A Christmas Carol in Theatrical Form

About six years ago I thought of writing up Dickens's Christmas Carol in play format so that we could act it at home, and since I didn't have the story immediately at hand I made it up a little as I went along, thinking very much of the film versions (principally of 1938 and 1951) and a little of the characterization of Charles Montgomery Burns in The Simpsons. Here are the first two scenes, of three which I have already written in draft. It's not a very serious thing; among other things, I haven't thought much about what is required for writing a drama as opposed to any other sort of text, and am quite used to reading plays as fiction and not imagining or seeing them as theatre.

***

Scene One
Cratchit sitting at a desk, writing with a quill in a ledger. He is wearing a coat and a scarf, and is evidently cold.

Cratchit: (trying to cheer himself up by singing) "Joy to the world! The Lord is come! . . ."
Scrooge: (throws open the door and stalks in grimly) There's another coal on the fire, I see. I distinctly remember counting five when I left. How often must I tell you to bring two coats with you to work and leave the coal-pile alone?
Cratchit: Please, sir, you only told me once, and I thought that since the pitcher on the window sill is frozen . . .
Scrooge: What is winter if not the season of ice? Practicality is the key, Cratchit. Do you see this padding in my waistcoat?
Cratchit: Yes, sir.
Scrooge: That, Cratchit, is yesterday's Times of London. Several pages, crumpled up and placed judiciously within one's clothing, are as good as a fur coat. (He takes off his hat and hangs it on the clotheshook; crumpled newspapers fall out. He shuffles across the floor, rustling. Cratchit involuntarily looks at Scrooge's feet, wondering what the sound is. Scrooge notices.) Ah! You are wondering what that is in my shoes. Well, Cratchit, I will also tell you that a double sheet of newspaper serves excellently in lieu of socks, and it doesn't need darning.
Cratchit: Most ingenious, sir. (Writes on some moments in perplexity, as Scrooge carefully removes the extra coal from the fire and drops it into the ash pail. At last he has screwed up his courage to make a humble request.) Please, sir, it is the twenty-fourth of December, and I wonder whether I am permitted to take off the last quarter hour in addition to the day off tomorrow.
Scrooge: A quarter hour off?! The day off tomorrow?! But, Cratchit, it is a weekday tomorrow. Business waits for no one!


Cratchit: One might argue, sir, that there are different sorts of business, and that Christmas is a special sort of time. . .
Scrooge: Christmas? Bah, humbug! It is a two-days' holiday marked by reckless spending. It is a veritable orgy, Cratchit, of stupidity!
Cratchit: But surely, sir, you will allow that there is much good spirit, much generosity . . .
Scrooge: Good spirit? Generosity? Pish, tosh. Why, man, if the feeble sinners with which this world is overrun find that they have a conscience pro tempore and make some meagre attempt at propitiation, that is not good spirit or generosity. That is a lily liver! A limp spine! A failed sense of purpose! I have no need of propitiation, since my conscience and, my dear sir, my spine are in perfect order.
Cratchit: (very dubiously) Sir.
Scrooge: You, I perceive, are thinking of the joys of domesticity. Do you, perchance, possess a parcel of greedy, noisy, little brutes, denominated children? Is there in your home some incompetent dame with whom, in an evil hour, you consented to pass eternity — doubling its expenses and dividing its happiness — whom you call wife? Do you have within your establishment some disorderly pauper by name of servant? The joys of domesticity – hahaha!
Cratchit: I must say, sir, that I find my wife and children very amiable –
Scrooge: Blind loyalty, you shall find, is overrated.
Cratchit: But –
Scrooge: Tut, tut. If it were in a better cause, I would be touched. As it is, Cratchit, you cannot but feel that I am doing you a favour by keeping you here at work. Your wife and your progeny must excuse you. Now, I will leave again. (Taking up hat) Mind that you stay and work here the whole time. I am famed for my skill in detecting deceit.
Cratchit: (dumbstruck) Goodbye, sir. (Writes for another few seconds, then the sound of a clock striking five is heard and he lays down his quill. He screws shut his inkstand, banks the fire, puts on his hat, and leaves.)

Scene Two

A city street lined with snow. Two loveable urchins are throwing snowballs from behind a snowbank at passers-by. One hits a lady who is not amused. Another snowball hits Cratchit, who is whistling as he goes along.

Cratchit: Why, what is this? Has the snow has come to life, or are some naughty brownies diverting themselves? Come forth, I say, or I shall have to charge your ranks!
Tiny Tim: It's me, father!
Cratchit: Why, little Tim. I had not known you were such a rascal! And Susie, too! But your ammunition overwhelms me . . . if I cannot vanquish you, I must join you.
Cratchit hurries behind the snowbank and fires enthusiastically. Then Scrooge comes along. Cratchit hits his hat off.
Scrooge: My hat! I do believe I've lost my hat!
Cratchit: (emerging from behind the snowbank) Why, sir, your voice sounds familiar. 'Twas all in good fun . . . (stops horror-struck as he realizes whom he had hit)
Scrooge: Is that what you think, Cratchit? Perhaps you do not realize that my hat is lost.
Cratchit: (stooping) Why, here it is, sir! I am most sorry for this unfortunate contretemps! (Brushes the hat off hastily and presents it.)
Scrooge: (sarcastically) How convenient that it is here, indeed. (snatches hat) But the newspaper padding is lost. It would seem that you desire me to perish of blunt trauma from any passing falling object – or is it of pneumonia from exposure? Good fun, indeed! Let me tell you something that is jolly good fun: you, sir, are dismissed from my employ!
Cratchit: But, sir, not for my own sake – for my wife and children . . .
Scrooge: You will have your wages, minus the sum you would have earned in the next week. And let me never see you again! (stalks off)