Sunday, December 25, 2011

A Fezziwig Christmas

No matter where you are--Kokomo or Kabul, Portland or Paris--and no matter how many family members surround you (if any) and no matter how many gifts are wrapped and stacked beneath your tree (if any) and no matter if you believe in Santa Claus, Jesus Christ, Buddha or nothing at all, my wish this Christmas is that you all find the spirit of Charles Dickens' Fezziwig in your hearts.  Dance, my friends, dance!

“Yo ho, my boys,” said Fezziwig.  “No more work to-night.  Christmas Eve, Dick.  Christmas, Ebenezer.  Let's have the shutters up,” cried old Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, “before a man can say Jack Robinson.”

You wouldn't believe how those two fellows went at it.  They charged into the street with the shutters--one, two, three--had them up in their places-- four, five, six--barred them and pinned then--seven, eight, nine--and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses.

“Hilli-ho!” cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility.  “Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here.  Hilli-ho, Dick.  Chirrup, Ebenezer.”

Clear away.  There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with old Fezziwig looking on.  It was done in a minute.  Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life for evermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches.  In came Mrs Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile.  In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, beaming and lovable.  In came the six young followers whose hearts they broke.  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.  Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping; old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.  When this result was brought about, old Fezziwig, clapping his hands to stop the dance, cried out, "Well done," and the fiddler plunged his hot face into a pot of porter, especially provided for that purpose.  But scorning rest, upon his reappearance, he instantly began again, though there were no dancers yet, as if the other fiddler had been carried home, exhausted, on a shutter, and he were a bran-new man resolved to beat him out of sight, or perish.

There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer.  But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind.  The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him.) struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley."  Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs Fezziwig.  Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.

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.  And when old Fezziwig and Mrs Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig cut--cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven, this domestic ball broke up.  Mr and Mrs Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas.

Hand colored etching by John Leech from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

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