The Tale of a Greedy Man

What is the true meaning of Christmas? Receiving numerous presents? Eating Christmas shortbread and drinking eggnog until you explode? Celebrating whatever you’ve been told at church? Nope, not at all. Yes, sure, you need these for a complete holiday, but I reckon everyone thinks that sharing is a too cliché answer. I will tell you a tale about a man who thought the same. I won’t place the action in our world nor in the 21st century because that would be boring. I’ve always thought that Victorian England was a thrilling and frightening place, especially if an annoying and annoyed spirit visits you…

Ah, yes, look at our protagonist, Carl von Greed, walking home from his office. I suppose the name is pretty suggestive about his main defect: he was just as miser as good old Scrooge from A Christmas Carol. He had an unimaginable amount of money he was planning to never spend, that was the reason he lived in a congested, small, moldy apartment on a busy street and had always worked, even on feast days. Don’t ask what he had been doing all day in his office despite being the owner of some company with investments all over Europe and yelling at the employees who would just smile and behind that smile, curse all his ancestors.

Carl never helped a single beggar with a coin, never donated to orphanages, but constantly tried to find reasons why the salary of the new workers should’ve been diminished. These things wouldn’t normally cause a spirit to decide to give him a lesson. Sure, they were bad and inhuman and disgusting, but he crossed a particular border that time before Christmas.

As I mentioned before, Carl had never celebrated because he tried to avoid all expenses, but being happy when he had been informed about the sudden unfortunate death of his nephew caused a little anger for the boy’s ghost. He knew that his uncle was a cruel, greedy sack of money and he hated it when he had to purchase something for the boy as a Christmas present. He wanted to get revenge, therefore, refused to stay put and paid a visit to his uncle’s flat.

“Hello, Uncle!”

“BARGHHH!” My apologies, I don’t know how to properly describe the screech Carl made.

“Don’t waste your voice trying to illustrate your taken aback feelings. I may or may not have heard about your joy on the day of my exit from the mortals’ world. You disappointed me, Uncle, and in order to show you how your lifestyle is wrong, I intend to turn your day into a more action-packed one. Bye-bye, you (not going to write down).” With that, the glowing figure disappeared. Do you think Carl was shocked and immediately started to panic? In that case, I must correct you: he shook his head and carried on with his evening routine.

The next morning, Carl was awakened by the sound of a factory’s bell, calling the workers to start production. He groaned, and in hope of a little morning quarrel sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he made a disgusted grimace. Man, the air smelt awful!

The realization struck him like lightning. He was sitting in a typical London alley, surrounded by homeless people who presumably worked in that factory with the loud bell. His posh pajamas got replaced with a torn shirt, a way-too-small hat, no shoes, and the ugliest pants he’d ever seen. Filth, mud and coal completed his attire. Oh my, what he had gotten himself into?

Of course, there’s no need to mention what his first act was: he started jumping up and down while angrily demanding an explanation, as it seemed, from the air. The surrounding people just shook their heads empathetically and thought that the poor thing had gone crazy, which had been a common phenomenon in the 19th century.

After 10 minutes, they got bored of the show and went to the factory. When seeing that nobody was interested in his screaming anymore, he finally gave up and dragged himself to the entrance. He looked up, and, the second time that morning, nearly had a seizure. The factory used machines to produce items made out of iron, which meant 12 hours of work per day, six days in a week, being close to fire, constant danger, possible death if you lacked the necessary skills; overall very bad conditions, as the owner of the factory didn’t want to spend his money on the employees, who were mainly so in need that they felt happy with a low wage and accepted any criteria.

I don’t want to bore you, dear Reader, with all the description of Carl’s worst day of his life, spent with real torture for once. At the day’s end, he couldn’t decide whether his back, head, hands, eyes or throat hurt more. In addition, his payment was around 1£, not even enough for a full meal. Nevertheless, if Carl wanted to avoid famishment, he was obligated to go to work, so the horror continued for three more weeks.

At the beginning of the fourth week, he had a fever from exhaustion. He decided that the best he could do was stay away from the place and buy some leak. On his way to a tiny shop, he noticed a 10-year-old girl who had been in the infantile stage of the disease known as “phossy jaw”. She must’ve worked in a matchmaking factory. In the Victorian era, someone discovered that adding white phosphorous to matchstick heads made them easier to light. Unfortunately, this material contained many dangers, among them being its slightly poisonous nature. I don’t want to speak more about this job, let’s just agree that it was pretty bad.

Carl knew that the girl was obligated to work because her parents perhaps didn’t have a huge income, and even the smallest amount of money could change this, and had she continued his matchgirl carrier, she would’ve had an unpleasant life. He looked down at the sack he had collected his wage into. Exactly 18£, enough to raise a kid’s life quality. Trying not to focus on the pain caused by the fever, he walked to the girl and handed her the sack.

“Here. I have already lived a wealthier life than you could ever have. Don’t spend it all at once.”

The girl smiled shyly and thanked him. This gesture made Carl’s heart grow a bit. Suddenly, he felt a wave of tiredness wash him and fell unconscious on the sidewalk.

The next day, he woke up in his own bed and quickly checked the calendar: there were still a few days to Christmas. He jumped into his clothes and ran to the bank where he had stored his fortune. He started going around London and split his money among the homeless, the orphans and the poor.

You may ask what happened to him after that, but I don’t have the slightest idea. Maybe he changed, gave up his company and moved to the countryside, who am I to tell? So, instead of waiting for an ending, try imagining one! Carl is just a puppet in a story, you can control him the way you want to, it depends on how creative you are.

Balázs-Blénessi-Pataki Kincső IX. R