The Baron of Grogzwig

Prime Video offers the best in entertainment. This should be fun. Jason Momoa and Dave Bautista go completely down in the hilarious new action film The Wrecking Crew. Inbegrepen by Prime. Yeah, I'm pumped. Find the new Game of Thrones series A Night of the Seven Kingdoms. Based on the bestseller of George R.R. Martin. Look by being a member of HBO Max. So be brave, be just. So whatever you want to find, Prime Video. Here you look at everything. Abonnement is revised. In-house conferencing is 18+. The general standards are of use. A pair of weary travellers climb down from the vehicle and make their way through a grand stone archway to a set of oak doors. Inside, it's all leather bucket chairs and oil lamps on the tables. An open fire crackles at one end of the room. Just what the doctor ordered. The two men take a seat at a little wooden table. Before long they're tucking into their evening meal, washed down with plentiful quantities of warm ale. An elderly teacher, on the next table, knocks back several glasses of brandy, murmuring about one of her more truculent students. The men leave her to her ramblings. They've been on the road all day, covering a distance of well over a hundred miles. They must be exhausted. But at least they haven't been recognised. Because these days, one of the two is something of a celebrity. He goes by the alias Boz, while his friend is known as Fizz. In reality, they're Charles Dickens and his illustrator, Hablett Brown. Their last collaboration, the Pickwick Papers, catapulted the young Dickens to literary stardom. Now they're up north, researching their next one, a novel about boarding schools in the north of England. The book's hero will soon become a household name himself, Nicholas Nickleby. A few months later, when Dickens comes to write one of the novel's early serial installments, he'll remember this particular establishment, immortalising the George in print as one of the best inns in England. Sadly, Nicholas Nickleby, unlike Dickens, never gets to enjoy the amenities of the George. In chapter five of the novel, he and his travelling companions pass right by it, without so much as stepping inside for a glass of port. It's actually at another pub ten miles up the road that Nicholas and the others stop after their coach overturns nearby. It's here, in this rather less salubrious watering hole, while they wait for a replacement vehicle to arrive, that Nicholas hears the tale of the Baron of Grogsvik. The story concerns a medieval German aristocrat who marries in haste, repents at leisure, and at his darkest hour is visited by a mysterious spectre. The Baron's story is told by a merry-faced gentleman who has been indulging in a bowl of hot punch, which may provide some context for the air of casual misogyny that surrounds his description of the Baron's wife. But whatever the gender politics of this boozy gentleman's story, what cannot be denied is that the Baron of Grogsvig's encounter with the supernatural is one of the strangest ghost stories that Charles Dickens ever wrote. I'm David Suchet. From the Noiser Podcast Network, this is Charles Dickens' Ghost Stories. And this is the Baron of Grogsvik. The Baron von Koldwiedaut of Grogsvik in Germany was as likely a young Baron as you would wish to see. I needn't say that he lived in a castle, because that's, of course, neither need I say that he lived in an old castle, for what German baron ever lived in a new one? There were many strange circumstances connected with this venerable building, among which not the least startling and mysterious were that when the wind blew it rumbled in the chimneys or even howled among the trees in the neighbouring forest, and that when the moon shone, she found her way through certain small loopholes in the wall, and actually made some parts of the wide halls and galleries quite light, while she left others in gloomy shadow. I believe that one of the baron's ancestors, being short of money, had inserted a dagger in a gentleman who called one night to ask his way, and it was supposed that these miraculous occurrences took place in consequence. And yet, I hardly know how that could have been either, because the baron's ancestor, who was an amiable man, felt very sorry afterwards for having been so rash, and laying violent hands upon a quantity of stone and timber which belonged to a weaker baron, built a chapel as an apology, and so took a receipt from heaven in full of all demands. Talking of the Baron's ancestor puts me in mind of the Baron's great claims to respect on the score of his pedigree. I'm afraid to say I'm not sure how many ancestors the Baron had, but I know that he had a great many more than any other man of his time, and I only wish that he had lived in these latter days so that he might have had more. It's a very hard thing upon the great men of past centuries that they should have come into the world so soon, because a man who was born three or four hundred years ago cannot reasonably be expected to have had as many relations before him as a man who is born now. The last man, whoever he is, and he may be a cobbler or some low vulgar dog, for aught we know, will have a longer pedigree than the greatest nobleman now alive, and I contend that this is not fair. Well, but the Baron von Koldvidout of Grogsvig, he was a fine swarthy fellow with dark hair and large mustachios, who rode a hunting in clothes of Lincoln Green with russet boots on his feet and a bugle slung over his shoulder like the guard of a long stage. When he blew this bugle, four and twenty other gentlemen of inferior rank, the Lincoln Green a little coarser and russet boots with a little thicker soles, turned out directly, and away galloped the whole train with spears in their hands like lacadaria railings to hunt down the boars or perhaps encounter a bear, in which latter case the Baron killed him first and greased his whiskers with him afterwards. Oh, this was a merry life for the Baron of Grogsvig, and a merrier still for the Baron's retainers, who drank Rhyne wine every night till they fell under the table and then had the bottles on the floor and called for pipes Never were such jolly roistering rollicking merrymaking blades as the jovial crew of Grogsvig But the pleasures of the table, or the pleasures of under the table, require a little variety. especially when the same five and twenty people sit daily down to the same board to discuss the same subjects and tell the same stories. The Baron grew weary and wanted excitement. He took to quarrelling with his gentlemen and tried kicking two or three of them every day after dinner. Well, this was a pleasant change at first, but it became monotonous after a week or so, and the baron felt quite out of sorts and cast about in despair for some new amusement. One night, after a day's sport, in which he had outdone Nimrod or Gillingwater and slaughtered another fine bear and brought him home in triumph, the baron von Kold without sat moodily at the head of his table, eyeing the smoky roof of the hall with a discontented aspect. He swallowed huge bumpers of wine, but the more he swallowed, the more he frowned. The gentleman, who had been honoured with the dangerous distinction of sitting on his right and left, imitated him to a miracle in the drinking and frowned at each other. I will, cried the Baron suddenly, smiting the table with his right hand and twirling his moustache with his left. Fill to the Lady of Groxvig. The four-and-twenty Lincoln Greens turned pale, with the exception of their four-and-twenty noses, which were unchangeable. I said to the lady of Groxvig, repeated the baron looking round the board. To the lady of Groxvig! shouted the Lincoln greens. And down their four and twenty throats went four and twenty imperial pints of such rare old hock that they smacked their eight and forty lips and winked again. The fair daughter of the Baron von Schwillenhausen said cold without condescending to explain We will demand her in marriage of her father ere the sun goes down tomorrow If he refuse our suit we will cut off his nose A hoarse murmur arose from the company. Every man touched first the hilt of his sword and then the tip of his nose with appalling significance. What a pleasant thing filial piety is to contemplate. If the daughter of the Baron von Schwillenhausen had pleaded a preoccupied heart, or fallen at her father's feet and cornered them in salt tears, or only fainted away and complimented the old gentleman in frantic ejaculations, the odds are a hundred to one that Schwillenhausen Castle would have been turned out at a window, or rather the Baron turned out at window and the castle demolished. The damsel held her peace, however, when an early messenger bore the request of von Kold without next morning and modestly retired to her chamber, from the casement of which she watched the coming of the suitor and his retinue. She was no sooner assured that the horseman with the large miscacios was her proffered husband Then she hastened to her father's presence and expressed her readiness to sacrifice herself to secure his peace. The venerable Baron caught his child into his arms and shed a wink of joy. There was great feasting at the castle that day. The four and twenty Lincoln Greens of von Köln-Twithout exchanged vows of eternal friendship with the twelve Lincoln Greens of von Schwillenhausen and promised the old baron that they would drink his wine till all was blue. Meaning probably until their whole countenances had acquired the same tint as their noses. Everybody slapped everybody else's back when the time for parting came, and the Baron von Kölndwydout and his followers rode gaily home. For six mortal weeks, the bears and boars had a holiday. The houses of Kölndwydout and Schwillenhausen were united. The spears rusted and the baron's bugle grew hoarse for lack of blowing. Those were great times for the four and twenty. But alas, their high and palmy days had taken boots to themselves and were already walking off. My dear, said the baroness. My love, said the baron. Those coarse, noisy men. Bitch, ma'am, said the Baron, starting. The Baroness pointed, from the window at which they stood, to the courtyard beneath, where the unconscious Lincoln Greens were taking a copious stirrup cup, preparatory to issuing forth after a bore or two. My hunting train, ma'am, said the Baron. Dispend them, love, murmured the Baroness. Dispend them, cried the Baron in amazement To please me, love, replied the Baroness To please the devil, ma'am, answered the Baron Whereupon the Baroness uttered a great cry And swooned away at the Baron's feet What could the Baron do? He called for the lady's maid and roared for the doctor and then rushing into the yard kicked the two Lincoln Greens, who were the most used to it, and cursing the others all round, bad them go—well, never mind where. I don't know the German for it, or I would put it delicately that way. It's not for me to say by what means or by what degrees some wives manage to keep down some husbands as they do, although I may have my private opinion on the subject, and may think that no Member of Parliament ought to be married, inasmuch as three married members out of every four, must vote according to their wives' consciences, if there be such things, and not according to their own. All I need to say just now is that Baroness von Koldwithout, somehow or other, acquired great control over the Baron von Koldwithout, and that little by little, and bit by bit, and day by day, and year by year, the baron got the worst of some disputed question, or was slyly unhorsed from some old hobby, and that by the time he was a fat, hearty fellow of forty-eight or thereabouts, he had no feasting, no revelry, no hunting train, and no hunting, nothing in short that he liked or used to have, and that although he was as fierce as a lion and as bold as brass, he was decidedly snubbed and put down by his own lady in his own castle of Grogsvik. Nor was this the whole extent of the baron's misfortunes About a year after his nuptials there came into the world a lusty young baron in whose honour a great many fireworks were let off and a great many dozens of wine drunk But next year there came a young baroness, and next year another young baron, and so on every year either a baron or a baroness. and one year both together, until the Baron found himself the father of a small family of twelve. Upon every one of these anniversaries, the venerable Baroness von Schwillenhausen was nervously sensitive to the well-being of her child, the Baroness von Koldfitout, and although it was not found that the good lady ever did anything material towards contributing to her child's recovery, still she made it a point of duty to be as nervous as possible at the castle of Grogsvig, and to divide her time between moral observations on the baron's housekeeping and bewailing the hard lot of her unhappy daughter. And if the baron of Grogsvig, a little hurt and irritated at this, took heart, and ventured to suggest that his wife was at least no worse off than the wives of other barons, the Baroness von Schwillenhausen begged all persons to take notice that nobody but she sympathized with her dear daughter's sufferings, upon which her relations and friends remarked that, to be sure, she did cry a great deal more than her son-in-law, and that if there were a hard-hearted brute alive, it was that Baron of Grogsvik. The poor Baron bore it all as long as he could, and when he could bear it no longer, lost his appetite and his spirits and sat gloomily and dejectedly down. But there were worse troubles yet in store for him, and as they came on, his melancholy and sadness increased. Times changed. He got into debt. The Grogsvig coffers ran low, though the Schwillenhausen family had looked upon them as inexhaustible. And just when the Baroness was on the point of making a thirteenth addition to the family pedigree, von Koldvidout discovered that he had no means of replenishing them. I don't see what is to be done, said the baron. I think I'll kill myself. This was a bright idea. The baron took an old hunting knife from a cupboard harby and having sharpened it on his boot, made what boys call an offer at his throat. "'Eh, eh, eh,' said the baron, stopping short. "'Perhaps it's not sharp enough.' The baron sharpened it again and made another offer, when his hand was arrested by a loud screaming among the young barons and baronesses, who had a nursery and an upstairs tower with iron bars outside the window to prevent their tumbling out into the moat. "'If I had been a bachelor,' said the baron, sighing, I might have done it fifty times over without being interrupted. Hello! Put a flask of wine and the largest pipe in the little vaulted room behind the hall. One of the domestics, in a very kind manner, executed the Baron's order in the course of half an hour or so, and von Koldwithout, being apprised thereof, strode to the vaulted rooms, the walls of which, being of dark, shining wood, gleamed in the light of the blazing logs which were piled upon the hearth. The bottle and pipe were ready, and upon the whole the place looked very comfortable. Leaf, gelant, said the baron. Anything else, my lord? inquired the domestic. The room, replied the baron. The domestic obeyed and the baron locked the door. I'll smoke a last pipe, said the baron, and then I'll be off. So, putting the knife upon the table till he wanted it and tossing off a goodly measure of wine, the Lord of Grugsvig threw himself back in his chair, stretched his legs out before the fire, and puffed away. He thought about a great many things About his present troubles And the past days of bachelorship And about the Lincoln Greens Long since disappeared up and down the country No one knew whither With the exception of two Who had been unfortunately beheaded And four who had killed themselves with drinking His mind was running upon bears and boars when, in the process of draining his glass to the bottom, he raised his eyes and saw, for the first time, and with unbounded astonishment, that he was not alone. No, he was not. The End coarse black hair. He wore a kind of tunic of a dull bluish color, which the Baron observed on regarding it attentively, was clasped or ornamented down the front with coffin handles. His legs too were encased in coffin plates as though in armor, and over his left shoulder he He wore a short, dusky cloak, which seemed made of a remnant of some pole. He took no notice of the Baron, but was intently eyeing the fire. Hello? said the Baron, stamping his foot to attract attention. Hello? replied the stranger, moving his eyes towards the Baron, but not his face or himself. Now. What now? replied the Baron, nothing daunted by his hollow voice and lustreless eyes. I should ask that question. How did you get here? Through the door, replied the figure. What are you? says the Baron. A man, replied the figure. I don't believe it, said the Baron. Disbelieve it then, said the figure. I will, rejoined the Baron. The figure looked at the bold Baron of Grogsvig for some time and then said familiarly, There's no coming over you, I see. I'm not a man. What are you then? asked the Baron. A genius, replied the figure. You don't look much like one, returned the Baron scornfully. I am the genius of despair and suicide, said the apparition. Now you know me. With these words, the apparition turned towards the Baron, as if composing himself for a talk. and what was very remarkable was that he threw his cloak aside and displaying a stake which was run through the center of his body pulled it out with a jerk and laid it on the table as composedly as if it had been a walking stick Now said the figure glancing at the hunting knife are you ready for me Not quite, rejoined the Baron. I must finish this pipe first. Oh, look sharp then, said the figure. You seem in a hurry, said the Baron. Why, yes I am, answered the figure. They're doing a pretty brisk business in my way, over in England and France just now And my time is a good deal taken up Do you drink? said the Baron, touching the bottle with the bowl of his pipe Nine times out of ten, and then very hard, rejoined the figure dryly Never in moderation? asked the Baron. Never, replied the figure with a shudder. That breeds cheerfulness. The Baron took another look at his new friend, whom he thought an uncommonly queer customer, and at length inquired whether he took any active part in such little proceedings as that which he had in contemplation. No, replied the figure evasively, but I am always present. Just to see fair, I suppose, said the Baron. Just that, replied the figure, playing with the stake and examining the ferrule. Be as quick as you can, will you? For there's a young gentleman who's afflicted with too much money and leisure, wanting me now, I find. Going to kill himself because he has too much money? exclaimed the Baron, quite tickled. Aha! Aha! That's a good one! This was the first time the Baron had laughed for many a long day. I say, expostulated the figure, looking very much scared, don't do that again. Why not? demanded the Baron. Because it gives me pain all over, replied the figure. Sigh as much as you please. That does me good. The Baron sighed mechanically at the mention of the word. The figure, brightening up again, handed him the hunting knife with the most winning politeness. It's not a bad idea, though, said the Baron, feeling the edge of the weapon. A man killing himself because he has too much money. Poo, said the apparition petulantly. No better than a man's killing himself because he has none or little. Whether the genius unintentionally committed himself in saying this, or whether he thought the Baron's mind was so thoroughly made up that it didn't matter what he said, I have no means of knowing. I only know that the Baron stopped his hand all of a sudden, opened his eyes wide and looked as if quite a new light had come upon him for the first time. Why, certainly, said von Koldvidout. Nothing is too bad to be retrieved. Except empty coffers, cried the genius. Well, they may be one day filled again, said the baron. Scolding wives, snarled the genius. Oh, they may be made quiet, said the baron. Thirteen children, shouted the genius. Can't all go wrong, surely, said the baron. The genius was evidently growing very savage with the baron for holding these opinions all at once, but he tried to laugh it off and said if he would let him know when he had left off joking, he should feel obliged to him. But I'm not joking. I was never farther from it, remonstrated the Baron. Well, I'm glad to hear that, said the genius, looking very grim, because a joke without any figure of speech is the death of me. Come, quit this dreary world at once. I don't know, said the Baron, playing with the knife. It's a dreary one, certainly, but I don't think yours is much better, for you have not the appearance of being particularly comfortable. That puts me in mind. What security have I that I shall be any better for going out of the world after all? He cried, starting up. I never thought of that. Dispatch! cried the figure, gnashing its teeth. Keep off, said the Baron. I'll brood over miseries no longer, but put a good face on the matter and try the fresh air and the bears again. And if that don't do, I'll talk to the Baroness soundly and cut the von Schwillenhausen's dead. Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! With this, the Baron fell into his chair and laughed so loud and boisterously that the room rang with it. The figure fell back a pace or two, regarding the Baron, meanwhile, with a look of intense terror, and when he had ceased, caught up the stake, plunged it violently into its body, uttered a frightful howl, and disappeared. Von Koldvidelt never saw it again. Having once made up his mind to action, he soon brought the Baroness and the von Schwillenhausens to reason and died many years afterwards. Not a rich man that I'm aware of, but certainly a happy one. Leaving behind him a numerous family who had been carefully educated in bear and boar hunting under his own personal eye. And my advice to all men is that if ever they become hipped and melancholy from similar causes, as very many men do, they look at both sides of the question, applying a magnifying glass to the best one, and if they still feel tempted to retire without leave, that they smoke a large pipe and drink a full bottle first and profit by the laudable example of the Baron of Grogsvik. In the next episode, we bring you our final ghost story from the wildly inventive mind of Charles Dickens and one of the most enigmatic tales the author ever wrote, To Be Read at Dusk. On a mountaintop in Switzerland, a group of men trade spooky stories as the sun goes down. But who are the real ghosts in this particular story? That's next time, in the final episode of Charles Dickens' Ghost Story. Transcription by CastingWords