The Man Who Invented Christmas

Oh, hurry up, Mr. Dickens!

Hey, I paid 50 cents for this!

- Come on, Dickens! - Come on, Charley!

We want Charles!

I want to see Charles!

Where is Dickens?

My dear Forster,

how can I give you the faintest notion

of my reception here in America?

Five minutes. Five minutes.

Of the crowds that pour in and out the whole day,

of the people that line the streets when I go out.

Places, please. Places!

Hello, Charley.

Of the balls, dinners,

speeches, parties, assemblies without end.

There never was a king or emperor upon the earth so cheered.

Tonight, live on stage...

Ready?

- the great magician of our time... - Ready.

whose wand is a book!

The Shakespeare of the novel.

The people's author.

The great and marvelous Boz!

Ladies and gentlemen,

Mr. Charles Dickens!

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

Thank you! Thank you!

Look, it's him! It's really him!

- Hey there, Boz! - Whoo!

Dear friends! Dear friends!

You have welcomed me to your country with such open arms that I fear I...

Americans are friendly,

earnest, hospitable,

kind, frank, accomplished,

warm-hearted, fervent,

and... enthusiastic.

I can't wait to get home.

Mrs. Fisk, I have told you repeatedly

not to disturb me when I am working.

Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Only, Mr. Forster is here.

Forster. Yes, of course.

As you can see, Mr. Forster,

we're having all-new wallpaper put in, French,

new doors, new door knocker,

new roller blinds for the windows,

new bookcases in the library, a new chandelier,

all chosen by Charles, of course.

And the staircase is to be painted green.

- Though not too dull a green, Signor Mazzini. - Ma certo. Sì. Capisce.

You know how Charles is.

- Only the best for Mr. Dickens. - Yes.

Mr. Forster, if you'll allow me,

how do things stand between you and Miss Wigmore?

Oh, splendid, Mrs. Dickens.

In fact, I intend to ask her to bestow upon me

the greatest happiness a man can ever know.

Well, to marry me.

Oh, I'm very glad to hear that.

Forster! Forster, Forster, Forster. So sorry!

I completely lost track of the time.

- Shall we? - Charles.

- You need to pay Signor Mazzini. - Hmm?

For the parlor mantle.

- How much? - Seventy-five pounds.

Seventy-five? What's it made of, gold?

Carrara marble, Signor. Finest quality.

No gentleman would accept less.

No? Well, quite.

Well, I will have the money for you when I return, Signor Mazzini.

Good day, Mrs. Dickens.

Good day, Mr. Forster.

Ah! Come in!

Good-bye, little strangers!

Bye!

- Say good-bye to Mr. Forster, children! - Bye!

- I'll hail us a cab. - What? No, it's a waste of money. We'll walk.

It's damned expensive being a gentleman.

Forster, this meeting...

- Aye! I know my job. - Good.

- And the money? - Leave the publishers to me.

Good.

Slow down! What's the hurry?

Charles Bloody Dickens, huh?

The best-selling bloody author in the history of English bloody literature.

Three of his books you have published in the last year and a half. Three!

So where's the money?

Mr. Forster, like you, we are as puzzled as the Egyptians in their fog.

- How's that? - Martin Chuzzlewit.

A masterpiece of the picaresque genre, and yet...

Barnaby Rudge. A fine book. An important subject.

But, alas...

And the travel book, American Notes.

Perhaps a little too candid for our American cousins.

No joke. I heard they were burning copies of it in the streets.

Well, they're mad as snakes, the Yanks.

But what about this 50 pound a month you're withholding from his royalties?

What is the explanation for that?

You may remember that when Mr. Dickens approached us about the tour to America,

we were pleased to provide him with an interest-free loan.

With the provision that, in the unlikely case of profits

being inadequate to certain repayments...

What? So he's had a couple of flops? Well, who hasn't? Huh?

Your publishing house wouldn't exist without this man.

What about an advance?

- On? - A new book.

You have a new book in mind?

Yes. Of course he does.

Well, in that case, I mean we'd obviously love to consider it.

- Consider? - That is to say, if we like it.

- If? - I'm sure that we will.

Gentlemen, I bid you good day.

Mr. Forster, please, we had no intention of causing offense.

Well, he's in a fettle now.

I'll give him a day to calm down.

And then... It's most awkward.

He was in last week,

in some difficulty.

Again.

No, that's not possible. He's in the countryside.

He's under strict instructions to remain there.

What is it this time?

"I need money immediately or productive of fatal consequences,

I beseech you to do the needful..."

He's been offering Mr. Dickens's autographs for sale in the newspapers.

- How much did you give him? - Forty-five, all told.

Forty-five?

Well, I'll pay it all back.

But not a word of this to Charles, do you hear?

"What's the secret?" they say.

There is no secret. I sit down...

- Charles. What are you doing here? - I'm hiding from Thackeray.

They absolutely come pouring out of me.

He'll no doubt want to commiserate me on my Chuzzlewit reviews,

which he will quote by heart.

Come on.

I am clammin' for some scran. Where's Robertson?

Why do we come here, hmm?

The service is terrible. The food is inedible. The fees keep going up.

It's full of...

Gentlemen.

You're not Robertson.

The name is Marley, sir.

- Marley? Marley with an "E"? - Yes, sir.

Uh, oh, don't worry. He collects names.

We'll have some oysters and a bottle of champagne.

Very good, sir.

- Champagne? - We're celebrating.

- Celebrating? - Hello, Thackeray.

- How are you? - Tolerable.

I thank ye.

Charles, I must say I am relieved to see you out and about.

Relieved?

You know, after those vile things they wrote about Chuzzlewit.

I won't even call them reviews.

- No matter. I never read them. - Quite right.

Scandalous what one is allowed to print nowadays.

Go on. What did they say?

"Dull, vapid, and vulgar.

Not a single character capable of exciting the reader's sympathies."

I certainly didn't think it was vulgar.

Oh, look. There's Macready.

Poor thing. His Macbeth was absolutely shredded in the Times.

I must go and give him my condolences.

I'm sick of London.

It's overcrowded, overpriced...

- You love this town. - No place for a man without money.

Not to mention the bloody fog.

But it's your inspiration, your what-do-you-call-it... your magic lamp.

I tell you, Forster, my lamp's gone out.

I've run out of ideas.

I feel old.

Old? You're a puppy.

You're exhausted, that's all. Too many speeches.

I've got another one tomorrow for the Children's Refuge.

Well, you have to learn to say no.

How can I say no if I can be useful, if I can lighten the burden of another?

Well, you have to, what with your new commission to think about.

Forster, I just told you that... sorry. New commission?

It's from Chapman and Hall, for your new book.

I've told them you'll have the first chapter done by the end of the year.

You like a deadline.

- Do you mind telling me what it's about? - I'll leave that up to you.

And on Christmas Eve, they say,

the fairy mounds open wide

and the fire spirits pour into the night.

And then the Lord of the Dead

leads all of the spirits into a wild hunt.

And he calls to them...

- Do we have a new housemaid? - What?

Uh, yes. Tara.

She's Irish. Charley adores her.

What are you doing?

- It was only a stub. - Another hour in that.

- Oh, really, Charles. - If you carry on like this, we'll end up in the poor house.

- You're funny. - I'm not joking.

Charles!

You give money to every and any beggar in the street.

You insist we move to a bigger house and order in all new fixtures,

and then you complain about a new candle.