Come in. Welcome. I'm E .G. Marshall. Welcome
to the world of terrifying imagination. Once
upon a time there was a poor and common man named
Matthew Mall, who owned a couple of acres that
were desired by a rich and titled man named Colonel
Pinchian, who wished to build a house on the
property. Since the Colonel could not acquire
the land by lawful means, He took others. The
year was 1650, and he connived to have Matthew
Mall declared a wizard, condemned to die on the
scaffold, which is where our story begins. Quiet!
Quiet! Quiet! You have not heard the last of
Matthew Mall. You or your children, or your children's
children. In particular, you, Colonel Pincham,
and all the family who followed you. Look at
him, everyone, as a dying man makes a promise.
Colonel Pincham, God will give you and yours
blood to drink. This is the story of my long
revenge. which began with the moment my adversary
first entered his new -build house, with his
portrait locked into the paneling above his desk
chair. For there, the first of the Pinchons,
the Colonel Pinchon who sent me to my death,
was found dead, drowned in his own blood. The
doctors called it apoplexy, but we know better.
Death brought him blood to drink, the first of
much for his house. doomed. Our mystery drama,
The House of the Seven Gables, was especially
adapted from the Nathaniel Hawthorne classic
for the Mystery Theater by Ian Martin and stars
Norman Rose. I'll be back shortly with Act One.
Halfway down a biased street in one of our New
England towns stands a rusty wooden house with
seven acutely peaked gables facing towards various
points of the compass and a huge clustered chimney
in the midst. So begins the second novel written
by Nathaniel Hawthorne. And to tell you the rest
of it, here is the tortured uneasy spirit of
the wizard Matthew Maul who died before his time
and left a curse that endured for over two centuries.
at last, the whole clan of Pynchon. Shall we
take a case in point? Yes? Well? What is it?
Are you sent for me, Mr. Pynchon? The name is
Matthew Maul, son of him who built this house
for your grandfather, grandson of the rightful
proprietor of your soil. Oh, the ancient dispute.
That matter has been settled by competent legal
authorities. In favor of the family pension.
Self -evidently. I am in residence and you are
not. Then stay here and rot. Ah, for a moment,
Mr. Moore. Will you attend me in the living room?
At your request. To what purpose? Well, perhaps
to your... to our mutual interest. There's a
legend that my family, that to be precise the
same Colonel Pynchon who looks down on us from
above the living room fireplace here, had a deed
to certain vast real estate holdings from an
Indian grant. Holdings of incalculable value.
I've heard the story. Are you also aware that
in the settlement of the estate no deed was found
to lay claim to them? Oh yes. But his claim was
on a verge of settlements when my grandfather
died suddenly in answer to my grandfather's curse
of apoplexy, which is in non -medical terms not
far from literally drinking one's own blood.
I did not get you here to renew old quarrels,
simply to make you a proposition. Very well,
I'm listening. There's a rumor that whatever
quarrel lay between our ancestors Yours was the
one made the best bargain in the long run by
being hanged Now, however, he died. He was only
a step or two ahead of the Colonel for while
the Colonel went out in buying and owning the
land seven gables and on he lost a kingdom when
the deed to have the state of Massachusetts was
lost or Mr. Pynchon, what is your proposition?
Your father was the architect of this house.
He might have secreted the paper somewhere or
built some hidden chamber for them, which my
ancestor, Colonel Pynchon, died to suddenly to
reveal. I would be willing to pay well for information
leading to them. I cannot believe the Colonel
would have concealed something that was not his
to hide, but... There might be a chance for you
to recover those papers. How? I'll make a contract
with you. This house and the property. For the
papers, if I can locate them. No! No, damn it!
If I'll permit it! Did you say something, sir?
No. Why? I could have sworn I heard a voice.
I'll meet your bargain if you can find the Indian
grant. I'll need some help. I don't know where
the papers are or if they exist. I do know that
to locate them I need the help of a medium. I
don't understand. You have a young daughter named
Alice. Bring her here. I watched my grandson
toy with this pinchen whose only desire was to
flee the dread house and live abroad. And by
virtue of my right as a man taken before his
time, I kept invading Matthew's mind and making
it mine as far as I desired. My daughter Alice,
may I present Mr. Matthew Moore. My pleasure,
Mr. Moore. Will you be seated? Father? Do as
he asks. Very well. Now, I ask you to fix your
eyes on mine. From the moment that gentle girl
raised her eyes, she was ours, mine. It was enough,
perhaps, that already the malls had the reputation
that they could enter people's dreams. and that
no grave could hold them. By now, there was a
further belief that they could mesmerize the
unwary. There is your daughter, Mr. Pynchon.
Speak to her. Alice! Alice, answer me! Oh, softly,
softly, Mr. Pynchon. Is it my crime you have
sold your daughter for the hope of getting back
a sheet of yellow parchment? What would you do
with her? Why, only as you asked. Use her as
a medium. to try to make you rich. How? You'll
see. Unless you wish to call our barter deal
off. I don't know! But proceed in God's name!
Very well. Listen to me, Alice Pynchon. Listen
with your mind. Cast off your body. Think. Think
back away through the years, but... Cling to
me. Let him who holds the secret of the Indian
land deeds come forth peaceably and without delay.
Call him. I know not who he is. Then ask. Colonel
Pynchon? Great Grandfather? Can you hear me?
Can you hear me? Call on my grandfather, whom
your great grandfather hanged. Confusing powers
only I could confer on him But the secret the
secret I have not yet ready to divulge Would
you kill the child bring her to without your
answer have you not found it only this Your grandfather's
secret is one he must choke with until it is
of no further value. So keep a house of seven
gables. Wake my daughter from her trance! As
far as I can. What mean you? Well, she will walk
and live and breathe, but... But what, man? I
meant no harm. I meant only to humble you and
yours. I did not mean to steal her soul, but...
I'm afraid. What brings you to Seven Gables?
Why, I take it since you have opened a one -cent
store, it is open to any member of the public?
Not to you. Never to you. Judge. Judge not! That
ye shall be judged. Surely after all these years,
and irrespective of what I've just arranged for
Clifford... You are not welcome in this house.
Not even in a public shop, Hepzibah Pintron.
The shop is a necessity. Now, more than ever.
Because of Clifford's return? Or surely you know
if you're in need, you can call on me. Or bring
your brother and yourself to live on my estate.
You know I will take no charity from you, now
or ever. How dare you offer it after what you've
done to Clifford. I? Yes, you hate him. For what
reason I know not, but hate him you do. You do
me wrong, sweet cousin. Whilst I am a forbearing
man, I... I'd bear what crosses God sends me
to bear. I will not trouble you more now, but
wait for Clifford's return. Four Pinchons are
left. Nearsighted, angular, tall Hepzibah in
her rusty black. The smiling, fat, oily George
Jaffrey Pinchon, who so closely resembles the
- It can't be Clifford yet. No. Then who is it?
Cousin Hepstiver! Cousin Hepstiver! What don't
you know me? Cousin? No pinch you never looked
as lovely as you, child. Cousin Hepstiver, you
flatter me. But you can't deny it. I am your
country cousin. And my mother sends you her love
and regards and hopes my visit to you will not
put you out. Your visit? You intend to stay?
Didn't you get my mother's letter? No. I don't
understand about the letter. Oh, it doesn't matter
now. You're here. But, child, I don't see how
you can stay. Oh, I don't expect to be a guest.
I mean to earn my bread. I can find plenty to
do, cousin. The garden and... Flowers and the
chickens will keep me out in the open air. I
can't help in the shop. Please let me stay. Well,
you can stay at least a night. But in any case,
the decision whether or not you remain at the
House of Seven Gables is not up to me. Tomorrow,
if Master returns home, my brother Clifford will
be coming home at last. I think I remember my
mother and father mentioning him, but as though
he were dead. Where has he been? In prison. Prison?
Why? For the murder of our uncle, the judge's
father, Jeffrey Pinchin. One other young and
unsuspecting girl, Alice Pinchin, came to grief
under the shadowed gables of this brooding old
house. Is another to share the same fate? We'll
find out when I return shortly with Act Two.
This is not my story, so let me quote from the
man who first told it. The mysterious Clipper
is about to return. And here is how he is foreshadowed
in conversation between Ms. Hepzibah Pynchon
and the newly -arrived Phoebe. Thirty -one years
ago, my uncle, master of this house, was found
dead beneath the portrait of our ancestor, Colonel
Pynchon. Death was accountable. The authorities
decided to a blow on the head, since the desk
and his private papers had been rifled. It was
suspected that it was robbery and accidental
murder committed to avoid discovery. By Cousin
Clifford? Oh, I shall never believe that. You
will see for yourself when he returns how gentle,
sweet, unworldly. Clifford could never have been
guilty. I'm sure from that kind face you showed
me in the miniatur, he was wrongly judged. No
question of that. Just as I am sure that Cousin
Jaffrey... Why, I cannot understand. Wad's the
one most instrumental in sending him there. How
could that be? It was he who discovered Clifford
by the rifle desk. Our uncle lying on... Oh,
hi. Dear cousin, think of the present and not
on the path. Soon cousin Clifford will be home
again. But surely it grows very late if he's
covered today. Well, you'd best off to bed. Perhaps
I should greet him alone. Oh, dear, how shall
I manage? May I help, Cousin? I'm always fond
when it comes to cookery. You see, I've lost
whatever art I had all these years alone. And
I wanted Clifford's first breakfast to be so
tasty. You have a fire going bright enough to
taste the morning dusk, since the oven is hot.
Would you like me to bake an Indian cake? It
was Clifford's favorite all those years ago.
Well, then bake it I shall. What else can I do?
The coffee. Real mocha, if you would grind it.
We'll make a breakfast fit for a king. A tired,
sad king, worn out by exile. Is he not well?
You should see to yourself soon enough, dear
Phoebe. Hush, hush, she's coming. Oh, let him
see you first, Phoebe. He likes bright faces.
And mine is old, set in a star. Clifford, dear,
let me help you. The weakness is locked inside,
Hipsipa. Nothing you or anyone can help. But
we are not alone. No, here's Phoebe. Phoebe,
Arthur's only child. You remember, I told you
about her last night. Phoebe. Phoebe Pynchon.
Phoebe. Ah, Arthur's child. Yes, I forget. You
are welcome. Thank you, Cousin Clifford. Come
sit here. Take this chair. Is this you, Hephzibah?
How changed. How changed. Are you angry with
me? Why should I be angry? And why do you bend
your brow so? Oh, Clifford, there is nothing
but love here. If I scowl, it is only habit that
has gone before. Cousin Hepsworth is only worried
and concerned that you should be happy. Then
why do we keep that odious picture on the wall?
Why can't we get you... What is that sound? Why,
that is... Oh, Stevie, will you answer it? Of
course. That is the tinkle of the shot. Bell.
Sharp Bell? Yes, sir. Ah, then. Has Miss Hepsworth's
shop opened under such favorable circumstances
that she needs an assistant as attractive as
you? I'm a cousin of hers on a visit from the
country. Well, in that case, I suspect you are
a kinsman of mine. Let's see. Oh, yes, yes, little
Phoebe Pinton. I am your kinsman, Judge Pinton,
my little niece. Oh, surely I must pay you welcome.
Oh, you resist me. I had not meant to. Quite
right, quite right. A young girl, especially
a very pretty one, cannot but be charry of her
lips. I did not mean to be unkind. Oh, I accept
that. But are you afraid of something? Nothing
I know of. I'll just step in and... What do you
want, Jeffrey? Quite simply, a short visit with
my... No. He cannot see visitors. I warned you
to take care. Clifford is on the brink of a blacker
fate than yet possessed him. I need to see him
now. Oh, oh, Estela, as your daughter did, don't
let him in. Bake him on your knees if you must.
Ask him to have mercy, mercy. You heard. I heard.
But must I? You will not let me see him. I want
to protect him. As you will. But you do me great
wrong, cousin. I only wish to help him. I will
find some other way. He seemed kind. Is his offer
of help so wicked? Oh, Phoebe, he has a heart
of iron. Let me go back to rejoin my poor brother
at breakfast. Of all of us, he's the one who
most needs protection. now don't do it lady what
drink from that or even wash your face I was
only looking at my reflection minute may I ask
who you are sir oh forgive me miss Pynchon has
not mentioned me mr. Holgate the border the same
at your service and you must be miss Phoebe gable
is yours oh my window is the one perhaps it is
more seemingly to ask the question of you sir
by all means i can't mind the seventh since it
is by all odds the most remote and separate see
up yonder beyond the eaves you live there all
alone the question hard to answer miss phoebe
why in the house of the seven gables is anyone
truly alone it's hard to tell whether the rats
outnumber the ghosts, or vice versa. Then why
pick it as a lodging by free will? If you must
know, I can afford little, and the rent suits
my purse. The house also suits my profession.
Your profession? I'm a maker of daguerreotypes.
How fascinating. Can you really point a machine
at someone and make a likeness of them? I can.
Do you doubt it? Why, I... Sounds like a kind
of magic to me. Technically, in its way. But
the result is a quite faithful reproduction of
the subject. For example, this. Oh, you created
this? I re -created this, shall we say. It is
a likeness. Never mind the likeness. Miss Phoebe,
look deeper. What kind of man is this? Why, that
all affects a man of probity? Kindness? Of property?
Is the picture of that alone? Or can one look
deeper? Not knowing the subject, I don't see
how. Look at that eye, in the midst of a sunny
continent, speaking of an open heart. And yet,
observe carefully the cast in the eye, the line
of jaw, the subtle twist of mouth. Here is the
man, the true man, sly, subtle. Imperious, hard,
and with all as cold as ice. Do you recognize
him now? Church Pynchon? Still, there's some
other resemblance. The daguerreotype is of the
living, church. The resemblance is quite marked.
Give or take the style of whisker, the fashion
of cloth, the bloat of jowl. It could be the
original Colonel Pynchon who choked on his own
blood. Why have you this picture? For the same
reason, I wish to have all the pension clan.
Miss Phoebe, will you sit for me sometime? Why?
In any history, one must balance the good against
the bad. Who are you? A recorder of history by
choice. Miss Hepzibah's lodger by chance. Will
you sit for my portrait of you? To what end?
That is beyond my power to say at this moment.
Only that I can promise you, you are safe from
any harm. And what do I get out of it? Well first,
what you put into it. Second, a record of your
beauty. And third... And third? No less than
your future. One way or another. Then how can
I refuse? My object was to make sure, as best
I could, that you shouldn't. For once I was resting
more secure in my rotting grave. The urge to
wander grasped me less. The Pynchon dynasty was
a sorry lot at best, save one. And a new dynamic
force was guiding my course to its revolution.
It was time to start to pull my winding sheet
more closely about me and begin to leave the
future to itself. But not yet. was not yet played
out. The mysterious Mr. Holgrave. Who is he?
What threat does he pose to see me? Perhaps the
only breath of sanity to blow sweetly through
the dusty corridors and winding staircases of
both the Pincheon history and the house that
encloses the living. as tight and inescapable
as the coffin in the grave. We'll return shortly
with Act 3. For two centuries, the curse of the
hanged wizard Matthew Mall has hung like a cloud
over the house of the Seven Gables. The dark,
deteriorating, rat -infested and ghost -ridden
house has outlived its time. Only the family
to which it belongs hangs on to some distant
remnant of the past. There, cousin Clifford,
face in your little irie and retreat. I trust
you, Phoebe, to find me this spot in my private
gable, by from here I can see all the world.
In the bustle of our little town, certainly.
How free I feel after all those years. I have
the widest impulse. What, Cousin Clifford? Are
you too young perhaps to remember when we blew
soap bubbles? A glass of soapy water. And a clay
pipe. Yeah, the pipe I still have. Well, the
soapy water I can provide. But the lost years.
Where can they be found, the King? I wish his
life were more than a shadowed gable overlooking
the street. My cousin Hepsika, to watch the whole
stream of life flow by is at least an introduction
to the thought of returning to it. Perhaps you're
right. Here's your soapy water. Take it to him
to blow bubbles. Good morning, Miss Phoebe. Mr.
Holgrave, how can I thank you? For what? For
answering to my cry, for helping me hold back
my cousin Clifford. It's only fortunate that
I was nearby. I don't know how to explain. Why
should any of us try to explain the human effort,
drive, psyche? We all react to our impulses and
dreams to a greater or lesser degree. Did your
cousin really want a jump? I was with him. I
could scarce hold him. Why would he pretend?
Why indeed? At least there was no disaster. I'm
glad I was part of avoiding that. I can never
thank you enough. How can I do something in return?
Sit for me. Let me make a daguerreotype of you.
That's simple enough. But why? I wish I felt
myself free to answer that completely, but for
at least one obvious reason. There should be
some permanent record of your beauty. I'm afraid
you overstate your case. or my case. So I must
admit that even if you had not half admitted
it, I would suspect you of some ulterior purpose.
You never have quite trusted me, have you? It's
just that I sense you... you are not quite what
you seem to be. Let's... Oh, I don't know what
I feel. What do you want my image for? Say that
I want a record of the Pynchon family. And I'm
alone? No. My other purpose, I must keep to myself.
I could refuse. I hope you won't. It would be
ungracious of me. I offered to do something in
return for helping save cousin Clifford's life.
When? The sooner the better. There's a skylight
in my gable room. The afternoon light would be
perfect. If you'll meet me there at five, I'll
be ready for you. I never thought to see the
day I would Shall we? Not have the door open
and the windows unshutted. No, no, no, no. I
want no other light source than what strikes
across my shoulder to you from above. And we
must catch it now. All right, are you ready?
What must I do? Lift your eyes to mine, above
the lens. So, now, relax. Think of something
soothing. Blue sky. The ripples on a sunlit pond.
Oh, yes. Yes, that's lovely. Don't try to smile.
Just stay and repose. When I expose the plate,
you must not move for 20 to 30 seconds. Now,
take a deep, slow breath and hold it. Now. Now
the plate is exposed. Silvered copper on which
a film of silvered iodide has been formed by
iodine vapor. The sands are dropping through
my minuteglass. And slowly, slowly... Your image
develops on the plate. This one half -minute,
I hold you mesmerized, only to make you immortal.
Never to be forgotten. To last till the end of
time. Now, you may relax. It's all over. Phoebe?
Phoebe? Phoebe? I've mesmerized her, Phoebe!
my evil desire Phoebe Phoebe forgive me if now
I say what I have not dared to say to you nor
ever will perhaps so long as you are a pension
Phoebe I love you love you with all my heart
have loved you since that first moment I saw
you in the garden I have not cannot dare to hope
when all is known that you could return that
love yet here at this moment with you completely
in my power I could a spell on you that would
hold you forever mine no no Phoebe rather that
you were never mine than to hold you bound to
me against your will Phoebe pension can you hear
me I hear you you are safe you know that You
will have no memory of the trance you are in
now. No memory. And when you wake, you will feel
refreshed and your same lovely self. You promise
me? I promise. Then, when I snap my fingers,
wake. Is my portrait all finished? Yes, Phoebe.
May I see it? Oh, no. I -I -I have much to do
before that. This one, I -I want to color. I
would not have you see it in black and white.
Oh, then I shall have to wait to look at it till
I return. Return? I must go home to visit my
mother and father. And bring back the rest of
my clothes. You intend to stay on Seven Gables,
then? Cousin Clifford needs me. And Cousin Hepzibah.
I think it is my duty. To wither and dry up like
them? Before God, I pray you find some better
fate. Some better fate indeed. Back in my grave,
my bones are ready to settle to eternal sleep,
and the curse is ready to be wound up. And the
day after Phoebe left became the beginning of
the end. Look at him, striding along the street
toward the one -cent shop. The picture of a man
who owns most of the world and who intends to
clutch the rest of it to him. The 200 -year reincarnation
of the Pynchon who put me six feet under. Judge
Jeffrey Pynchon. Judge Pynchon? Yes, Cousin Hepteber,
the same. What do you want? What else, Cousin,
but I've done with all this. I want to see Clifford.
No. It is my purpose to do so before. I leave
this house. Haven't you done enough to him? Thirty
years ago our uncle died. His immense fortune
was left to me, save for your life interest in
this property and the house of the seven gables.
To Clifford, not to me. Some months before our
mutual uncle's death, Clifford boasted to me
that he knew the secret of incalculable wealth.
I believe that at this moment if Clifford retain
his wit and... If he chooses, he can tell me
where the riches can be found if... if he chooses.
And if he can't? Or doesn't? Back to the dungeon.
I'll await your bringing him in here, in the
old colonel's chair. It should in any case have
been mine. Am I right? I wish you ill of it.
But I shall go. Fight, Clifford. No, no, my watch.
I have appointments to keep important things
to do. him here, Phoebe. Dead of apoplexy, the
last of his line. But Hephzibah and Calvin Clifford...
They inherit the judge's country estate, bright
with sunlight, with no dark gables to hem them
in. I've already moved them there. I'm so bewildered.
What shall I do now? Phoebe, I have an offer.
What? Well, first let me reveal who I am and
what I know. A two century old secret guarded
to prove that might is not always right. Look.
The curlicue pattern around the portrait. So
many bits of detail. And only one that holds
the power to. Open the vault where the ancient
document lies behind the portrait. All that blood
for a piece of parchment. Clothed in the dust
of 200 years and not worth even the paper it's
written on. A sad and silly secret handed down
to me. But who are you? Like you, the last of
the Pinchons, I am the last of the Mauls. Matthew
Maul. And with the end of the family curse, I
feel reborn. Or will, if... If what, Matthew?
Shall we end it all? Will you marry me, Phoebe,
whom I love beyond all? and put an end for good
to family feuds and tragic doom. Oh yes, Matthew.
Yes. On one condition. You have only to ask.
That we leave and shut up forever the house of
the seven gables. For several years the house
still stood. There were those who, passing it
after dark, swore they could hear the tinkle
of the harpsichord Alice Pinchin once used to
play, the sound of the one -cent shock bell,
the cough of a man choking. But in a very few
years, this had little of flesh or blood left
in it, like all legends about haunted houses.
This one's only special claim to fame was that
it had, if you counted them, Seven gables. I'll
be back shortly. It should come as no surprise
that Judge Jackery Pynchon was the one who really
murdered his uncle. To have made General Clifford
the scapegoat was reason enough for Matthew Mall
to reach that powerful hand once more from the
grave. and exact what so seldom happens to the
villains of this world. Due retribution. Our
cast included Norman Rose, Arnold Moss, Breina
Rayburn, Jada Rowland, and Stats Cosworth. The
entire production was under the direction of
Hyman Brown. This is E .G. Marshall inviting
you to return to our mystery theater for another
adventure in the macabre. Until next time, pleasant
dreams.