Starring Madeline Carroll in I, Mary Washington, an original radio play on the cavalcade of America sponsored by the DuPont Company. I, Mary Washington, of Fredericksburg in the county of Spotsylvania, being in good health, but calling to mind the uncertainty of this life, and willing to dispose of what remains. The skirt of a lady in mob cap, homespun jacket, heavy full skirt designed for the carrying of children with dignity, for warmth against the inhospitable winds hurled from the wilderness when November sucked the chimney and the thieving cold hacked the crude colonial carpentry of the big house of a plantation in Virginia in a new land in the 18th century. She sits here now in a white frame house in Fredericksburg, full of years and serene in the knowledge that her mission in life has been fulfilled beyond the wildest dreams of her youth. She is writing in a firm, unhesitant hand her last will and testament. She bequeaths, To my son, General George Washington, my best bed, bed-bed and Virginia cloth curtains, the same that stands in my best room, my quilted blue and white quilt and my best dressing glass. Tonight on Cavalcade, we bring you a portrait of a great lady, Mary Washington. Her play written by Robert Tallman tells a narrative of that lady and her challenging era. DuPont, maker of better things for better living through chemistry, is proud to present Madeleine Carroll in the role of Mary, the mother of George Washington. I'm Mary Washington, starring Madeleine Carroll on the Cavalcade of America. Our portrait has many faces. They change as the face of the land changes. The land is a virgin, a bride, a nation, mother of nations. Yet always it is the same land. In Westmoreland in Virginia, early 18th century colonial landscape, it is the portrait of a young woman, a bride, a classical head framed in the wide green leaves of an Indian herb, tobacco. In the background, a little new farmhouse and a clearing in the wilderness. Well, Mary, do you like it? It's a well built little house, if I do say so. It's the place where we'll live, where our children will be born, Augustine. The soil is good and there'll be many more acres when we've cleared away the timber. I have in mind the room up there, Augustine, where the window is in the wide gable. That will be our son's room. You're so certain it'll be a boy? If it's God's will, Augustine. And I'll call him if it be in accordance with your wishes, my husband. I'll call him George. George? For the king, George the second by the grace of God. For how but by the grace of God have men come to this place? And how but by the grace of God shall we endure? Mary. Augustine. I came as quickly as my horse would tell me. When Toby came with the message I... I know, I know. But our son, look at our son, Augustine. A son. It is a son. Cousin Ella thinks he most mightily resembles his father. I, the spitting image of his father, I said. Is not my nose. But half, because I voice, Augustine. I, is noisy enough. Do you know your father, George Washington? Do you know your old name, Georgie? Do you? Look here. You frighten him most terribly, Augustine. Oh, my. Harsh, harsh, harsh. There. Go and have your vettles. They've been waiting these three hours. Three hours? What's three hours? We've been waiting for this little fellow all our lives. The land, too, is a mother. The force of change. The heavy stones are hauled from the furrow. The angular ridges come round and smooth under the plowshare. The grain ripens apart from it, head in the wind. It whispers the words it learned in the waiting soil. It speaks lovingly back to the mother. Go ahead, son. Then Mordecai commanded to answer Esther. Think not with thyself that thou shalt escape in the king's house, for who knoweth where the gods have not given thee this reputation and esteem for such a time as this? Remember those words, George. Remember them well. But, Mother, did you not say that the book of Esther was only a tale, and nothing inspired part of the scriptures? I had not remembered those words. But, Mother, I remember, and I will never forget, that the Lord has given this to you for a purpose. What purpose, Mother? I don't know, my son. But when the time comes, if you follow the dictates of your conscience, there will be no doubting that purpose. Remember what I tell you, George? Yes, Mother. I'll remember. You're a good boy, George. Now that past your bedtime, so bid me good night. Yes, ma'am. Give me a minute. I thought I heard thunder. Yes, yes you did. Oh, I hope Augustine decided to spend the night at the Mount Vernon farm. He catches cold so easily. You take care of him. You take your life here so calmly, Cousin Mary. I envy you. I think I'll never get used to these sudden violent storms that come up out of nowhere. Tomorrow will be clear and bright because of this storm. Oh, Mary, I'm frightened. Yes, I'm the storm. I can't help it. I'm afraid. The sky was yellow before it got dark. Oh, Mary, look out the window. The tree, the big oak tree, the lightning split it clean in two. Ella, calm yourself. Oh, Mary, I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. Oh, Mary, please. Ella, calm yourself. It is a very bad storm. Go and teach the children out of bed. But, Mary, where are you going? To see the Bond, or the Pikely Boats. Mary, you mustn't go out there. Mary. Don't teach the children as I told you. I'll be back in a moment. The children... Still, I'd get out of my bed. You better get on. What's he in the DNL with. Go up to the Bondy, try to bring your mother back to the house. I'll bring the children downstairs where it's safer. Yes, I... The house! It's stuck! The house! It's stuck! No. Smoke. There's smoke all over the attic. Fire! Whatever shall we do? That's the truth, Annela. I'm going to mother. Hurry, George. Hurry back. Mother! Mother! Yes, George, here I am. Mother, the house is on fire! Yes, I know, I know. I saw the flames. Come along, hurry! Oh, children, children, hush up. Find shelter and wait for me. I have something to do here before the fire gets too bad. What are you going to do, Mommy? Never mind. Just go along with your big brother, George, like a good little girl. But, Mary, you can't save at least the book. I don't want George to lose touch with his book. The New York Times You are listening to Madeleine Carroll as Mary, the mother of George Washington, in an original radio play on the cavalcade of America, sponsored by the DuPont Company. Portrait of a lady, portrait with many faces, changing as the face of the land changes. Always after a bad storm, the land wears a few scars. But the morning brings peace. The land smiles a welcome for a man riding home to it in the morning. Ooh, there, ooh. Mary, George, what are you doing way down here? To build a house. The ground, you know, to build a mansion. What? The building, Mary. The mansion? The mansion. Oh, my God. I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry, Mother. I'm sorry. He was most brave. Where? All over? Dunbitt? Oh, don't worry. Don't worry. We'll build a new home at Mount Brennan. How will you like that, Mary? Mount Brennan? Yes. It's so far away, Augustine. This is our home here. Oh, you, you like it even better at Mount Brennan. But Augustine... I'm bowled to the limit on this place. The Crown is doing its best to bankrupt us tobacco planters. But there's always hope in a country as big as this. But enough of this talk. I'm hungry, soaked to the skin. Did you save me a suit of clothes, Mary? Of course I did. How stupid of me not to have noticed. You were out in that storm, weren't you? Yeah, I rode hard. That keeps a man warm, you know. You must get dried off quickly. I'll never forgive myself if you catch a cold. Hurry, my dear. We must move quickly. There's so much to be done. Sometimes the land wears an anxious look. The sky is green in the west at nightfall, and they will be frost before morning. Sometimes it happens suddenly, without warning, when the fruit is not yet ripe in the orchard. This is a new face of our portrait, full of anxiety, waiting for a door to open in the frosty air of early morning. Well, Mistress Washington. How is he, Doctor? You are a strong woman, Mistress Washington. I'll tell you the way a woman like yourself wants to be told. Your husband is no more. Dad, all this time is dead. I can hardly believe it. Mother, Mother. Our hopes together, our dreams of the new house. What can I do, Mother? How can I help? In many ways, George. You're the man of the house now. It's a heavy responsibility to put on a mere lad. I'll do the best I know how, Mother. I know you will, George. I know you will. But you must study your books diligently. You will need every bit of knowledge you can garner for the days that lie ahead. The land grows older, a dependable and fruitful nation. Soon it will be a mother of nations, a tall, sturdy oak tower above the landscape bowed into Texas. This is an older face of our portrait, a stately lady, mistress of Mount Vernon, mother of a colonel in the King's army. She watches through the window as he tethers his thoughts in a glide. Her face lights up as she opens the door, and she is greeted. I live only for your visit, George. You are most gracious, Madam. George, you address me so formally. Have you forgotten? I am still your mother. Forgive me, Mother. It is the furthest thing from my intention to cause you any pain. But we must realize we all change as we grow older. George, what is it? What is it that you are finding so very hard to tell me? Mother, it was once my most fervent resolve in life that you would spend your declining years in peace and security here at Mount Vernon. As your son, it is still my most fervent wish. But as a man who has made the most important decision of a lifetime, I have come here not even to ask, but to order you to leave Mount Vernon. And I cannot even promise you that you will ever again be able to return here. Then you have accepted the offer of the Continental Congress. I leave for Massachusetts today to take command of whatever armies they have been able to raise for me. Mount Vernon is no longer my home or yours. It is a mark on a map standing directly in the line of communications between North and South. George, I have lost my home before. That is not the thing that worries me. It's just that I want to be sure that in this cause of passion, you have not been hasty, but have allowed reason to govern. Believe me, I have thought long and long before I made this decision. You know that you will lead woodmen, farmers, men who have never been soldiers before. Yes. Yes, all this I have considered. And even this I would approve if it sits well in your conscience, George. But when I think that I might never see you again, George, George, you're all I have now. Mother, do you remember when we used to read the script together in the long evenings at the little house in Westmoreland County? Do you remember the verse, What do we weeping and breaking my heart, for I am ready not to be bound on the, but to die at Jerusalem? Yes, yes. And when he would not be persuaded, we see, saying, The will of the Lord be done. Very well then, my son. The will of the Lord be done. The Lord be done. Portrait of a lady, an old lady, uprooted from her native soil, waiting in a house in Fredericksburg for news, in wartime, waiting for news. The year of defeat, then the terrible waiting, the winter of Valley Ford. Then to open the door and seeing standing there, grave and hollow-eyed, like a cold hand laid on the heart, the sun had become a gaunt gray thing. I have come to pay my respects, you madam. George, come in quickly. Here, sit by the fire. You're cold, aren't you? Aye, madam, I am cold. But not so much from the winter wind as from bitter realization, that lies in my heart like a stone. How strange to have you here with me just now. I was reading your letter, written a month ago from Valley Ford, and just arrived. I hardly remember writing it. Few men having more than one shirt, many only a mockery of one or none at all, because they are barefoot and otherwise naked. Should we have a respectable force to commence an early campaign? Stop it! I'm sorry. Forgive me, madam. Things matter the much wither nearer late. I have come here chiefly to tell you that I have brought you and all our countrymen to grief. You'll not see me again. What are you about to do, George? Send my resignation to the Congress, together with my recommendation that they accept the peace General Howe has offered. You are convinced that this is for the best, my son? Madam, there are no words to describe the condition of the men that I have left at Valley Ford. Why have they stayed there all the winter long? God alone knows the answer to that. Because I have been fool enough to try to hold up their hopes, welcome the deserters back again with promises I only half believed in myself. Deserters coming back again? That doesn't sound like any deserters I ever heard of, George. This war isn't like any war anyone ever heard of. Victories without spoils, defeats without capitulations, armies without uniforms. We made the mistake of asking men to fight for an idea instead of tangible returns. George, the day has long passed when I might advise you. But a mother who cannot offer a word of comfort to her son, even a son who has become a stranger to her. Well, George? Go on. Say what you have to say. I... I hardly know where to begin. I am an antique. I who always thought of my life as the beginning of a new thing. And yet I... I think I understand this new kind of war you speak of. I understand it better than they. I told you about the place at Westmoreland before you were born. All your father and I had to start with was a dream. Our victories were without spoils too. All the acres he tore out of the wilderness, all the wealth they meant to the mother country was rewarded with... with nothing but debts and mortgages on our very lives. But our deceit, when the new king reapportioned the land, they remained ours. The Cuddle were the only ones who dared to hold them against the wilderness. Yes, our defeats went by as if they had never happened. And so will the defeats of this army you have held together against all possible odds. Because when a thing really belongs to a man, because of the love he cherishes in his heart for it, not even death itself can take it away from him. Madam, your words affect me strangely. Liberty we've been saying. Liberty will be ours when and if. Yet we possess it. It has been ours from the beginning. If liberty were ragged, if she stand barefoot bleeding in the snow, if her missing men die in her arms so long as one man lives to see her standing aground... Well, there she is, isn't she? I have enjoyed this, if it's George. I... I regret that you must go back again so very soon. Yes. Yes, I must go back. God go with you, my son. And when the war is over... Yes, when it's over... Well, we shall always be the same, shan't we, mother? Thank you, George. I know you'll never really change. You were always a good boy. And now, ladies and gentlemen, our star of the evening, Miss Madeline Carroll. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. As an Englishwoman transplanted in American soil, my emotions toward the great lady whose role I took into tonight's play are perhaps keener than those of native-born Americans. For it was she, and women like her, who kept in tact the enduring bond between us, a bond which today is the last great hope of the civilized world. Next week on the cavalcade of America, ladies and gentlemen, our star will be the distinguished actor Edward Arnold in an original radio play, Man of Action, a story of our 26th president, Theodore Roosevelt. Be sure to join us again next week when Edward Arnold portrays Theodore Roosevelt in Man of Action. The orchestra and original score on tonight's cavalcade were under the direction of Don Bury. This is Clayton Carlier sending best wishes from DuPont. This program came to you from New York. This is the National Broadcasting Company.
