Radio 59 WROW, first on the dial.
And now, another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
H.G. Wells was one of the most remarkable writers of this century, a storyteller whose
tales are more than mere entertainment designed for a moment of escape, but rather a teller
of tales whose stories linger on in memory, seducing one to that sometimes dangerous and
risky practice of thinking.
Such a story you're about to hear.
The story with a shattering moral.
A story we guarantee you will not soon forget.
The Country of the Blind by H.G. Wells.
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Once I had made my way across the Cordillera, I had to find Senor Cartwright, if he was
still alive.
Or it was he, who would see me last, that terrible night more than a year ago, when
I slipped and fell from a ledge 18,000 feet up the face of Marasca Dabitrú.
It was a long and painful journey.
But at last I arrived at the mine, high in the Andes above Quito, where Senor Cartwright,
the superintendent.
I dragged my aching feet across the porch of his shack and tapped on the door.
Senor Cartwright?
Is it you?
Yes.
What do you want?
You do not know me, Senor?
Well, no.
No, I...
You look like a man I once knew, but...
Oh, no, he's...
He is dead.
Dead in the slopes of Parasca Dabitrú.
Núñez, the guide.
No it couldn't be.
Núñez, the guide.
Si, Senor.
That is what I was called.
But you fell.
I saw you fall.
Yes.
But it's unbelievable.
Perhaps the gods of the mountains had some reason to spare me.
Núñez, if we had had any idea, we would have...
I know, I know.
I do not blame you.
You could not have reached me.
And if you had, I should not have welcomed you.
Not at first, but... but later.
What do you mean?
Senor, you have heard the legend of the country of the blind.
Yes.
Talking about a fertile valley high in the mountains which was cut off centuries ago
by a great landslide.
The people who lived there had developed a strange illness which slowly made them blind.
And after that, their children were born blind.
Yes.
But what has that got to do with...
It is no legend, Senor.
It is true.
What?
And you have heard the saying, in the country of the blind, a one-eyed man is king.
Yes.
That is not true, Senor.
I am afraid I do not follow you, Núñez.
Suppose you begin at the beginning.
Very well.
You remember that night on the face of the mountain.
I will never forget it.
Trapped and alleged scarcely a yard wide, you, Williamson, and I.
You had unfastened your safety rope and were trying to set up a shelter when you slipped...
Yes.
I slipped and I fell.
Down.
Down through the icy black mountain.
I fell perhaps a thousand feet before I felt the heavy, stinging impact of snow.
I had fallen onto an almost perpendicular slope.
And then I was sliding, tumbling over and over.
And under me, around me, an immense avalanche of snow was rumbling, sliding with me.
I fell with the snow for what seemed minutes every second, expecting the terrible final
impact.
Slowly, the avalanche subsided, flowing out upon a gentler slope.
And finally, mercifully, I lost consciousness.
When I awoke, it was morning.
My clothes were torn.
I was bruised and bleeding.
I ached in every muscle.
But I had not one single broken bone.
I lay there and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving to the gods of the mountain.
Far below me lay a lush valley, sparkling in the morning sunlight.
I could see the stately trees and the green meadows fresh with dew.
And then I saw them.
People, men and women working in the fields, nearby a collection of windowless huts marked
the village.
Then I saw two of the men quite close to me.
Two of the men who were quite close failed to notice me as I approached until I shouted.
And only then did they look out pretendably in my direction.
I waved widely at them, but they took no notice.
Why the fools must be blind.
Blind?
Could it be that I had fallen into the country of the blind?
In just a moment, we will return for the second act of suspense.
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The country of the blind.
As that realization came over me, I remembered the words in the country of the blind, the
one-eyed man's king.
I walked toward the men and I spoke to them.
Hello.
Hello there.
Don't be afraid.
I won't hurt you.
I come in peace.
Who is this?
A man or a spirit?
Come down from the rocks.
Oh, I'm a man.
All right.
Just like you.
But you see, I've had a miraculous escape and now I find myself here in your valley.
Valley.
What is valley?
Come hither.
Let me feel of you.
Why, certainly.
Here.
Here, my arm.
My face.
You see, I am a man.
I am a man.
You see, I am indeed a man, just like yourself.
My lips move with speech.
Oh, careful there.
Gently on the eyes.
Eyes?
What are eyes?
This is strange.
Feel this correa.
Yes, he is but imperfectly formed.
Some strange bulbs there, unseen.
No, no, no.
Your eyes are shrunken in, but mine are whole.
I can, I can see.
See.
Pedro, he is a strange, wild one.
I wonder where he came from.
Down out of the rock, no doubt.
No, no, from over the mountains.
Out of the country beyond there, where men can see.
From Bogota, where there are a hundred thousand people and the city stretches out of sight.
What strange words he uses without meaning.
And feel the coarseness of his hair, like a llamas.
Yeah.
And you have come into the world.
Into?
No, no, no.
Out of the world.
The big world, beyond the mountains.
The world that stretches twelve days journey to the sea.
Our fathers have told us, men may be made by forces of nature.
It is the warmth of things and moisture and rottenness.
We must lead him to the elders.
But there's no need to lead me.
I can see.
See.
Yes, of course.
Oh, I didn't see your water bucket.
His mind is still imperfect.
He stumbles and talks meaningless words.
Lead him by the hand.
But look, really, I...
Well, all right.
These people had been blind for centuries.
They had forgotten even the words associated with seeing.
They did not know what sight was.
And they thought me an idiot, only half-formed.
Especially when they led me into the pitch blackness of one of their winterless huts.
And I stumbled over someone.
A thousand pardons, menina sorrote.
He is a clumsy one.
I am sorry.
I fell down.
I just couldn't see in the darkness.
Who is this?
And what is he saying?
He is but newly formed.
He has come down from the rocks.
He stumbles as he walks and mingles words that mean nothing with his speech.
He is a wild man out of the rocks.
No, no.
I come from Bogota.
Over the mountains.
You see, you hear?
Bogota.
He uses wild words.
His mind is hardly formed.
He has only the beginnings of speech.
Bogota?
Would you...
Yes.
I come from a great world where men have eyes and see.
That must be his name.
Bogota.
He stumbled twice as we came thither.
He must be taught...
No, don't you understand?
I can see, but not in the dark.
To you, darkness or light, it is all the same.
But to me, to us who can see, to us outside in the world beyond the mountains...
Mountains?
What are mountains?
Oh, very well then.
Beyond the rocks.
There is nothing beyond the rocks.
That is the end of the world.
But surely you must realize that the sky above covers more than this valley.
Sky?
Above?
There is nothing above but the roof of rock.
He is very raw, my children.
He shall have to be taught from the beginnings.
Take him away.
Feed him.
It shall be done.
But guide him.
See that he does not stumble over my daughter again.
I shall guide him myself, father, and feed him.
Very well.
Come.
Take my hand.
Thank you.
It will be a pleasure to get outside again.
Out of this darkness.
Come.
This way.
What is your name?
Medina Sarote.
Mine is Juan.
Juan Nunes.
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
Sunlight.
Oh, this is better.
And now I may look at you.
Señorita.
You are beautiful, and I have not the words to tell you what a wonderful thing you are
to see.
And so it began.
I, the village idiot, the slave boy, I with my eyes still whole, I fell in love with Medina
Sarote, the daughter of the elder of the village, and only to her could I open my heart.
Only to her could I speak of the beauty I could see around me.
Oh, it is such a beautiful valley.
It's green with grass and yellow with sunlight and flowers, bright flowers dotting the hills.
And I, you said I was beautiful too.
Oh, yes, Medina Sarote.
You are most beautiful.
It means something nice.
Something very nice.
Medina Sarote, why is it you have no husband?
I have a disfigurement.
These long hairs.
You mean your eyelashes?
But they are beautiful.
They are considered a disfigurement.
You are the most lovely girl in this valley.
But they wouldn't know that here, would they?
And so you have no husband.
No.
What do you think of me?
Do you think of me as an idiot, like all the rest?
No.
No, you have much to learn, but you will learn it, I am sure.
And you are kind and gentle, and your voice is soft.
You speak the words that are soft and warm.
No one has ever spoken such words to me.
I shall speak them often, Medina Sarote.
I love you.
And I love you.
Then, will you marry me?
I would be very happy to.
No.
No, no.
I will not have it.
But father.
He is an idiot.
He has delusions.
He cannot do anything right.
But he is getting better.
He is better than he was.
And he is strong and kind.
Stronger and kinder than anyone in the world.
And he loves me.
And I love him.
No.
I will not have it.
Great sire, if you please.
See.
What is it, good doctor?
I have examined Bogota.
And the case is clear to me.
I think very probably he might be cured.
And how might that be done?
His brain is affected by something.
And I believe I know what it is.
Those queer things he calls eyes.
Where we have but an agreeable depression.
He has great lumps.
Consequently, his brain is in a constant state of irritation.
But what can be done to cure him?
It is a very simple surgical operation.
Remove the cause of the irritation.
We will merely cut out those things he calls eyes.
In just a moment, we will return for the concluding act of...
Suspense.
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This then was the price of my happiness.
To marry Medina Cerotti, I must give up my eyes and never see her again.
This lovely, lovely girl who always looked as though she were asleep.
It was a price beyond my ability to pay.
But they say it will make you well, my beloved.
You don't understand Medina Cerotti.
My world is sight.
You would not want me to lose my most precious possession.
I...I do not know.
There are so many beautiful things to see in the world.
The flowers, the far sky with its drifting clouds, the sunset, the stars, and you.
Just to see you, it is good to have sight.
And I would never see you again.
I wish sometimes you would not talk like that.
Like what?
I know it's pretty.
It's your imagination.
I love it, but now...
Now?
You want me to?
Medina Cerotti, if I were to consent to this...
If you would, if only you would.
What else can I do?
You will never regret it, my dearest one.
My dearest with the tender voice.
Oh, Medina.
Be brave.
And carry my voice in your heart.
Now I must go.
And tomorrow?
Yes.
Tomorrow will be forever.
Goodbye.
Goodbye, Medina.
I only meant to go up on the rocks and look out over the valley.
To spend my last day of sight feasting my eyes on the wonderful, beautiful world of light and color.
Drank it in, the green of the fields, the blue of the gently curving stream,
the orange of the lichens in the rocky crevices.
I climbed higher to see the great snow-capped peaks towering above and away to the distant sky.
And higher as the shadows turned the snow to purple and crimson and deep blue.
The valley was far below and as beautiful as a painting.
But like a painting, unreal.
Medina Serati was small and far away.
A distant dream.
And the world of sight was here.
All around.
Overpowering.
I turned and began to climb up that sheer rock wall.
How many months it took me to make my way out over those mountains.
Over glaciers and snow fields and sheer precipices.
I cannot guess.
How I lived through the cold and the hunger of it.
I cannot tell you.
But I am here at last.
Back from the country of the blind.
Good heavens, man.
What a terrible experience.
Yes, terrible.
And wonderful.
But you aren't sorry you came back?
Sorry?
I see her face clearly now.
It is the only thing I see.
No, no.
You are...
Yes.
Yes, the gods of the mountains have had their revenge.
Three months of crawling over the snow and ice.
With the sun glaring down.
Yes.
I am blind.
Suspense.
You've been listening to The Country of the Blind by H.G. Wells.
Adapted for radio by John Dunkle.
In a moment the names of our players and a word about next week's story of suspense.
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Heard in tonight's story were Bernard Grant as Núñez and Lynne Loring as Medina.
Others in the cast included Arthur Cole, Ralph Camargo, Santos Ortega, and Jackson Beck.
Listen again next week when we return with A Korean Christmas Carol by George Bamber.
Another tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
On CBS Radio.