They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before although he recognized the situation, and its bad repute. The ways were foul and narrow, the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slip-shod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets, and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.
Far in this den of infamous resort, there was a low-browed, beetling shop, below a pent-house roof, where iron, old rags, bottles, bones, and greasy offal, were brought. Upon the floor within, were piled up heaps of rusty keys, nails, chains, hinges, files, scales, weights, and refuse iron of all kinds. Secrets that few would like to scrutinize were bred and hidden in mountains of unseemly rags, masses of corrupted fat, and sepulchres of bones. Sitting in among the wares he dealt in, by a charcoal-stove, made of old bricks, was a fray-haired rascal, nearly seventy years of age; who had screened himself from the cold air without, by a frousy curtaining of miscellaneous tatters, hung upon a line; and smoked his pipe in all 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, they all three burst into a laugh.
“Let the charwoman alone to be the first!” cried she who had entered first. “Let the laundress alone to be the second; and let the undertaker’s man alone to be the third. Look here,, old Joe, here’s a chance! If we haven’t all three met here without meaning it!”
“You couldn’t have met in a better place,” said old Joe, removing his pipe from his mouth. “Come into the parlour. You were made free of it long ago, you know, and the other two an’t strangers. Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! How it skreeks! There an’t such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe; and I’m sure there’s no such old bones here, as mine. Ha, ha! We’re all suitable to our calling, we’re well matched. Some not the parlour. Come into the parlour.”
The parlour was the space behind the screen of rags. 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.
While he did this, the woman who had already spoken threw er bundle on the floor and sat down in a flaunting manner on a stool; crossing her elbows on her knees, and looking down with a bold defiance at the other two.
“What odds then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber?” said the woman. “Every person has a right to take care of themselves. HE always did!”
“That’s true, indeed!” said the laundress. “No man more so.”
“Why then, don’t stand staring as if you was afraid woman; who’s the wiser? We’re not going to pick holes in each other’s coats, I suppose?”
“No, indeed!: said Mrs. Dilber and the man together. “We should hope not!”
“Very well, then!” cried the woman. “That’s enough. Who’s the worse for the loos of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose.”
“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Dilver, laughing.
“If he wanted to keep ‘em after he was dead, a wicked old screw,” pursued the woman, “why wasn’t he natural 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 by himself.”
“It’s the truest word that ever was spoke,” said Mrs. Dilber. “It’s a judgement on him.”
“I wish it was a little heavier one,” replied the woman; “and it would have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open the bundle, old Joe, 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.”
Vut the gallantry of her friends would not allow of this; and the man in faded black, mounting the breach first, produced his plunder. It was not extensive. A deal or two, a pencil-case, a pair of sleeve-buttons, and a brooch of no great value, were all. They were severally examined and appraised by Old Joe, who chalked the sums he disposed to give for each, upon the wall,, and added them up not a total when he found there was nothing more to come.
“That’s your account,” said Joe, “and I wouldn’t give another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for not doing it. Who’s next?”
Mrs. Dilber was next. Sheets and towels, a little wearing apparel, two big old-fashioned silver teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a few boots. Her account was stated on the wall in the same manner.
“I always give too much to ladies. It’s a weakness of mine, and that’s the way I ruin myself,” said old Joe. “That’s your account. If you aske for another penny, and made I an ope question, I’d repent of being so liberal and knock off half-a-crown.”
“And now undo MY bundle, Joe,” said the first woman.
Jow 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?”
“Ah!” said the woman, laughing and leaning forward on her crossed arms. “Bed-curtains!”
“You don’t mean to say you took ‘em 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 shan’t hold my hand, when I get anything in it by reaching it out, 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.
“Whose else’s do you think?” replied the woman. “He isn’t likely to take cold without ‘em, I dare say.”
“I hope he didn’t die of anything catching? Eh?” said old Joe, stopping in his work, and looking up.
“Don’t you be afraid of that,” returned the woman. “I an’t so fond of his company that I’d loiter about him for such things, if eh did. Ah! You may look through that shirt till your eyes ache; but you won’t find a hole in it, nor a threadbare place. It’s the best 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, to be sure,” replied the woman with a laugh. “Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico isn’t good enough for such a purpose, it isn’t good enough for anything. It’s quite as becoming to the body. He can’t look uglier than he was in that one.”
Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped around their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man’s lamp, he viewed them with detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, had they been obscene demons, marketing the corpse itself.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground. “This is the end of it, you see! He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead! Ha, ha, ha!”
“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?”
Well, now. Just about everybody loves these rascals: they provide a quick dash of nastiness in a tale of good will. The company will vary, with the den of garbage not QUITE so nasty as Dickens wrote it up (filmmakers making do with darkness and clutter) but it is hard to resist the delight and horror of those bed curtains, torn down, rings and all. And it is delicious, too, to see the death of some old miser being an occasion for buying and selling.
Several versions give us the corpse scene first, as a natural answer to Scrooge’s concern with who is dead. And some lighter, quicker versions—Owen, March, Finney, and McDuck—skip this business establishment.
Hicks gives us a smoky store, cluttered and dark and inspired by German expressionist film. Joe is a smallish fellow with a clay pipe; we watch the three conspirators arrive separately. They peer at each other, suspicious, and then laugh as they realize the coincidence. They deliver just the high points of Dickens’s dialogue. We see some of the totals old Joe chalks on the wall: the undertaker’s man gets eight shillings for his lot. Joe laughs with admiration at the idea of that shirt being removed from the dead body. Soon everyone is laughing, turning into cackling, gap-toothed demons in shadow and flickering light. At the woman’s laugh about “This is the end of it, you see!” we get a close-up of grasping hands reaching for payment. Scrooge delivers the closing speech in a dead tone.
Sim I reverses the three visions of the future, so this comes after the visit to the Cratchits’. Coughing children sort the wares in this establishment. Joe is a fat, sagging man who is losing his teeth. The two ladies arrive first, followed shortly by the undertaker we saw much earlier, at Marley’s deathbed. They laugh at the coincidence, and joe invites them into the parlour, noting jovially “We’re all suited to our calling.” The conversation slithers along as written until the bundles open. The undertaker announces he will go first, “Just to show we all got trust in one another.” The loot is displayed and accounts settled; whenever Joe announces a total, everyone’s eyes roll skyward. (The undertaker gets eight shillings again, the first woman 17/6. The two women are obviously rivals, each a bit jealous on seeing what the other got away with.) The rest of the party are suitably stunned when they hear about the shirt being taken from the dead man. Then they have a good laugh at the justice of it all; in fact, the undertaker calls it poetic justice, and gets the line about “This is the end of it, you see!” Scrooge will now, in this version, move that overhearing the gentlemen at the Exchange.
Rathbone puts this third, after the Cratchits and the Exchange. Scrooge is led by the Ghost to a door suspended in the fog. A sign with three balls on it hangs somewhat farther up, the indication of a pawnshop. One woman waits inside; the pawnbroker is asking her, “You don’t mean to say you took his bed-curtains down, rings and all, with him lying there?” She notes what the dead man should have done if he’d wanted to keep ‘em after he was dead, and how he might’ve had someone with him to look after him when he was struck with death. The pawnbroker offers her three shillings. Scrooge is appalled and reflects that the case of this unhappy man might be his own.
Magoo is led by the Spirit, one bony hand upon his shoulder. Three shadowy figures enter “Ye Olde Junk Shoppe”. It s shabby and cluttered, but clean. A rat spots the spectral Scrooge, and flees. Old Joe inquires “What poor stiff have ye robbed now?” They quickly show their booty—the undertaker shows off cufflinks with the monogram “ES”—but te only new dialogue is about the bed-curtains. Scrooge shudders. The villains then break into a major musical number, “We’re Despicable”, which is there just for the fun of it. Scrooge delivers the speech at the end of this sequence, and bridges the gap to the next one with “Oh, please, kind Spirit! Let me see some tenderness connected with a death!”
Haddrick, offended by the men at the Exchange, demands, “Is there no reverence for the dead in this time of yours?” He is taken to the rag and bone shop in the middle of the two women’s announcement about “a judgement on him”. The undertaker’s man does not appear, and the dialogue is abbreviated. The group, who look just a bit like gnomes, declare this is “Justice: he made hardship for our tribe while he was alive and now we profit from his death.” Scrooge thinks he has understood, and delivers the speech at the end; he is breathless, and a bit cowed.
Sim II sweeps quickly through a sequence f shadows and alleys; a baby cries, a rat scampers by. Children sort among the rags. Thre whole shop is a more venomous version of that in Sim I. The group is moving into the parlour, declaring that this is a judgement. Joe says “Come into the parlour” three times. He is amazed by the blankets, and then by the bed curtains. They agree that the wicked old screw should have been more natural in his lifetime, and laugh about it. Scrooge says, “Spirit, I see, I do. I do see.”
Matthau is brought her directly from his bedroom. The shopowner asks a woman, “Where’d you steal these, Love?” and is told “from a dead man’s home.” Scrooge asks who has been robbed, and is whisked to the graveyard.
Scott has the corpse scene first and is then taken to a foul, foggy part of town. Scrooge declares this must be a mistake: the Spirit has taken a wrong turn. This slum is unpleasant and Gothic. When the Spirit points to a low, doorless hovel from which firelight emerges, Scrooge protests, “I have no business to transact in there.” Mrs. Dilber is alone with Joe. “You’ll not ask me how I came by these?” The proprietor looks to be in his forties; he replies that every person has the right to take care of themselves. “He always did.” She asks who’s the worse for the loss of a few things like these: not a dead man. “No, indeed,” says Joe. She goes on about what he should have done if he wanted to keep ‘em when he was dead, and produces spoons. Scrooge recognizes these. “These are my things. She’s stolen my things. I’ll have her before a magistrate.” We see the chiming watch that stood by his bed; Scrooge, realizing that this loot was taken from a dead man, convinces himself that they aren’t his at all, merely similar. The conversation continues, voices fading a little when money comes into question: the bed-curtains are omitted. Joe finally offers one pound, five, and threepence, “and I wouldn’t give another sixpence, if I was to be boiled for it.” “You’ve hardened, Joe, and no mistake.” “I’m always kind to the ladies. That’s how I ruin myself.” They laugh. Scrooge is indignant. “Spirit, what perversity is this? I ask to see emotion associated with this man’s death and you show me only greed and avarice! Let me see some tenderness, some depth of feeling!”
Caine enters fearfully into a shadow indicated by the Spirit. Joe is a huge spider, inquiring of his visitors, “Back from the house of sadness?” One woman snaps, “It’s only sad that he didn’t die sooner, the old skinflint.” “What’ve you got for old Joe? What’ve you got for me…to remember him by?” Collar-buttons and bed-curtains get less attention than the blankets. “They’re still warm! I don’t pay extra for the warmth, y’know.” “You should!” says Mrs. Dilber. “They’re the only warmth he ever had.” They laugh. Scrooge turns away. Saying “I understand, Spirit.” He delivers the closing speech as written, as far as “Merciful Heavens’, which becomes a general comment on the whole scene, rather than a lead-in to the next.
Curry has the corpse scene first, in answer to his “Who has died?” as he hesitates by the dead body, a man enters, and a woman rises from where she has been stealing teaspoons hidden under the bed. “His tea-stirring days are over.” “If he wanted someone to look after hs belongings after he was dead, he should’ve made friends while he was still breathin’.” “Aye, Love. Truer words was never spoken.” She takes the slippers from the dead man’s feet; the man is carrying the bed-curtains. They agree that the man is not likely to catch cold without ‘em. “Spirit, this is a fearful place, but I see the lesson. The case of this unhappy man might happen to me some day.”
Stewart is led up a narrow alley where a small stream meanders up the pavement. Aimless drunks and the usual crying baby ornament the scene; Scrooge moves on to a battered little shop. A man in an old dressing gown is surprised to see guests. “What’s this? An undertaker, a laundress, and a charlady?” They explain it’s a coincidence and not conspiracy. “I can’t be too careful. As it is, you’re welcome.” “Howe goes the day, Joe?” He replies with bits of the speech about old bones and rusty hinges, and notes that we are suited to our calling, matched in Heaven. He is a rag and bone man by trade and a rag and bone man by nature. But trade is not what it was. Now Mrs. Riggs demands, “Why you looking, Mrs. Dilver? Everybody’s a right to take care of theirselves: HE always did!” “No man more so, Mrs. Riggs,” says Mrs. Dilber (who is played, by the way, by Liz Smith, who was Mrs. Dilber in the Scott version as well.) The dialogue about what the wicked old screw should have done while living is split between Mrs. Riggs and the lugubrious undertaker. Mrs. Riggs tells Joe to open the bundles; she’s not afraid to go first. “It’s no sin.” “Only if we get caught.” “No chance of that. No one cared what happened to him, then or now.” The undertaker, one Mr. Crump, insists on going first; he gets seven shillings for his swag. Mrs. Dilver produces teaspoons, sugar tongs, sheets, and towels, and some boots in need of repair; she is offered one pound, one, and ha’pence. When she cries out in protest, old Joe replies, “I always give too much to ladies. It’s a weakness of mine. If you asked for one more penny, I’ll repent and knock off five shillings.” (Obviously an effect of decimalization.) Scrooge has grown confused, and demands, “What are we doing in this place, Spirit?” Mrs. Riggs now produces the bed-curtains; Joe exclaims, “God in Heaven! The rings are still on ‘em!” Blankets come next; Mrs. Dilber is the one who asks if they’re HIS blankets. Scrooge cringes on hearing the shirt came off the dead man’s body; even Joe is stunned. Scrooge, gritting his teeth, backs away. When he backs into a bedpost, he turns and finds himself in the next segment.
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