Suspense.
This is your narrator, the man in black, again about to introduce tonight's Columbia program,
Suspense.
The story is The Pit in the Pendulum by Edgar Allan Poe, the adaptation by John Dickson Carr.
Our guest is the distinguished American actor, Mr. Henry Hull, who plays the part of a prisoner of the Spanish Inquisition.
If you've been with us on these Tuesday nights, you will know that Suspense is compounded of mystery, suspicion, and dangerous adventure,
to hold you in a precarious situation and withhold the solution until the last possible moment.
And so it is with The Pit in the Pendulum and Mr. Hull's performance, we again hope to keep you in Suspense.
And now, The Pit in the Pendulum.
I was sick, sick unto death with a long agony. And when it lengthly unbound me and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me.
The sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy, indeterminate hum.
Yet for a while I saw what was how terrible an exaggeration. I saw the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies on the walls of the room.
I saw the flames of the seven tall candles which burned on the table. I saw the lips of the black-puddded judges.
And these lips appeared to me white, white as paper, white as horror. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name.
Jean Delbray, Captain Jean Delbray.
Good father, gentlemen.
We hear you, my son.
I, I am very weak and infirm. I've been confined for many months in a dungeon. I, I've been tormented by nightmares.
Conscience one trusts.
Pray silence, Rar Antonio.
Even, even now I, I have no knowledge of where I am or to whom I may be speaking.
You are speaking to me, my son. I am Fr. Pedro de Espella, prior of the Dominicans of Segovia and grand inquisitor of all Spain.
Is this, is this the court of the Inquisition?
It is.
Then, then God help me.
He will help you, my son, if you trust him.
I, I am a French officer.
That is true. A soldier and creature of the arch being Napoleon Bonaparte.
But a French officer nonetheless. A prisoner of war. That's what right you try me in this court.
Let the clerk read the charges against this prisoner. Pray silence while the clerk reads the charges.
The charges against the prisoner are as follows. In primus, that he is, were, Jean Dalbray, a captain of artillery in the army of Bonaparte, so called Emperor of the French.
This means nothing, as the prisoner says it is no crime. Proceed.
Item, that on the fourth day of September in the year of our Lord 1808, that says Jean Dalbray did wed his spouse and marry the most noble lady, the Dona Beatrice Valdez's niece of, and ward of the Alhambrian.
One moment.
Your excellency, folks. Antonio, was any cheat employed to trap this girl into marriage against her will?
No, we have no actual evidence of any cheat.
Was the girl of age? I believe so.
Then wherefore is the prisoner here?
This marriage was a deplorable thing, if you like. Bonaparte himself is almost at the gates of my great, his general, the Tsar, menaces our city of Toledo itself.
But lawful marriage, however regrettable, is no sin, no crime.
There are other matters in the indictment, I think.
Then continue. But give us nothing that is not material.
Item, that on the 12th of October 1808, that says Jean Dalbray, being in command of a five-gun battery of light artillery, did direct the fire of his guns against the Holy Church of St. Martha the Innocent.
What?
And thereby of his wicked malice destroyed that church utterly.
Captain Dalbray, is this charge true?
It is, yes.
You admit it?
Good Father, hear what I have to say. The church blew up, I think.
Will you boast of your senior man?
It blew up because it was stored with kegs of gunpowder for your army. I had every right to file on it.
And that is all the defense you have to make.
I tell you, I had every right to file on it. By military law.
Is military law above God's law?
I, I don't know. I did my duty, that's all.
Long live the Emperor!
Captain Dalbray, mark what I say. No man, however great his heresy, is ever condemned to be burnt in the fire.
The fire?
If he first recant and acknowledge the error of his ways. But for you, Jean Dalbray, there can be no mercy, no pity, no atonement.
The only sentence of this court can be death.
Death.
The secular, a government after which we must release you, has devised two ways of punishment in cases such as yours.
You hear the tolling of the bells?
I hear them.
It is the procession of the condemned going to the auto-da-fait.
Soon the yellow light of the flames will stream through the windows and flicker on the floor and the ceiling.
Nunca he denora mortis in tuismande posomene.
Most of those condemned out of mercy will be strangled before they are burned.
It cannot be so with you, Jean Dalbray. You must die in one of two ways. Either with the direst of physical agony.
A slow fire of green wood, iced bandages about the head and the heart so that the fire does not approach too quickly.
Or else, Jean Dalbray, you must die in a certain other way.
I've done with this. Pass your sentence and let me go.
The law does not permit me to tell you now what this other way is.
The sentence of this court therefore...
I... I had swooned. Yet still I would not say that all of consciousness was lost.
In the deepest slumber, no. In delirium, no. In a swoon, no. In death, no.
Even in the grave, all is not lost.
There are shadows of memory which tell us indistinctly of tall figures that lifted me and bore me in silence, down, down, still, down.
Until their hideous dizziness oppressed me at the descent into the earth.
Then, as consciousness swam back to my widths, darkness, the stone floor and darkness.
Oh, Beatrice. Beatrice, my wife, Beatrice!
Did you call me, Jean?
Beatrice, was that you who spoke?
Yes, Jean.
You here in the dungeon of the Inquisition...
I am not really speaking to you, my poor Jean. I am only in your imagination.
Am I mad, Beatrice?
No, but your brain is fevered. You only think you hear.
No, no, no. I do. I do. I hear you clearly. As clearly as I once heard you.
In the little church near the Abro where we were married.
Yes, yes, yes. I destroyed that church, Beatrice. I had to. It was my commanding officer's order.
I know, Jean. Be comforted. There are those who care.
You won't leave me!
As strong as I am in your heart, I shall be here.
I was strong once. Now, I am weak. Once I was reckless. Now, I am afraid.
Where am I, Beatrice? What are you going to do to me?
I cannot tell. Remember, my voice comes only from your own brain.
Are you fettered?
Fettered? No.
They've not chained you to the wall?
No, no. They've taken away my uniform. They've given me sandals and a robe of what feels like coarse surge.
But I'm still free. Free.
Take courage, Jean.
Free. And in the grasp of the Inquisition, Beatrice.
Yes, Jean?
It's completely dark. There's hardly any air. I dread to get up. I dread to stretch out my hand.
Suppose... suppose they've buried me alive.
Courage! Can you stand up?
I think so, yes.
Then walk. Walk as far as you can. Measure the limit of the cell. If this is not a tomb...
You're right, Beatrice. That always... I'll find...
Are you on your feet?
Yes. Now pray. Pray for a poor devil who always meant well.
One pace. Two paces. Three. Four.
You are very weak, Jean. Rest a moment.
Where are you now, Beatrice? In the flesh, I mean.
You know that, Jean. In the old house by the olive grove, scorned of my people.
Yes, I know it.
Each morning I climb to the hilltop and watch.
Go on, go on.
Sometimes I think I hear gunwaves rumble in the hills.
Yes. Yes.
The wind is blowing, moving colors, with the red dust rising about them.
Go on, go on.
First come the heavy cavalry in bloom-crested helmets.
Yes.
On their flanks, wheeling like hawks, light hussars in blue and scarlet.
And behind them, in a glitter of bayonets as vast as light points on the sea.
Yes.
Rank upon ranks, the long gray coats and the tall, bare-skinned caps.
The old guard and the Grand Army.
It is only a vision, my dear one. They do not come.
Ah, will they? Will they ever come, Beatrice?
I cannot tell.
Then, then I must face what has been prepared for me.
Walk again, Jean. Try. Keep your hand in front of you.
This rope, this rope, it impedes me, and the floor is treacherous with slime.
But I'll try.
Ah, four pieces. Five, six, seven.
It can't be a tomb.
Eight, nine.
Look out!
Ah, I'm all right. I'm all right.
I fell, I fell to my knees. I, the rope, the rope tripped me.
My, my hand is in front of me. It's lower than my face, but I, I feel, I feel nothing.
Nothing, Jean?
It's a pit, a circular pit, and I fell on the very edge of it.
Oh, they would have made you walk into it.
Yes, oh, there, there's a loose fragment of rock just inside the edge.
But if I can dislodge it, it might elicit...
Water.
There's, there's something down there.
Rats, it may be.
Rats, yes, but something else, I, I heard it move.
So did I. What is in the pit, Jean?
I don't know.
Saved? Saved, Beatrice, saved from the Inquisition.
My, my torture has been merely postponed.
At last, a deep sleep fell upon me. Sleep like that of death.
How long it lasted, I, I know not.
But when I opened my eyes once again, I could see.
I could see, I could see, I could see.
I could see, I could see, I could see.
I know not. But when I opened my eyes once again, I could see.
Yes, see.
My prison was large and lofty. Its walls formed a massive iron place, bolted adjoined together.
A wild, sulfurous luster. I could not trace its origin.
Lit up the dungeon and the circular pit.
And the crudely dogged skeleton figures painted in evil colors on the iron walls.
Skeleton figures, demon figures, gargoyle figures.
The colors a little blurred from the effects of the damp.
It must approach you slowly and force itself into your mind.
It must stalk you like a tiger.
It must bring you face to face at last with the King of Terror.
When I, when I regained consciousness, I lay on my back in a full length on a low framework of wood.
Through this framework I was securely bound by a long, fastening, resembling surgical bandage.
Bound, but why? Why? Why? Why?
The bandage passed round and round my body.
Leaving at liberty only my head and my left arm.
With much exertion I could supply myself with food from an earthen dish on the floor beside me.
It was meat, highly seasoned. But there was no water.
Beatrice! Beatrice, where are you?
Here, John, as always.
As always.
Your voice sounds stronger.
Does it, John?
And I, I can see you now. I can see you as clearly as I saw you months ago.
Oh, I wish it were true.
Your bonnet and the parasol you carried in summer and the high-waisted blue dress.
You are weaker, my dear, and more feverish.
Have I, have I been asleep?
Yes, John.
They must have been here while I slept. They bound me. Why?
Why?
Why? Why?
Stop those voices! Stop them!
Mine too, John. I am not here either, you know. Don't drive me away.
Beatrice, Beatrice, look, look, look.
Where?
At the ceiling of this room, 30, 40 feet up what you see.
I see painted on the ceiling a figure of Father Time.
Anything else?
But Father Time carries no sign.
No.
He carries instead what looks like a gigantic pendulum from an ancient clock.
About one thing I swear I'm in my right senses. I saw that pendulum move.
A painting cannot move.
Yet I swear the pendulum did move. It swung a little back and forth just like a real pendulum.
Try not to trouble your brain.
That pendulum is real. Beatrice, Beatrice, take care.
Take care of what? You're not looking at the pendulum now.
Take care of the rats, the rats, and the pit.
I see them.
They're swarming out in dozens. You can see their eyes glitter. One of them ran across the hem of your dress.
Did it, John?
What did they want?
They wanted to taste the scent of the meat in the dish beside it.
But they'll not get it.
Go away, you family!
Move your hand above the plate, John. Move!
Beatrice, Beatrice, where are you going?
I can hardly hear you.
You are sending me away, John.
I'm sending you away!
My poor loved one, you can't bear to see the rats rumming about my feet again.
Beatrice! Beatrice, Beatrice!
Yes, yes, it's true.
In a cell swarming with vermin.
There are others I'd rather see here.
I'd rather see...
Did you call me Captain Dalbray?
Then in spirit I am here.
Who are you?
Do you want to recognize me?
No, I do not.
I am that second Inquisitor, Tra Antonio, whom you thought unfair at your trial.
But we were not unfair.
We administer the law. That is all.
So I command you go.
Not until I have first told you what you already get.
Which is?
There are two forms of death for such as you.
One death with its direst physical torture, the other death with its direst mental torture.
And I... I have been condemned to the second...
Your guess is good. Listen.
Yes?
Do you hear anything?
Yes, yes, I do. I hear something.
Turn your eyes upwards.
Yes?
Look at the ceiling.
The pendulum.
Aye, the pendulum.
It's descended.
Only a foot or so, as yet.
As you notice, it is not really a pendulum.
It's underside is a crescent, formed of sharp, of razor-sharp steel.
You mean...
The ponderous weight, Captain Dalbray.
Its movement is slow now.
But soon it will take on momentum.
It will swing wider and wider.
Thirty feet, perhaps.
Presently, as it swings, you will hear it hiss.
And with each broad movement, it will creep a trifle lower.
Steel is directly above me.
Yes.
But the region of your heart, lie still and look up at it.
How? How long before?
We have no immediate fears. It will not be too soon.
But how soon?
Who can tell?
In the name of pity, give me some answer.
Ours, perhaps days, is beginning to swing wider.
I... I can't take my eyes from it.
Its glitter fascinates you. Eh?
See how it shines in that wild light.
And this is your utmost refinement in cruelty.
The law, Captain Dalbray, is never cruel.
And now, still in spirit, I leave you to your meditations.
It will not be too soon.
Minutes, hours, days...
Down, steadily down it crept.
Days passed.
It might have been many days before it swept so closely.
It has to fan me with its morbid breath.
Minutes, hours, days...
The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils.
Right to the left.
Far and wide, the shriek of a damned spirit.
My heart with a stealthy pace of a tiger.
Down, certainly, relentlessly down.
I prayed.
I wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent.
I grew frantically mad and struggled to force myself up against that swinging, glittering death.
Down, still unceasingly, still inevitably down, the sharp steel crushed past within three inches of my chest.
Beard! Beardess!
John?
Beardess! Spirit, where are you?
I heard you calling, John. I am here.
It is a strange thing, Beardess. I'm quite calm.
You are resigned, then.
No. That is the strange thing. Even now I am not resigned.
Is there a way out?
How can there be? Ten, twelve more vibrations and will fray the surge of my robe.
Only lightly, as a loser, in a delicate hand.
There will be many sweeps before it bites deep. No, I can't escape it.
You kept me away from you, John. You locked me out of your thoughts.
If I am here only in your thoughts, why should I fear the rats?
The rats!
You open your eyes and your eyes blaze. What is it?
The rats! Do they still swarm here?
Across the floor and over the meat platter. They have taken nearly all your food.
Yes, yes, yes. Of course they are rabidness and they have sharp teeth.
Well...
The meat is oily and spiced. If I take what remains of it, scatter you, vermin, and rub that meat on the bandages that hold me here.
Try it, John, try.
It may be too late. If I move my body a factor of an inch up...
Try it, I tell you, try.
But look, this creature, as soon as I do try...
But they are watching you. I can see their eyes. Look, they are creeping back.
Can I stand the rats crawling across me? Can the flesh bear it?
One of them has leaped on the wooden framework. Another follows. They are gnawing at the bandage.
Seven, eight more sweeps of the pendulum and...
The bandage, give way!
A little more...
Lie still, John, lie still.
Ten, twelve, a dozen rats now. Is death, I wonder, worse than this disgust?
A dozen sharp knives could do no better. The bandage is loosened to ribbons.
Now, if you move sideways, carefully, and drop to the floor...
The better I can move. My arms and my legs are numb. There is no power to...
The steel has braided your robe. A minute more will be too late. Try.
Then with all the spunk that is in me, and all the hate that I bear my enemies...
Freeze!
The second frame!
Freeze!
Easy, John. The pendulum stops. They are drawing it back up through the roof.
Each move I make, they watched. You never doubted?
Yet with all they could do to you, they have failed twice.
They will not fail. No more galling with a king of terrors.
What else can they do?
I can't say. See how the rats gnaw in silence at that bandage.
To what food, I wonder?
But you escaped the pit.
I escaped it once. Listen.
What do you hear?
A groaning, a grinding as of metal.
It was only the cogwheels of the pendulum.
I think not, Beatrice. Why not?
It seemed to come from behind those iron-plated walls.
It seemed to shake the dungeon as a mill wheel might shake it.
Stand up, my poor John. Get up off your knees.
I can't, Beatrice. I can't endure any more.
The paintings on the walls of this dungeon, the skeletons and imps and devils, they seem different.
They are different. The colors sharpen and grow bright.
The demons' eyes glare. The skeleton hands are stretched.
Don't you catch even yet the odor of heated iron?
Heated iron?
Beatrice, my darling, I have been much humbled.
But I won't. I won't have you see me in tears.
I'll order you to go.
John, in the name of heaven.
Beatrice.
You're sending me away.
Yes, yes, in the name of heaven. Go, go.
A suffocating heat pervaded the prison.
A deeper glow settled in the painted eyes that glared at me.
I could draw no breath of air into my lungs.
Against the loom of that fiery destruction,
the thought of the pit and its coolness
come like a soothing balm.
I staggered to the edge of the pit. I looked into it.
The enkindled walls and roof lighted it.
To its depths. Yet for one wild moment, even then,
I refused to believe the horror of what I saw beneath me.
Does the pit please you, Captain Dalbury?
Does the pit?
Mercy will guard anything but that.
And how shall you avoid it?
Look.
This dungeon has changed its shape.
That is true.
The walls are covered with a layer of dust.
That is true. The walls are closing in.
It was formerly a square, and now it is flattening.
You slowly toward the center to force me into the pit?
Of course.
Ah, well, it'll force you along with me.
Again, apparently, you must be told, Captain Dalbury,
that you are speaking only to your own sick fancy.
I am not here at all. Farewell.
Now, now closer and closer through the red burning walls,
forcing me into the pit with a swiftness that left me no time for thought.
I shrank back, but the closing walls pressed me relentlessly onward.
At length, for my steered and writhing body that was no longer an inch of foothold,
I, I'd seen one. I'd potted on the edge of the pit.
The fiery walls rushed back, an outstretched arm caught my own,
as I was about to fall, fleeting into the abyss.
It was that of General La Salle.
The French army had entered Toledo.
The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.
Speed, not time!
And so closes Poe's celebrated story, The Pit and the Pendulum, starring Henry Hull.
We invite you to another adventure of suspense next Tuesday at the same hour.
Until then, this is The Man in Black, saying good night.
William Spear, the producer, John Dietz, the director, Bernard Herrmann, the composer-conductor,
and John Dixon Carr, the author, are collaborators on...
Dispense.
This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.