Suspense!
Tonight, as we open a special limited series of five Friday night performances at this hour,
suspense brings you an incomparable study in terror.
This Edgar Allan Poe's The Pit and the Pendulum.
In a new setting as a radio play especially written for suspense by contemporary master of the art, John Dixon Carr.
As star this evening, we bring you a noted actor of the New York stage, Mr. Jose Ferrer.
And as usual, Suspense is produced, edited and directed by William Spear.
I was sick, sick unto death with that long agony.
And when at length they unbound me and I was permitted to sit, I felt my senses were leaving me.
The sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged into one dreamy indeterminate hum.
Yet for a while I saw, but without terrible and 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-robed 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 passion the syllables of my name.
John Dalbray, Captain John Dalbray.
Good Fathers, Gentlemen.
We hear you, my son.
I am very weak and infirm. I have been confined for many months in a dungeon.
I have been tormented by nightmares.
One conscience, one trust.
Pray silence, Fra Antonio.
Even now I have no knowledge of where I am or to whom I may be speaking.
You're speaking to me, my son.
I am Fra Pedro de Spidia, prior of the Dominicans of Segovia and Grand Inquisitor for all Spain.
Is this the court of the Inquisition?
It is.
May God help me.
He will help you, my son, if you trust him.
But I am a French officer.
That is true. A soldier and creature of the archfiend Napoleon Bonaparte.
But a French officer, nonetheless. A prisoner of war.
By what right do 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 one, John 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,
the said John Dalbray did wed a spouse and married that most noble lady,
the Donna Beatrice Valdez, niece and ward of the Elucidus.
One moment.
Your Excellency spoke.
Fra Antonio, was any cheat employed to trap this girl and to marry to Gamestor 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'd like.
Bonaparte himself is almost at the gates of Madrid.
His General Assal menaces our city of Toledo itself,
but lawful marriage, however regrettable, is no sin or 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, the said John 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,
and thereby of his wicked malice, destroyed that church utterly.
Captain Dalbray, is this charge true?
Yes.
You admit it!
Good Father, hear what I have to say.
If you recall, the church blew up.
You boast of your sin, young man!
It blew up because it was stored with kegs of gunpowder for your army.
I had every right to fire on it.
And that is all the defense you have to make.
I tell you, I had every right to fire on it! By military law...
Is military law above God's law?
I don't know. I did my duty.
Long live the Emperor!
Captain Dalbray, hear the sentence of this court.
Must I stand up to hear it?
I am very weak.
I remain seated.
I thank you most humbly.
Had your offense been any except this,
the Holy Office would have been merciful.
Mark what I say.
No man, however great his heresy,
is ever condemned to be burnt in the fire.
Fire!
If he first recant and acknowledged the error of his ways.
But for you, Jean Dalbray, it can be no mercy, no pity, no atonement.
The only sentence of this court can be...
Death! Death! Death!
The secular of government armed to which we must release you
is devised two ways of punishment in cases such as yours.
You hear the tolling of bells.
I hear them.
It is the procession of the condemned going to the autodeté.
Soon the yellow light of the flames will stream through the window.
And flicker on floor and ceiling.
No get in horror mortis into his mounibus.
Domine in nomine patre.
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.
Ice bandages about the head and heart
so that the fire does not approach too quickly.
Not too...
Be silent, Frantonio.
I cry your pardon, Grand Inquisitor.
Or else, Jean Dalbray, you must die in a certain other way.
I'm 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.
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 carrots.
The sentence of this court.
I had swooned.
Yet still I will not say that all of consciousness was lost.
There are shadows of memory which tell me indistinctly
of tall figures that lifted me and bore me in silence down.
Down, still down, until a hideous dizziness
suppressed me at that descent into the earth.
There was a vague horror at my heart
because of that heart's unnatural stillness.
Then consciousness swam back to my wits again.
Darkness, stone floor and darkness.
Oh, oh Beatrice, oh my wife.
Did you call me, Jean?
Beatrice, was it you who spoke?
Yes, Jean.
You here in the dungeons of the Inquisition?
I am not really speaking to you, my poor Jean.
I am only in your imagination.
Am I mad then?
No, but your brain is fevered.
You only think you hear me.
I hear you clearly, as clearly as I once heard you.
In the little church near the Abro where we were married.
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 long as I am in your heart, I shall be here.
I was strong once, but now I am weak.
Once I was reckless, but now I am afraid.
Where am I, Beatrice?
What are they going to do to me?
I cannot tell.
Remember, my voice comes only from your own brain.
Are you fettered?
No.
They have not chained you to the wall?
No.
They have taken away my uniform.
They have given me sandals and a robe of what feels like coarse surge.
But I am still free.
Free.
Take courage, Jean.
Free and in the grasp of the Inquisition.
Give me a kiss.
Yes, Jean.
It is completely dark.
There is hardly any air.
I dread to get up and I dread to stretch out my hand.
Suppose they have burned me alive.
Courage.
Can you stand up?
I think so.
Then walk.
Walk as far as you can.
Measure the limits of the cell.
If this is not a tomb...
You are right, Beatrice.
As always, I will try.
Courage.
Yes, courage.
Now pray for a poor devil who always meant well.
One pace.
Two.
Three.
Four.
You are very weak, Jean.
Rest a moment.
Yes.
Yes.
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.
Sometimes I think I hear gunfields rumble in the hills.
And long moving columns with the red dust rising above them.
Go on.
First come the heavy cavalry in plume-crested helmets.
On their flanks, wheeling like hawks.
Light hasars in blue and scarlet.
And behind them in a glitter of bayonets as vast as light points on the sea.
Rank upon rank.
The long gray coats and tall bare skin caps of...
The Old Gods and the Grand Armies.
It is only a vision, my dear one.
They do not come.
Will they ever come, dear Beatrice?
I cannot tell.
Then I must face what has been prepared for me.
Beatrice.
Yes, Jean.
I tried to walk. I took some steps.
Four steps, yes.
In which direction? I can remember.
Are you facing the same way?
I don't know. Perhaps.
Then walk again. Try.
Keep your hand in front of you.
Yes. As Robin leads me, the floor is treacherous with slagging.
I'll try. Four pieces.
Five. Six. Seven.
It can't be a tune.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
Look out!
I'm all right. I felt the rope grip me.
But...
What is it?
My hand is in front of me.
Lower than my face.
But I feel nothing.
Nothing, Jean?
It's a pit. A circular pit.
And I fell on...
On the very edge of it.
It would have made you walk into it.
Yes.
There's a loose fragment of rock just inside the edge.
If I can dislodge it...
Listen.
Water.
There's something down there.
Rats, it may be.
Rats, yes. But something else.
I heard it move.
So do I.
Accidents saved me.
They would have had me plunged there symbolically like the descent of the soul
to keep company with something else.
And quick death forms no part of their plan.
What is in the pit, Jean?
I can't say.
But you were saved.
Saved, Beatrice. Saved.
From the imposition.
My torture has been merely...
Postponed.
Please, sleep well upon me.
A sleep like that of death.
How long it lasted, 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 of massive iron plates bolted or joined together.
A wild sulfurous luster, I could not trace its origin, lit up the dungeon.
And the circular pit and the crudely dodged skeleton figures painted in evil colors on the iron walls.
Skeleton figures, demon figures, gargoyle figures.
Their colors a little blurred as from the effects of the damp.
And I...
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.
I now lay on my back and at full length and on a low framework of wood.
To this framework I was securely bound by a long fastening resembling a 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, and there was no water.
Beatrice, Beatrice, where are you?
I am here, Jean, as always.
My voice sounds stronger.
Does it, Jean?
I can see you now. I can see you as clearly as I saw you months ago.
How I wish it were true.
You were born in the parasol you carried in summer and the high-waisted blue dress...
You are weaker, my dear, and more fevered.
Have I been asleep?
Yes, Jean.
They must have been here while I slept. They have bound me.
Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Stop those voices! Stop them!
Mine too, Jean. I am not here either, you know.
Don't drive me away.
Beatrice, look!
Where?
At the ceiling of this room, 30, 40 feet up. What do you see?
Rated on the ceiling, a figure of Father Time.
Anything else?
But Father Time carries no scythe.
He carries instead what looks like a gigantic pendulum from an ancient clock.
About one thing I swear I am in my right senses. I saw that pendulum move.
Painting cannot move.
Yet I swear the pendulum did. It swung a little, back and forth, just like a real pendulum.
Try not to trouble your brain.
Father Time is not like those other paintings dogged on the walls, the imps and devils and skeletons.
That pendulum is real. Beatrice, take care!
Take care of what? You are not looking at the pendulum now.
Take care of the rats! The rats from the pit!
I see them.
They're swarming out in dozens. You can see their glimmer.
One of them ran across the hem of your dress.
Did it, Jean?
What do I want?
They have caught the scent of the meat in the dish beside you.
You'll not get it. Go, go away, you vermin!
Move your hand above the plate, Jean, move!
Beatrice, where are you going? I can hardly hear you.
You are sending me away.
I'm sending you away?
My poor loved one, you can't bear to see the rats running about my feet, can you?
Even when you know I'm not here.
Beatrice!
It is true, Jean. You are sending me.
Yes, it's true.
Go! In a cell swarming with vermin, there are others I had rather see here.
I had rather see...
Did you call me, Captain Dalbray?
Then in spirit I am here.
Who are you?
Don't you recognize me?
No!
I am that second Inquisitor, Frantoneo, whom you thought unfair at your trial.
But we were not unfair. We administer the law. That is all.
Go! I command you, go!
Not until I have first told you what you already guess.
Which is?
As the Grand Inquisitor said, there are two forms of death for such as you.
One, death with its direct physical torture.
The other, death with its direct mental torture.
And I have been condemned to the second...
Your guess is good. Listen.
Do you hear anything?
Yes. I hear... something.
Turn your eyes upwards. Look at the ceiling.
Oh! The pendulum!
Aye, the pendulum.
It has descended.
Only a foot or so as yet. As you notice, it is not really a pendulum.
No?
No. Its underside is a crescent, formed of sharp, of razor sharp steel.
A ponderous weight, Captain Dalbray.
Its movement is slow now.
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. Above the region of your heart.
Lie still and look up at it.
How long before?
You need have no immediate fear.
It will not be too soon.
But how soon?
In the name of Peter, give me some answer.
Hours. Perhaps days.
Its motion can be arrested while you sleep.
And now Captain Dalbray, still in spirit, I leave you to your meditation.
Minutes. Hours. Days.
Down. Steadily down it crept.
Days passed. It might have been many days.
Before it swept so closely as to family with its accurate breath.
The odor of the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils.
The right. To the left.
Far. Wide.
Restricted. For damned spirit.
To my heart, with the 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.
With no avail.
Down. Still. Unceasingly down.
Still. Inevitably down.
The sharp steel clashed past within three inches of my chest.
And then, only then...
I heard you calling, John. I am here.
It is a strange thing, Beatrice. I am 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 than it will fray the surge of my robe.
One slightly, as a razor in a delicate hand.
There will be many sweeps before it bites deep.
I can't escape it.
And yet...
And yet...
I could only use my wits.
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? The rats?
Do they still swarm here?
Across the floor and over the meat platter, they have taken nearly all your food.
Yes, they are ravenous. And they have sharp teeth.
Well...
The meat is oily and spiced. If I take what remains of it, scatter you, Vernon,
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 fraction of an inch out...
Try it, I tell you, try.
Look, they scatter as soon as I do try.
But they are watching you. I can see their eyes glitter. They are creeping back.
Can I stand those rats crawling across me? Can the flesh bear it?
A little has leaped on the wooden framework. Another follows.
They are gnawing at the bandage.
Seven, eight more sweeps of the pendulum.
Does the bandage give way?
A little.
Lie still, John, lie still.
Ten, a dozen rats gnaw. Is death, I wonder, worse than this disgust?
A dozen sharp knives would do no better.
The bandage is loosened to ribbons. If you move sideways, carefully, and drop to the floor.
Fearless, I can't. I haven't the strength.
The steel has frayed. You roll the minute more. It will be too late. Try.
Then, and with all the good powers that is in me, and the hatred that I bear my enemies...
Fear!
A second time.
See, John, the pendulum stopped. They are drawing it back up through the roof.
Each move I make is watched. You never doubted that.
No. Yet with all they could do to you, they have failed twice.
They will not fail a third time, my dear. There must be no more dallying with the king of terrors.
What else can they do?
I can't say. See how the rats gnaw and silence the bandage.
To what food, I wonder, have they been accustomed in the pit?
But you escaped the pit.
I escaped it once. Listen.
What do you hear?
Roaning and grinding as of metal.
It was only the cogwheels of the pendulum knife.
I think not, Beatrice.
Why not?
It seemed to come from behind these 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 anymore.
The paintings on the wall of this dungeon, the skeletons and imps and devils, they seem different.
They are different. The colors sharpened grow bright, the demon's eyes glare, the skeleton's hands outstretched.
Don't you catch even yet the odor of the heated iron?
Heated iron!
I have been much humbled, but I won't have you seen in tears.
I order you to go!
John, in the name of Heaven!
Yes, in the name of Heaven! Go!
The suffocating heat pervades the prison.
The deeper glow settles in the painted eyes that glare 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 came like balm.
I stagger to the edge of the pit. I look into it.
The entangled walls and roof light it to its depths.
Yet for one wild moment, even then, I refuse to believe the meaning of what I see.
Does the pit please you, Captain Dalbray?
You again!
Do you find its contents pleasing?
Not the pit! Most people guard anything but the pit!
And how shall you avoid it? Look!
This dungeon has changed its shape!
That is true. The walls are closing in. It was formerly a square, and now it is.
That means slowly towards the center. To force me into the pit?
Of course! It will force you along with me!
Then apparently you must be told, Captain Dalbray, that you are speaking only to your own sick fancy!
No! We are not here at all!
Farewell!
And now, flatter and flatter, through the red-burning walls, with a swiftness that left me no time for thought, I shrank back.
But as the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward, at length for my sad and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold.
These blinged worms! I tottered on the edge of the pit! I averted my eyes!
There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast! As of many trumpets!
The fiery walls rushed back, and outspread charm caught my own as I fell, painting through the abyss.
Through the arm of General Lassalle, the French army had entered Toledo.
The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies!
Suspense!
Produced, edited and directed by William Spear.
Tonight you heard Mr. José Ferrer as star of The Pit and the Pendulum.
First in a limited series of five Friday night performances at this hour, which will present radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, Suspense.
Tonight's radio play was adapted by John Dixon Carr from the famous short story by Edgar Allan Poe.
José Ferrer will soon be seen with Ingrid Bergman in Joan of Lorraine.
Appearing tonight with Mr. Ferrer were Jeanette Nolan, John McIntyre, Elliot Lewis, Joseph Kearns, Eric Snowden and Paul McVeigh.
Music for Suspense is under the direction of Lud Bluskin with original music composed by Lucian Morrowick.
Next Friday same time we will again bring you Suspense!
Music
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