The Cavalcade of America presented by DuPont, makers of better things for better living through chemistry. To the millions of men and women who have labored, and today labor still with hand and mind and heart, to build and to preserve a great free nation, the Cavalcade of America proudly dedicates the unending story of a new way of life in a new world. Tonight the Cavalcade of America presents Jeanette Nolan as Ann Rutledge in an original radio play, Ann Rutledge and Lincoln, written by Norman Corwin, widely recognized as one of radio's outstanding playwrights. Appearing with Jeanette Nolan are the Cavalcade players. John McIntyre as Abe Lincoln, Carl Swenson as John McNeil, Ray Collins as Mr. Rutledge, Agnes Moorhead as Mrs. Rutledge, Ted Jewett as Mr. Winthrop, Kenneth Delmar as Jack Armstrong, Kingsley Colton as Peter, and Edwin Jerome as the Doctor. Our orchestra and original musical score are under the direction of Don Voorhees. And in DuPont, makers of better things for better living through chemistry, present Ann Rutledge and Lincoln on the Cavalcade of America. Let me tell you about the girl humming that tune. Her name is Ann Rutledge. A long time ago she lived with her mother and father and seven brothers and sisters in a tavern in New Salem, Illinois. Her name is familiar to you because a great man fell in love with her and never got over it. Otherwise you wouldn't have known about her. She was a bit prettier than average, but still very much like a lot of girls you know yourselves. Ann was not a phantom or a legend. She was a girl. She was happy, she was sad and angry and coy and gentle and wise. She had fears and she had dreams. It is these things that our story is about. First of all, Ann Rutledge was a girl. Mother. Yes, Ann? Can I ask you something important? Can it wait until we do the dishes? Oh yes, I guess it can wait all right. Well, tell me, what is it? Don't laugh at me now. Oh, come now, do you want to ask me or don't you? Mother, what's it like to be in love? What? Why, Ann, now why should a thought like that be in your head at this hour of the morning? Because I've been thinking about it all night. You have? Yes. I just couldn't sleep. I kept listening to the crickets and the frogs and the howls creaking. And did you know there's a screech I heard down in the glen somewhere? No. Well, there is because I heard it. And I also heard Pa snoring. Hmm, I heard that myself. Toward morning it got very still. It seemed everything went to sleep, even the crickets and the frogs. And then I could hear my heart beating slowly, like this. Boom, boom. Boom, boom. So slow I was afraid it would stop. Maybe you shouldn't have ate before you went to bed, Ann. Oh no, I felt fine. Only I kept wondering how it must be to hear all those things when you're, well, when you're in love. I mean, when a man's in love with you. See here, Ann, you're too young to be bothering your head with thoughts the likes of that. Too young? Well, I'm seventeen, ain't I? How old were you when you fell in love? Hmm, sixteen. Well, dear. Mother, what's it like? Well, it's just what you suppose it's like. Just what you imagine it's like. If it's what I imagine, then it's like the way the leaves stirred all last night. And the little sounds kept coming from far away. Or it's like how the hay smelled down at Tuttle's farm just after they finished mowing last week. Like warm blankets and soft pillows when you're all snug in bed and it's blowing a blizzard outside and there are icicles on the window. Is it, is it anything like that, Mother? Yes, Ann. Sometimes, when it's unspoiled, that's the nice part of love. The nice part? But what can there be bad about being in love? Oh, some things. Some things I hope you'll never find out about. Yes, Ann Rutledge was just an average girl. And she was happy. Oh, oh there. Oh. You mind my stomping? Why should I mind? Because I stopped just to look at you. Then I do mind, John McNeil. Oh, it's so hard to see your eyes when I'm looking at the road. Well, Ann, why are you blushing? Am I? Uh-huh. It rather becomes you, too. I'm not blushing. It's just the heat of the day. I'm very warm, that's all. Oh, whatever it is, you're awful pretty. I'm glad you think so, John. Ann, would you mind if I kissed you? Kissed me? Yeah. No. Oh, I'm sorry. I mean, no. I wouldn't mind. Ann. John, John, you want to know something? What? That was the first time in my life I've ever been kissed. Oh, you want to know something, Ann? What? Well, here's your second. Yes, Ann Rutledge was a happy girl, but sometimes she was sad. Good night, all. Good night. Good night. I must say Abe Lincoln's a funny man. I swear I never did hear anybody tell stories the way he tells them. You don't have to wet his whistle to do it either. He's a fine Christian gentleman, Mr. Lincoln is. Did you hear the one he told about the, well, land sakes, Ann, what are you looking so dumb about? Didn't you think that bare story of Lincoln's was funny? I wasn't listening to Mr. Lincoln. I'm, I'm going upstairs to bed. Good night, Mother. Good night, dear. Good night, Father. Good night. Good night. Dear God, please bless Mother and Father and the children and John McNeil, and please make John change his mind and come back to New Salem as he promised me he would, because I'm so lonely since he went back east. Dear God, make him come back to me. I love him so much, so very much. Ann Rutledge was a girl, happy and sad, and she had a temper. Please get air, sleet and bath. Give me mayor. Give the poor man some air. He's coming to. He'll be all right. Well, now, is there anyone else cares to give an opinion about my drinking too much? If there is, just speak up, and I'll pile them in the corner with Mr. Williams and the rest of the records. Maybe that'll teach you to let me and the boys drink in peace without no preaching as to how a gentleman should conduct himself in a tavern. Now, now listen here, Jack Armstrong. As proprietor of this tavern, I have a... Well, don't be mean to me, Mr. Rutledge. He's ugly. Rutledge, you seen what I just done to Williams? Yes. Oh, so what you done to my good chair? I'll break another one over your head if you don't shut up. Just because you can lick everybody in town, you don't have to bully and strut all over the place. I wish I were younger, Armstrong. I'd take you on. Why, you bald-headed old coot Rutledge, I'll take anybody on, young and old together. I'll take them in pairs, I will. Ain't a man in town's got guts enough to stand up to me. Isn't it? Well, that's the right answer. My Rutledge, some more of this liquor and quick. I'm a powerful, thirsty man. Well, drink yourself to death if you want to. Sooner the better for us. Hey, Annie, what do you think you're doing? Taking this whiskey away from you. You've made enough trouble for one night. Anne, come away. Just a minute, Annie McGow. Just a minute. Adore me, you filthy pig. Hey, that hurt. I meant it to hurt. You did, huh? That hurt too, didn't it? You wouldn't have dared done that if you was a man. If you was a man, I wouldn't have to. Oh, yeah, well, no man out there would stand up to me that way. Oh, yes, there would. All right, who? Name him. Have you tried Abe Lincoln? Lincoln? That long-legged, floppy donkey. I'd like to see you call him that to his face. You would, would you? Well, come around tomorrow by the store. Stay around the middle of the morning. I'll be there. And it'll be a great pleasure to see them carry you out. Yes, Anne Rutledge was a girl. She could be happy and sad and angry and gentle. Aren't you getting too much sun on you, Mr. Lincoln? It won't make much difference to a face like mine. Sun shining on the water, that can burn too. Never heard of the Sangamon River burning anybody. All right, but don't say I didn't warn you. No, for anything concerning my looks, I'm afraid I'll have to take full responsibility. You're, you're not bad-looking, Mr. Lincoln. Might bother your eyes, Miss Anne? No, I can see fine. I like your looks. Well, thank you. You're being very kind. Aren't you going to say anything about mine? Well, I'm, I'm not very good at expressing myself on things I feel very, very deeply about. You feel very deeply about my looks? About you, Miss Anne. Oh. Don't suppose I have any right to hope, but I do, nevertheless. I hope that someday I might perhaps be worthy of your affection. Oh? But in the meantime, though, I hope you'll just let me keep saying that you'll let me take you for walks and maybe sit with me again like this on the bank of the river. Mr. Lincoln. Yes? How is your memory? Why, all right, I guess. Do you remember how you threw Jack Armstrong when he came down to the store looking for a fight? Yes. How you got your arms around him and spun him head over heels? Mm-hmm. Well, why don't you try putting your arms around me, but leave out the spin. Yes, Anne Rutledge was gentle, and she was also wise. Sister. Yes, Peter? Which do you think is the best, the soldier or a sailor? I'm sure I don't know. That's been worrying me. Very well. Now let me read, please. Sister. Anne. What? Do sailors get seasick? Can't you see I'm trying to read, Peter? Well, I only wanted to know. I was only asking. Oh, I'm sorry, Peter. I was trying to read. What did you want to know? Do sailors get seasick? Well, I shouldn't think so. Not good sailors anyway. Why do you ask? I was just wondering what I'd be when I grow up. A soldier or a sailor? I think I'll be a soldier. Why? So I can lick all the old Indians and they'll run away when they see me coming. Come over here, Peter. Have you been listening to old Dan Potter? He killed 21 Indians with his bare fists, because Indians aren't to be trusted and they're no good know how. Dan Potter is just an old liar. The only Indians he ever saw are those nice old trappers who come to trade every winter at Malcolm's store. Get the idea out of your head that Indians are no good know how. Anyway, know how isn't a word anyhow. But wouldn't the Indians run away if they saw a soldier coming with a gun loaded? I doubt it. Ask Abe Lincoln sometime about the Black Hawk War. He was a captain in the war, but he didn't see any Indians running away from white men. In fact, to the contrary. Yes, but white men aren't afraid to die. Nobody likes to die. Red or white or yellow or black. It's just like Mr. Lincoln says. The two most unpopular things in the world are not being free and being dead. Gosh, being dead's worse than anything. I wouldn't be sure. Everybody has to die sometime. There's nothing they can do about it. But there's plenty a man can do about not being free. Anne. Yes? Do sailors have to learn how to swim? Mrs. Rutledge? Yes, doctor? You'll have to keep Anne as quiet as possible. She mustn't get out of bed. Is it that serious, doctor? Will she be a long time getting well? Mrs. Rutledge, Anne's not going to get well. Oh, no. You might as well know now. How long will it be? Might be two days. Might be two weeks. I'm terribly...I'm sorry. I'm going into it. I've...I've told you nothing now. There. Do I look all right? Yes. I'll wait here. Anne. Yes, mother? Are you comfortable? Is everything... I feel wretched, mother. You're going to be all right. The doctor says so. He says so? Yes. You're going to be all right. Do you believe him? Why, of course, Anne. What a question. Has Abe been here since yesterday? He came last night, but you were asleep and he didn't want to disturb you. Even if I'm asleep, please wake me up when he comes, mother. Oh, no, not if you're asleep, dear. The doctor says you need all... Mother, I'll get enough rest. Oh, yes. More than I need. Please. I want to see Abe when he comes. Yes, dear, yes. Of course. Oh, I...I'm sorry, mother. There, now. I didn't mean to sound so crud. Oh, there. There, lie back. That's right. Here, this will cool you. You see, I've got to talk to Abe because... Oh, well. You know how I feel about him. Yes, Anne, I know. I love him. Yes, I love him. And I've got to see him now or...or what? But never, mother. Never! You mustn't talk so much, Anne. Rest. Let me just look at you and wish hard. Wish hard? Wish so hard that nothing can stand up against me. Like a...like a tornado blowing the sky right off its hinges. Then I'd wish away your fever. I'd wish... Abe, what are you going to do when I'm gone? When you're gone? What I do when I'm 80 is of no concern to me right now. Do you love me, Abe? I...my hand...I've got an heaven hand. I know. You once told me you weren't very good at expressing yourself on things you feel deeply about. Yes. That's it. Then if you love me, Abe, go on and be the man I know you can be. Go on, because it's what I'd want you to be if I were with you. Be a big man, Anne. Why, I'll never even be a little man without you. I'll be nothing. Abraham Lincoln, I know you. I know you better than you know yourself. You'll grieve for me a bit, but you'll be all right after a while when you find out that grieving doesn't help. Abe, if it's at all possible for me to be near you after I'm gone, if in any way... Oh, God. ...then I will come to you, Abe. I will. Please, Anne, you're tiring yourself. And when your mind's at peace, you'll go back to your books, and you'll be great, because you're just naturally made that way. I don't want to be great. I just want you to be well again, Anne. You'll get some rest now. You're going to be all right. I'll stay right here by your side. Please now, my sweet. Yes. I am a bit tired. That's right. Just rest now. You won't leave me, will you? No, dear, I won't leave you. I'll never leave you. Good. Good. Once, Anne Rutledge was a girl, an ordinary girl, a bit prettier than average, but still very much like a lot of girls, you know. And when she died, all that was young and gay in Abe Lincoln died with her. And a sadness came into his eyes that never left them. Nor did those gentle brooding eyes forget the little graveyard near New Salem and the girl who rested there, Anne Rutledge, whose love for Abraham Lincoln puts her among the immortals in the cavalcade of America. The cavalcade of America thanks Jeanette Nolan and the cavalcade players for their performance of Anne Rutledge and Lincoln. And now the DuPont Company brings you its story from the wonder world of chemistry. In the year 1639, in the austere little settlement of Charlestown, Massachusetts, a clergyman who had sinned grievously was brought before the elders and charged with what was considered a wicked offense. His horrified neighbors reported he had painted the inside of his house. Such vanity was not to be forgiven. Even the worst sinner in Charlestown would not have dared to paint the outside of a house. Time plays curious tricks with our notions of right and wrong. Not many years later in New England, a painted house became a mark of social distinction, thanks to the fact that a barrel of paint cost a small fortune. If your house was painted, people felt pretty sure you were a fine gentleman, or at least a rich one. How different those early attitudes are from our own. Our modern feeling is that not only our houses, but our health and happiness, too, are better off for color. Psychologists tell us we have fewer mental kinks in rooms decorated in colors that give us a sense of gaiety, spaciousness, and freedom. If you've done any traveling around the country lately, you've seen with your own eyes the change that's taking place. In New England today, the weathered silvery cottages at Sconset on Nantucket have gay painted shutters under their crimson ramblers. One woman on Cape Cod sent all the way to a DuPont dealer in New Mexico for a blue she had seen on the houses there. She could have bought the same blue in Provincetown, but she wanted to make certain it was just right. The part DuPont has played in brightening the surface of America is no small one. DuPont makes self-cleaning house paints in white and colors for the outside of homes, roof paints, barn paints, and a paint for shutters called trim and trellis finish. For interior walls, DuPont makes primers, sealers, and flat wall paint. For walls and woodwork, there are DuPont interior semi-gloss and interior gloss finishes. Dulux super white and super ivory, and Duco, the handy enamel for furniture, woodwork, and walls. For floors, there are varnishes, penetrating wood finish, floor and deck enamel, stains and waxes. All of them contributions in color to better things for better living through chemistry. And now the star of next week's program, Edwin Jerome. Ladies and gentlemen, next week our radio play will be called Red Death. It is the story of Dr. Joseph Goldberger, a great American scientist who devoted his life to finding a cure for pellagia, a disease that had ravaged the South for generations. And that was his contribution to the distinguished achievements of American medical science. Thank you. The orchestra and original scores on the cavalcade of America are under the direction of Don Voorhees. Your narrator was William Spargrove. This is Clayton Collier sending best wishes from DuPont. This is the National Broadcasting Company.
