
satanic affirmation. Dickens’s language is subtle but profound.
"Don’t be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us to-morrow."
Scrooge said that he would see him – yes, indeed he did. He went the
whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him in that
extremity first.
For Scrooge, food reveals his lifestyle. It is his silent affirmation.
Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern;
and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening
with his banker’s-book, went home to bed.
In Sim’s version of the story, Scrooge asks for extra bread. That will
cost a half penny extra, the waiter tells him. "No more bread," answers
Scrooge. The screenwriter got Scrooge exactly right, even though Scrooge
would have known about the extra charge by then and would not have made
the request.
Just before bedtime meal, he takes a bowl of gruel. He even explains
Marley’s apparition in terms of food.
"What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your
senses?"
"I don’t know," said Scrooge.
"Why do you doubt your senses?"
"Because," said Scrooge, "a little thing affects them. A slight
disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit
of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an
underdone potato. There’s more of gravy than of grave about you,
whatever you are!"
AFFIRMING HOPE
In contrast to Scrooge was the society around him. Men prepared for the
annual feast. No matter how poor, men spent their hard-earned money on
the makings of a memorable meal.
Dickens sketched a compelling contrast between London’s coal-blackened
physical environment in 1843 and London’s residents at Christmas.
The house fronts looked black enough, and the windows blacker,
contrasting with the smooth white sheet of snow upon the roofs, and with
the dirtier snow upon the ground; which last deposit had been ploughed
up in deep furrows by the heavy wheels of carts and waggons; furrows
that crossed and re-crossed each other hundreds of times where the great
streets branched off; and made intricate channels, hard to trace in the
thick yellow mud and icy water. The sky was gloomy, and the shortest
streets were choked up with a dingy mist, half thawed, half frozen,
whose heavier particles descended in a shower of sooty atoms, as if all
the chimneys in Great Britain had, by one consent, caught fire, and were
blazing away to their dear hearts’ content.
But Christmas stood as a public challenge to this hostile environment.
There was nothing very cheerful in the climate or the town, and yet
was there an air of cheerfulness abroad that the clearest summer air and
brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain.
The people were happy.
For, the people who were shovelling away on the housetops were
jovial and full of glee; calling out to one another from the parapets,
and now and then exchanging a facetious snowball – better-natured
missile far than many a wordy jest – laughing heartily if it went right
and not less heartily if it went wrong.
Matching the joy in the hearts of Londoners were shops filled with food.
Here, Dickens’s words serve as a primary source document regarding the
monumental economic changes that the Industrial Revolution had begun to
produce by 1843.
The poulterers’ shops were still half open, and the fruiterers’ were
radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of
chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at
the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic
opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions,
shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking
from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and
glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples,
clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made,
in the shopkeepers’ benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that
people’s mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of
filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks
among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered
leaves; there were Norfolk Biffins, squat and swarthy, setting off the
yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their
juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in
paper bags and eaten after dinner. The very gold and silver fish, set
forth among these choice fruits in a bowl, though members of a dull and
stagnant-blooded race, appeared to know that there was something going
on; and, to a fish, went gasping round and round their little world in
slow and passionless excitement.
The people had hope for tomorrow’s celebration, and through this feast,
they affirmed hope for the future. It was a ritual affirmation, though
Dickens did not see it this way. It was the same ritual affirmation that
had brought the Hebrews to Jerusalem once a year at Passover.
It was an affirmation that announced to the world, "There’s more where
that came from."
By 1843, this was not a vain hope in London. It was verified daily by
the world around them.
EMERGING CAPITALISM
Dickens was living in the second generation after the Industrial
Revolution began. Sometime around 1780, an economic revolution like no
other in history had begun. It was marked by compound economic growth
which did not permanently reverse – not in wartime, not in a post-war
depression, not in times of bad harvest and bad weather. Men were
escaping at long last from their dependence on the weather and the soil.
Nature was losing its grip on men’s lives because of the growing
division of labor, described by Adam Smith in 1776 in his story of the
output of a pin factory.
Specialization of production in 1843 was slowly extending its reign
through voluntary exchange, releasing mankind from the tyranny of the
weather. Excepting only the famine of the 1840s in Ireland, which began
while Dickens was writing his story, the West would not again experience
a famine. That long-dreaded horse of the apocalypse was put out to
pasture.
The driving force of this revolution was specialization – specialization
funded by capital, itself the product of thrift, by double-entry
bookkeeping, and by attention to detail. In short, it was men like
Ebenezer Scrooge who were the architects of capitalism.
In a heartless environment marked by scarcity, there must be careful
attention to details, to ledgers, to costs of production. There must be
alertness to profit opportunities, which are found where consumers
demand to be served – demand through competitive bidding, one against
the other. In short, there must be attention to business.
Here lies the great paradox of free market capitalism. The spread of
capital is the basis for men’s increased productivity. The spread of the
bookkeeper’s mindset is the basis of net retained earnings, which in
turn finance additional capital. Taking care of business reduces poverty
as nothing else in man’s history ever has. Yet men like Scrooge take
care of business.
Dickens did not understand this. Neither have generations of
capitalism’s critics. They accept Marley’s self-condemnation.
"Business!" cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was
my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy,
forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my
trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my
business!"
Yet no man can deal successfully with a comprehensive ocean of
responsibility. It is the specialization of production and market
competition – forced on all producers by consumers – that has reduced
the burden of poverty. The results of the process of steady compound
growth were visible in the shops of London in 1843, and Dickens
described them well. He did not understand their origin.
In dismissing the two men who solicited a donation for the poor, Scrooge
declared:
"It’s not my business," Scrooge returned. "It’s enough for a man to
understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s.
Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!"
Scrooge is a miser. He has a shriveled soul. He has a highly specialized
notion of what constitutes a meaningful life, which he sees in terms of
the ledger book. Yet without Scrooge and men like him, who are devoted
to the details of their businesses, the shops of London would not be
filled with cornucopias – at Christmas or all year round.
Something is missing here. What is it?
FEZZIWIG’S PARTY
The ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge to a party. Scrooge recognizes
it instantly. He had been there as a young apprentice. So had the entire
company.
In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In
came the housemaid, with her cousin, the baker. In came the cook, with
her brother’s particular friend, the milkman. In came the boy from over
the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master;
trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one, who was
proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they all came,
one after another; some shyly, some boldly, some gracefully, some
awkwardly, some pushing, some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and
everyhow.
They ate. They drank. They danced. Oh, how they danced, most notably the
Fezziwigs.
But if they had been twice as many – ah, four times – old Fezziwig
would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her,
she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that’s
not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it. A positive light
appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s calves. They shone in every part of
the dance like moons. You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time,
what would have become of them next.
Here was what by the ledger was waste – and what waste it was!
Scrooge here had his first encounter with a successful businessman’s
ledger, but he had forgotten about this annual entry. The Ghost of
Christmas Past reminded him.
"A small matter," said the Ghost, "to make these silly folks so full
of gratitude."
"Small!" echoed Scrooge.
The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were
pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he had done so,
said, "Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal
money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this
praise?"
"It isn’t that," said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking
unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self.
"It isn’t that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or
unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil.
Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and
insignificant that it is impossible to add and count ’em up: what then?
The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune."
Here, in his praise of Fezziwig, Scrooge condemned himself – not merely
as a man but as a manager of men. Here, a trace of light pierced the
gloomy clouds of his misunderstanding.
The whole story is about how the light eventually prevailed, insight by
insight. This is why it is beloved.
CELEBRATION
The heart of capitalism is service to the consumer. In serving the
consumer, the producer must pay attention to what the consumer wants, at
what price, when, and where. But the same is true of the producers’
attitude toward his employees. They, too, must be served: by better
tools, better training, better work environments, and loyalty downward.
One mark of this attitude is the office Christmas party. Fezziwig had it
right. Compared to the total annual budget, the party is a marginal
expense. But it shows that the company is a team. Teams celebrate good
news. Christmas is good news.
The most faithful person in "A Christmas Carol" is Fred, Scrooge’s
nephew, who invites him to dinner, is rejected, and vows to do it again
every year.
"I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it
or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he
can’t help thinking better of it – I defy him – if he finds me going
there, in good temper, year after year, and saying Uncle Scrooge, how
are you?"
This is the truest spirit of Christmas: to invite dour skeptics to
celebrate the feast, despite their insistence of "humbug," despite their
insistence that they wish to celebrate in their own way – by not
celebrating.
In the end, Scrooge comes to his senses and shows up at the party. He
had already sent Cratchit a turkey, which had cost him money. That was
not the most costly of his expenses. To go to the party, he risked
having to be forced to eat a large portion of Christmas crow with all
the trimmings.
That is how it is each year at Christmas. Men who have said "humbug" all
their lives, in various ways, with various degrees of commitment, are
asked to join the festivities. The price of admission is always the
same:
BYOC.
Scrooge found that the festive surroundings left in him an irreducible
joy. He became a friend, which meant he ceased looking out exclusively
for Number One.
He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as
the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in
the good old world.
There were costs, of course. There always are.
Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them
laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that
nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did
not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as
these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they
should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less
attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for
him.
CONCLUSION
The free market does not make men good. It does encourage them to serve
the consumer. It forces losses on them if they are less efficient in
their service than their competitors. The free market society is not a
dog-eat-dog world. It is dog-serve-master world. The consumer is the
master.
Scrooge served the market well in both phases of his career. He did not
wind up in poverty in phase two. Dickens understood the Fezziwig had the
right approach.
In Sim’s version of the story, Fezziwig goes out of business because he
cannot compete in the new world of capitalism. Dickens never hinted that
this was the outcome of Fezziwig’s good cheer. My guess is that Fezziwig
died rich. If he treated his employees well, he was probably in the
habit of treating his customers well.
May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim
observed, God bless Us, Every One!
December 23, 2006
Gary North is the author of Mises on Money. Visit
http://www.garynorth.com. He is also the author of a free 19-volume
series, An Economic Commentary on the Bible.
Copyright © 2006 LewRockwell.com
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