Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition!
At least not as late as in the Napoleonic Wars, when it was technically still operating – until Napoleon put a stop to it – but when it would be highly improbable that so much pain would have been taken by the Dominicans to inflict so much pain on one prisoner, especially when nobody was there to witness the plight. Nevertheless, these were thoughts that hardly occurred to me when I read Poe’s tale The Pit and the Pendulum for the first time. I must have been 13 or 14 years old at the time.
I must confess that this well-known yarn did not stand the tests of time completely without a scratch for me when I re-read it a few days ago, in the first place because the choice of a first-person narrator counteracts the writer’s intention to create suspense and keep the reader on tenterhooks as to what will happen to the protagonist. We know that he is going to survive as soon as we read that the lips of his judges appeared to him whiter “than the sheet upon which I trace these words”. If he has found the time to write down his experiences in the dungeons of the Inquisition, that must be because somehow, he has managed to escape death. All this may be a minor issue, though, because what Poe really excels at is to make the horrors of the infernal goal come to life for his readers. His narrator is magnificent at putting his sensations and his thoughts and feelings into words, each of these words a stroke of the powerful brush that colours our nightmares. It is no coincidence that the author of The Pit and the Pendulum should be the man to demonstrate, in his essay The Philosophy of Composition, how, when writing the famous poem The Raven, he deliberately chose his words, his syntax, his rhythm with a view to the effects they would create. In The Pit and the Pendulum every single effect bears the master-artisan’s mark, and were it not for the infelicitous narrative perspective, the story would be immaculate.
One may argue that it is highly unlikely for somebody who has undergone as traumatic an experience as our narrator to be able to give such a detailed and vivid account of it, but such an argument is trite and petty-minded. We are talking about literature and art, and not about a true-to-life report, and The Pit and the Pendulum will as little be unhinged by such carping as Marlow’s account in Heart of Darkness will be by the hint that nobody would be able to listen to so long a story as the people in the narrative frame are treated to. Inch pinchers will never be able to leave the shadows cast by giants, and that is good for them, for so long as they remain in relative obscurity, they make fools of themselves only in front of a small part of the world, instead of the whole of it.
A last question arising is that whether it is likely for the henchmen of the Inquisition to have taken so much trouble in order to torture our protagonist. After all, there was nobody to witness the ordeal, and so, from a Machiavellian point of view, there was no “surplus value” in having the victim undergo all the psychological and physical tortures. Instead of putting all that effort into it, one could simply have starved the prisoner to death by leaving him to his Fate in the prison-cell. Of course, the motive of the torturers may be utter sadism, (im)pure and simple, but accepting this is even more disturbing to me than the idea of making an example of somebody with a view of scaring others. Considering the morbid reflexions which The Pit and the Pendulum is leading me to, one can say that it is quite a gruesome story, after all.