Defining Waste

By Laura Schiller

Based on the novels of Charles Dickens

Author's Note: No offense is meant by the characters' references to colonialism and poverty; I am simply trying to keep her character authentic to the book and to the era.

Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge, of Scrooge & Marley, did not look the part of the generous philanthropist he was reputed to have recently become. His office was as plain and functional as the black suit he was wearing; his sharp features and pale blue eyes spoke of many years of grim and solitary life. Only the warmth in the room, coming from a fireplace heaped with coals, and the rosy, contented face of the clerk in the corner, hinted toward at least a grain of truth in the rumor mill concerning this extraordinary man.

Some said he had seen visions, like Saint Paul of old, forcing him to repent of his miserly ways; some said he was dying, and these bursts of charity were a desperate attempt to buy his way out of eternal damnation. Others said he was simply going mad. A lesser woman would have felt extremely nervous upon entering Mr. Scrooge's office. Thankfully, Mrs. Jellyby was not a lesser woman.

"Take a seat, ma'am," said Mr. Scrooge. "How may I be of service?"

His eyes swept over her at a glance, taking in everything from her lopsided bonnet to the mismatched laces of her boots, as they sat down on opposite sides of his desk. Ignoring that look, she launched into as detailed a description of her plans for Borrio-Boola-Gha as she could give. Mr. Scrooge listened with his long fingers clasped together, a wry smile at the corners of his mouth, and a twinkle in those frosty eyes of his which she could not identify. Occasionally, he would glance at his clerk, making silent conversation over her head. At one point, if she did not know better, she could have sworn she saw this most respectable gentleman suppress a yawn.

"In short," he interrupted after a while, "You wish for me to invest in this … this … "

"Table-leg factory," she prompted eagerly.

"In the settlement of … "

"Borrio-Boola-Gha."

"Good heavens." He let out a boyish chuckle quite incongruous with his appearance. "I can hardly pronounce it."

"It is great work, I assure you, sir. Great work! It is of paramount importance for us citizens of a civilized nation to guide our primitive brethren along the path to enlightenment, in the interests of the great Brotherhood of Humanity – "

"Yes, yes. I daresay it is." He cut her off with a wave of his hand, with an uncanny glance that seemed look right through her. "Hmm … I wonder how her chain was made, and how long it is?" he muttered in an undertone, making her wonder if those rumors of insanity were true after all.

"Sir?"

"Pardon me, Mrs. Jellyby." His attention returned to her with an almost audible click. "When you came through the city on your way here, what did you see?"

"Well … I … I do not remember," she stammered. "That is to say … I do not understand the purpose of your question."

"Did you see any beggars? Hungry children? Ladies of the night, perhaps, hoping for early clients? When you take a breath of air, Mrs. Jellyby, do you not smell the poisonous corruption of the Thames itself?"

"Mr. Scrooge!" His shocking impropriety made her gasp. How could he even speak of such a subject to a woman? The London poor were filthy, immoral, vulgar creatures who did nothing to deserve the charity they were given. The fruitless efforts of her friend Mrs. Pardiggle could attest to that.

"Did it never occur to you that, perhaps, all this admirable zeal for charity and reform might be put to use in our very own city? I have seen things, dear lady, in this so-called civilized nation, which would put your African villagers to shame! I have seen … "

Mr. Scrooge looked away, passing both hands over his face as if to wipe away his tears or perspiration. His voice, which had been rising steadily until it scattered the papers on his desk and made the quills flutter like trapped birds, suddenly dropped.

"There is nothing," he continued, with a stony gravity even more unnerving to watch, "Nothing I abhor so much as waste. Though my definition of waste may have altered a great deal, my sentiments have not. When we have cleaned our own back yard, Mrs. Jellyby – a task requiring many times over the resources, time and enthusiasm of those like ourselves – then may come a time to meddle in the affairs of other races, and perhaps not even then. After all, they managed well enough before we British came along."

Mrs. Jellyby, for the first time in years, was at a loss for words. She thought of the surly little workhouse orphan who kept their house in such disorder; of her son's sticky hands and runny nose; of her eldest daughter's red-rimmed eyes burning with reproach. She shook her head to force the thoughts away, replacing them with the dream of sun-drenched palm trees and prosperous natives that was her only escape from this life.

Mr. Scrooge was mad, she decided, her heart sinking to the bottom of her corset. Quite out of his senses. There was nothing to be got from him.

"Forgive me for taking up so much of your valuable time," she said, rising majestically from her chair. "I was told that you had changed for the better. I am sorry to realize I was wrong."

Mr. Scrooge had the temerity to snort.

"Thankfully," he said. "I don't give tuppence for your opinion. Mr. Cratchit?"

"Yes, sir?" said the clerk.

"Show this woman out, if you please."

With a smile and a nod to his master, Mr. Cratchit hurried to obey.

On her way out the door, Mrs. Jellyby nearly bumped into a small boy with a cane, whose reddish-blond hair and prominent ears made him look like a younger edition of the clerk. He looked up at her with wide gray eyes, startlingly old in a child's face. As she walked past the office windows, she saw the child being lifted high in the arms of Mr. Cratchit, while Mr. Scrooge stood by, his formidable face transformed by a gentle smile. Catching Mrs. Jellyby's eye through the glass, he waved.

For reasons she did not care to examine, she looked away first.