 The Cavalcade of America presented by DuPont, maker of better things for better living through chemistry. The Cavalcade of America presents Ode to a Nightingale, an original radio play about John Keats and America, especially written for the Cavalcade players by the distinguished American dramatist Maxwell Anderson. Our orchestra and the original musical score are under the direction of Don Vouris. DuPont, maker of better things for better living through chemistry, presents Ode to a Nightingale by Maxwell Anderson on the Cavalcade of America. London, the year 1809. Upstairs over an old livery stable at the sign of the swan and hoop. Young John Keats, barely 14, keeps lonely vigil with his dying mother. John? Yes, mother? There are some things I want to say to you. Not in the middle of the night, mother. The doctor says you must rest all you can. I'm awake and things come clear to one in the night. What I have to say is that they brought me a paper today and I signed it. A paper? A paper making Mr. Abbey Guardian. In case. But just in case. If I weren't here, there'd have to be somebody to look after things. It's going to be you, mother, and nobody else. Never fail the others, John. You're the oldest and you'll be the wisest among them. Promise me, you'll watch over Fanny and George. Yes, mother? I'm suddenly so cold. But I wondered if this could be the end. I wondered. I thought maybe that was just the beginning of a moustache. Just a hair or two, I guess. You're hopeful. Oh, I'm restless. And it's past supper time. George John will surely be here, won't he? Of course. He might have been kept late at the surgery, but he'll come as soon as he can. You know, they say he's not a bad surgeon already. Yes. His wife took care of mother before she died that gave them a notion. What are you doing? Reading John's private correspondence? This isn't a letter. It's poetry. Ah, good. It's too good. Can't be John's. Nobody writes sonnet like this at his age. Listen. Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into its chem or like Stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise. Silent upon a peak in Darien. Read that last line again. Silent upon a peak in Darien. That line gave me a shiver. John says that's how you know great poetry. When it strikes you cold to the marrow as if you'd never be warm again. That's great poetry, he says. There it is. Oh, John, there you are. Come, George. Move arms around there. Kiss me on both cheeks like Frenchmen, you Anglo-Saxons. You realize it's been years since we've been loose together. I'm late as the devil for supper, but there was an emergency in the surgery. You handled the Lancet? Yes, and I was successful. I rarely wonder if I was ever meant to be a surgeon. Why? For throat again, Tom? There's nothing to fret, you John. What about the surgery business? Well, this afternoon I handled the Lancet with the utmost nicety. But while my hands worked dexterously, my poor abled brain danced off on a sunbeam that happened to enter the room slant-wise. I'd suspect that might be a little dangerous. I suspect the same thing. You know, I'm not sure I'll ever take up a Lancet again. But what will you do then? I doubt if there's any money in poetry. Who said anything about poetry? George read me a sonnet he found on your table. All I can say is, if that's yours, you're a poet. That's what I want, boys. I'd give my eyes, my life to be a poet. A great poet. Not the medium-run poet like Byron that I despise, but to have the authentic touch, the words that burn like fire. For that, I'd give my last hope of happiness. Thank you, John. Come in, Georgiana. Thank you. Tom's still in bed with that hecking cough of his, but I'm feeding him well. Oh, Tom, this is too bad. Oh, not so bad. Who wants to be outdoors in the spring when I'm reading in bed? Silly. Give me your hand. Oh, Georgiana. If you'll marry me instead of George, I'll get up and dance all the way to Portsmouth with you. Oh, I'd like to very much, Tom. Only I have to get permission from George for everything I do. Oh, that dash is my hope. He's a selfish dog he'd never consent. Oh, John. Yes? We have a project, and we're here to tell you... That you're getting married. That's only part of it. Oh, what's the rest? America. America? Oh, John, he not only marries her, but he carries her off some 4,000 miles into the backwoods. What do you say, Tom? Well, I'm... rocked back on my heels, rather. But we might never meet again. Oh, but we will, I'm sure. Well... Well, let's consider it soberly as grown-up people should. How old is Georgiana? 16. How much money would you have, George, if you drew out your full share of estate? More than 700 pounds. You'll have to go. I see it. It's your dream, George, and who can argue with a dream? If you want to go, go you must. Well, isn't there any wilderness nearby? Why don't we all go? Let's all try it. No, the doctor will let Tom go, not for a while anyway. And as for me, I have to try out this poetry vein of mine. I do sometimes get a little frightened of going so far. Oh, don't let them discourage you, darling. I would hear John's latest poetry. He hasn't read a word of it to us in a year. Well, I have a little thing of 4,050 lines here called endymion. Do you care to hear it before dinner? Well, I shall give you the first line. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. It reminds me of Georgiana. I'm not at all sure. I wasn't thinking of her when I wrote it. Oh, you should get married, John. It's going to be lonely here. Oh, come, Georgiana. What girl is going to waste a thought on Mr. John Keats 5 feet tall? Now, if I were like George at Tom, there might be a chance for me because I have a very saucy way with me. But as it is... The roaring of the wind will have to be my wife and the stars through the windowpane, my children. Oh, I'll be a poet and leave a vision of things behind me which Englishman will not let die. Or it won't matter to me whether I've lived it all. George, this venture of yours taught America's like my venture into poetry. Everything on the one throw. And if we don't win, there's no help. This is what we dreamed of, dear. Floating down a river in the New World. Say the Ohioans in the Mississippi. One thing I knew. When they sing like that, I feel... I'll never see home again. I can't help thinking of London. What comes into my mind is that we've found a new London. New London. There's an address for you. Mind you, I'm not really unhappy. Not with you here. Well, Mr. Keats, have you and your wife finished looking at my sketches? Oh, Mr. Audubon. Yes, we have. Thank you for letting us see them. You draw birth beautifully, Mr. Audubon. Thank you, ma'am. You know, Mr. Keats, what just occurred to me, watching this raft slip through this Ohio wilderness? And what's that, sir? There's money to be made on the river. Everybody floats down on rafts and barges. Nothing goes up. And up river, the markets are crying for produce. There's no way to get the stuff up there. Now, a steamboat, pulling a line of barges up to Pittsburgh, would pay for itself the first trip. A steamboat? That's a real idea, Mr. Audubon. Yes, sir. I believe someday some fellow with a little capital will come along and build a fortune on that idea. Yes. Yes, indeed. Well, I'll see you again before I go shore. Good afternoon to you. Good afternoon. Georgiana, I wonder how much a steamboat would cost. Much more than we have to invest, my dear. Look, the sun's just touching the trees. You know, it's a twilight, I think, that makes me homesick. I keep thinking about London, and Tom, and John. Oh, how John would love it here. Do you ever wish you'd gone to America with your brother? Not after I met you, Fanny. Tell me when you first loved me. Oh, listen, Fanny. There's a nightingale there on the peach tree. Oh, yeah. But tell me. Well, shall I tell you some foolish compliment or tell you truly? Well, tell me truly. First, I suppose I noticed your name, Fanny, because it was the same as my sister's. Yes. And then, it was just after Tom died, I'd been in a sort of stupor, and I'd begun to look around at the world again, as one must. And I saw you as you ran up and down the steps next door. Beautiful, fashionable, strange, little men of... Oh, dear. And then we met. And I noticed something about you. What? When you looked at me, you looked level into my eyes. You see, I've always been a little self-conscious about being five feet tall. And we were equals in height, anyway. Oh, but I know. But when did you first know you loved me? When I wrote the eve of St. Agnes. Because I realized why I was writing it, but I was writing it for you. It's the most beautiful poem I've ever read. Not as good as I want to write for you. I shall do better yet. But it was for you. When did you first love me? When I read it first. When I came to the end of the poem and read the last line. And they are gone. I, ages long ago, when I read that line, then was when I knew. Because I heard myself sing, but we're not gone. For us, the world is just beginning. I never believed it would happen. I never thought it would happen to John Key. I thought I should have to be content just with poetry. But now that I have you, the really great poetry will come. Are you ill, Char? No. I'm bothered a little with my throat, but we won't think about it. I'll write my poems and you'll love me. And at the end of the year, we'll get married on what we have, no matter how little. I've been afraid of this for more than a year. Something has happened that may alter our plans. Yes, John. There's no use not saying it. You must know. Just a moment ago, as I came in the door, I coughed. And I knew what it meant. But you've always had that cough. It was different. Now I know. It wouldn't be fair to you if I... if we were to marry. How long it will take is a little uncertain, but the end is not uncertain. Or I shall marry you tomorrow and nurse you back to health. Darling, you can be hopeful, but I've been a surgeon. I know. Then I won't stay away from you. Whatever life you have, I'll share with you. Oh, darling, darling, don't give up hope. I'll hold you here with my hand. I'll not let you die. Yes, come in. It's your mother, Miss Braun. She's calling for you. Thank you. I'll tell my mother, John. She'll let me come and nurse you. I'll come back. Yes, Fanny. Goodbye, dear. Goodbye. Can I get anything for you, John? Will you please hand me that pile of manuscript at the end of the desk? Yes, surely. Well, there's enough here for a book now, John. There might be enough to make a volume. I'd bring a little something. I'd see you to a nightingale. La Belle Dame, so merci. I'll see who it is. Charles. Who is it? Who's out there? Someone to see you, John. George. What is it, the ghost of George? It's George, boy, and no ghost. All the way from Louisville, Kentucky. How in the world did you get here? By ship. It's the only way there is. George. Oh, to a leaf to see you. I'm to see you. You bring good news? Well, we're well, or three of us. You have a child? Son. Oh, you lucky, lucky, George. I'm here. Well, the truth is to pump it all out at once. I... I put all my money in a steamboat on the Ohio and... boat sank. I'm a saint too, financially. Came home to see how matters stood. Nothing left? Not a shilling. I shouldn't have left Georgiana and the baby loan otherwise. You see, with a few hundred pounds, a fellow can get started out there. Well, there's still a little money coming to you from Thompson State. Sorry, I can't spend the night with you. But, John... Yes, George? The truth is I... I shall need more than my share. Have you any to invest? Because it will be an investment, I promise you. The new world pays dividends. It may take time, but it will all come back to you many fold. If you need it, you shall take all I have. I'll keep a few pounds to live on and you shall carry the rest back to Georgiana. John, if I... I only knew how to say how much I thank you. Don't try to, George. And if you expect to get to the city tonight, you'll have to hurry for the last stage. I'll see you tomorrow. Of course. Around noon sometime. Good night, George. Good night, John. Mother will be over soon, darling. We'll take turns watching you. You think I need watching? Now there's to be no more talk of... of disaster. And you're to live to be a hundred and two. Oh, darling. John, wasn't that your brother who just went out? The one from America. He needs money desperately. You're not giving him yours? Yes. He's lost all he had. But, John... our happiness... is that nothing? Come near me, dear. No, not too near. They say it's catching. Take my hand and listen to what would happen if I kept what I had. George has left a wife and child out there in America. To be like death to them if he went back empty-handed. But, John... Suppose we did keep a bit of money and were married. I know these symptoms. You'd be 19 next year. Wearing black for me. That's no way to start your life out. I can't do that to you. But I won't let you die. I want nothing in the world except to marry you. And I want nothing except to marry you. But, Fanny, if it were your decision, would you keep the money for us and send George back to his wife and child empty-handed? Well, no. No. But your poetry, darling, will pass away all you have to live on. And there's your great poetry waiting to be written. I've written my poetry. It's not good enough. But I had only a year. The year's not enough for greatness. Maybe George's child will be a poet in America. America must have her poets too, Fanny. The same blood runs in his veins. And as for John Keats, that name, with all my verses is like words written with a finger in water. Perhaps the fire that dies out here will burn again in a wilderness cabin. And go ahead. Go down to the river, if you like. But be careful now. Come to the slope, Georgiana. Yes, dear. She'll come around that cluster of evergreens in a minute. You see? That's the white prow just coming into sight. It's beautiful. And now there are two river steamboats in our fleet. George, it troubles me. Have we paid back all you borrowed from John? Yes. Everything. He would be rich now. If he'd only lived. You know, there's something I've pieced together out of letters since he died. When he let us have the money, he was in love. There was little enough to marry on. But that little he put in your hands. He never told me. No. He wouldn't. Well, we're not the only ones, George, who owe the old world more than they can ever pay. For every hopeful face on this side of the water, there's been some sacrifice at home. All up and down the river, there are new ventures buoyed up by those who go hungry in Scotland or England. Yes. I wonder what he'd want done with his share now. He thought perhaps our children would make a race of poets in America. That's why I teach them his verses. Oh, John! Yes, Mother? What did you learn last night from your uncle's poems? One stands here from the Nightingale. Will you say it for your father? Yes, Mother. Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird. No hungry generations tread thee down. The voice I hear this passing night was heard in ancient days by emperor and clown. Perhaps the self-same song that found a path through the sad heart of Ruth. When, sick for home, we stood in tears amid the alien corn, the same that oft times has charmed magic casements, opening on the form of perilous seas in fairylands forlorn. For writing ode to a Nightingale, especially for the cavalcade players, and to the players our congratulations for their performance. And now DuPont brings you news of chemistry at work in our world, the story of the night flight of the Stratoliner. At LaGuardia Airport in New York, the town crew gives a final polish to great gleaming wings that measure 107 feet from tip to tip. 25 passengers step aboard. The airtight hatch swings shut like the great steel door of a bank vault. Inside, the passengers make themselves comfortable in a spacious cabin. The very air seems to tremble as four motors, each of 1200 horsepower, roar into action. The light on the traffic tower blinks. Then up she goes, almost straight up it seems to the people watching. Flying at 18,000 feet, the Stratoliner leaves New York at 8.15 in the evening. Outside the cabin, the air is thin. Inside, it's kept at normal pressure. Around 11.30, the giant plane puts down in Chicago. At 6 in the morning with the sun well up, it's over New Mexico. A little later, it glides down to Los Angeles, coast to coast in 15 hours and 38 minutes. Last year, American airliners flew 94.5 million miles and carried nearly 2.5 million passengers and 5 million pounds of freight. And to every one of those miles, chemistry contributed. Modern planes, including fighting planes, owe much of their efficiency to neoprene, DuPont's chemical rubber. Neoprene seals on the variable pitch mechanism of an airplane propeller help it do its job efficiently at all temperatures and under all sorts of operating conditions. Neoprene de-icers, swelling and contracting on the leading edge of the wing, make flying safer in bad weather. Neoprene seals the hulls of flying boats and stratosphere planes. Neoprene fuel cells reduce the possibility that vibration may spring a leak in the gasoline tanks in the wings. Lucite plastic is another DuPont contribution to modern flight. Light in weight, crystal clear, practically non-shatterable, weather resistant, easily molded to streamline curves. Lucite is the ideal material for windows that give the pilot and other members of the crew full vision. Dozens of plastic parts go into today's planes. The newest is an indicator that monitors the oxygen line to pilot and passengers. A little red bead rises and falls in a transparent lucite column on the instrument panel. If the flow of oxygen stops for any reason, the red bead drops to the bottom of the tube where a light shines through it, making it an automatic danger signal. High in the sky over America these days, thousands of wings flash in the sun. Some fly low. Some, like the strata liner, fly so high that the eye catches only a dazzling glint of sunshine on metal. But all of them represent the transport of a busy nation hard at work. The chemist who helps to bring us modern flight is bringing us, in the words of the DuPont pledge, better things for better living through chemistry. And now Ted Joyt with Word of Next Week's program. Our play next week is called A Passage to Georgia. It is the story of James Oglethorpe, who, with a sense of true justice, founded an American colony with men who had been cruelly held in old world debtor jails. Our star is Alfred Shirley of the Cavalcade Players. We hope you'll join us for this story on the next broadcast of the Cavalcade of America. On the Cavalcade of America, your announcer is Clayton Collier sending best wishes from DuPont. A snow broadcasting company.