The Devil And Tom Walker PDF

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER By Washington Irving Adapted for radio by Helaine Michaels­Klein 20  THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER CHARACTERS TOM WALKER MRS. WALKER OLD SCRATCH LAND­JOBBER MUSIC—Fade in—Fade out TOM WALKER: Tom Walker’s...

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER By Washington Irving Adapted for radio by Helaine Michaels­Klein 20  THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER CHARACTERS TOM WALKER MRS. WALKER OLD SCRATCH LAND­JOBBER MUSIC—Fade in—Fade out TOM WALKER: Tom Walker’s the name. You folks probably heard of me at one time or another. In fact, there’s a popular saying in New England, a kind of proverb; you’ve heard it, “The Devil and Tom Walker.” That was me all right. It’s not a very pretty story, but one I like to tell. And to all you who may be listening, I’ll tell you one thing; it’s a story you can learn from. About the year 1727, just at the time that earthquakes were prevalent in New England, (sound effect—strong howling winds) and shook many tall sin­ ners down upon their knees, we lived. I was a real miserly fellow and my wife was just as miserly. We even conspired to cheat each other, if you can believe that. Whatever that woman could lay hands on, she hid away; a hen could not cackle but she was on the alert to secure the new­laid egg. MRS. WALKER: Tom, I heard that hen. What did you do with the egg? Where is it Tom? Tom? Tom? (screeching) Tom, did you hear me? I was continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what ought to have been com­ mon property. We lived in a forlorn­looking house that stood alone, and had an air of starvation. A few straggling savin­trees, emblems of sterility, grew near it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller stopped at its door. There was a deep inlet, winding several miles into the interior of the coun­ try from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly­wooded swamp or morass. On one side of this inlet was a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly from the water’s edge into a high ridge, on which grew a few scattered oaks of great age and immense size. Under one of these gigan­ tic trees, according to old stories, there was a great amount of treasure buried by Kidd the pirate. He was also known as William Kidd. You may have heard of him. He was tried and convicted for murder and piracy and hanged in London in 1701. Well, anyway, the inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill; the elevation of the place permitted a good lookout to be kept that no one was at hand; while the 21 remarkable trees formed good landmarks by which the place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hid­ ing of the money, and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is well known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been ill­gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to recover his wealth. Brief musical interlude My wife and I had a bad name in the community. She was a tall skinny woman, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with me and sometimes she even gave me a wallop or two. No one ventured however to interfere between us. I shrunk within myself at the horrid clamor and clapper­clawing; eyed the den of discord askance; and hurried on my way, rejoicing, as if a bachelor, in my celibacy. One day I went to a distant part of the neighborhood and took a short cut through the swamp. Like most short cuts, it was an ill­chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, which made it dark at noonday. It was a retreat for owls of the neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses, where the green sur­ face often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black, smothering mud; there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull frog, and the water­snake; where the trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half­drowned, half­rot­ ting, looking like alligators sleeping in the mire. I had long been picking my way cautiously through this treacherous forest; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots, which afforded precarious foot­ holds among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like a cat, along the prostrate trunks of trees; startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck rising on the wing from some solitary pool. At length I arrived at a firm piece of ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians dur­ ing their wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fort, which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained of the old Indian fort but a few embankments, gradually shrinking to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamp. Brief musical interlude It was late in the dusk of evening when I reached the old fort, and I paused awhile to rest myself. It was scary as hell but I wasn’t a man with fears of any kind. I reposed myself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the treetoad. (sound effect) I delved with my walking­staff into a mound of black mould at my feet. As I turned up the soil unconsciously, my staff struck against something hard. I raked it out of the 22 vegetable mould, and lo, a cloven skull, with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before me. The rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this deathblow had been given. TOM: Humph, I’ll just give it a little kick to shake off the dirt. Thunderous music OLD SCRATCH: (gruff voice) Let that skull alone. TOM: I lifted my eyes and beheld a great black man seated directly opposite me on the stump of a tree. This stranger was neither Negro nor Indian. He was dressed in a rude half­Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his body; but his face was neither black or copper­color, but swarthy and dingy and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all directions and he bore an axe on his shoulder. He scowled at me for a moment with a pair of great red eyes. OLD SCRATCH: What are you doing on my grounds? TOM: Your grounds? (sneering) No more your grounds than mine; they belong to Deacon Peabody. OLD SCRATCH: Deacon Peabody be damned, as I flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look younder, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring. TOM: I looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody, an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy by driving shrewd bar­ gains with the Indians. I looked around some more and found most of the tall trees marked with the name of some great man of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe. The one on which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield; and I remembered a mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was whispered he had acquired by buccaneering. OLD SCRATCH: He’s just ready for burning. You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter. TOM: But what right have you, to cut down Deacon Peabody’s timber? OLD SCRATCH: The right of a prior claim. This woodland belonged to me long before one of your white­faced race put foot upon the soil. TOM: And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold? OLD SCRATCH: Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman in some countries; the black miner in others. In this neighborhood I am known by the name of the black woodsman. I am he to whom the red men consecrat­ ed this spot, and in honor of whom they now and then roasted a white man, 23  by way of sweet­smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been extermi­ nated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecu­ tions of Quakers and Anabaptists, I am the great patron and prompter of slave­dealers, and the grand­master of the Salem witches. TOM: The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not, you are he commonly called Old Scratch. OLD SCRATCH: The same, at your service. TOM: Well, since I am such a hard­minded fellow, not easily daunted, my nerves weren’t shaken too much by meeting this stranger in such a dark, lonely, place. Besides after living so long with such a miserable wife, I didn’t even fear the devil. Anyway, Old Scratch and I started to have a real serious, earnest conversation. OLD SCRATCH: Let me tell you something my good fellow. There are great sums of money buried by Kidd, the pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge, not far from the morass. All these are under my command and protected by my power, so none could find them but such who propitiate my favor. Since you are a likable fellow, I will place these treasures within your reach, but only under certain conditions. TOM: Well, I never discussed what these conditions were publicly, but you all being an intelligent audience can easily surmise what they were. After all, I’m not a man to stick to trifles when money is in view. TOM: What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true? OLD SCRATCH: There’s my signature. TOM: He placed his finger on my forehead. So doing, he turned off among the tickets of the swamp, and seemed to go down, down, down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on, until he totally disappeared. When I reached home, I found the black print of a fin­ ger burnt into my forehead which nothing could obliterate. My wife greet­ ed me with a bit of news. MRS. WALKER: Tom, Absalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer, died sudden­ ly. It was announced in the papers. TOM: So... let the freebooter roast, who cares. TOM: I really didn’t want to tell her the events of the day. I mean I rarely let this woman into my confidence, but this was an uneasy secret, so I shared it with her. Naturally, all her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged me to comply with the black man’s terms, and secure what would make us wealthy for life. MRS. WALKER: Tom, are you a crazy man? You idiot, of course you’re going to do it. Think of all that gold. Damn it man, you’re going to do it. TOM: Don’t you tell me what to do woman. I ain’t selling myself to the devil, especially not to please you, you old wench! 24  Many and bitter were the quarrels we had after that, but the more she talked, the more resolute was I not to be damned to please her. At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself. Being of the same fearless temper as myself, she set off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a summer’s day. She was many hours absent. When she came back, she was reserved and sullen in her replies. MRS. WALKER: Tom, there was this black man who was hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky and would not come to terms. I told him I would come back again with another offering. TOM: The next evening she set off again for the swamp, with her apron heavily laden. I waited and waited for her, but in vain; midnight came, but she did not make her appearance; morning, noon, night returned, but still she did not come. I now grew uneasy for her safety, especially since I knew she had the silver teapot and spoons, and other valuables in her apron. Another night elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she was never heard of more. What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so many pretending to know. It’s one of those facts which have become confounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her way among the tan­ gled mazes of the swamp, and sank into some pit or slough; others, more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household money, and made off to some other province; while others surmised that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on the top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was said a great black man, with an axe on his shoulder, was seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp, car­ rying a bundle tied in a check apron, with an air of surly triumph. However, I’ll tell you the truth. This is what happened. I grew pretty anxious about the fate of my wife and property so I set out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. During a long summer’s afternoon, I searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. I called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere to be heard. At length, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls begin to hoot, and the bats to flit about, my attention was attracted by the clamor of carrion crows hovering about a cypress­tree. I looked up, and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron, and hanging in the branches of the tree, was a great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. I leaped for joy; I recognized her apron, and supposed it to contain the household valu­ ables. Let me get hold of the property, I thought, and I will endeavor to do without this woman. I scrambled up the tree and the vulture spread its wide wings and sailed off. I seized the apron, but woeful sight, found nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it. That was all to be found of my wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the black man as she had been accustomed to dealing with me. But though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, in this instance she appears to have had the worse of it. 25  She must have died game, however, for I noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree and I found handfuls of hair that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of the black man. Egad, Old Scratch must have had a tough time of it. Well, I consoled myself for the loss of my property and the loss of my wife. After all, I am a man of forti­ tude. I even felt something like gratitude towards the black man. He had real­ ly done me a kindness. So I sought out a further acquaintance with him. TOM: Hello, Old Scratch, I’m back. I thought we might discuss our business dealings a bit further. OLD SCRATCH: (does not respond; goes on with his business) TOM: Old Scratch, can you tell me, how can I get at the pirate’s treasure? OLD SCRATCH: Well I’ll tell you Tom. I’ve been thinking and I think any money found through my means should be employed in my service. How about employing it to fit out a slave­ship? TOM: Forget it. The devil himself could not tempt me to turn slave­trader. OLD SCRATCH: All right then, how about becoming a usurer. You shall open a broker’s shop in Boston next month. TOM: That sounds fine to me. I’ll do it tomorrow, if you wish. OLD SCRATCH: You shall lend money at two percent a month. TOM: Egad, I’ll charge four. OLD SCRATCH: You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the mer­ chants to bankruptcy. TOM: I’ll drive them to the devil. OLD SCRATCH: You are the usurer for my money. When will you want the cash? TOM: This very night. OLD SCRATCH: Done! TOM: Done! TOM: So, we shook hands and struck a bargain and a few days later there I was, Tom Walker, seated behind my desk in a counting­house in Boston. My reputation for a ready­moneyed man, who would lend money out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad. Everybody remembers the time of Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce. It was a time of paper credit. The country had been deluged with government bills, the famous Land Bank had been established; there had been a rage for spec­ ulating; the people had run mad with schemes for new settlements; for building cities in the wilderness; land­jobbers went about with maps of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but which everybody was ready to purchase. In a word, the great speculating 26  fever which breaks out every now and then in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and everybody was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual the fever had subsided; the dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the consequent cry of “hard times.” At this propitious time of public distress did I set up as usurer in Boston. My door was soon thronged by customers. The needy and adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land­jobber; the thriftless trades­ man; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, everyone driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices, hurried to me. Thus I was the universal friend of the needy, and acted like a “friend in need”; that is to say, I always exacted good pay and good security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the highness of my terms. I accumulat­ ed bonds and mortgages; gradually squeezed my customers closer and closer: and sent them at length, dry as a sponge, from my door. In this way I made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty man. I built myself a vast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished, out of parsimony. I even set up a carriage in the fulness of my vainglory, though I nearly starved the horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle­trees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors I was squeezing. As I waxed old, however, I grew thoughtful. Having secured the good things of this world, I began to feel anxious about those of the next. I thought with regret of the bargain I had made with my black friend, and set my wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. I became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church­goer. (Sound effect: Church bells; church choir humming—Tom’s voice in distance: “Our father who art in heaven...”) I prayed loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when I had sinned most during the week, by the clamor of my Sunday devotion. Still, in spite of all this strenuous atten­ tion to forms, I had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, I always carried a small Bible in my coat­pocket. I had also a great folio Bible on my counting­house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business; on such occasions I would lay my green spectacles in the book, to mark the place, while I turned round to drive some usurious bargain. I grew a little crack­ brained in my old days. One hot summer afternoon in the dogdays, just as a terrible black thunder­ gust was coming up, I sat in my counting­house, in my white linen cap and India silk morning­gown. I was on the point of foreclosing a mortgage, by which I would complete the ruin of an unlucky land­speculator for whom I had 27 professed the greatest friendship. The poor land­jobber begged me to grant a few months’ indulgence. I had grown testy and irritated, and refused another day. Sound effects: Door opening and closing LAND­JOBBER: My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish. TOM: Charity begins at home. I must take care of myself in these hard times. LAND­JOBBER: You have made so much money out of me. TOM: The devil take me, if I have made a farthing. TOM: Just then there were three loud knocks at the street­door. (Sound effect— 3 loud knocks) I stepped out to see who was there. A black man was hold­ ing a black horse, which neighed and stamped with impatience. Sound effect—Horse neighing OLD SCRATCH: Tom, you’re come for. TOM: I shrank back, but too late. I had left my little Bible at the bottom of my coat pocket, and my big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage I was about to foreclose; never was sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked me like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the lash, and away he galloped, with me on his back, in the midst of the thunder­storm. Away we went dashing down the streets; my white cap bobbing up and down; my morning­gown fluttering in the wind, and my steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. The black man had disappeared. I never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman, who lived on the border of the swamp, reported that in the height of the thunder­gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and running to the window caught sight of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills, and down into the black hemlock swamp towards the old Indian fort; and that shortly after a thunder­ bolt falling in that direction seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze. The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoul­ ders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins, and tricks of the devil, in all kinds of shapes, from the first settlement of the colony, that they were not so much horror­struck as might have been expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of my effects. There was nothing, however, to administer. On searching my coffers, all my bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver, the iron chest was filled with chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in my stable instead of my half­starved horses, and the very next day my great house took fire and was burnt to the ground. 28  MUSIC—UP GRADUALLY Such was the end of yours truly and my ill­gotten wealth. Let all griping money­brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. The very hole under the oak­trees, whence I dug Kidd’s money, is to be seen to this day; and in case you are all wondering what state I’m in now and from where I speak, I can only tell you that on many a stormy night the people up here can see a figure in morning­gown and white cap riding through the streets on horseback. That is the troubled spirit, they say, of Tom Walker. MUSIC—CREDITS 29  THE BLACK CAT By Edgar Allan Poe Adapted for radio by Helaine Michaels­Klein 30  THE BLACK CAT CHARACTERS ANNOUNCER IGNATIUS GROPEE (NARRATOR) MRS. GROPER LANDLORD 1ST POLICE OFFICER 2ND POLICE OFFICER THREE PEOPLE IN CROWD ANNOUNCER: Edgar Allan Poe showed, in his Tales of the Grotesque and Arabsesque, that he had a deep knowledge of the inner man, especially of the darker side of human nature. “The Black Cat,” one of the stories in that collection, and the one that we are about to hear, illustrates how the evil forces within one man, Ignatius Groper, came to prevail completely over his conscience. MUSIC—up and under IGNATIUS GROPER: From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew, and, in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cher­ ished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. MRS. GROPER: Dearest, come my love, I have a surprise for you. MR. GROPER: Oh, you’re too good to me. What is it today? MRS. GROPER: Today... today darling, it’s a cat... a beautiful cat. MR. GROPER: But sweetheart, we already have birds, a goldfish, a fine dog, rab­ bits, and a monkey. MRS. GROPER: But he’s so beautiful—and intelligent too. MR. GROPER: Yes, he does have a fine coat of black fur and he’s so huge. 31 MRS. GROPER: What shall we name him? MR. GROPER: Hmmmm... how about Pluto? MRS. GROPER: Oh dear, that is a bit morbid. Wasn’t he the God of the dead? MR. GROPER: Well, my dear, that is, after all, fitting. He is all black, represen­ tative of darkness or death. MRS. GROPER: Oh, all right. Since it is the first name come to mind. Pluto he shall be. Pluto was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets. MR. GROPER: Pluto, stop cavorting after me. Go home. PLUTO: Meow MR. GROPER: Do you hear me? Turn around and go home. PLUTO: Meow MR. GROPER: All right then. Come along. What difference does it make? No one will notice you. Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character—through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance, alcohol,—had experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. MR. GROPER: (growling) Where are my slippers? Where did you put my slip­ pers, you wench? MRS. GROPER: Did you look under the bed? MR. GROPER: What would they be doing under the bed? Why can’t they be where I left them. Come here you miserable, ugly, disgusting, beastly woman... take that. (he strikes her) MRS. GROPER: (crying out) Oh. Oh. Help, help, someone, he’s going to kill me. (screaming) Help! MR. GROPER: Shut up, you bloody fiend. They’ll hear you in the next town. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition also. I not only neglected, but ill­used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained suf­ ficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when, by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me—for what disease is like Alcohol!—and at length even Pluto, who was now becom­ ing old, and consequently somewhat peevish—even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper. One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him: 32 MR. GROPER: Come here you beast, I’ll show you who’s boss. Take that you fiend, (cat screeches) You see this little penknife—small, but sharp, sharp enough to take out your bloody eye. Come closer beast. There! (cat screams) There you monster. You won’t be peering at me so much anymore. I blush, I burn, I shudder, when I think of that. When reason returned with the morning—when I had slept off the fumes of the night’s debauch—I expe­ rienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed. In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye pre­ sented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. One morning, in cold blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree;—hung it with the tears stream­ ing from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart;—hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence;—hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin—a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it—if such a thing were possible—even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God. On the night of the day on which this most cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. (Sound effect—blazing fire) MRS. GROPER: Ignatius, oh Ignatius, look the curtains are on fire. MR. GROPER: The curtains. You dumb woman, it’s not just the curtains. The entire house is on fire. We’ve got to get out of here, follow me. Hurry, down these steps. Come on, come on. A little farther, a little more. There now, we’re out... safe. MRS. GROPER: (crying) Oh the house. Look—there won’t be anything left. How horrible; we’ve lost all our worldly possessions. What will we do? MR. GROPER: Our entire wealth swallowed up. Soon after that conflagration, I resigned myself to a lifetime of despair. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire—a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected: 33 VOICE NO. 1: Look at that, isn’t it strange. VOICE NO. 2: Singular. VOICE NO. 3: How unusual. Many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. I approached and saw, as if graven in basrelief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvelous. There was a rope about the animal’s neck. When I first beheld this apparition—for I could scarcely regard it as less—my wonder and my terror were extreme. We quickly found shelter in a small, humble apartment, not too far from where our house had stood. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half­senti­ ment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitu­ ally frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place. One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my atten­ tion was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of gin, or of rum, which constituted the chief furni­ ture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. MR. GROPER: Do my eyes deceive me? But the resemblance is uncanny. You must be Pluto. But how can you be? Come closer, (meow sound) Oh but there is a difference. Pluto was completely black. You, you monster, your entire breast is white. Here, allow me to pet you. (strong purring sound) Why you seem to be quite fond of me? How would you like to come home with me? Oh, there’s the landlord. Do you belong to him? I shall ask. Excuse me, but does this animal belong to you? LANDLORD: No, I’ve never seen the beast before in my life. MR. GROPER: I was going to offer to purchase him, but if you have no claim to him, I shall just take him home. LANDLORD: Suit yourself. When I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accom­ pany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife. MRS. GROPER: Oh, where did you find him? He’s absolutely lovely, (purring sound) (laughing) How wonderful, he likes me too! 34  I discovered on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures. With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps everywhere. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loath­ some caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus near­ ly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly—let me confess it at once—by absolute dread of the beast. MRS. GROPER: It really is amazing. The only difference between this charming cat and Pluto is his shock of white hair. Otherwise, they are absolutely identical in every way. MR. GROPER: Yes, isn’t it interesting indeed? You know, the white outline seems to be taking shape. It is starting to look like something. I shudder to name what it was beginning to resemble. It was now the representation of, the image of a hideous, ghastly thing—of the Gallows! Alas! Neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of rest any more. During the former the creature left me no moment alone, and in the latter I started hourly from dreams of unutterable fear to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight—an incarnate nightmare that I had no power to shake off—incumbent eternally upon my heart. Beneath the pressure of torments such as these the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thought became my sole intimates—the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly aban­ doned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas, was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers. One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cel­ lar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat fol­ lowed me down the steep stairs, and nearly throwing me headlong, exasperat­ ed me to madness. MR. GROPER:Get out of my way, you fiend. Let me get this axe right over here. Let me at that fiend. MRS. GROPER: No, don’t you dare. Give me that axe. Don’t you dare hurt him. 35 MR. GROPER: Get out of my way woman, or, or, I’ll let you have it too. MRS. GROPER: Give me that axe. Give me (he strikes her on the head) give...give...(she slumps down the stairs to her death) The hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I delib­ erated about casting it in the well in the yard—packing it in a box, as if mer­ chandise, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar, as the monks of the Middle Ages are recorded to have walled up their victims. For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I had no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious. And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crowbar I eas­ ily dislodged the bricks, and having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while with little trouble I relaid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distin­ guished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brick­ work. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly. Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain. I, then, looked around for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness, but I could not find him anywhere. I was relieved not to find him and that night I slept very soundly even with the burden of murder upon my soul. Three days passed and once again I breathed as a free man. Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. POLICE OFFICER: Mr. Groper, would you mind assisting us in our search? After all, you know the house so well. 36 MR. GROPER: No trouble at all officer. But I have been searching and I am almost resigned to the fact that I shall never see my beloved dearest again. She just disappeared, it seems, into thin air. 2ND POLICE OFFICER: Let’s go down into the cellar, if you will permit us. MR. GROPER: Of course. This way—follow me. (sound effects—footsteps descending cellar steps.) POLICE OFFICER: (knocking on walls) Well, it isn’t very big down here. Certainly doesn’t look as though there’s anything suspicious. MR. GROPER: Gentlemen, I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all good health. POLICE OFFICER: Mr. Groper, if you don’t mind my inquiring, of what material is this house constructed? It appears to be very solid. MR. GROPER: Officer, you are correct indeed. This is a very well­constructed house, I may say an excellently well­constructed house. These walls are solidly put together. (raps on walls with a cane) MRS. GROPER’S VOICE: (faintly) Help, help. (this leads to sobbing, and then, shrieking) Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party on the stairs remained motionless, through extermity of terror and awe. In the next a dozen stout arms were toil­ ing at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb. For the most wild yet most homely narrative which I just told you, I nei­ ther expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die, and today I unburdened my soul. MUSIC—CREDITS 37  A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY By Ambrose Bierce Adapted for radio by Helaine Michaels­Klein 38  A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY CHARACTERS NARRATOR CARTER DRUSE MR. DRUSE (CARTER’S FATHER) MRS. DRUSE (CARTER’S MOTHER) THREE CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS COMMANDER FEDERAL OFFICER FEDERAL SERGEANT MUSIC—up and under NARRATOR: In 1861 the United States of America ceased to exist. Eleven south­ ern states, following the election of Abraham Lincoln, seceded from the Federal Union and a great war followed. It lasted until 1865. This war was known as The Civil War or The War Between the States. Historians have never quite agreed on what the main issue of the war was. Some say it was the economic rivalry between the industrial north and the agricultural south and some say that the basic issue was slavery. There were eighteen free states and fifteen slave states. The Civil War presented many person­ al conflicts for those fighting it. In many cases, it involved brother against brother, and in the case presented in this play, father against son. Such inner struggles occurred frequently. No country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theater of war; concealed in the forest at the bottom of that military rat­trap, in which half a hundred men in possession of the exits might have starved an army to sub­ mission, lay five regiments of Federal infantry. At nightfall they would take to the road again, climb to the place where their unfaithful sentinel now slept, and descending the other slope of the ridge fall upon a camp of the enemy at about midnight. Their hope was to surprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. In case of failure, their position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they surely would should accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of the movement. We find a young Virginian named Carter Druse lying in a clump of laurel one sunny afternoon in the autumn of 1861. He had just come from his father’s house. He had gone there to give his father some news: CARTER: Father, a Union regiment has arrived at Grafton. I am going to join it. FATHER:Well, go my son, and whatever may occur do what you conceive to be your duty. 39 CARTER: I hope you will not think too badly of me sir. FATHER: (hesitating) You are a traitor my son. However, that does not diminish my love for you. CARTER: I cannot help it Father. It’s what I feel in my heart. You know I am in agreement with President Lincoln. You know that I don’t believe the Union should be divided. I am also deeply opposed to slave labor. FATHER: You have a right to your beliefs my son. Virginia will get on without you. Should we both live to the end of the war, we will speak further of the matter. CARTER: I am going in to say goodbye to mother. FATHER: Carter, she is gravely ill. It would be best if you didn’t tell her everything. CARTER: I promise Father. I will just tell her goodbye. FATHER:Thank you. CARTER: (knocks on bedroom door) Mother, may I come in? MOTHER: (weak voice) Yes, my son, come in. CARTER: Mother, how are you feeling? MOTHER: A little better, dear. A little better. CARTER: Mother, I just wanted to say goodbye for a while. I’m leaving today. MOTHER: Is your regiment leaving today? CARTER: Uh...yes. We’re pulling out today. MOTHER: Good luck son, and don’t worry. We’re going to win. The South is going to win. CARTER: Uh…uh...yes mother. Of course. We’re going to win. Goodbye mother. MOTHER: Goodbye my sweet son. God be with you. (he leaves room—closes door) FATHER: Son, your mother is in a most critical condition; at the best she cannot be with us longer than a few weeks. CARTER: (sadly) I sensed when I was in there that I shall most likely never see her again. It hurt me very much Father, but I must go. I said goodbye to her. FATHER: Goodbye son. God be with you. CARTER:Goodbye Father. NARRATOR: So Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned the 40  salute with a stately courtesy that masked a breaking heart, left the home of his childhood to go soldiering. By conscience and courage, by deeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to his fellows and his officers; and it was to these qualities and to some knowledge of the coun­ try that he owed his selection for his present perilous duty at the extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had been stronger than resolution and he had fallen asleep. What good or bad angel came in a dream to rouse him from his state of crime, who shall say? Without a movement, without a sound, in the profound silence and the languor of the late afternoon, some invisible messenger of fate touched with unsealing ginger the eyes of his consciousness—whispered into the ear of his spirit the mysterious awak­ ening word which no human lips ever have spoken, no human memory ever has recalled. He quietly raised his forehead from his arm and looked between the masking stems of the laurels, instinctively closing his right hand about the stock of his rifle. CARTER: What, what has happened. Have I slept through the war? Is the war now over? What is that I see before me? Why it looks like a statue—a soldier on a horse against the sky. No, I am wrong, for it is not a statue. It is the enemy. I must prepare my rifle. But, I cannot see the rider’s face. He is turned away from me. Wait...he is starting to face me now. (pause) Oh my God. (Music up and under) (sobbing)—Music up. NARRATOR: Is it then so terrible to kill an enemy in war—an enemy who has surprised a secret vital to the safety of one’s self and comrades—an enemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its numbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint, and saw the statuesque group before him as black figures, rising, falling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand fell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested on the leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentleman and hardy soldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion. CARTER: (intense sobbing) My God...my God... I must do it. I must. (more sobbing) It was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth, his hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought the trigger; mind, heart, and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound. He could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send him dashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of the soldier was plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush—without warning, without a moment’s spiritual preparation, with never so much as an unspoken prayer, he must be sent to his account. But no—there is a hope; he may have discovered nothing—perhaps he is but admiring the sublimity of the landscape. If permitted, he may turn and ride 41 carelessly away in the direction whence he came. Surely it will be possible to judge at the instant of his withdrawing whether he knows. It may well be that his fixity of attention—Druse turned his head and looked through the deeps of air downward, as from the surface to the bottom of a translucent sea. He saw creeping across the green meadow a sinuous line of figures of men and hors­ es—some foolish commander was permitting the soldiers of his escort to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a dozen summits. Sound—Horses galloping—splashing of water SOLDIER 1: Woe fellow. Let’s make this fast. I feel Yankee eyes starin’ down at me. SOLDIER 2: Why did that dang fool of a captain make us stop here? It’s dangerous. SOLDIER 3: Suits me, this poor horse couldn’t have made it much farther. SOLDIER 1: I couldn’t have made it much farther myself, (splashes water all over himself and sips) Druse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upon the group of men and horse in the sky, and again it was through the sights of his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In his memory, as if they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his father at their parting: FATHER’S VOICE: Whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty. Druse was calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed; his nerves were as tranquil as a sleeping babe’s—not a tremor affected any mus­ cle of his body; his breathing, until suspended in the act of taking aim, was regular and slow. Duty had conquered. DRUSE: My God, what will I do. I will aim for the horse. Peace, be still. (he fires) (sound—rifle firing off) An officer of the Federal force, who in a spirit of adventure or in quest of knowledge had left the hidden bivouac in the valley, and with aimless feet had made his way to the lower edge of a small open space near the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to gain by pushing his exploration further. At a distance of a quarter­mile before him, but apparently at a stone’s throw, rose from its fringe of pines the gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height above him that it made him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a sharp, rugged line against the sky. It presented a clean, vertical profile against a background of blue sky to a point half the way down, and of distant hills, hard­ ly less blue, thence to the tops of the trees at its base. Lifting his eyes to the dizzy altitude of its summit the officer saw an astonishing sight—a man on horseback riding down into the valley through the air! OFFICER: Well look up there. Looks like he’s a ridin’ on thin air. 42  Straight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in the saddle, a strong clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from too impetuous a plunge. From his bare head his long hair streamed upward, waving like a plume. His hands were concealed in the cloud of the horse’s lifted mane. The animal’s body was as level as if every hoofstroke encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were those of a wild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all the legs thrown sharply forward as in the act of alighting from a leap. But this was a flight! Filled with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman in the sky—half believing himself the chosen scribe of some new revelation, the officer was overcome by the intensity of his emotions: OFFICER: My legs failed me and I fell. Almost at the same instant I heard a crashing sound in the trees—a sound that died without an echo and all was still. I rose to my feet, trembling. Pulling myself together, I ran rapidly obliquely away from the cliff to a point distant from its foot; thereabout I expected to find my man; and thereabout, I naturally failed. In the fleet­ ing instant of this vision, my imagination had been so wrought upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention of the marvelous performance, that it did not occur to me that the line of march of aerial cavalry is direct­ ly downward, and that I could have found the objects of this search at the very foot of the cliff. A half­hour later, I returned to camp. I, being a wise man, knew better than to tell the incredible truth. I said nothing of what I had seen. But then the commander questioned me: COMMANDER: In your expedition, did you leam anything of advantage? OFFICER: Yes, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from the southward. COMMANDER: (sarcastically) Is that so? NARRATOR: Back at the extreme outpost, Carter Druse reloads his rifle; he is approached by a Federal sergeant. FEDERAL SERGEANT: (whispering) Did you fire? CARTER: Yes. FEDERAL SEARGEANT: At what? CARTER: A horse. It was standing on yonder rock—pretty far out. You see it is no longer there. It went over the cliff. NARRATOR: Druse’s face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotion. Having answered, he turned away his eyes and said no more. The sergeant did not understand. FEDERAL SERGEANT: See here. Druse, (pause) It’s no use making a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anybody on the horse? CARTER: (weakly) Yes. 43 FEDERAL SERGEANT: Well? CARTER: (half­sobbing) My father. FEDERAL SERGEANT:: Good God. MUSIC—up and under narrator: What does one do in a situation in which one must make a choice between two alternatives, both of which may be wrong morally? Carter Druse felt obliged to join an army. That decision thrust upon him a whole new set of responsibilities. He must destroy the enemy; he had a duty to protect his comrades, but the army code does not say how one’s military obligations affect his other responsibilities—duty to God, or to family. Thus, Carter Druse was forced into a situation in which either decision he made seemed morally wrong. After the war ended, many soldiers like Carter Druse returned home with heavy consciences, their enemy having been, in many cases, their own brethren. In spite of all the sorrow and pain caused, the Civil War did accomplish many things. It ended slave labor, it settled the question of whether a state could secede, and it cemented the union of the United States of America. MUSIC—CREDITS 44  RICHARD CORY A Television Play based on the poem by Edward Arlington Robinson Adaptation by Helaine Michaels­Klein 45  RICHARD CORY CHARACTERS RICHARD CORY FATHER BAILEY INVESTIGATOR STONE NEWSPAPER REPORTER LAW CLERK VELMA DIANA TOWNSPEOPLE Camera moves in on Richard Cory walking through the Public Square. He is smiling, impeccably dressed, and greeting all the townspeople as they glance at him in admiration. Titles appear on screen as the above scene continues. The first two stanzas of the poem are recited. VOICE­OVER (FATHER BAILEY): Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him; He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, “Good­moming,” and he glittered when he walked. MUSIC—up and under SCENE 1 Camera overview—Small town (eastern part of anywhere U.S.A.). A crowd of uproar­ ious people are in the Public Square. Everyone is talking at once. We hear little frag­ ments of conversation. 1ST WOMAN: I don’t believe it—not Richard Cory. He couldn’t have. 2ND WOMAN: But he had no reason. The man had everything. 3ND WOMAN: (crying) He was so handsome, so elegant. I will miss him so. 1ST MAN: Why would someone who had so much to live for go and do a thing like that? 4TH WOMAN: (crying) He saved my baby. He was such a great man. Oh this is terrible. 46 3RD WOMAN: I will miss seeing his beautiful smile. It was just yesterday that he smiled and said “good morning.” 3RD WOMAN’S HUSBAND: You never tell me I have a beautiful smile. Big deal, Cory wasn’t all that great. 3RD WOMAN: How dare you speak that way of Richard Cory. He was an excep­ tional man. 1ST MAN: Did anyone hear how he did it? 2ND MAN: Gun—with a gun. Shot himself right in the head. 1ST MAN: Where did they find him? 1ST woman: In his bedroom. 3RD woman: Did he leave a note? 4TH woman: I don’t think so. An official­looking man enters the scene carrying a document. He is a law clerk with the local law firm. People start rushing up to him and questioning him. 1ST MAN: Did they find out why he did it? LAW CLERK: (evading questions; shouts) May I have everyone’s attention please. (Voices quiet down after a few seconds) A few minutes ago Counselor Barrow went over Richard Cory’s last will and testament. It would appear that Mr. Cory left his entire estate to this town and its inhabitants. (Voices of townspeople—shrieks and sighs of exclamation) You will all be notified to attend the public reading of the will. (People’s reactions—some are laughing and crying at the same time. We hear the fol­ lowing dialogue amidst the other chatter.) Bless you, bless you, dear Richard Cory. God watch over his soul. 3RD WOMAN’S HUSBAND: (close­up) Say, you were right, Richard Cory was an exceptional man. (his wife gives him a dirty look and then bursts into tears) MUSIC up—Fade out 47 SCENE 2 Camera fades in to exterior view of Episcopal Church—Cut to interior view of Father Bailey’s study. Investigator Stone and newspaper reporter are questioning Father Bailey: INVESTIGATOR STONE: Father, can you give us any information at all on Cory? FATHER BAILEY: I would like to help in any way I can, but you know everything that Richard told me was in confidence. He left no note, which means that he did not want the circumstances of his death made public. This is going to be very difficult for me. Is it really necessary for you to know all the details? INVESTIGATOR STONE: Father, all deaths must be investigated, whether they are murder or suicide. That is the law. FATHER BAILEY: But is it necessary to have a newspaper reporter present? NEWSPAPER REPORTER: Sorry, Father, I was sent on this assignment, I didn’t ask for it. Besides Cory was the most well­known man in this town; not only this town, but all over the eastern United States. People are interested in what happened to him. The paper is obliged to print what people want to read. FATHER BAILEY: Well, I surely don’t want you to lose your job, nor do I want to break the law, for that matter. I’ll try to cooperate. INVESTIGATOR STONE: Thank you, Father, we’d appreciate it. Cory came to this town, it seems, from out of nowhere. Do you know where he came from? FATHER BAILEY: I believe he came here from Boston. He worked for a bank up there. He wanted to start his own business and thought he might do well in this town. He told me that he came here to make a fresh start. You know the rest. He has prospered extremely well. NEWSPAPER REPORTER: Does he have any family? Has he ever been married? FATHER BAILEY: (hesitantly) Yes...there was a wife. There was a divorce, I believe. INVESTIGATOR STONE: Any children? FATHER BAILEY: Yes, one daughter. However, she died. Very unfortunate—it was an accident. INVESTIGATOR STONE: What sort of accident? FATHER BAILEY: Richard came to me one day and said he had to talk to some­ one. He was very upset. I never had any idea that he was so unhappy. 48 (Extreme close­up of Father Bailey; extreme close­up of his forehead as he recollects) Richard Cory, how that poor man suffered; how badly he wanted to make amends. Camera cuts away to flashback—Music Camera fades in on Father Bailey and Richard. It is six months prior to Richard’s death. FATHER BAILEY: Go on Richard, continue. RICHARD: It was just as simple as that Father, I was nothing but a coward. FATHER BAILEY: Richard, no, not a coward. You suffered from a phobia. It is an illness that can strike anyone. RICHARD: No one can imagine how I felt—watching her in the water, seeing her go under and (crying)... Father, I couldn’t, I couldn’t rescue her. FATHER BAILEY: But Richard, even if you had jumped in that water you might not have been able to save her. It doesn’t take very long to drown. It can happen in seconds. Richard, you must not carry this guilt around with you the rest of your life. RICHARD: I really didn’t want to go to the lake that day, but I was too ashamed to tell Velma about my fear of the water. Besides, I didn’t want to deprive Diana of the chance to learn to swim. Velma was a good swimmer, but she had gone back to the lakehouse to fix us a picnic lunch. After we buried Diana, I left everything behind and came to this town, started all over again. Velma went her own way too. FATHER BAILEY: Richard, do you try to see your ex­wife? RICHARD: I’ve been trying to communicate with her ever since it happened. She will not see me. She puts the entire blame for Diana’s death on me. The last time I tried she said that I should never bother her again. She remarried a few months ago and does not want to be reminded of the past. She adored our daughter just as I did. She’ll never forgive me, never under­ stand. When Diana died, everything between us was over. FATHER BAILEY: I’m sorry, Richard. I didn’t realize how final things were between you. I rather hoped that Velma would one day be a source of com­ fort for you. RICHARD: Comfort is what I come to you for, Father. Your listening helps more than anything else. I really don’t expect to find total peace within myself ever again. That’s why I throw myself into the business. I’ve 49  made more money in the last five years than anyone else in this country. I have the finest house, the finest clothes, the finest food, the best wine, and yet I have nothing. If only those people who gape at me in the Public Square knew. If they only knew. FATHER BAILEY: You’ve been very charitable to those people, Richard. Most of them are alive today because of you. It was so kind of you to build that shelter for the homeless and to provide food and clothing. And Richard, what about the other things you’ve done—setting up all those scholarship funds and the building of the hospital. You’ve so many people grateful to you. RICHARD: (close­up) There’s only one thing I don’t have, and that’s my family. (Close­up of Richard transforms into close­up of Father Bailey) FATHER BAILEY: Yes, Richard Cory, everyone in this town admired him. I’ll never forget the day of that fire. He was just coming out of his office when he discovered it. (Close­up of Investigator Stone and Newspaper Reporter as they listen intently) (Camera cuts away to flashback—a day 2 years prior to Richard’s death) Richard Cory steps out of his office, which is a two­story building. He starts up the street where a family—a mother, father—and two children—are screaming. Their modest home is all in flames. Richard quickly takes off his jacket, throws it on the ground, and enters the blazing building. He comes out a few minutes later carrying the child in his arms. He is coughing heavily. He hands the child to its mother and then collapses. FATHER BAILEY: (voice­over) Richard Cory. What a paradox. A phobia for water but no fear of fire. And though he was unable to rescue his own daughter, he was able to fetch that child away from those flames. So you see, gentle­ men, we cannot look inside a man’s heart and know all that goes on there. (To newspaper reporter) Well, do you have your story now? NEWSPAPER REPORTER: Uh...yes, I believe so. FATHER BAILEY: What will you print? (Camera pans both men. They are very moved by what Father Bailey has told them.) NEWSPAPER REPORTER: That Richard Cory was despondent over the death of his daughter. That she drowned accidentally...that should be sufficient. 50 FATHER BAILEY: And you. Investigator Stone. How will your report read? INVESTIGATOR STONE: My report? Oh yes. Well, Father, we just wanted to be sure that there was no foul play involved. It will say on the report that the reason for Cory’s suicide was because of depression, or something to that effect. FATHER BAILEY: Thank you, gentlemen. MUSIC—Fade out SCENE 3 Camera cuts in to the scene of Richard Cory’s funeral held in the Public Square. It is a hot and humid August day. The men are coatless and some of them are wiping the sweat from their brows. The women are fanning themselves. Audio cuts in on the end of Father Bailey’s eulogy: FATHER BAILEY:...And so, dear Richard Cory, we are about to lay you to rest. Our hearts are heavy on this day, for you will most assuredly be missed by all of us. We thank you for all your kindness and generosity, and we send you to our Maker asking for compassion, understanding, and forgiveness. To all of you, the people of this town, I ask that you stop questioning and please remember the proverb, “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.” Camera overview of crowd focuses in on close­up of woman standing behind the others. She has tears in her eyes. Close­up of woman fades in to flashback. Music. Richard and this woman (audience will immediately surmise that she is Velma) on their wedding day. They are embracing. RICHARD: I love you, Mrs. Cory. VELMA: I love you too, Richard, and I am so happy to be Mrs. Richard Cory. Think of all the wonderful years we’re going to have together. Richard, I’m so happy. They embrace again—Music (Allegro) Scene fades in to Richard and Velma running along a lakeside with their small child, Diana. They are laughing and running. Velma breaks away from them and starts walking away from the lake. She waves at them and indicates that she will be back shortly. Richard playfully tosses Diana over his shoul­ ders. He puts Diana back on the ground. She starts running toward the lake. Fade back in to close­up of Velma. The crowd begins to disperse and she remains standing. After everyone leaves, she approaches Father Bailey. WOMAN: Father, may I speak to you a moment? FATHER BAILEY: (studying her for a few seconds) Can it be? Can it really be? 51 WOMAN: You know who I am. FATHER BAILEY: You are Velma, are you not? WOMAN: Yes, Father, I am Velma. I am one day too late. (She opens her purse and takes out a letter sealed in an envelope.) Father, I was going to mail this yesterday, and then I heard...! heard what happened. Here, take it. I must go. Father, please read it, and then...please, Father, if you can, if it is possible, please bury it with Richard. Thank you. (She exits.) (Father Bailey opens the envelope and starts to read the letter.) (Close-up of hand- written letter.) MUSIC VOICE-OVER (VELMA’S VOICE): Dear Richard, I would like a chance to meet with you and discuss the tragic events of five years ago. Although I have tried to forget about Diana and you, the memories of our life together haunt me every day. Camera focuses in on the letter being inserted in the coffin (close-up of hand placing letter in Richard Cory’s lifeless hand). Voice-over continues: Richard, I think I am ready to forgive you. I cannot bear this hurt any longer. My husband who is a fine and wonderful man has urged me to contact you. Coffin closes I think we can help each other to bury the pain and keep alive the mem- ory of our dear and wonderful girl. Sincerely, Velma. Full shot of coffin being lowered into the ground. VOICE-OVER (FATHER BAILEY): And he was rich—yes, richer than a king, And admirably schooled in every grace; In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. MUSIC—CREDITS 52 06-0576