Published for the first time in 1843, the Christmas story with ghosts and fantastic time journeys into the past and future has proven its power to captivate the readers’ imagination. This is evidenced by both the hundreds of editions in all languages printed over one hundred and eighty years and the incredible number of stage adaptations and film versions. I mentioned in a recent small article, along with other films that can provide pleasant entertainment during the Christmas holidays, my favorite adaptation from 1999, starring Sir Patrick Stewart as Ebenezer Scrooge. The number of comments and the warmth with which numerous other adaptations have been suggested demonstrate how beloved Dickens’s story is. I feel obligated to mention here, for you, which films are considered the best adaptations in the history of cinema: the one from 1938, produced by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studios with Reginald Owen, then the 1951 edition with Alastair Sim, and last but not least, the one that seems to be the best: the 1984 adaptation in which George C. Scott delivered arguably one of his finest performances. Enjoy watching!
For those who, like me, prioritize books over movies, the question that countless literary critics and historians have attempted to answer over time remains valid: why do we love A Christmas Carol so much? After all, what is the secret of the incredible freshness – unmarred for over a century and a half – of the majority of Dickens’s novels? The answer to the first question, regarding only one of his creations, will implicitly provide the answer to the second, applicable to his entire body of work.
Unexpectedly, the idea came to me while reflecting on the role of fiction literature, as can be gleaned from one of the most well-known episodes in the Holy Scriptures: the abominable sins of King David and the intervention of the one whom we can consider the first author of fiction in the history of Judeo-Christian culture, Prophet Nathan.
The ability to insert – through well-defined characters – concrete moral principles into a fictional narrative represents one of the key aspects of great literature.
I’m sure some of you may have reacted with surprise, wondering, “Prophet Nathan? A fiction author?” Yes. If we carefully reread the first six verses of II Samuel (also known as II Kings), we discover the wise way in which the prophet dealt with rebuking King David after he committed two terrible sins: adultery with Bathsheba and the murder of her husband, Uriah the Hittite. Sent by God, Nathan does not directly rebuke the king but first tells him a parable. A story. It involves two men, one rich and powerful, the owner of vast wealth and numerous flocks of sheep and oxen. The other, humble and poor, has only “one little ewe lamb.” The disproportion between the two men’s possessions is radical. Nevertheless, when a stranger comes to visit the wealthy man, he refuses to sacrifice any animal from his own flock for the feast and shamelessly takes the poor man’s ewe, dressing it for the visiting man.
“And when a certain stranger was come to the rich man, he spared to take of his own sheep and oxen, to make a feast for that stranger; who was come to him, but took the poor man’s ewe, and dressed it for the man that was come to him” (2 Kings 12:4).
The reaction provoked by the story told by Prophet Nathan to King David is described in the Holy Scriptures in detail:
“And David’s anger being exceedingly kindled against that man, he said to Nathan: As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this is a child of death. He shall restore the ewe fourfold, because he did this thing, and had no pity” (2 Kings 12:5-6).
You probably know what followed. Seeing the righteous anger of the king, Nathan reveals that he – the King himself – is the rich man in the parable. He is the one who has committed injustice against the poor man. Confronted with the harsh truth about his own sin, David embarks on the path of repentance that will bequeath to us the most widely read prayers in the history of humanity: the Psalms.
Only the modern era has become allergic to characters with clear and unequivocal moral outlines.
Saints, Doctors, and preachers from all eras have commented on the moral dimension of David’s deeds and their terrible consequences. They have also extensively discussed the “strategy” of Prophet Nathan: instead of directly admonishing the king, he invents a fictional story (i.e., a “parable”) intended to allow for the subsequent revelation of the king’s sinful actions. The strategy, first and foremost, owed itself to prudence. It was easy to lose one’s head in front of an angry king. Saint Pope Gregory the Great shows that this is the only way to speak with the powerful of this world: using well-chosen comparisons, they must be invited to exercise “a right judgment on what apparently is another’s case.” Thus, “they are to be taken to task regarding their own guilt by a suitable procedure,” but this is to be done without them rising “against the reprover who admonishes them.”
To accomplish this, Prophet Nathan demonstrated perfect skill. As Saint John Chrysostom says, he improvised a “dramatic act” by soliciting judgment on a moral situation. However, to achieve the desired effect, the prophet must perfectly disguise the similarity between his fictional story and the reality of the king’s deeds. For David must not suspect for a moment that the parable has any connection to his sins. With a mastery worthy of a great fiction author, Nathan creates a perfectly credible story. This is the reason that allows Saint Augustine to say that “obviously the king was unaware of the trap into which he had fallen.” Through his art of storytelling, the prophet presents him with a perfectly plausible situation for which he seeks judgment. Without suspecting the stratagem for a moment, the king exercises that moral sense of justice that allows for a correct verdict. But it all depended on the convincing story presented to him. The ability to insert – through well-defined characters – concrete moral principles into a fictional narrative represents one of the key aspects of great literature.
If Neoplatonic philosophers tell us that the characters in Plato’s dialogues embody fundamental principles of existence (such as Truth, Goodness, and Beauty), great writers from all epochs have sometimes embraced, intuitively at times, and at other times relying on explanations given by genius theorists like Aristotle, the same perspective in their own creations. Only the modern era has become allergic to characters with clear and unequivocal moral outlines. This is the main reason why Henry James and Thomas Mann criticize Dickens. At the same time, it is the reason why the general public unequivocally prefers the works of the latter. Good and Evil are evident, and the reader, when identifying himself with some of the characters, is put in the position to choose. This became clear to me while reading an excellent article recently written by Felix James Miller.
Dickens puts all of us, his readers, in the position to evaluate our actions by comparing them with the characters depicted by him. Who is not outraged by the proverbial avarice of Scrooge? And who is not touched by the light of the faith of “Tiny” Tim?
Telling the story of how he came to read A Christmas Carol for the first time, he confesses that he felt compelled to compare the situation of Dickens’ characters with his own. The conclusion took the form of a veritable meditation with very concrete moral consequences:
“As Christmas approaches, I am struck by how comfortable my life is, and how little time I spend serving those in need. I do my job, take care of my family, and give perfunctory donations to charity and my parish, but I very rarely go out of my way to actually care for those who are in need. I may not be a wealthy man like Scrooge, but I am always in danger of becoming like him. Thus I, like so many of us, am in need of a Fezziwig who can shake me from my worldly slumber.”
If Felix James Miller could think such significant thoughts with the potential for a major impact on his own life, it is due to the literary genius of Charles Dickens. Like the prophet Nathan, Dickens puts all of us, his readers, in the position to evaluate our actions by comparing them with the characters depicted by him. Who is not outraged by the proverbial avarice of Scrooge? And who is not touched by the light of the faith of “Tiny” Tim or the joy spread around by this alter ego of Tolkien’s Tom Bombadil who is, in his own unique way, Mr. Fezziwig? Captivating the readers with the charm of his stories, Dickens compels them, like the prophet Nathan, to exercise their moral sense by reacting to good and evil, choosing between vices and virtues, between greed and generosity. The recipe is the same. And the art of the two storytellers leads us to the same end. Without necessarily conceiving literature in a simplifying and moralizing manner, turning it into a kind of Sunday sermon substitute, we must acknowledge that never, absolutely never, have great fiction stories been devoid of an ethical dimension. This is why Chesterton shows us what we can learn from Dickens, just as this is the reason why we are ready to reread, year after year, A Christmas Carol.
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