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- [00:01]
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- [00:29]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
It's native.
- [00:33]
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- [00:40]
Podcast Host (Chris Duffy / Greetings Adventurers Promoter)
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- [01:15]
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- [01:32]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
It's September 1857, in the Lake District. About 10 miles northeast of Keswick, two men are descending the mountain known as Carrick Fell. And they're not just any old hikers. They're two of the greatest writers of their age, Charles Dickens and his good friend, Wilkie Collins. Dickens is already a literary celebrity with eight published novels to his name. Collins, a good decade his junior, has yet to make a name for himself. He's tagging along on this expedition to the Lake District in the hopes that it will generate some copy for Dickens magazine, Household Words, to which Collins is a regular contributor. The previous month, Dickens wrote to Collins begging him to join him on a trip. We want something for Household Words, he told him, and I want to escape from myself. Dickens had been feeling particularly restless of late. Now in his mid-40s, it's he who has dragged the 32 year old Collins on up this particular mountain. Collins, it seems, would have been quite happy spending the morning at their hotel in Heskett, Newmarket. And his reluctance has proven well founded. Already their compass has broken and they've spent a good few hours wandering around in thick fog, trying to find their way down the mountain again. Collins may well be regretting that he allowed Dickens to twist his arm this morning, but before long, it's not the only Part of his body that's been twisted. Collins has gone over on his ankle. It's a nasty sprain. He hobbles down the mountain, much relieved to finally return to civilization and the ministrations of a doctor in nearby Wigton. For Dickens, it's a disappointing start to the planned walking tour. The two authors aren't going to have much to write home about if one of them is spending the next few days with his feet up. But the magazine still needs copy. They might have to get a bit creative. And so, as he puts pen to paper, Dickens will stretch the bounds of this particular travelogue well beyond the usual artistic license, even so far as to include the paranormal. I'm David Suchet from the Noiser Podcast Network. This is Charles Dickens Ghost Stories. And this is the Ghost in the Bride's Chamber. In this episode, we pick up Dickens and Collins's story as originally featured in Household Words. In it, the two authors appear as likely fictionalized versions of themselves. Dickens as the hyperactive Mr. Goodchild, unable to relax even while on holiday. Collins as the laid back Mr. Idol, who, having sprained his ankle, is quite happy to spend the rest of the trip with his feet up. The two men divided up writing duties between them, but while Collins chapters stick fairly closely to the details of their actual trip, Dickens veers off in a much stranger and more sinister direction. We join the two of them as they lodge at a railway station on the Cumberland border, which provides an opportunity for some truly virtuoso writing by Dickens. But after three nights there, even Mr. Idol Collins is beginning to grow restless. He proposes a change of scene to an old Lancaster inn, where the guests are served wedding cake after dinner every night. And the story behind this strange custom, at least as Dickens tells it, is more horrifying than either of them can imagine. The Ghost in the Bride's Chamber Part 1. It entered Mr. Idle's head on the borders of Cumberland, that there could be no idler place to stay at, except by snatches of a few minutes each than a railway station, an intermediate station on a line, a junction, anything of that sort, Thomas suggested. Mr. Goodchild approved of the idea as eccentric, and they journeyed on and on until they came to such a station. Where there was an inn here, said Thomas, we may be luxuriously lazy. Other people will travel for us, as it were, and we shall laugh at their folly. It was a junction station where wooden razors shaved the air very often, and where the sharp electric telegraph bell was in a very restless condition. All manner of cross lines of rails came zigzagging into it like a congress of iron vipers. And a little way out of it, a pointsman in an elevated signal box was constantly going through the motions of drawing immediately immense quantities of beer at a public house bar. In one direction, confused perspectives of embankments and arches were to be seen from the platform in the other. The rails soon disentangled themselves into two tracks and shot away under a bridge and curved round a corner. Sidings were there in which empty luggage vans and cattle boxes often bump butted against each other as if they couldn't agree. And warehouses were there in which great quantities of goods seemed to have taken the veil of the consistency of tarpaulin and to have retired from the world without any hope of getting back to it. Refreshment rooms were there. One for the hungry and thirsty iron locomotives where their coke and water were ready and of good quality, for they were dangerous to play tricks with. The other for the hungry and thirsty human locomotives who might take what they could get and whose chief consolation was provided in the form of three terrific urns or vases of white metal containing nothing, each forming a breastwork for a defiant and apparently much injured woman Established at this station, Mr. Thomas Idle and Mr. Francis Goodchild resolved to enjoy it. But its contrasts were very violent, and there was also an infection in it first. As to its contrasts, there were only two, but they were lethargy and madness. The station was either totally unconscious or wildly raving by day. In its unconscious state it looked as if no life could come to it, as if it were all rust, dust and ashes, as if the last train forever had gone without issuing any return tickets, as if the last engine had uttered its last shriek and burst. One awkward shave of the air from the wooden razor and everything changed. Tight office doors flew open. Panels yielded books, newspapers, traveling caps and wrappers broke out of brick walls. Money chinked Conveyances, oppressed by nightmares of luggage, came careering into the yard. Porters started up from secret places, dittoed the much injured women. The shining bell, who lived in a little tray on stilts by himself, flew into a man's hand and clamoured violently. The pointsman, aloft in the signal box, made the motions of drawing with some difficulty hogsheads of beer. Down train, more beer. Up train, more beer. Cross junction train, more beer. Cattle train, more beer. Goods train simmering, whistling, trembling, rumbling, thundering trains on the whole confusion of intersecting rails crossing one another, bumping one another, hissing one another, backing to go forward, tearing into distance to come Close people, frantic exiles seeking restoration to their native carriages and banished to remoter climes. More beer and more bell. Then in a minute the station relapsed into stupor as the stoker of the cattle train, the last to depart when gliding out of it, wiping the long nose of his oil can with a dirty pocket handkerchief. By night, in its unconscious state, the station was not so much as visible. Something in the air, like an enterprising chemist's established in business on one of the bows of Jack's beanstalk, was all that could be discerned of it under the stars. In a moment it would break out a constellation of gas. In another moment, 20 rival chemists on 20 rival beanstalks came into existence. Then the furies would be seen waving their lurid torches up and down. The confused perspectives of embankments and arches would be heard, too, wailing and shrieking. Then the station would be full of palpitating trains as in the day, with the heightening difference that they were not so clearly seen as in the day, whereas the station walls, starting forward under the gas like a hippopotamus's eyes, dazzled the human locomotives with the sauce bottle, the cheap music, the bedstead, the distorted range of buildings where the patent safes are made, the gentleman in the rain with the registered umbrella, the lady returning from the ball with the registered respirator, and all their other embellishment. And now the human locomotives, creased as to their countenances and purblind as to their eyes, would swarm forth in a heap, addressing themselves to the mysterious urns and the much injured women, while the iron locomotives, dripping fire and water, shed their steam about plentifully, making the dullocks in their cages with heads depressed and foam hanging from their mouths, as their red looks glanced fearfully at the surrounding terrors, seem as though they had been drinking at half frozen waters and were hung with icicles. Through the same steam would be caught glimpses of their fellow travellers, the sheep getting their white kid faces together over away from the bars and stuffing the interstices with trembling wool. Also down among the wheels of the man with the sledgehammer ringing the axles of the fast night train, against whom the oxen have a misgiving that he is the man with the polax who is to come by and by, and so the nearest of them try to get back and get a purchase for a thrust at him through the bars. Suddenly the bell would ring, the steam would stop with one hiss and a yell. The chemists on the beanstalks would be busy. The avenging furies would bestir themselves. The first night train would melt from eye and ear. The other trains, going their ways more slowly, would be heard faintly rattling in the distance, like old fashioned watches running down the sauce bottle. And cheap music retired from view. Even the bedstead went to bed. And there was no such visible thing as the station to vex the cool wind in its blowing. Or perhaps the autumn lightning, as it found out the iron rails. The infection of the station was this when it was in its raving state. The apprentices found it impossible to be there without labouring under the delusion that they were in a hurry. To Mr. Goodchild, whose ideas of idleness were so imperfect, this was no unpleasant hallucination. And accordingly, that gentleman went through great exertions in yielding to it and running up and down the platform, jostling everybody under the impression that he had a highly important mission the somewhere and had not a moment to lose. But to Thomas Idle, this contagion was so very unacceptable an incident of the situation that he struck on the fourth day and requested to be moved. This place fills me with a dreadful sensation, said Thomas, of having something to do. Remove me, Frances. Where would you like to go next? Was the question of the ever engaging Goodchild. I've heard there's a good old inn at Lancaster established in a fine old house. An inn where they give you bride cake every day after dinner, said Thomas Idle. Let us eat bride cake without the trouble of being married or of knowing anybody in that ridiculous dilemma. Mr. Goodchild, with a lover's sigh, assented. They departed from the station in a violent hurry, for which it is unnecessary to observe there was not the least occasion and were delivered at the fine old house at Lancaster on the same night.
- [17:19]
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- [17:44]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
It is Mr. Goodchild's opinion that if a visitor on his arrival at Lancaster could be accommodated with a pole which would push the opposite side of the street some yards further off, it would be better for all parties protesting against being required to live in a trench and obliged to speculate all day upon what the people can possibly be doing within a mysterious opposite window, which is a shop window to look at, but not a shop window in respect of its offering nothing for sale, and declining to give any account whatever of itself. Mr. Goodchild concedes Lancaster to be a pleasant place, a place dropped in the midst of a charming landscape, a place with a fine ancient fragment of castle, a place of lovely walks, a place possessing staid old houses richly fitted with old Honduras mahogany, which has grown so dark with time that it seems to have got something of a retrospective mirror quality into itself, and to show the visitor in the depths of its grain, through all its polish, the huge few of the wretched slaves who groaned long ago under old Lancaster merchants. And Mr. Goodchild adds that the stones of Lancaster do sometimes whisper even yet of rich men passed away, upon whose great prosperity some of these old doorways frowned sullen in the brightest weather, that their slave gain turned to curses as the Arabian wizard's money turned to leaves, and that no good ever came of it, even unto the third and fourth generations, until it was wasted and gone. It was a gallant sight to behold, the Sunday procession of the Lancaster elders to church, all in black and looking fearfully like a funeral without the body under the escort of three beadles. Think, said Francis, as he stood at the inn window, admiring of being taken to the sacred edifice by three beadles. I have in my early time been taken out of it by one beadle. But to be taken into it by three, oh, Thomas, is a distinction I shall never enjoy. When Mr. Goodchild had looked out of the Lancaster Inn window for two hours on end, with great perseverance, he began to entertain a misgiving that he was growing industrious. He therefore set himself next to explore the country from the tops of all the steep hills in the neighbourhood. He came back at dinner time, red and glowing, to tell Thomas idle what he had seen. Thomas, on his back reading, listened with great composure, and asked him whether he really had gone up those hills and bothered himself with those views and walked all those miles. Because I want to know, added Thomas, what you would say of it if you were obliged to do would be different. Then, said Francis, it will be work then. Now it's play. Play, Replied Thomas Idol, utterly repudiating the reply. Play. Here is a man goes systematically tearing himself to pieces and putting himself through an incessant course of training, as if he were always under articles to fight a match for the champion's belt. And he calls it play.
- [21:50]
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- [21:51]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Exclaimed Thomas Idol, scornfully contemplating his one boot in the air. You can't play. You don't know what it is. You make work of everything. The bright, good child amiably smiled. Oh, so you do, said Thomas. I mean it to me. You are an absolutely terrible fellow. You do nothing like another man. Where another fellow would fall into a footpath of action or emotion, you fall into a mine. Where any other fellow would be a painted butterfly, you are a fiery dragon. Where another man would stake a sixpence, you stake your existence. If you were to go up in a balloon, you would make for heaven. And if you were to dive into the depths of the earth, nothing short of the other place would content you. What a fellow you are, Francis, the cheerful good child laughed. Well, it's all very well to laugh, but I wonder you don't feel it to be serious, said Idle. A man who can do nothing by halves appears to me to be a fearful man. Tom Tom, returned Goodchild, if I can do nothing by halves and be nothing by halves, it's pretty clear that you must take me as a whole and make the best of me. With this philosophical rejoinder, the airy good child clapped Mr. Idol on the shoulder in a final manner, and they sat down to dinner. By the bye, said Goodchild, I've been over a lunatic asylum too. Since I've been out he has been, Exclaimed Thomas Idle, casting up his eyes over a lunatic asylum. Not content with being as great an ass as Captain Berkeley in the pedestrian way, he makes a lunacy commissioner of himself for nothing. An immense place, said Goodchild. Admirable offices, very good arrangements, very good attendance. Altogether a remarkable place. And what did you see there? Asked Mr. Idle, adapting Hamlet's advice to the occasion and assuming the virtue of interest, though he had it. Not the usual thing, said Francis Goodchild with a sigh. Long groves of blighted men and women, trees, interminable avenues of hopeless faces, numbers without the slightest power of really combining for any earthly purpose, a society of human creatures who have nothing in common but that they have all lost the power of being humanly social with one another. Take a glass of wine with me, said Thomas Idle, and let us be social. In one gallery, Tom pursued Francis Goodchild, which looked to me about the length of the long walk at Windsor. More or less, probably less, observed Thomas Idle. In one gallery, which was otherwise clear of patients, for they were all out there was a poor little dark chinned, meagre man with a perplexed brow and a pensive face, stooping low over the matting on the floor and picking out with his thumb and forefinger the course of its fibers. The afternoon sun was slanting in at the large end window and there were cross patches of light and shade all down the vista made by unseen windows and the open doors of the little sleeping cells on either side. In about the center of the perspective, under an arch, regardless of the pleasant weather, regardless of the solitude, regardless of approaching footsteps, was the poor little dark chinned, meagre man poring over the matting. What are you doing there? Said my conductor when we came to him. He looked up and pointed to the matting. I wouldn't do that, I think, said my conductor kindly. If I were you, I would go and read, or I would lie down if I felt tired, but I wouldn't do that. The patient considered a moment and vacantly answered, no, sir, I won't. I'll. I'll go and read. And so he lamely shuffled away into one of the little rooms. I turned my head. Before we had gone many paces, he had already come out again and was again poring over the matting and and tracking out its fibres with his thumb and forefinger. I stopped to look at him, and it came into my mind that probably the course of those fibres as they platted in and out over and under, was the only course of things in the whole wide world. That it was left to him to understand that his darkening intellect had narrowed down to the small cleft of light which showed him this piece was twisted this way, went in here, passed under, came out there, was carried on away here to the right, where I now put my finger on it, and in this progress of events the thing was made and came to be here. Then I wondered whether he looked into the matting next to see if it could show him anything of the process through which he came to be there so strangely poring over it. Then I thought how all of us, God help us in our different ways, are poring over our bits of matting blindly enough, and what confusion and mysteries we make in the pattern. I had a sadder fellow feeling with that little dark chinned, meagre man by that time, and I came away, Mr. Idle, diverting the conversation to grouse custards and bride cake. Mr. Goodchild followed in the same direction. The bride cake was as bilious and indigestible as if a real bride had cut it, and the dinner it completed was an admirable performance.
- [28:57]
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- [29:33]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
The house was a genuine old house of a very quaint description, teeming with old carvings and beams and panels, and having an excellent old staircase with a gallery or upper staircase cut off from it by a curious fencework of old oak or of the old Honduras mahogany wood. It was and is and will be for many a long year to come. A remarkably picturesque house and a certain grave middle mystery lurking in the depth of the old mahogany panels as if there were so many deep pools of dark water, such indeed as they had been much among when there were trees, gave it a very mysterious character. After nightfall, when Mr. Goodchild and Mr. Idle had first alighted at the door and stepped into the sombre, handsome old hall, they had been received by half a dozen noiseless old men in black, all dressed exactly alike, who glided up the stairs with the obliging landlord and waiter, but without appearing to get into their way or to mind whether they did or no, and who had filed off to the right and left on the old staircase as the guests entered their sitting room. It was then broad bright day, but Mr. Goodchild had said when their door was shut, who on earth are those old men? And afterwards, both on going out and coming in, he had noticed that there were no old men to be seen. Neither had the old men or any one of the old men men reappeared since the two friends had passed a night in the house, but had seen nothing more of the old men. Mr. Goodchild, in rambling about it, had looked along passages and glanced in at doorways, but had encountered no old men. Neither did it appear that any old men were, by any member of the establishment, missed or expected. Another odd circumstance impressed itself on their attention. It was that the door of their sitting room was never left untouched for a quarter of an hour. It was opened with hesitation, opened with confidence, opened a little way, opened a good way, always clapped to again without a word of explanation. They were reading, they were writing, they were eating, they were drinking, they were talking, they were dozing. The door was always opened at an unexpected moment, and they looked towards it and it was clapped to again, and nobody was to be seen. When this had happened 50 times or so, Mr. Goodchild had said to his companion jestingly, I begin to think, Tom, there was something wrong with those six old men. Night had come again, and they had been writing for two or three hours, writing, in short, a portion of the lazy notes from which these lazy sheets are taken. They had left off writing, and glasses were on the table between them. The house was closed and quiet. Around the head of Thomas Idol as he lay upon his sofa hovered light wreaths of fragrant smoke. The temples of Francis Goodchild, as he leaned back in his chair with his two hands clasped behind his head and his legs crossed, was similarly decorated. They had been discussing several idle subjects of speculation, not omitting the strange old men, and were still so occupied when Mr. Goodchild abruptly changed his attitude to wind up his watch. They were just becoming drowsy enough to be stopped in their talk by any such slight check. Thomas Idle, who was speaking at the moment, paused and said, how goes it, one? Said Goodchild, as if he had ordered one old man, and the order were promptly executed. Truly all orders were so in that excellent hotel. The door opened and one old man stood there. He did not come in, but stood with the door in his hand. One of the six, Tom, at last, said Mr. Goodchild in a surprised whisper. Sir, your pleasure, sir, your pleasure, said the one old man. But I didn't ring the bell did, said the one old man. He said bell in a deep, strong way that would have expressed the church bell. I had the pleasure, I believe, of seeing you yesterday, said Goodchild.
- [35:08]
Old Man Character
I cannot undertake to say for certain.
- [35:11]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Was the grim reply of the one old man. I think you saw me, did you not?
- [35:17]
Old Man Character
Saw you?
- [35:19]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Said the old man.
- [35:20]
Old Man Character
Oh, yes, I saw you did. I see many who never see me.
- [35:29]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
A chilled, slow, earthy, fixed old man. A cadaverous old man of measured speech. An old man who seemed as unable to wink as if his eyelids had been nailed to his forehead. An old man whose eyes, two spots of fire, had no more motion than if they had been connected with the back of his skull by screws driven through it and riveted and bolted outside among his grey hair. The night had turned so cold to Mr. Goodchild's sensations that he shivered. He remarked lightly and half apologetically, I think somebody is walking over my grave. No, said the weird old man, there.
- [36:25]
Old Man Character
Is no one there.
- [36:28]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Mr. Goodchild looked at Idol, but Idol lay with his head enwreathed in smoke. No one there, said Goodchild.
- [36:37]
Old Man Character
There's no one at your grave, I.
- [36:41]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Assure you, said the old man. He had Come in and shut the door. And he now sat down. He did not bend himself to sit as other people do, but seemed to sink bolt upright as if in water, until the chair stopped him. My friend Mr. Idol, said Goodchild, extremely anxious to introduce a third person into the conversation. I am, said the old man without looking at him, at Mr.
- [37:20]
Old Man Character
Idle's service.
- [37:23]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
If you're an old inhabitant of this place, Francis Goodchild resumed. Yes, well, perhaps you can decide a point. My friend and I were in doubt upon this morning. They hang condemned criminals at the castle, I believe. I believe so, said the old man. Are their faces turned towards that noble prospect?
- [37:48]
Old Man Character
Your face is turned, replied the old man, to the castle wall. When you're tied up, you see its stones expanding and contracting violently, and a similar expansion and contraction seem to take place in your own head and breast. Then there's a rush of fire and an earthquake, and the castle springs into the air, and you tumble down upon.
- [38:24]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
His cravat appeared to trouble him. He put his hand to his throat and moved his neck from side to side. He was an old man of a swollen character of face, and his nose was immovably hitched up on one side, as if by a little hook inserted in that nostril. Mr. Goodchild felt exceedingly uncomfortable and began to think the night was hot, not cold. A strong description, sir, he observed.
- [39:00]
Old Man Character
A strong sensation, the old man rejoined.
- [39:07]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Again. Mr. Goodchild looked to Mr. Thomas Idle, but Thomas lay on his back with his face attentively turned towards the one old man, and made no sign at this time, Mr. Goodchild believed that he saw threads of fire stretch from the old man's eyes to his own, and there attach themselves. Mr. Goodchild writes the present account of his experience, and with the utmost solemnity protests that he had the strongest sensation upon him of being forced to look at the old man along those two fiery films. From that moment.
- [39:47]
Old Man Character
I mustn't tell it you, said the.
- [39:50]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Old man with a ghastly and stony stare. What? Asked Francis Goodchild.
- [39:56]
Old Man Character
You know where it took place? Yonder.
- [40:02]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Whether he pointed to the room above or to the room below, or to any room in that old house, or to a room in some other old house in that old town. Mr. Goodchild was not, nor is, nor ever can be sure he was confused by the circumstance that the right forefinger of the one old man seemed to dip itself in one of the threads of fire, light itself and make a fool fiery start in the air as it pointed somewhere. Having pointed somewhere, it went out.
- [40:45]
Old Man Character
You know she was her bride, said the old man.
- [40:53]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
I know they still send up bride cake. Mr. Goodchild faltered. This is a very oppressive air.
- [41:05]
Old Man Character
She was a bride, said the old man.
- [41:24]
Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
In the next episode, we hear the old man's horrific story. A tale of cruelty, murder and revenge, and a trio of ghosts doomed to haunt each other for eternity. That's next time on Charles Dickens Ghost Stories. Can't wait a week until the next episode. Listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus. Head to www.noiser.comscriptions for more information or click the link in the episode Description.
- [42:20]
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Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
Take theirs.
- [42:39]
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Narrator / Charles Dickens Storyteller
There's no limit on what might happen.
- [42:54]
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