Original subtitles

SERLING: Staring tonight:

Barbara Rush,

Ross Martin,

Henry Darrow,

René Auberjonois,

and Marty Allan.

To the shoppers, the hunters,

the sifters and winnowers,

to those of you who comprise that vast fraternity of picture-watchers,

we offer you this salon of the special and the supernatural.

Painting number one. It has to do with death,

usually the last chapter in every man's book of life.

The ashes and the dust, the tomb and the engraving on the stone.

Death the finale.

But our first painting offers up a tale

with the final curtain not quite the final curtain.

There's an epilogue.

We offer you now a little item called Cool Air.

Tonight's first painting in the Night Gallery.

Once a year I visit his grave,

a ritual born of habit and, I suppose,

some fleeting little ghost of obligation.

Fleeting, for it was over 50 years ago that I knew him,

and there are times when I find it difficult

to remember his face or the sound of his voice.

And the circumstances are indistinct around the edges,

like an aging photograph,

clouding and yellowing with the years.

But I remember the cool air.

I remember it with a special horror,

an icy draft that still whistles across half a century

like a mournful dirge,

a fitting kind of music

to this man.

Yes?

Is there a Professor Munoz here?

Who's asking?

Howard, Agatha Howard.

He's expecting you?

Well, no, not exactly.

Well, not exactly isn't good enough for me, sister.

The doctor don't like visitors.

Oh, no, I'm sure he'd want to see me.

He and my father were acquaintances.

Just tell him Professor Howard

from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

The Massachusetts Institute of Technology?

Tell him yourself, sister. I got enough getting myself upstairs

without dragging the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with me.

This way.

I don't know why I have to climb these stairs all day long in this heat.

Up and down, up and down, that's all I do.

Smell that?

Yes.

Ammonia.

I never could understand foreigners, and this one I understand least.

He's got a refrigeration machine in there uses ammonia.

Well, the darn thing leaks half the time and

that machine keeps the whole house awake.

If he wasn't paying me so much rent and paying it as promptly as he does,

well, he wouldn't be occupying three of my rooms.

Could you knock?

Don't be impatient, sister. I have a feeling you'll be wanting to leave soon.

What do you mean?

You'll see.

Cold as a grave, like a tomb.

Yes?

You got a visitor, Doctor. Says you know her father.

Yes?

I'm Professor Walter Howard's daughter, Doctor.

From MIT. Please come in.

Thank you very much, Mrs. Gibbons.

House rules, Doctor.

When a young ladies comes visiting,

the door stays open.

Applicable when it is young men that the young ladies are visiting. Thank you.

It's delightfully cool in here, Doctor.

Well, I keep a refrigerating machine on most of the time.

Please sit down, Miss Howard.

Thank you.

I have heard that your father...

Yes. Last summer. A sudden heart attack.

I'm deeply sorry. He was an exceptionally astute man.

We'd had much correspondence together.

Yes, I'm aware of that.

Well, as a matter of fact, a few weeks ago, I was sorting out some of his papers.

Several universities have requested that I donate them.

Well, anyway, I was trying to isolate some of the personal things

and that's when I came across your letters.

The last one was dated about a year ago.

Just about the time I first arrived from Spain.

Well, I didn't know whether or not you'd heard about his death,

so I took the liberty of calling.

So you...

You read all the correspondence between us?

Yes. Yes, I found them fascinating.

You and my father shared something in common.

You both refused to accept the finality of death.

Your father was doing cellular research, Miss Howard,

the rejuvenation of organs.

I'm afraid my own approach took the research a step further,

perhaps into the mystic.

Yes, so you said in your letter.

Something about human will staving off death.

Coming from such a warm climate, Doctor,

it's odd how you prefer the cold.

Did I say I preferred it?

Well, it would seem that you do. The temperature in here must be...

Let us say then that I prefer it to death, Miss Howard.

My illness was of a rare form. It left me very vulnerable.

I can't survive temperatures over 55 degrees, Miss Howard.

It's as simple as that.

I know how uncomfortable you must feel,

but I do thank you for coming.

Well, I hope that I'll have a chance to talk to you again.

Perhaps we could have dinner together?

That would be very enjoyable for me, Miss Howard,

but unfortunately I don't leave my rooms here.

Ever?

Ever. I'm afraid I'm imprisoned.

A most comfortable penitentiary, with my books, my paintings, my research,

but a solitary confinement at best.

Well, then you'll have to invite me for dinner here.

Here?

That would be a great pleasure for me.

Well, perhaps I should ask... Are you married?

Well, I'm a widower, Miss Howard.

My wife...

She died a year after I was taken ill.

She was lovely.

She was, indeed.

She...

Please...

Please call on me again whenever you are free, Miss Howard.

I would very much like to see you.

And when you come, I'll supply a coat and gloves for you

for the duration of your visit here.

I'll bring my own.

I'll look forward to it.

Until next time, Doctor.

Thank you.

Forgive me, Miss Howard,

but like the room, my touch is uncomfortably cold.

But I am sure, Doctor, like the man, I will find it warm.

You are very dear, Miss Howard.

Lips and touch, both cold beyond description,

and yet the man was warm, sensitive.

And I found myself instinctively liking him

and somehow moved by him, moved by his loneliness,

his isolation.

And I carried with me an impression

of a man full of all the fiery passion

peculiar to vibrant men

but enclosed by walls of ice.

I know how fragile is life and how temporal.

But in the case of Dr. Munoz,

it seemed to be measured in the piston strokes of a small engine.

And those walls of ice, did they imprison him,

or did they protect him from death waiting impatiently outside?

Now El Greco, he was the mystic of the Spanish painters,

but his people bore no relationship to reality.

On the other hand, Velázquez,

a court painter to Philip IV, was much more rooted to reality.

Well, just look at his painting of the infantas.

But towering over both of them, Agatha, must be Goya.

Goya to me is el corazón de España,

the heart of Spain

but even more than that, the brush and palette of man.

You look for example at the May Third Execution, 1808.

This was all the horror of war put on canvas,

the brutality, the slaughter, the damnation.

I went there frequently after our first meeting,

and I could sit by the hour, listening to him.

He talked of art, of sculpture, of Spanish history.

It was as if all the richness of his knowledge,

all the passion of man had been stored up,

and by my presence, I had released it.

It came out in a torrent,

and I found myself getting more and more accustomed to the cold.

So, as is so often the case,

necessity becomes the mother of invention.

And survival, you might say, the father of desperation.

We cling to life, don't we?

And why not?

The alternative? A life after?

How can we be sure?

What about reincarnation?

It holds charm, does it? To come back as a donkey or a rooster or a duck?

No, Agatha, this is the life that counts.

It's the only one that has substance.

It's the only one we can be sure of.

And that is why we clutch at it so jealously and so selfishly,

because we know it to be brief and very precarious.

My wife, she believed as I did

that you could forestall death, defeat it by strength of will.

She must have had an infinite faith.

Not quite infinite I'm afraid.

She committed suicide a year after...

Well, the year after my illness.

Which perhaps isn't as inconsistent as it sounds.

Her faith in man had to do with her ability to survive

and her own free will to reject or accept death as she saw fit.

And there have been times recently when...

When I have found myself wondering.

It was a week later,

a week smothered in an insufferable heat.

I'd come into town unexpectedly

and I'd brought Dr. Munoz a little gift.

Juan?

Juan, I've brought a surprise for you.

You mentioned not being able to get real Spanish olive oil.

Forgive me, Agatha. I'm not...

I'm not feeling well this evening.

Is there anything I can do?

Juan? Do you need anything?

Juan I'm at the Hotel Astor. Call me if you need me.

Did you see him?

No. No, he wasn't feeling well.

When did you see him last?

Last week. Why?

Well, yesterday afternoon there was a repairman up there.

His machine was on the blink again.

Well, that repairman came down the stairs four at a time

and then he took the door with him when he went.

I don't understand.

He was scared.

I've never seen any man that scared in all my life.

Of what?

That's what I'd like to know.

But it had something to do with the doctor.

I'm sure you're exaggerating this, Mrs. Gibbons.

Oh, am I? Well, try telling that to the repairman.

Well, it seems like we're going to have a storm.

Well, maybe it'll break this terrible heat spell.

And what a storm!

That part of the nightmare I shall never forget.

For the thunder seemed like some massive earthquake.

I was in my hotel room and another sound intruded.

A new note to the orchestrated terror of that night.

Yes?

Agatha? Please, please come immediately.

Juan? What is it, Juan?

I need you. Please, you must hurry.

Juan?

Juan?

Who is it?

It's Agatha Howard. Please, please, let me in.

Thank God you've come.

He's been pounding on that fool machine half the night.

Can't you turn the lights on?

No, the storm has shut off the electricity.

See?

Between that and the thunder, it's a wonder the whole house isn't awake.

Juan?

Agatha.

The piston on the pump is stuck.

Find a mechanic. I must get it started again.

Juan, let me in first. I must talk to you.

Juan? What's happening?

I told you. The machine has stopped.

The temperature is rising.

No!

You mustn't touch me.

You mustn't even look at me.

Agatha, please, find me a mechanic.

I've been phoning half the night. No one will come up at this hour.

Oh, but surely, Juan, in the morning...

In the morning it'll be too late!

Now, do you understand? That engine must be fixed tonight.

I'll do what I can.

Why is he hammering like that? What's the matter with him?

Where can I find a mechanic?

At 3:00 in the morning?

Is there anyone in the building?

Well, there's Charlie Crowley down here on the first floor.

He works in a garage.

But he won't take kindly to you waking...

He...

Mr. Crowley? Mr. Crowley?

Why don't the lights work? Where's that flashlight?

In the drawer.

All right.

What is it?

Mr. Crowley, it's Dr. Munoz, just above you. He needs help.

Help? What kind of help?

He has a gasoline engine, a refrigeration machine, and it stopped.

Well, what am I supposed to do about it?

Please, please, just take a look at it. He must get it started again.

Lady, I don't know whether you know it or not, but it must be near dawn,

and I got to get up at 7:00 as it is.

Oh, please!

Who is it, Charlie?

Oh, it's some friend of Dr. Munoz.

Tell them to make him stop that racket.

Please, please, just take a look at it.

All right, lady, all right. Wait till I get some tools. Wait a minute.

Everybody wants something this hour of the morning.

Go ahead. With Dr. Munoz...

I don't know what time it is and I've got to get up...

It's open.

What smells?

It's incense.

It's over there.

Agatha, please.

I think it best that you leave immediately.

I can't do anything. That pump arm is shot.

Well, can you get one?

Not at this hour.

You'll just have to make do until the supply house opens.

Ice, can you get me ice?

Mister, the only thing I'm gonna get now is some sleep.

Agatha, please.

I must have ice. A lot of it.

Then in the morning I can have the machine repaired.

I'll see to it, Juan. Right away.

That's the last of it, Doc. Want me to bring it in there?

No. Just leave. I'll get it myself.

Where do you want the bill?

Put it on the table.

Excuse me, Miss, are you related to him?

Well, I was just wondering.

He's locked himself up in that bathroom

with like 300 pounds of ice in there

and I was just wondering what the deal was.

I mean, what's a guy use that much ice for?

I'm afraid I wouldn't know.

Juan? Juan? Are you all right?

I'm afraid the ice isn't working anymore.

It's getting warmer. The tissues can't last.

Juan, I just spoke to the supply house.

They have to send down to the Battery for a new pump arm,

but the man assured me they could have it here

within an hour and a half.

Were it no more than 15 minutes, it would still come too late.

Juan. Juan, please, please, let me fetch a doctor.

Agatha, I am a doctor.

"Physician, heal thyself." Isn't that the phrase?

Juan, please. Please, Juan, come out.

Juan, I must see you.

You must see me?

I think that very unwise.

I've changed considerably in the past few hours.

You remember what I was telling you about the will and the nerves?

How we could delay death even after the organs ceased to work?

It was an interesting theory. But unfortunately, only a theory.

You see, dear Agatha, it can't keep up indefinitely.

There is a gradual deterioration of the organs.

However you preserve the outer shell, the organs, they simply don't work again.

The best I could hope for was for

a kind of artificial preservation.

Juan! Juan! Juan, please!

Let me finish. I mentioned my wife's suicide.

Do you understand now why life became so unbearable for her?

No, no, I don't understand.

I only know that I must help you.

Juan, you're not going to die, and I won't let you.

You don't understand, dear Agatha.

My wife committed suicide

because

she couldn't stand living

with a corpse.

You see, my darling,

I died that time,

ten years ago.

Juan! Juan! Please! Juan!

Yes, each year I visit his grave

and I wonder if I'm mourning something that was

or something that might have been.

But I won't ponder the question.

What might have been embraces elements of horror

that could drive me insane.

And as always, I find any icy draft of wind unbearable.

It conjures up images, memories,

remembrances of the nightmare.

It's a funeral dirge that sings of death.

And so I'll leave.

We branch out a bit this evening and move a few feet away from the usual

and get into the area of photography.

Now, this painting here had best be viewed in a dark room,

because it conjures up the ghostly, the ghastly and the ghoulish.

It tells the story about a very remarkable device

that offers up a vision as things are

and a hellish vision of what they were and shall be.

Our painting is called Camera Obscura.

Yes?

William Sharsted, Mr. Gingold.

I rang you up last week, if you'll recall. Told you I'd be here today.

Oh, yes, Mr. Sharsted. Of course I recall.

Do come in, won't you?

Thank you very much.

Well, well, well, well.

You certainly do have some lovely things here, Mr. Gingold.

Thank you, Mr. Sharsted. Yes.

Over there on the wall, that's a Constable reproduction, is it not?

An original, Mr. Sharsted.

Yes, one of his early works.

An original? Well, now. Well, well, well, now.

That would fetch a pretty penny.

Oh, it might perhaps, if I were to sell it,

but I have no plans to do so.

Would you follow me, please?

German. 16th century.

My sitting room is right upstairs if you would, please, Mr. Sharsted.

I didn't come here to sit, Mr. Gingold.

I came to collect,

a £300 loan at 13%.

Payment due in full on August 13th.

That would be Monday, Mr. Gingold. Monday next.

Yes.

I've not heard from you.

Why not a glass of wine, Mr. Sharsted?

My sitting room is right up here if you'll follow me.

Mr. Gingold, Mr. Gingold...

Right this way. I'm not here to...

Here we are.

Excuse me.

Ah-ha. A Corot.

Yes.

Well, now. Well, well, well, now.

You certainly are quite a collector, Mr. Gingold.

Thank you.

Ever had any of this appraised?

Well, I've never felt the need, Mr. Sharsted.

You see, I collect things for their beauty, not for their value.

Will sherry do?

Please.

About your loan, Mr. Gingold.

Monday is three days off. I presume you are prepared to repay.

Well, I am prepared to discuss it,

in good time.

Oh, there is one thing I would very much like to show you.

Are you familiar with this?

Some sort of Victorian toy.

Oh, it's hardly a toy, Mr. Sharsted.

It's a camera obscura.

Fascinating, I'm sure.

However I'm not a photography buff, Mr. Gingold.

No?

No.

What are you, Mr. Sharsted?

What am I?

I'm a businessman, Mr. Gingold.

A moneylender.

I'm not ashamed of that fact.

Nor should you be. I was merely identifying your occupation,

not judging it.

Let me explain the camera obscura to you.

You know, very few of my acquaintances

have had the privilege of seeing what you are about to see.

To begin with, these controls

are coupled with a series of prisms and lenses on the roof.

The hidden camera,

as the Victorian scientists so aptly called it,

gathers a panoramic view of the town below

and then, by means of those same prisms and lenses,

transmit them down to this viewing table here.

Provide a most absorbing study of one's fellow man.

Let me show you.

Why, that... That's incredible.

Truly incredible.

Yes.

Distance sweetens, does it not?

How do you mean?

There is a softening effect on anything when viewed from a cloud.

However, on closer look...

Yes.

The residence of Norton Thwaite.

You recognize it?

I recognize it.

What's that got to do with me?

Oh, you must know the answer to that.

I believe you're responsible for destroying Mr. Thwaite.

Destroying him?

That's a bit melodramatic, Mr. Gingold.

I happen to hold a mortgage on that ratty little building of his,

and since he is unwilling to keep up the payments on his mortgage...

Unwilling or unable?

The distinction eludes me, Mr. Gingold.

Unwilling or unable, he has a most cavalier way

of borrowing money and then not paying it back.

And you, sir, have a most cavalier way of charging a usurious interest,

which in the case of a man of Mr. Thwaite's

advanced years makes it almost impossible for...

I charge the legal rate, Mr. Gingold.

The legal rate yes. But what is legal is not always just.

I would suggest, Mr. Gingold,

that you preoccupy yourself with your own financial difficulties.

I'm repossessing old man Thwaite's building

since he can't meet his obligations and must suffer the consequences.

The significance of this should not be lost to you.

Now there are a number of objets d'art in the other room

that I could force you to relinquish in lieu of payment of your loan.

You have that right, of course. But in the case of Mr. Thwaite...

The case of Mr. Thwaite is no different than any other dishonored debt.

Is it not, Mr. Sharsted?

The man is 76 years old,

and you are stripping him of everything he owns in the entire world.

That may be business, Mr. Sharsted, but it is a far cry from humanity.

Humanity, Mr. Gingold,

applies to funeral eulogies and Valentine cards, not business.

Now, may I suggest that you stop this

oh-so-subtle tugging at me heartstrings,

and let's get down to your case.

£300 payable and due on Monday.

Now, this altogether fundamental question.

Are you prepared to pay me?

Or do I put some kind of distraint on some of these charming pieces

to pay off your loan?

Before you go, Mr. Sharsted...

I'm not going, Mr. Gingold.

Not until you tell me what I'm to expect from you.

Another glass of sherry, perhaps. A tour of the house.

An examination of the paintings.

That much you can expect of me if it pleases you.

It neither pleases me nor interests me.

I'll be here on Monday and I'll have the proper legal papers to take what I want.

One moment, Mr. Sharsted.

There is one more thing which I think you should see.

Another camera obscura,

but this one is quite unique.

The only one of its kind still in existence, insofar as I know.

Well, show it to me, then I'll be on my way.

Fine.

It's this way, Mr. Sharsted.

Well, I'm not sure.

It's in one of the back rooms toward the rear of the house.

Follow me, if you will, but do be careful.

The stairs are very narrow and quite

old.

Now, then, Mr. Sharsted.

If you think what you've already seen is arresting, look at this.

Wait a minute.

That building, the old Corn Exchange...

But that building burned down when I was a boy.

And that...

That park across the way. We called it the Victoria Greens.

Why, that hasn't been there since the 90s.

And just beyond the park, Mr. Sharsted, if you'll recall.

Just beyond the park was...

Henderson Street, where my father had his shop.

Yes, the elder Sharsted.

The creator of the dynasty.

The hander down of your impoverished legacy.

My father was a most successful man.

At the art of backing people into a corner of despair, he was without peer.

Observe.

But...

But the shop hasn't been there for years.

The whole building...

You're a shrewd old dog, are you not, Mr. Gingold?

Old pictures, are they not?

Ancient slides you put into some sort of magic lantern.

You gave me a turn, Mr. Gingold, you really did.

Well, now I'll bid you good evening.

Mr. Sharsted!

About Mr. Thwaite... What about him?

You won't reconsider?

Reconsider? Why the devil should I?

No, I won't reconsider.

And I won't reconsider your obligation either, Mr. Gingold.

The one I'll be addressing myself to as of dawn on Monday.

But for this brief diversion, I thank you.

Now I will bid you good evening.

And I, Mr. Sharsted,

bid you goodbye.

Say, could you tell me where I might find a taxi?

Taxi, sir? Uh-huh.

Don't know of any taxis that come up this way, sir.

Don't be a bloody fool. I came out here in a taxi.

Idiot Gingold must have sent me out to the wrong street.

Is that gas?

That's right, sir, gas.

But they haven't used gas in a quarter of a century.

Well, now.

You don't see horses...

Well, now...

I must be suffering from some sort of heatstroke or something.

The whole thing is a delusion.

But that can't be.

Corn Exchange?

Why, that building came down in the war.

Victoria Greens!

No, I told Gingold that hasn't been there since the 90s.

Gingold. He's the one that planted the seeds.

Rotten, vindictive old man.

Oh, say... Say,

I don't suppose you could tell me where I could find a taxi or a bus stop?

Can't say that I would.

Mr. Sharsted.

How do you know who I am? Now, look here...

Why, we're old friends, Mr. Sharsted.

Old chums, you might say, from way back, you might say.

Sanderson.

At your service, Mr. Sharsted.

You...

You used to rob graves. They caught you at it.

You died in prison.

Right. Right, right as rain you are, Mr. Sharsted.

But then you always was a keen lad.

Sharp as paint, you was.

But...

But I couldn't have...

I was going in the opposite direction. I couldn't have circled back.

Back again, Mr. Sharsted?

Back again, Mr. Sharsted?

William Sharsted?

Yes! Yes!

Young Billy-boy?

Amos Drucker. I remember you.

Indeed, you do, dear Billy-boy. And why shouldn't you?

Your dear father and I, many's the little transaction he and I engaged in.

Of course, of course there were some who didn't take to kindly to us.

War profiteering, or something of the sort.

You... You hanged yourself.

I hadn't much of a choice, Billy-boy.

It was maybe 20 years in prison or this.

No! Evening, William.

I thought you'd be coming sooner or later.

Remember me?

Abel Joyce.

At your service, William, your fellow moneylender and usurer.

I was at your funeral.

Aye, that you were, dear fellow.

And a pretty paltry affair it was, too.

Or at least that's my recollection of it.

Go away!

Go away!

No, wait, wait.

Hello, Billy-boy.

Come in here, Billy-boy.

Come in here, son.

You don't exist. You're dead, you hear me? You don't exist!

Gingold! Gingold!

I don't belong here. I swear to you, these aren't my kind.

These are ghouls and grave robbers,

bloodsuckers and usurers! I don't belong here! Gingold! Gingold!

You're wrong, Mr. Sharsted.

You're in your element.

I'll reform.

You're with your colleagues and your peers,

the damned and doomed fraternity of the leech.

Never mind the £300.

Oh, no, Mr. Sharsted. Too late for reprieve.

Now you shall stumble and weep and swear

along the alleys and squares and streets of your own private hell.

Reform. I'll change.

Gingold, wait...

I'll change.

And you shall do so for all eternity.

From the pen of Edgar Allan Poe, more or less, Quoth the raven.

"Once upon a

"midnight dreary,

"while I pondered..."

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered

"weak and..."

"Weak and..."

"While I pondered weak and..."

"While I pondered weak and..."

"Weary." "Weary," dummy! "Weary."

Can't you get anything right? "Weak and weary!"