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With Christmas fast approaching, the air is alive with holiday music (this one's the best) and the countdown is being chronicled by the Christmas classics on television.
One of those Christmas classics is, "A Christmas Carol," based upon a story written by Charles Dickens in 1843. So influential has this tale become that the name of the central character, Ebenezer 'Scrooge,' long ago entered the lexicon as being synonymous with 'miser.'
Though almost everyone knows the story, few know of Dickens' inspiration for it (there's actually two accounts, both of which I'll share).
Athenodorus
Pre-dating Dickens' story was a tale that comes to us from a Roman lawyer, author and magistrate named Pliny the Younger (61 – c. 113). Some of Dickens' plot devices, most notably a ghost in chains, seem borrowed directly.
Here's the story in Latin and beneath that, the English translation (by Darren Lester):
Erat Athenis spatiosa et capax domus sed infamis et pestilens. Per silentium noctis sonus ferri, et si attenderes acrius, strepitus vinculorum longius primo, deinde e proximo reddebatur: mox apparebat idolon, senex macie et squalore confectus, promissa barba horrenti capillo; cruribus compedes, manibus catenas gerebat quatiebatque.
Inde inhabitantibus tristes diraeque noctes per metum vigilabantur; vigiliam morbus et crescente formidine mors sequebatur. Nam interdiu quoque, quamquam abscesserat imago, memoria imaginis oculis inerrabat, longiorque causis timoris timor erat. Deserta inde et damnata solitudine domus totaque illi monstro relicta; proscribebatur tamen, seu quis emere seu quis conducere ignarus tanti mali vellet.*
Venit Athenas philosophus Athenodorus, legit titulum auditoque pretio, quia suspecta vilitas, percunctatus omnia docetur ac nihilo minus, immo tanto magis conducit. Ubi coepit advesperascere, iubet sterni sibi in prima domus parte, poscit pugillares stilum lumen, suos omnes in interiora dimittit; ipse ad scribendum animum oculos manum intendit, ne vacua mens audita simulacra et inanes sibi metus fingeret.*
Initio, quale ubique, silentium noctis; dein concuti ferrum, vincula moveri. Ille non tollere oculos, non remittere stilum, sed offirmare animum auribusque praetendere. Tum crebrescere fragor, adventare et iam ut in limine, iam ut intra limen audiri. Respicit, videt agnoscitque narratam sibi effigiem.*
Stabat innuebatque digito similis vocanti. Hic contra ut paulum exspectaret manu significat rursusque ceris et stilo incumbit. Illa scribentis capiti catenis insonabat. Respicit rursus idem quod prius innuentem, nec moratus tollit lumen et sequitur.*
Ibat illa lento gradu quasi gravis vinculis. Postquam deflexit in aream domus, repente dilapsa deserit comitem. Desertus herbas et folia concerpta signum loco ponit.*
Postero die adit magistratus, monet ut illum locum effodi iubeant. Inveniuntur ossa inserta catenis et implicita, quae corpus aevo terraque putrefactum nuda et exesa reliquerat vinculis; collecta publice sepeliuntur. Domus postea rite conditis manibus caruit.*
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English Translation
In Athens, there was a large, spacious house. Unfortunately, it had a malicious reputation as if it were filled with pestilence. You see, in the dead of night, a noise like the clashing of iron could be heard. Perhaps it was the rattling of chains. At first, the noise seemed to be far in the distance, but it would gradually get closer and closer. Suddenly, an old man would appear from nowhere, filthy and emaciated, with a wild beard and hair that looked as if it had been blown by the wind. The chains which had signaled his approach bound his feet and hands.
The people who lived in the house spent many a sleepless night terrorised by things that we can only imagine. This lack of sleep began to drive them mad as they fell victim to disease and, eventually, to death. Even during the day, when the noises could not be heard and the apparition could not be seen, the fear remained and eventually the remaining inhabitants fled, leaving the house deserted and damned.
However, in the hope that money could be raised, the house was put up for sale. It so happened that the philosopher Athenodorus came to Athens and, needing somewhere to stay, he read the posted advertisement. The cheap price raised his suspicions, so the vendor was honest with him and told him all about the ghost and the madness of the previous occupants, but this didn’t put Athenodorus off. In fact, he was eager to take the house and made preparations to move in immediately.
As the evening drew in, he set himself up in the front section of the house. In order to keep his heart and his mind from dwelling on imaginary noises and movements from the corner of his eye, he focused all of his energy on his writing. So, he requested a light and some materials to write with, and then dismissed his manservants.
At first the house was silent. Then came the rattling of the chains. At first, Athenodorus refused to be distracted, but the noise got louder and louder and came closer and closer until it seemed to be by the door. And then in the room with him. Athenodorus looked round and he saw the gnarled ghost of the old man, exactly as the vendor has described, beckoning to him.
Again, Athenodorus refused to be distracted and signaled to the ghost that it should wait until the writing was finished. However, the ghost would not be halted and began to shake its chains over Athenodorus’ head. Athenodorus could ignore the ghost no longer and, taking up his lamp, he followed the slow-moving apparition into the courtyard, where it vanished. Now completely alone, Athenodorus marked the spot where the ghost had vanished with a handful of grass.
The next day, Athenodorus summoned the magistrate, who ordered that the spot be dug up. Enterred, and wrapped in chains, they found piles of bones. The only remnants of a body which had been long since buried. Very carefully, the skeletal remains were collected and given a public burial, with the appropriate prayers and supplications. Never again did the old man visit that Athenian house.
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For more than a century, most literary scholars believed this account. More recently, however, a number have turned to the works of the famous Greek historian, Herodotus (c. 484 – c. 425 BC), whose writings pre-date Pliny's by roughly four centuries.
Γαμημένη φάλαινα
In Herodotus' account, the central character is a wealthy Athenian aristocrat named Γαμημένη φάλαινα (no Greek-to-Latin translation of the name is known but a Greek-to-English translation can be had by copy-pasting the name into an online translator) who is visited by the ghost of a deceased poet named Πυρκαγιά κουίλ ... who, out of frustration, stabs himself to death with his writing instrument, an ink stained feather.
Πυρκαγιά κουίλ reciting, "Castrate, The Cheapskate," in the Agora.
In ancient Athens, poets would often write a poem on parchment and nail it to a post in the Agora (the center of cultural activity). Any Athenian could then come along, make a copy and use it for his or her own pleasure. As recompense, Athenians were expected to drop a coin in a 'tip jar' (what the Romans would later call an "upus votus." As most Athenians were quite poor, however, it became customary for those of greater means to reward the poets more generously.
But not all did and, apparently, Γαμημένη φάλαινα was amongst the stingiest of the lot. Respecting Πυρκαγιά κουίλ, he apparently could not habituate to the hunger pangs typical, then as now, of those trying to make a living by inspiring others to be something greater than they are. And, upon the realization he'd already eaten both his sandals for sustenance, went mad. As mentioned earlier, he ended up stabbing himself to death with the quill he'd used to write his poems. (Hell of way to go.)
Lacking closure, though, Πυρκαγιά κουίλ returned from the dead and, as a ghost, began to torment Γαμημένη φάλαινα.
Each night, Πυρκαγιά κουίλ's visitations would be heralded by the sound of rattling chains. And then, in a ghastly ghostly whisper, he'd utter:
Yo, MoFo … that was some big dough,
You really dug deep into purse,
For that upus votus, I put you on notice,
… Your dick’s now subject to curse.
After weeks of such torment, Γαμημένη φάλαινα was exhausted from lack of sleep and, to his horror, noticed that his manhood had begun to shrivel up and turn an ashen grey. Mortified, he consulted the best physician in Athens but all he could do was shake his head in dismay:
"If it was green and gangrenous, I'd say it was the Covid-19 vaccine -- but its grey and grisly. THAT, I'm afraid, is a poet's 'Purse Curse.'"
"Are you telling me that that hocus pocus shit actually works!?"
"Look at your dick. To, ironically, quote a great poet:
'The gods with their muse, do poets infuse,
Poets, to gods are their tongue,
To them do no violence, seek not to them silence,
For worlds from words are they wrung.'"
Huh, that's actually pretty good. Who said it?"
"Πυρκαγιά κουίλ"
"Fuuuuck. Well, what can I do to make it go away?"
"It seems to be going away on its own."
"No, not my dick ... the curse."
"Not sure. I suppose you could try being more generous to the other poets in the Agora. No more of those cheap-ass 1% upus votuses. Who knows, maybe Πυρκαγιά κουίλ will take pity on you before your jaundiced johnson withers away completely."
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Long story short, Γαμημένη φάλαινα was transformed: He became the patron saint of poets; his schlong grew back and became the largest in Athens (which is actually the origin of the word, 'largesse').
And, his trials and tribulations became the inspiration for "Dick"ens two millennia later.
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Quill