 The Cavalcade of America, presented by DuPont, maker of better things for better living through chemistry. The Cavalcade of America brings you a drama inspired by the life of Edgar Allan Poe, the brooding genius whose stories and poems left an authentic American imprint upon the literature of the world. Our radio play was especially written by Norman Rostin, based on research on the life of Edgar Allan Poe by Victor Thaddeus. Our star is Carl Swenson of the Cavalcade Players, the orchestra and the original musical score are under the direction of Don Voorhees. DuPont, maker of better things for better living through chemistry, presents Carl Swenson as Edgar Allan Poe on the Cavalcade of America. How cooling the rain is on the body. How quickly it freezes to the skin. Annabelle, my Anna, can you hear me until you lie sleeping under this endless earth beneath the wet evening flowers? Are you nothing at all now? The dust I breathe, the space between stars, this emptiness in my heart. If you're in the earth or are you listening, you will know why I'm here in the black night, why I must not return. It was many and many a year ago in a kingdom by the sea that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabelle Lee. Is my name printed that way, Annabelle, in all the copies? Well, I couldn't use the names of any other girls. The rhymes wouldn't work out. I see, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. I'm merely a rhyming coincidence. Just think of the thousands of readers in my book reading your name aloud, breathlessly. I don't care if you've sold none at all. I know what you've done and what you're going to do. Yes, you do know. You should. You're in everything I write. You're the heartbeat in every line. Here's Brown's bookstore. Oh. Shall we go in, sir, and see how your books are selling? Good day, Mr. Brown. What's the report for today, good or bad? Well, I sold another copy of your book of poems. Good. Didn't I tell you, Anna? Each one adds up. How many this week are all told? What? Last week? Week before last week. Not a national figure, that's certain. Someday they'll be buying your books just as fast as you write them, Edgar. Oh, here comes the Milford Bard, and I imagine with his usual recitation. Oh, how priceless is nature's gift in the spring. The beautiful colors on each little bird's wing. Better save it for your newspaper, Bard. Yeah, make them up as I go along. My poem a day in the paper represents the flower of American literature. Who else you got? Now you take that young fellow, Poe. Not a particle of genius. Maybe Mr. Poe here can answer that criticism himself. Oh. You're Edgar Allen Poe? Exactly. Now, sir, I've been reading your daily poem for quite a time, and I want to compliment you. That's mighty nice of you to say it. Yes, I want to compliment you on such a consistent output of trash. Trash, sir? Yes, I remember your gallant couplet of Tuesday last. Would that I were too a bird singing far above the herd? Well, what you? Aside from the nobility of theme, I should say your bird and herd rhyme is positively important. Hold on, hold on, son. I'll bet you $5. I can create more stanzas in one hour than you can. Now, there is a fair test of talent. Will you lead off, sir? Well, I, you. Shall I start you rolling? Dawn brings up in the morning sky its red and gold artillery. Carry on, O' Bard of Milford. See, something dawned upon dawn. Only two lines, Bard, like this. While from the proud towers of the town, death looks gigantically down. I have to read the rest of these manuscripts. I don't mind taking the first prize, but I won't miss my supper doing it. There's only a few more. One by O' Conner, one by Nechep Oliver, one by a fellow named Poe. Let's all suddenly go home. Gentlemen, let's agree to read a couple more, and if we're not satisfied, there'll be no prize awarded in our literary contest this year. All right, let's continue with O' Conner. Go ahead. And as the villainous Cur drew his knife, Mary clutched. Would he attempt to defile O' Conner slowly? Oh, enough of that rot. Who are you, young man? What do you want? Who let you in? I came to find out about your story contest. My name is Poe. I'm sorry, it's too late for entries. We're deciding the winner now. Do you mind if I wait here? No, it'll be all right if you'll sit down over there and not disturb us. Thank you, sir. Continue the reading, sir. All right. Shall we try this one, gentlemen? It's called manuscript found in a box. Well, the bottle park may prove interesting. I doubt it. Here, Mr. Rayther, it's your turn to read one. Oh, oh, very well. And as we carry a crowd of canvas, the ship is at times lifted bodily from out of the sea. All horror upon horror, the ice opens suddenly to the right and to the left, and we are whirling dizzily in immense concentric circles round and round the borders of a gigantic amphitheater, the summit of whose walls is lost in darkness and distance. The circles rapidly grow small. We are plunging madly within the grasp of the whirlpool, and amid a roaring and bellowing and thundering of ocean tempest, the ship is quivering. Oh, God. And going down. Who wrote that? Well, let's see. Manuscript found in a bottle by Edgar Allen Poe. I've never heard of him, but he gets my vote, and mine. I agree, gentlemen. We'll know the prime is to poll first thing tomorrow, and the warden the $50 prize. One moment, gentlemen. Yes, sir. What is it you want, young man? What is it? I'll take the prize now. I'm Edgar Allen Poe. Let me so. The other dancers are watching us. Fine. Let them watch. Some of the most blue-blooded and black-hearted people of the state are watching us, Dan. How did we ever get an invitation? Edgar Allen Poe, my dear Anna, is becoming a literary figure. He's a subject for gossip. He's known to frighten little children on the street, merely by his ghostly presence. Edgar, no. And right now, they're listening to us laugh. What devilish scheme has he in store for that lovely girl, they're saying? What devilish scheme have you in store, sir? Oh, shall we say a journey to the bottom of the sea, perhaps? Or a visit to the interior of a star? Is that all? Tonight it's more than a star. It's a universe. I want to marry you, Anna, and keep you with me forever. Forever is not a safe word for me. It's not a word to come true. Edgar, I'm ill. Oh, Anna, come. We'll sit down. Don't worry, darling. I'll take you to the land of green fields, and you'll heal inside. And our work. Work is never before for both of us. Come with me, Anna. I'll guard you against winter. Perhaps I can give you wings to fly again. I can't use this story in my magazine. It's hardly the type we want. Well, I'm not a writer of types. Well, that's beside the point. The point is, Ann politely, that since I've joined your magazine, circulation has jumped by thousands. I know that's all very true, but if we to hold our readers, we've got to give them something different. Those stories of yours are just a little too... too insane. Is that the word? I've heard it said. We need variety. Something light, romantic. Is that all, Mr. Graham? We'd like to have another story in time for the press. A different type. Is that it? Confounded, Poe. I wish you could be practical. We're selling a commodity, and we know when the people want to change your food. I am not a feeder of populations. Well, I am. Do I make myself clear? Yes, you do, Mr. Graham, and it's time somebody made it clear that you will not be made to order, is not a commodity, and will not be written out of the frills and fashions of your time. Yes, and there's one word more. Goodbye. Feed the public. They know what ought to be written. Let them tell you. What are you saying, Edgar? Anything rather than be a spigot to turn on for their thirst. Here, sit down beside me, dear. Oh, forgive me, Ann. It happens, and that's all. Now you have your new poem to finish. Finish your raven quickly before he flies away. No, you're cold. You should have a large blanket of wool. I let Caliban sit on top of me. She's very warm. Just as soon as Spring is here, we'll take a trip, Anna. Spring. That's when God comes back and paints everything in green like toys. And birds come back so mysteriously from their distant Egypt, and flowers from their warming earth. Everything that once died comes back again. Edgar, would I come back in some later Spring? Yes, Anna. And if I don't, you'll come to me. Yes, my child, I will. Caliban is so fortunate. She has eight additional lives. How jealous I am of you, Caliban. I'll have you out of this miserable place soon, darling. There's going to be another contest in the Saturday Visitor. I'll enter it, and with the prize money, we'll go away. Yes, Edgar. Or if not, why not a public appeal, a public subscription? I have it. Penny's for Poe. That's good. Edgar, please. The residents of Mr. Poe, the famous writer. It is. In behalf of the female literary club, may we ask you a few questions? You see, we're going to discuss you tonight. And we thought we'd just drop in for a word. Yes. Well, Mr. Poe, just how do you write? Just how? Exactly what do you do? I sit at my desk, madam. It's very simple. You must try it yourself someday. Really? Well, that is a charming point. Yes. How do you account, Mr. Poe, for the... How shall I put it? Your wonderful somber qualities. That's because, madam, I love to joke. I'm always joking. How very quaint. We must remember to mention it. Yes, yes. And mention, too, that Mr. Poe invites all of your membership to observe him at his desk as he writes endlessly without food. And tell him that unless his various friends and admirers, as you both are, assist him in his hour of need, he'll be unable to complete his new poem, entitled The Raven, as he quite naturally must be kept alive in order to complete it. You'll mention these points for which I thank you. Good night. We'll cut the heart piece by piece and sell it. And we next weigh out the blood drop by drop for what it'll bring. The moment to save Poe has begun. My darling, you mustn't feel badly. You needn't for me. Oh, and... see how I've dragged you down. I've taken you to the very edge of death. And I'm frightened for the first time. Edgar, don't be frightened. You must sleep. You must not open the wounds you've received. Sleep. Put your face in the hollow of my throat. Sleep, my poor, proud boy. Sleep. Always come to me wherever I am in whatever world. With your words singing in my heart. And when I awoke that morning, I resolved to leave the house and try to sell my poem. The Raven. I remember turning at the door, watching you asleep, relatively asleep in motion. But then, how peaceful she was. How delicate a prize for death. How dazzling among angels, quietly I closed the door. And so was not to awaken you. Or were you past awakening then? Without being announced. I have a new poem. I want you to read it. I want you to buy it and print it immediately. Sit down. Sit down. Relax. How about a drink first? A drink? A very small drink would do. Suppose you give the toast. To a better market for poetry and prose. And all things that do not live as flesh does. That's a toast. Can stretch for three drinks. Let's take a look at this poem. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten oil, I distinctly remember, in the bleak December, and each separate dang ember wrought its coast on the floor. You skipped four lines there. Yes, just getting the idea sort of. I see you're still dealing in ghosts and goblins. You skipped four lines. And I'm not a trader. I don't deal in anything. Do you hear me? Well, I do, Po. I can't use this stuff. Sorry. It's an experiment and sound. That's never been done before. Can't you understand? Not at first glance. My work is not to be glanced at. It's to be read every line of it. Now read it out loud. Every line. Get out of here, Po. I command you to print it. If it's money, you want... Money! I live on air. I breathe promises. You cannot feed pigeons so. Will you print the poem? Let your staff vote on it. I'll read it to them now. Yes, we'll have a reading before the clerks and compositors and all the learned men. Don't try to stop me. Hold on, Po. Gentlemen! Gentlemen, I beg your attention. Dream to these thoughts for a moment. Deep into that darkness, peering. Long I stood there, wondering, fearing. You're drunk. Oh, shut up. Give him a chance. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore. This I whispered and an echo murmured back the word. Nearly this. Is it clear? Is the music in it loud enough? Are they buying internal rhymes this year? Is it like in other stands in the last perhaps? All right. Everybody back to work. That's enough, Po. Why don't you go home? Here's $15. $15? I'll take it. I consider it a fair price for one stands of the raven. Here it is. I'll tear it off from the page. You can buy additional stands at $15 each. There are about a dozen more stands, gentlemen. But they're especially priced for seasonal reduction. I urge you to buy soon. Place your order and you shall have it sealed and delivered in my own hand. The king kneel. The king will kneel. Say what the king must do and he'll do it. Printing shop. I'm sorry, my friend. I dropped by with some things. I thought you might need them. Here's a blanket for your wife. Blanket? For Anna? But she's covered with a long green robe now. Forever and ever. Listen to the bells. They're ringing for Anna. Bells? Haven't you heard? Everyone knows it. They're publishing a special edition of her death. Edgar, take hold of yourself. Listen. You can hear her voice. She's calling me. She's asking me to come to her now. She's alone there in the night. Edgar, where are you going? Listen to the rain. The angels are weeping for her. I must go and keep the rain from her face. There's no time to lose. Edgar, come back. I cannot go any further. The rain and cold will put me to sleep quietly. There's a sound of a far ocean in my ears. The stars are turning in the sky beyond those clouds. And the moon somewhere is burning. You are whispering my name. And now I can see you through the mist. You're here to welcome me in my first night of death. Your voice. I hear it. Mariana, can you hear me where you lie beneath the wet evening flowers? Under this endless earth. Carl Swenson and the Cavalcade players for their performance of the story of Edgar Allan Poe, America's first great literary genius. And now DuPont brings you news of chemistry at work in our world. It is the story of the daily bread we eat. Man, the roaming hunter, could not pause to build, to rest, to learn. It was when he planted seeds, when the bright green blades sprang up from the dark fields, that man the vagrant became man the planner. Tents gave way to houses. Savage vengeance gave way to law. Superstition gave way to knowledge. Civilization came to the wild earth. Man became man thanks to bread. Nothing worthwhile comes easy. Man learned to grow grain, to thresh it and grind it, to leaven and bake it into bread. But it was not easy. In the fields, birds attacked the green blades and hordes of insects. Sometimes the golden stalk smutted. And the wheat once milled to flour and became a temptation to other of man's natural enemies. It was a wonderful new food, but not only man wanted it. Man had learned to bake bread, but it almost seemed that nature meant to steal it away from him again. Along with the struggle for bread came the struggle to keep it safe. But in a sense, bread itself taught us to safeguard bread. For with the cities that arrived when man the nomads stopped wandering to plant his grain and harvest it, there came schools, knowledge, science. And science said, first the fields, food for the fields that they may renew their strength. Then chemicals to kill weeds that that strength may be conserved. And the seed, chemicals to keep it wholesome and start against disease, to keep it healthy and multiply its yield. Then the smiling grain reaped from the field, a golden river curving into golden sacks. And the grain milled into flour, protection there too to keep the flour sweet and clean. And last, the bakery turning the flour into bread. Further protection, learning from nature, DuPont chemists made a wholesome ingredient present in many foods. This new ingredient, a propionate salt, a trade mark mycoban, is now baked into bread to retard the growth of destructive spores of mold. And last of all, there is cellophane cellulose film to keep the loaf clean and fresh until it reaches your home. From the far-off wheat field to your table, chemistry watches the way of bread so that you and your family may safely enjoy it. So that never shall there be famine over the face of the land. This is the responsibility of the chemist who brings us better things for better living through chemistry. The Cavalcade of America presents the distinguished American actor Henry Howe. Our play, Voice in the Wilderness, is the story of William Penn and the founding of Pennsylvania, an exciting chapter in American colonization left to us by this man of peace. We hope you'll join us when we present Henry Howe as William Penn on the Cavalcade of America next week. Sporting Carl Swenson as Edgar Allan Poe were the Cavalcade players. Anna was played by Charita Bauer, barred by John McIntyre. Graham by William Johnstone, Mrs. Jones by Agnes Morehead, Mrs. Smith by Jeanette Nolan, and Latra by Edwin Jerome. On the Cavalcade of America, your announcer is Clayton Collier, sending best wishes from Dupont. Casting Company.