故事是這樣開始的：馬利死了；此乃毋庸置疑——牧師、教堂執事、葬儀社人員及主要的送葬者都已在埋葬登記簿上簽了名。史顧己也簽名了；在交易所裡，史顧己的簽名向來是種保證。所以，老馬利的確像釘死的門釘一樣僵死了。
別會錯意了！我這麼說並不代表我個人特別了解死氣沉沉的門釘。其實，我倒認為棺木釘才是最毫無生氣的金屬。但是這個比喻蘊含著我們老祖宗的智慧，並非我可以妄加褻瀆竄改的，否則這個國家豈不大亂？因此，就容我再強調一次吧：馬利已經像釘死的門釘一樣僵死了。
史顧己知道馬利死了嗎？那是當然的，他怎麼可能不知道呢？雖然我不曉得他們到底合夥了多久，但史顧己和馬利確實合夥了好多年。史顧己是馬利唯一的遺囑執行人、唯一的遺產管理人、唯一的遺產受讓人、唯一的遺產繼承人、唯一的朋友，也是唯一的送葬者。不過，史顧己並沒有為此噩耗悲傷過度；葬禮當天，他依然維持自己精明商人的一貫本色，以不可思議的低價舉辦了隆重的喪禮。
提到馬利的葬禮，讓我又想起了故事開頭的那句話——毋庸置疑，馬利死了。讀者必須確實了解這一點，否則我接下來要說的故事就不好玩了。要不是我們深信哈姆雷特的父王在拉開序幕前就去世，那麼，他在吹著東風的午夜時分到城牆上散步，又有什麼好奇怪的呢？因為，這只不過是個中年男人在夜晚輕率地跑到微風輕拂之處 —如聖保羅墓地—去嚇嚇他兒子那脆弱的心靈罷了。
史顧己一直沒有塗掉老馬利的名字。好幾年過去了，老馬利的名字仍出現在店門上：史顧己與馬利。「史顧己與馬利」這行號已廣為人知。有時候，新顧客會稱史顧己為史顧己，有時則叫他馬利，而史顧己對這兩個稱謂都會回應—對他而言，兩者毫無差別。
噢！但他可是一個連石頭都能榨出油來的人哪，史顧己啊！是一個用擠、用撈、用刮、用貪、用摳，無論如何都要得到好處的老狐狸！他猶如又硬又尖的打火石，沒有任何鋼棒可以從他身上打出慷慨的火花；而且，他又宛若牡蠣一般神祕、封閉且孤僻。他內心的冷酷使他老朽的軀體蒙上一層寒霜，凍傷了他尖挺的鼻樑，冰皺了他的雙頰，冷僵了他的步伐，並使他雙眼通紅、薄唇發紫，連他那沙啞的聲音說出來的話語也十分冰冷刺骨。他的頭頂、眉骨及瘦削的下巴上，都覆蓋著白皚皚的寒霜。那股寒意總是與他如影隨形，即使是盛夏，他也可以讓辦公室的氣溫降至冰點，就算是聖誕節，情形依舊如此。
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MARLEY was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.
The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot—say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance—literally to astonish his son's weak mind.
Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names. It was all the same to him.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.
