 starring Madeleine Carroll in I, Mary Washington, an original radio play on The Cavalcade of America sponsored by the DuPont Company. 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. Portrait of a Lady in mob cap, home-spun 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 in 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 on hesitant hand her last will and testament. She bequeathed to my son, General George Washington, my best bed, best bed and Virginia cloth curtain, 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. Our play written by Robert Talman tells the narrative of that lady and her challenging era. Stupont, 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, 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 over steam. The soil is good, and there'll be many more acres when we've cleared away the timber. I haven't mined the room up there, Augustine, with the windows and the wide gable. That will be our syndrome. 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 II 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? I came as quickly as my horse would tell me, when Toby came with a message I... I know, I know. But our son. Look at our son, Augustine. A son? It is a son. Casanello thinks he most mightily resembles his father. The spitting image of his father, I said. It is not my nose. But how? Is thy voice, Augustine? Thy is noisy enough. Do you know your father, George Washington? Do you know your own name, George? Do you? He frightened him most terribly, Augustine. Harsh, harsh, harsh. Go and have your bettles. They've been waiting these three hours. Three hours? What's three hours? We've been waiting for this little fellow all our lives. Who is a mother? The force of change. The heavy thorns are hauled from the furrow. The angular ridges come round and smooth under the fowlshare. The grain ripens apart from its 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 for 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 ye not say that the book of Esther was only a tale and that he inspired part of the scriptures? I had not remembered those words. Reputation and esteem may one day come to you, George, but 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 come, 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, just past your bedtime so bid me good night. Yes, ma'am. Good night, mother. God bless you, child. Cousin Mary. Hella, come in and sit with me for a moment. Thank you. 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 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. Oh, yes, I'm the storm. I can't help it. I'm afraid the sky was yellow before it got dark. Oh, the window, the tree, the big oak tree, the lightning, split it clean in two. Hella, calm yourself. It is a very bad storm. Go and take the children out of there. But Mary, where are you going? To see that the barn doors are tightly bolted. Mary, you mustn't go out there. Mary! Go and take the children, as I told you. I'll be back in a moment with the children. Up to the barn, dear. Try to bring your mother back to the house. I'll bring the children downstairs where it's safer. Yes. No! No! I have something to do here before the fire gets too bad. Where do you get it? It's like a good little girl. I don't want George to lose touch with his book. In an original radio play on the Cavalcade of America, sponsored by the DuPont Company. A picture 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, though a man riding home to it in the morning. Home at Mount Vernon. How are you like that, Mary? Mount Vernon? Yes. It's so far away, Augustine. This is our home here. Oh, you like it even better at Mount Vernon. But Augustine... I'd bow her 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 with the skin. Could you save me a silver 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. Without warning. When the fruit is not yet ripe in the orchard. This is a new place of our portrait. Full of anxiety. Waiting for a door to open in the frosty air of early morning. Hello, 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 her husband is no more. Oh, the scene 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 book diligently. You will need every bit of knowledge you can garner. For the days that lie ahead. Soldiers are dependable and fruitful nations. Soon it will be a mother of nations. The tall, sturdy oak towers above the landscape crowd and connect. 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 tepid his horse in the drive. Her face lights up as she opens the door. Wait for his greeting. I live only for your visit, George. You are most gracious, Madam. George, you addressed 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've been able to raise for me. Mount Vernon is no longer my home or yours. It's a mark on a map standing directly in the line of communications between North and South. George, I've lost my home before. That's 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 be woodsmen, farmers, men who have never been soldiers before. Yes. Yes, all this I have considered. And even this I would approve if it fit well in your conscience, George. But when I think, but I might never see you again, George. George, you're all I have now. Mother, remember when we used to read the script together in the long evenings at the little house in Westmoreland County? Remember the verse, what do we weeping and breaking my heart for I am ready not to be bounder than but to die at Jerusalem? Yes. Yes. And when he would not be persuaded, we see the will of the Lord be done very well in my son. The will of the Lord be done from the door and seeing standing there grave and hollow eyes like a cold hand laid on the heart. Welcome to pay my respect, you madam. George, come in quickly. Here, sit by the fire. You're cold, aren't you? I, 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 Forge and just arrived. I ought to remember writing it. You men having more than one shirt, many on your mockery of one or man's or. Because they are barefoot and otherwise naked. Should we have a respectable force to commence an early campaign? Pardon me. Forgive me, madam. Things matter the much with me of 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 Forge. Why have they stayed there all the winter long? God alone knows the answer to that. Because I have been foolish enough to try to hold up their hopes. Welcome the deserters back again with promises I only half believed in myself. Deserting? 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 hardly know where to begin. I am an antique. I who always thought of my life at the beginning of a new thing. And yet I think I understand this new kind of war you speak of. Understand it better than they. I've told you about the place that 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 nothing but debts and mortgages on our very lives. But our defeat when the new king reapportioned the man, they remain ours because we 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 were 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 stands barefoot bleeding in the snow, if a million 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, Mrs. 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, I'll... Well, we shall always be the same, gently, mother. Thank you, George. I know you'll never really change. You were always a good boy. My hand is in American soil. My emotions toward the great ladies whose role I took in tonight's play are perhaps keener than those of native-born Americans. For it was she and women like her who kept in touch the enduring bond between us, a bond which today is the last great hope of the civilized world. For 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 R. Mann of Action. The orchestra and the original score on tonight's cavalcade were under the direction of Don Burry. This is Clayton Collier, sending best wishes from Dupont. Still from New York. This is the National Broadcasting Company.