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About this Episode
Presents tales filled with suspense and intrigue, each episode unraveling mysteries that keep listeners engaged and guessing until the end.
Hosts & Guests
Transcript
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Escape.
Escape tonight.
To ancient Egypt.
The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations presents Escape.
The new series of programs of which list the sixth is The Ring of Farm by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
produced and directed by William Ann Robson.
Wherever the English language is spoken, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is known for two things.
His immortal character Sherlock Holmes and his unshakable belief in life beyond the grave.
So great is the stature of Sherlock Holmes that Conan Doyle's earlier stories are all but forgotten.
Stories like The Ring of Farm, which so clearly anticipates the author's later fascination with spiritualism.
We invite you now to escape to ancient Egypt and The Ring of Farm.
An adventure told in the words of John Bansettart Smith, British Egyptologist.
The Ring of Farm.
I arrived in Paris on the 314 express from Dieppe and went immediately to my hotel in the Rudela feat.
My action so far had worked out according to my plan schedule.
I slept for exactly two hours, got up and dressed, dawned a great coat, walked down the avenue de l'Opera,
and entered a side door of the Louvre.
Once inside and amid surroundings entirely familiar to me, I made my way immediately to the chamber of Egyptian relics,
or more specifically, to the cabinet in that chamber which contained the Elkab collection of papari.
Drawing out the particular role I wished, I placed it on a nearby table, sat down, began to study it,
when I noticed one of the museum attendants who was polishing some brasswork across the room.
His face struck me as being curiously Egyptian.
On sudden impulse, I decided to cross the room and speak to him.
Approaching closer, I was impressed at once by the appearance of his skin.
Drawn totally across temple and cheek, it seemed as glazed and as shiny as varnished parchment.
And out of narrowed slits, they glowed too green and vitrious eyes, misty with a dry shininess.
Eyes of a kind never seen in a human head before.
I beg your pardon, I need one of the papari from the Memphis collection.
Could you tell me where it is?
You'll find it in the last cabinet at the end of the room, Monsieur.
Hmm, thank you. Your Egyptian, aren't you?
No, Monsieur. I am a Frenchman.
But, oh, I thought behalf of him.
If Monsieur will excuse me now, I have other work to do.
I went back to the table and took up the papyrus I had been studying before.
But my former calmness in translating the intricate hieroglyphics was gone.
And out of the depths of my mind, well, the feeling of terrible familiarity.
I concentrated more deeply on my studies, pushing aside those thoughts conducive to mental turmoil.
And at last, worn out by the inward struggle, I fell asleep.
I woke with a start, not remembering where I was.
It was quite dark for a moment.
Then, gradually, my eyes focused on the glints of moonlight reflected from the glass tops of specimen tables,
from the shiny varnish of the mummy cases.
And I realized with a feeling of sudden dread that I was alone in the Egyptian room of the museum of the Louvre, locked in for the night.
And I saw at that moment approaching through the moonlit halls a dim yellow flame.
Nearer and nearer, it came until I could perceive above it, as though floating in the air, the eerie, glistening face of the man I had spoken to earlier.
I shrank into the dark shadow of my corner.
And he passed without seeing me, stopping before the mummy cases a few yards away.
Scarcely daring to breathe, I watched him place the light on a table and begin feverishly to examine the tags on the specimens.
In a moment, he gave a cry of delight.
And drawing one of the mummies from its resting place, laid it on the table in the full glow of the lantern and set to work.
He was unwinding the wrappings from the head of the corpse.
A few turns revealed a tumbled cascade of black curls.
A few more, the snow-white brow, then the delicate nostrils.
And at last, the full-worn passionate lips, the face of the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen.
Ah, not over the deep, so long it has been, so very long. You must forgive me, beloved.
I could hardly believe my eyes. The man was obviously in love with this mummy.
After a while, he left the body, turning his attention to one of the glass cases filled with an assortment of rings.
From a pocket of his garment, he'd taken a small glass bottle containing some kind of liquid.
And he used this now to test the rings, projecting them one after another.
Then, at last...
This is it. It's the one. At last, I found it. The ring of thought.
In his excitement, he dropped the bottle. And I gasped in surprise at the sudden sound.
I beg your pardon.
So it is you? No, do not move.
I didn't mean to spy on you. I fell asleep.
Who are you, Monsieur?
I am John Vansettart Smith, a student of Egyptology.
No matter. You will observe this knife.
Yes. And I discovered you five minutes ago.
Monsieur, I should have slain you without a word.
What? As it is now, I have found the ring. But I warn you not to interfere with me in any way.
I really haven't the slightest intention of it. After all, I'm only here by accident.
Perhaps.
I say you shouldn't have unwrapped that mummy you know. It's starting to deteriorate already.
Oh, my beloved.
Yes, before our eyes, the lovely face was crumbling.
The hair falling away, the skin shriveling and cracking, the lips fading.
The man hovered over the decaying body a moment, murmuring sorrowfully.
And then he turned again.
No matter. That will not make the least difference in a little while.
Of what importance is the dead shell.
So long as her spirit waits for me at the other side of the veil.
What are you talking about? What is it you're proposing to do?
Tonight, Monsieur, I have ended a quest and broken at last the ancient curse.
Nothing now can prevent my joining her.
Are you actually claiming that you knew her?
She was Atma, daughter of the governor of Abbas.
And both she and I lived in the reign of Tuttmosis three thousand five hundred years ago.
You're obviously mad.
Perhaps. But not in the way you think.
There may be designness you're coming here.
It may be decreed that I should leave some account behind as a warning to other mortals as rash as myself.
Very well then. So be it.
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I am, as you surmised, an Egyptian.
My name was Susra, and my father had been the chief priest of Osiris in the great temple of Abaris,
which stood in those days upon the bubastic branch of the Nile.
I was brought up in the temple and was trained in all those mystic arts and sciences known to the priesthood.
Of all the mysteries that I studied, none intrigued me more than the question of life and death.
And even to this question, in time, I found an answer.
But for a man to live beyond his allotted span of years, Master Susra, the gods have not so ordained.
Then perhaps they will have to revise their ordinances, now that I've discovered their secret.
It is not well to jest.
I tremble, for though I've labored in your service for a year, I knew not the goal of your endeavors, and your service for guilty.
Oh, what a pity you look upon it this way.
Well, I'd thought that in return for your assistance, I should grant you, too, the gift of centuries of indestructible life.
I would not have it, Master Susra, and I beg that you, too, forgo it.
I introduce the fluid into my veins one month ago.
Oh, no. Then you are lost indeed.
Lost? Do you call this being lost?
Let's see now, my heart should be about here.
For that knife. No, don't.
Master, you've killed yourself.
Not at all. See, it bleeds a little.
But in a while, the wound will close up, and that's all.
You, it's immortality.
No, I shall not live forever.
But for five thousand, perhaps six thousand years, I shall be immune from all dangers of violence, poison, disease, starvation.
You, you cannot die.
Now with this fluid in my veins nothing.
Nothing in this world can end my life.
Susra, Susra, are you there?
Someone could.
It's Parmes, the priest of Thoth.
In here, my friend. Enter.
Oh, greeting, Susra, Master of Sciences, and his worthy assistant.
If he will excuse me, Masters, I go to make my peace with the Sans.
What's wrong with your helper, Susra?
The thought of a well-known eternal life has frightened him into gibbering superstition.
Then you still believe in the discovery?
Believe in it? Parmes, my friend.
Look, by the heavens, what a scar.
It pierces the heart.
It was done only a moment ago, with this knife.
See, I can put it back in the wound.
So, you, you suffered no ill effects?
None, whatever.
And if I, if I turned the knife in the wound, that would do you no harm?
You may try.
I feel nothing.
I walked last week in the snake pits by the river,
and it was struck innumerable times.
It caused no harm.
By the great innupus.
Will you have it then?
Out of all Egypt, I have chosen only you, my friend, to share the gift.
But the choice is yours.
I'd be a fool to refuse, Susra.
I'll have it.
And now, what must I do?
First, we must open a vein in your wrist, like this.
Then we drip the elixir slowly into your bloodstream, steady now.
I don't feel anything.
There is no sensation.
It is done.
So simple?
There is nothing more?
That's all.
And now done, it can never be changed.
It seems incredible, supernatural.
It's no more than a chemical discovery, but with it.
While all this about us passes away,
you and I, Parmins, will live on for fifty centuries.
Think of it, my friend.
Five thousand years of life.
Five thousand years.
Only the two of us.
Listen, that noise.
Some procession must be passing in the street.
I have an idea what it may be.
Come on over to the window.
She's being carried on the shoulders of slaves, Parmins.
She must be some woman of rank.
Her name is Atma.
She's the daughter of the new governor.
Her curtains are drawn back.
Perhaps we'll have a look at it.
Oh, Parmins.
Is she not beautiful?
She is the most desirable.
The only utterly desirable woman I've ever seen in my life.
Yes, I saw her yesterday at the temple.
Then you're most fortunate, my friend.
You've had twenty-four more hours to dream about her than I've had.
I must know her, Parmins.
I must make her love me.
I'll send gifts.
I'll call on her tomorrow.
Oh, it has to be then.
I couldn't wait any longer than tomorrow.
A visitor calls upon the beloved of the universe.
He is Sastra, priest of the Temple of Osiris.
Well bid him approach.
Enter Sastra.
Oh, most beautiful of all Egypt.
I cast myself at your feet.
That's a noble ambition.
But wouldn't it be much better to sit here beside me
and watch the fish in the fountain?
Much better.
You will all withdraw.
Except you, my girl.
Play something for us at a distance.
Well, Sastra.
For so I understand your call.
Am I to deign this an official visit
by a master of the temple?
Oh, I can, I might be loved.
That is no.
It is not official.
Oh.
Perhaps then you wish to see my father
on personal business of your own.
Oh, no.
No.
I shall pay my respects to him at some other time.
Then could it be I you've come to see?
Yes.
Yes.
And since you've said the visit's not official,
your reason must be a personal one.
Oh, it is.
Well, what is it?
Atma.
I have known women who are famed
for their beauty throughout the valley of the Nile.
But not one.
Not all of them are so lovely as you.
How thoughtful of you to come here and tell me.
Atma, I've no wish to intrude my desires,
my hopes beyond such extend as you may wish to hear.
But I'm finding this very difficult.
Sastra, I've been told that you're a master of science,
that you've unlocked the secrets of the universe,
learned all the mysteries of nature itself.
Your informants have been most generous.
Yes.
I'm inclined to think so.
Why?
Because you've discovered nothing at all about such a simple thing
as a woman's heart.
What do you mean?
I come from thieves.
And the women of thieves.
I won't let it.
Passionate.
And we know what we want.
I saw you first three days ago.
What do you think I told my bearers
to carry me down that street beneath your window?
And so, miracle of all miracles.
Atma loved me.
Worshipping the very ground her feet had tried upon,
I lived through those glorious weeks.
And with it all, our love grew a pace.
But one thing bore heavily upon my mind.
And I came to speak of it more often to my beloved
as we sat and talked by the fountain in her garden.
Look, Sastra.
See how the stars shine from the water.
Yes, atma.
More lovely even than their glow in the heavens.
Are they very old, the stars?
Very old, we love it.
As old as time.
And they'll go on gleaming there.
Long years after you and I are gone and forgotten.
Atma, my dearest, we've talked of this before
and I know it distresses you to think of it.
No, Sastra.
Tonight everything is beautiful.
We shall not talk of death.
Not of death, but of life.
They're only counterparts of one another.
Oh, if we could only live together.
Go all together and die in the same instant.
But how much better to live and love five thousand years?
Will you not do it?
Does so long a time seem too great for the love you feel for me?
They love it, no.
The time would pass in an instant.
And the last then be no easier born than now.
Then why draw back?
Will you not take the elixir now tonight?
I'm afraid, Sastra. We'll anger the gods.
We will outlive the gods.
They will have their revenge.
Whatever occurred, we'd be together.
Yes, I've thought of that.
Or it not so, I'd not even consider doing it.
Then you'll do it.
Atma, you'll do it.
I need more time, only a little more to assure myself.
How much?
Tonight, Sastra.
Give me tonight.
Every hour you live without the elixir is another hazard.
All right then.
Tonight.
And may I see herself guard over you until the fluid courses in your veins.
And so on that accursed night, I went to my chambers and slept.
And while I slept, the moon of ISIS, shown over the delta of the Nile,
shown but to light as foul as seen as was ever done on earth,
some hours had passed away.
Master, master, master, awaken, master, awaken at once.
You know, who is this?
Who would tell the thing has turned up this light?
You, you're one of Atma's slaves.
Why do you come here?
Oh, master, master.
What has happened?
What's the matter?
Speak.
It is she, the light of the world.
Tell me what has happened to her.
Master, master.
Biggins came in the night.
She, she is dead.
You lie.
You lie.
Sastra, the slave speaks the truth.
Parme's my friend.
What foul jokes behind these words of his?
It's not a joke.
Atma is dead.
You, slave, depart from us.
You, master, by your gracious leave, by depart.
Such a thing cannot be.
Oh, of course.
The two of you planned it together,
sought to frighten me out of my wits.
It's very amusing, really.
But I was terrified for a moment.
Atma no longer lives.
She was stabbed to death only a short while ago.
No.
Oh, no, no.
She can't be dead.
She is dead, Sastra, and for all eternity.
I must go to her.
Something.
Surely something can be done.
I killed her.
What is it?
What has happened?
I killed her.
I struck her through the heart with this very knife.
You.
You, Parme's.
Why?
Because she loved you.
Why?
And because I loved her.
You.
My friend.
She would not look at me.
And for that you would lose her to both of us forever.
To both of us, Sastra?
I think not.
By the living Osiris, give me that knife.
That's it.
Strike.
Again.
Here's the heart.
Here.
Strike.
Again and again, Sastra.
Wait.
What foolishness.
I cannot kill you.
You're wrong, Sastra.
You have killed me.
Those were griefous blows.
But the fluid, that cursed elixir of life,
it runs in your veins as well as mine.
True.
But in mine is also the antidote.
Your lie.
There is no antidote.
Yes, day and night.
These many weeks I've worked.
And I found it.
You couldn't have.
Is there more of it?
Yes, a very little.
But you'll never find it.
Where is it?
Tell me where it is.
In the ring, Sastra.
In the ring of thought.
And you'll never find it.
I will.
I will, I must.
Go on.
Live.
Live your 50 centuries.
And every hour of them, think.
It was your hand that struck me down
with the same knife that took her from you.
Think while I go.
Just join her.
Oh no.
They're not dead.
They're not.
No.
No.
No.
No.
For months I searched the papers, test tubes,
and the chemical flasks,
in the chambers of the dead priest of thought.
Searched and found nothing.
I sifted the sands where he'd walked,
questioned his slaves and servants,
and learned nothing.
Every moment of my life,
my terrible and unwanted life,
was devoted to an unceasing HUD
for the ring of thought,
at all to no avail.
And in time, a horde of barbarians,
overran the city of a barris,
and the sands of the desert,
buried forever the last of my hopes.
And so began the deadly march of the centuries.
How can you know how terrible a thing time is?
You, who've experienced only the narrow course
between the cradle and the grave,
I've floated down the whole stream of history.
I have traveled in all lands,
and I have dwelt with all nations.
Every tongue is the same to me.
I need not tell you how slowly the centuries drifted by,
centuries without end,
years without number.
And so I came to be one day
a few weeks past in San Francisco,
where I came across a certain item in a newspaper.
A long reason discoveries in Lower Egypt
is an unopened mummy case,
containing, according to the inscription on the outside,
the body of the daughter of the governor of a barris
in the days of Thutmosis.
In the same burial crypt,
dropped into a crevice between the stones,
was found a large platinum ring of singular design.
Both specimens have been sent for examination
to the Louvre in Paris.
So I presume you came here to Paris,
to obtain this position of attendant in the Louvre with the idea...
Only yesterday, Monsieur Smith,
as you may imagine,
I had little difficulty in convincing the director
of my knowledge of Egyptian relics.
The ring then, the one I saw you remove from the case,
is the ring of Thoth?
Without question.
You've discovered how the ring must be used?
The secret is obvious.
See, the stone is hollow,
and drops of liquid move within it.
Have you considered the possibility that this antidote
may not perform the function which has been claimed for it?
It will, Monsieur,
and there'll be no need of a knife to strike me down.
My death was due in a time long past,
and only this damnable fluid
that runs through my veins
supports the weight of my ears.
I delay no longer.
I go to join her where she waits for me in death.
No, don't!
Too late.
I've broken a gem.
I've taken the antidote.
I stood and watched him with a terrible fascination,
but without pity and without compassion.
He turned away from me and reeled toward the mummy
he'd left on the table across the room.
But even as he turned,
the parchment skin of his face cracked and shredded,
discolored lips shriveled away from the yellow teeth,
the vitrious eyes withered into nubs of formless plasm,
and the full weight of his 3500 years descended on him in an instant.
I left that room of death
and walked over the marble floors toward the exit.
My footsteps echoing through the empty halls,
even as they had echoed for so long in the corridors of time.
And I wondered as I walked,
if Sosra knew now what I knew
that the antidote in the ring of thoth
can bring death to the body,
but not to the soul.
And I wondered in what cloak of flesh his spirit now dwelt.
Just as I, Parmi's priest of thoth,
had for the last 40 years of my 3500,
dwelt in the body of John Van Cittert Smith.
But Doctor, he's so little and so little.
Well, now he's only two days old.
But he doesn't look a bit like either his father or me.
Give him time, my dear.
All babies look pretty much the same.
But Doctor, he's so little and so little.
Well, now he's only two days old.
But he doesn't look a bit like either his father or me.
Give him time, my dear.
No, babies look pretty much alike when they're first born.
Well, I don't know.
He's eyes, or it's silly, of course.
But he looks like an Egyptian.
Produced and directed by William N. Robson,
the ring of thoth by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
was adapted for radio by Les Crutchfield.
With Jack Webb as Sorcerer, Thomas Friedman Smith as Van Cittert Smith,
and Joan Banks as Atma.
The special musical score was conceived and conducted by Sypher.
Escape is presented by the Columbia Broadcasting System
and its affiliated stations each week at this time.
Next week we invite you to escape to a raft in the South Pacific with John Russell
in his unforgettable story of human frailty, The Fourth Man.
And so good night until next week at this time,
when again it will be time to escape.
This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.
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