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In the House Where I Was Born
the second version

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In the House Where I Was Born

MS Senior Member Usergroup: Member Joined: Mar 14, 2003 Total Topics: 59 Total Posts: 163

5 of 10 people found this post helpful Posted 10/24/03 - 10:01:43: #1 Okay, here is a transcript of the second version of "In the House Where I Was Born" -- I didn't know what to name the characters (especially the protagonist since he hasn't got a name, y'know) so I opted for generic labels like HIS MOTHER, HIS BROTHER, etc., and dubbed the narrator "U.S." This was a difficult episode to transcribe. It'll be interesting to read Cooper's script one of these days. In the House Where I Was Born CHAPPELL: Quiet, please. (SEVEN SECONDS' SILENCE) CHAPPELL: Quiet, please. (MUSIC ... THEME ... FADE FOR) ANNOUNCER: The American Broadcasting Company presents "Quiet, Please!" which is written and directed by Wyllis Cooper and which features Ernest Chappell. "Quiet, Please!" for tonight is called "In the House Where I Was Born." (MUSIC ... THEME ... END) --- U.S.: [narrates] Another year. Another year when I've come back to the house where I was born. Every year, I come back - just before Decoration Day. It's pleasant - some years. Some years, it's different. Everybody ought to go back once a year to the house where he was born. Just look around. And remember. And then go back to where he came from. (MUSIC ... NOSTALGIC) U.S.: [narrates] The house where I was born is old and weatherbeaten under the gray paint. And the old porch is gone. The big bay window where I used to sit and watch the snow on winter afternoons faces right out into the street now. And the wooden steps go right up from the sidewalk to the big double front door. The house was painted red when I lived there. Red with white trimmings. And there was a big caladium plant in the front yard - "elephant ears," my grandmother used to call it. My brother and I used to pull 'em up and make umbrellas out of 'em and Grandma'd jaw us till our ears hurt. Can't even tell where the caladiums were. And the old woodshed - that two generations of us had carved our initials on -- I remember "C.D.O. 1884" -- and my brother's initials, 1905. And all the others. That's gone, too. And there was a dog, a little brown and white fox terrier. Her name was - Trixie, wasn't it? ... So many years ago. (MUSIC OUT) U.S.: [narrates] Here ... SOUND: (HEAVY WOODEN DOOR OPENS) U.S.: [narrates] ... was the living room. The "front room," we called it. The round oak base burner with the Isinglass in the doors where the coals glowed red of a winter's night. The couch in the corner. The table with the cracked marble top where the lamp sat. The round lamp with the yellow silk shade with the fringe. My brother and I reading the highly moral stories in "Happy Days" and wishing we, too, could be big league baseball players like Fearless Frank in the woodcuts. And on a spring night like this - just before Decoration Day - Mother, sitting at the rosewood organ under the picture of Pharaoh's Horses, playing "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" ... (MUSIC ... ORGAN UNDER) U.S.: [narrates] ... for the Spanish War wasn't so long ago. And my father that was battalion sergeant-major - hadn't come back from Chickamauga. And the scent of white lilacs coming in the windows. And the white lilac bush that was her pride is long gone now. But I can smell the white lilacs tonight. SOUND: (HOOFBEATS WALK BY ON PAVEMENT) U.S.: [narrates] And I can hear the clopping of horses' hooves on the pavement outside, the pavement they put down the year I started at school. And in the shadows of this bare old room, a glow comes slowly to life - and there is the old lamp beaming cheerfully across the brussels carpet. And the organ is playing. And I'm the little boy that looks up at her and plucks at her dress and begs: Mama, tell me a story. BOY: [overlaps] Mama, tell me a story. (ORGAN MUSIC STOPS) BOY: Story, mama. HIS MOTHER: What shall I tell you about tonight, son? Isn't it almost time for bed? BOY: Story first, mama, please. HIS MOTHER: Well, let me see. [recites] The stag at eve had drunk his fill Where danced the moon on Monan's rill And deep his midnight lair had made In dark Glenartney's hazel shade. BOY: What's "Monan's rill," mama? HIS MOTHER: Why, it - it's a little brook. A little creek way up in Scotland in the [trosix?] where Roderick Dhu lived. BOY: Well, why do they call it "Monan's rill," mama? HIS MOTHER: Why, I - I suppose it was named after somebody named Monan, son. BOY: Oh. HIS MOTHER: I suppose it's a very tiny little brook where the water is ever so cold. And it comes down from the tops of the mountains, through the glade, to the places where the stags live. And I suppose not very many people know where Monan's rill really is because it's very probably guarded by the Little People and the Fairies. And I don't think they like other people to come and drink at their rill. BOY: Uh uh. HIS MOTHER: But they let the stag come every night if he wants to. And then he goes away. And the Little People ride on his back wherever he's going. And then they wake him up in the morning. And he takes them back to the rill. BOY: Does Monan come there, too? HIS MOTHER: No, no, I don't think so. Monan's gone from there ever so many years ago. BOY: Doesn't anybody ever see him? HIS MOTHER: No. BOY: Doesn't anybody know him even? HIS MOTHER: I - I guess not. BOY: That's awful. HIS MOTHER: Yes. It is, isn't it? BOY: That's just about the awfulest thing that could happen, isn't it? HIS MOTHER: What, son? BOY: Not having anybody know you. HIS MOTHER: Why, I - I hadn't thought of that but-- BOY: Sing to me, mama. HIS MOTHER: Oh, I'm getting sleepy. BOY: [pleads sleepily] (MUSIC ... ORGAN ... "BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC") HIS MOTHER: [sings] Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword His truth is marching on U.S.: [narrates] And mother's song fades. And the light grows dim. And I'm in darkness again in the house where I was born. (MUSIC OUT) U.S.: [narrates] And this house where I was born is in a great city - when the wide streets are filled with crowds of people - and I remember again - so many things. (MUSIC ... "SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK" ... UPBEAT, CALLIOPE-STYLE) U.S.: [narrates] The thunder of the elevated railways overhead on a warm afternoon in the spring. And the open streetcar clanging its way up the street. And my father, pointing and telling me that that's the first trip of the open streetcars up Broadway this summer. And the friendly policemen in a round-topped helmet, spanking me jovially with his nightstick as we crossed the plaza on the way to the Central Park Zoo. And the house where I was born. Weary and happy in the cool evening. Climbing the brownstone steps into a high-ceilinged house with a fireplace in the front room. A great stairway. The long, inviting banisters. And a cat with a blue ribbon for a collar and the longest, sharpest claws in the world. And a telephone that you could talk even to Brooklyn with. (MUSIC OUT) U.S.: [narrates] The house where I was born. And now a sign on the front alongside the tall doors. A sign that says: "Swedish Restaurant." And still in the concrete sidewalk at the foot of the steps, the prints of my two shoes - that I could span with a hand. And my initials. And the date: nineteen hundred and one. And I turn away from this house where I was born - for I've not done with my homeward journey yet. (MUSIC ... FILLS A PAUSE, THEN IN BG) U.S.: [narrates] In the house where I was born, there is not one stone upon another - for the path of war led across its dooryard and destruction followed for all the people who dwelt in it. But the scent of lilacs is strong in the evening air even here. And before my eyes, the scene of desolation dims and the house where I was born lives again. It's a spring evening and there seems to be music in the air and I feel happinesses again - as I felt them that night when I first brought home my bride. What was her name? Have I forgotten? (MUSIC OUT) HIS LOVE: [with an accent] Carry me across the threshold, my love! SOUND: (SHE GIGGLES AS HE GRUNTS AND CARRIES HER INSIDE) U.S.: Darling - [chuckles] - this is home! HIS LOVE: It's a fine home, a wonderful home! U.S.: My people have lived here since the-- HIS LOVE: Since the Thirty Years' War! You have told me that. U.S.: [chuckles] Well, they don't build houses like this anymore, my love. [laughs] See? The walls! HIS LOVE: All of stone from the quarry over there. U.S.: And the mortar! There is my great-great-great-grandfather's blood in that mortar. HIS LOVE: [laughing but sympathetic] Yea, I know. He drew blood from his own arm and spared it into the mortar so that there would always be something of him in the house! U.S.: Well, it was also a charm, you know, the - the witch woman-- HIS LOVE: I know. He - he paid her three silver pieces to tell them what to do to make the house stand forever. U.S.: How do you know so much about it? HIS LOVE: [laughs] You have told me so many times! U.S.: [laughs] So I have! [laughs] And - and real glass in the windows, too! HIS LOVE: Yes! And the stove - with the hand-painted tiles. U.S.: Well, there's not another one like it in the whole village. HIS LOVE: And - and it's ours! U.S.: And we'll take it to America when we go. HIS LOVE: [pause, meekly] Do you - do you really want to go to America? U.S.: Why, of course I do. Well, you do, too. Don't you? HIS LOVE: [sad but hopeful] Could we not be happy here, we two? U.S.: Why, we could be happy anywhere. But, in America-- HIS LOVE: I know. We will be rich and I'll have two dresses and someday we'll have a motorcar even. But ... U.S.: But what? HIS LOVE: It's so - so far from this house where you were born and - where I hoped our children would be born. (MUSIC ... IN BG) U.S.: [narrates] And the scent of lilacs is strong again in the air - as the voice of the beloved woman fades away into shadow and forgetfulness. And the house where I is born is swallowed up in the night. And I am alone again. (MUSIC UP AND OUT) U.S.: [narrates] And the house where I was born is a 'dobe shack somewhere in the Texas panhandle. And the wide plains of the West stretch away endlessly beyond it. (MUSIC ... "I RIDE AN OLD PAINT") U.S.: [narrates] Now, the corral gate is broken, the bunkhouse roof is gone - and horned toads squat on the decrepit porch where I played "cowboy and Indians." I look above the door, the brand is still there - the brand that looks in the early darkness like Rafter "A" but it might be "Two Up and Two Down" or a Running "W." And there's a dry, dusty smell about the place and - an echo of almost forgotten songs quivers on the air. For the Chisholm Trail went right past our place, all the way from Belton up to the north fork of the Canadian and Abilene. And I've seen white-faced bawlers by the thousands go past our gate. (MUSIC OUT) U.S.: [narrates] Heard the riders' voices in the hot noons and the long, moonless nights. COWBOY: [sings] I ride an old Paint and I lead an old Dan I'm off to Montana for to throw the houlihan They feed in the coulees and water in the draw Their tails are all matted ... SOUND: (HOOFBEATS) U.S.: [narrates] [overlaps] And the long, slow song of horses' hoofs was music to the ears of a lost, forgotten Texan ... (MUSIC ... FINISHES THE SONG AS THE RIDER'S VOICE FADES ... THEN IN BG) U.S.: [narrates] ... who'll never come back to stay to the house where he was born, to lay flowers on the grave up beyond the little hill under the cottonwood tree. (MUSIC UP AND OUT) U.S.: [narrates] And the house where I was born is a sod-roofed cottage in the peat bog country of Ireland. (MUSIC ... "ROSE OF TRALEE") U.S.: [narrates] And I am nineteen - and return for a visit with the old folks after three years in America where I've become all Yankee. And my brother and I sit before the door and talk at evening about the strangeness of the new world - and its customs. And the customs of the other people beyond the various seas. And it's this very day, thirty-five years ago, in Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen. (MUSIC OUT) HIS BROTHER: And I'm betting you there'll be war in Europe before the year is out, m'lad. U.S.: Ah, that's just talk. HIS BROTHER: It's just talk that has started every war the world has ever seen. The Kaiser Bill is just waiting for somebody to set the world alight. Aye, and it's many a good lad'll come to his end a-puttin' it out. U.S.: [uncomfortable] Well, we'll never get in it. HIS BROTHER: You mean the Americans? U.S.: Yes. HIS BROTHER: Heh. I don't know about that. U.S.: We're too far away. Let the English and the Germans fight it out. HIS BROTHER: All very well to say but you'll see. U.S.: Well, you won't go. HIS BROTHER: Oh, I - I'm not too sure about that either. U.S.: Fight for the English?! HIS BROTHER: Well, I - I wouldn't like that very much, sure enough. But there's some very good Irish regiments in the British Army. The Inniskilling Fusiliers, the Royal Irish Rifles and - and the Dublin Fusiliers. U.S.: Now you stay out of it. HIS BROTHER: Ohhhh, I-- U.S.: Why, you can't go and leave the old folks alone. HIS BROTHER: Well, if I was as young as you-- U.S.: [laughs] Cut it out! Why, you talk as if war is just around the corner. HIS BROTHER: And that's just exactly what I think, too. U.S.: Well, all right. But I'll be back in the States long before your war arrives. And I'll stay there, too. (MUSIC ... OMINOUS VERSION OF "A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY" ... THEN "ROSE OF TRALEE" IN BG) U.S.: [narrates] And I left the house where I was born, the smoky, damp little hut beside the road to the sea and I have not seen it again, save when it comes Decoration Day time, and I go back, unbeknownst to my brother, and look in at the door to where he sits, an old man puffing his pipe alone by the peat fire. And, once - it was long years ago - the village priest sat with him and I heard my brother speak of me: HIS BROTHER: Aye, could have been very different, Father - if me brother'd've come back from the War. Ah, he was a fine young lad, Father. And him and me, eh - well, we could have done something with the place. But-- Ah, it's too late now. (MUSIC UP AND OUT) SOUND: (WIND) U.S.: [narrates] And there was a day, on the ranch in the Texas panhandle, when a tall, young man in Levi's and high-heeled boots saddled and bridled a horse and said goodbye to an old man, shook hands with half a dozen cowhands and a Mexican cook, and rode away toward the railroad that was to be the first lap of a long, long journey. And I remember I turned and looked back at the house where I was born. And someone was singing an old song somewhere: COWBOY: [sings] As I walked out in the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen All wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay (MUSIC ... JOINS IN ON LAST LINE AND FINISHES THE SONG ... OUT) U.S.: [narrates] And here again, in the house where I was born, I stand again beside the walls of stone mortared with the blood of my great-great- grandfather. And, in my arms, I hold a weeping woman. HIS LOVE: [sobs] Don't go. Don't go and leave me here. (MUSIC ... IN BG) U.S.: But it'll be only be for a little while, my dearest. Only till I can earn enough money to send for you. HIS LOVE: [distraught] I'll never see you again. U.S.: [reassuring] Oh, but you will. America really isn't so far away. HIS LOVE: It's across the sea! Across the sea! [sobs] Stay. U.S.: Dear, we've been through all this before. Now, now, be reasonable. In six months, a year-- Now, don't, darling. HIS LOVE: Let us stay here, both of us. This is our home. This is the house where you was born. U.S.: Look at me, love. HIS LOVE: My dear one. U.S.: I love you. It will be such a little while. You will come to America. And we'll be so happy. And so rich. It's such a little time to wait. You know it is. HIS LOVE: I love you. Kiss me. U.S.: [narrates] And I kissed her. And I went away. And I have never seen the house where I was born, except in dreams -- such as this dream tonight - when the ruins lift and - and form themselves for a little moment, in the darkness. She came to America. And the day she arrived, I was drafted. I was never able to find her again. But then, she was never able to find me, either. (MUSIC UP AND OUT) U.S.: [narrates] In the house where I was born, there is no memory left of me. (MUSIC ... "SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK" ... SLOW AND SAD) U.S.: [narrates] Only the two prints of a child's shoes in the concrete remain as a memorial that I once lived. The house where I was born has forgotten me. (MUSIC OUT) U.S.: [narrates] And the house where I was born, where my little brother and I played in the caladium bed, it has almost forgotten me, too. (MUSIC ... MOURNFUL) U.S.: [narrates] There's a pack of yellowed letters somewhere in the house, lost behind a beam in the attic maybe. A pack of yellowed letters with "Soldier's Mail" in the place where the stamp should go - and my name and an A.P.O. number in the other corner. The letters are full of names like Albert ... Le Somme ... Chattancourt ... Dead Man's Hill ... Consenvoye ... Brabant ... Names like the faded letters on an ancient palimpsest, obscured by newer names written over them: Omaha Beach ... Bastogne ... Okinawa. They're all names of places where men have died. And one day, they'll all be forgotten - please, God. (MUSIC OUT) U.S.: [narrates] I remember one of those names. Those first names. I won't tell you the name of the town. A clean little town it was, with red-roofed houses. A dirty shambles in October 1918. I couldn't hear the shells from the seventy-sevens bursting in the streets. I couldn't hear what the chaplain was saying to me. I could just see a dirty-faced man in a helmet moving his lips as he bent over me. It was very quiet. And very lonely. I didn't even hear the shell that killed him and the other man that was standing alongside him. It was quiet - for a long, long time. And then I heard a little boy's voice. And I said to myself: "Why, I'm home. That's my voice. That night before Decoration Day so many years ago." And it was. BOY: Mama, tell me a story. HIS MOTHER: What shall I tell you about, son? BOY: Story, mama. HIS MOTHER: Well, let me see. [recites] The stag at eve had drunk his fill Where danced the moon on Monan's rill And deep his midnight lair had made In dark Glenartney's hazel shade BOY: What's "Monan's rill," mama? COWBOY: [overlaps, sings] As I walked out in the streets of Laredo As I walked out in Laredo one day HIS LOVE: [tearfully] Don't go. Don't go and leave me. HIS MOTHER: And I suppose not very many people know where Monan's rill really is because it's probably very closely guarded by the Little People. HIS BROTHER: Many a good lad that'll come to his end puttin' out the blaze. HIS LOVE: Across the sea! Across the sea! Oh, stay! COWBOY: [sings] I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen All wrapped in white linen and cold as the clay BOY: It's just about the awfulest thing in the world, mama. Not to having anybody know you. (MUSIC ... "BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC") U.S.: [narrates] They set a marble tomb above my shattered self, seeking to do me honor thus, to recompense the searing days, the crawling nights I died in. "He lies here deep," the graven letters say, "He lies here deep, unknown to all save God." O, sweet it is, they say. O, sweet it is to die the battle death. Yes. It is sweet. As gall is sweet and wormwood, so is death. I died. I felt the bitter fire, the cleaving steel, the pain. I am content. Yet I am weary in my sentiments. The sleep of death is not so very deep. Lately, the spring has come and yesterday a tiny root of some green thing has split the stones apart wherein I lie. Its tender, questing fingers seek my hand - as mine sought flowers on some yesterday forgot. Above my head, the hushed clang of arms, the measured tread of sentinels that guard my bed, forbid me sleep. My face is dim in Eternity now. But, once, you knew me. Perhaps you wept to hear that Sergeant Death had spoke my name. Is it you that I hear through the dust, O, my brother? Is it your little song that I hear, O, my mother? I, in my tomb of marble? I, in my tomb of stone? I am the Chief of them all. I am the Chief of the Dead. I died. And, dying, became a mystery. To every mother, her son. To every brother, his brother. To every soldier, his comrade. I, the Chief of the Dead. I was content to lie here, masked in uncertainty, having the homage of all of you here in my marble tomb. I was content, I say. Yet now spring comes again as I saw it once before that day I died. Is it your hand that rests on the stone, O, my sister? Is it your tear - that falls on the stone, O, my wife? (MUSIC ... UP AND OUT) U.S.: [narrates] I hear the trumpets now. The volleys sound. The sabers flash against a sun I may not know. I may not rise. I have my duty. Here. Alone. I, in my tomb of marble. I, in my tomb of stone. I am the Chief of them all. I am the Chief of the Dead. (MUSIC ... THEME ... FADE FOR) ANNOUNCER: "Quiet, Please!" for tonight was called "In the House Where I Was Born." It was written and directed by Wyllis Cooper. And Ernest Chappell was the man who spoke to you. CHAPPELL: Others of the cast were Betty Wragge, Cecil Roy, Lotte Stavisky and J. Pat O'Malley. Special music for "Quiet, Please!" is by Albert Buhrmann. Now, for a word about next week, here is our writer-director, Wyllis Cooper. COOPER: Thank you for listening to "Quiet, Please!" My story for next week is called "Tanglefoot." CHAPPELL: And so, until next week at this same time, I am quietly yours, Ernest Chappell. (MUSIC ... THEME ... END) ANNOUNCER: This is ABC, the American Broadcasting Company.

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