| Title | Valentine |
| Message Text | I doubt I'm going to finish this by February 14th but here's an effort at transcribing the opening minutes of "Valentine": CHAPPELL: Quiet, please. ... 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 today is called "Valentine." (MUSIC ... THEME ... END) ABE: The little towns. I never see them any more. Pekin, Delavan, Bloomington, Galesburg, Lewiston -- all the little towns above the river with the cobble stones going down to the steamboat landings. The little towns under the hills. And the shocks of corn standing lonely and snow-covered -- like the teepees of old Shabbona's people, the good Indians that saved so many white men's lives in the old days. There's a red brick Baptist church, I remember. And a court house with tall, limestone pillars -- with a portico that looks like a disreputable ancient Greek temple. And I can only think of them - and remember them - for I never go far away from here. It is restful here. And I think I have earned rest. For I've come a long journey. My work was finished long ago. So I rest. And, sometimes, in the night, I walk for a while -- and remember. (MUSIC ... WISTFUL, NOSTALGIC ... IN AND UNDER) ABE: And the old house down on State Street is almost unchanged. The hands of time have touched it lightly. And it's a comforting thing to go there at night and sit alone. And remember. And, always, this time of the year -- I remember the valentine. So long ago. The little houses along the road and the ravine that goes down to the Sangamon. And, now, in early February, the ground is soft and damp with the melting snow. The watery sun shines down on the eager young trees. And there's a promise of spring in the first February thaw. And the frogs are stirring deep in the cold mud under the spongy earth. And the ghosts in the old graveyard smile at the first obscure signs of spring. I remember the mean little houses, the store and the post office, and the drafty houses where the people lived. And I remember the muddy road up from Vandalia. And high-wheeled buggies mired down in the low places. And the long, flat roads across the prairie -- where the grass grew from horizon to horizon. And the groves of trees were small, genial islands in a sea of undulating green. I hear HER voice in the nighttime. And it is a far, far sound -- though I awake and hear it so many, many times. I have many bitter memories and a few happy ones. I wonder what the world would think of the memories that come most often to haunt me among the echoing corridors under the ancient oaks. I dream of battles, they think. I dream of a victory won. And the acclaim of men. Do they think I've forgotten the long, sweet days of my young manhood? And the first, almost forgotten, love that once I knew -- and cherished? Do they think I have forgotten the grief, the loneliness, the despair, the first of my -- oh, so many sorrows? Her valentine still exists. It is still to be seen and touched. And, if you ever look upon it, I hope you will remember me. For only I remember her. Remember me -- and shed a tear, perhaps, for lost loveliness. I was gone away from her. They sent me away. And I was a little proud in my new clothes and with my parcel of books on the desk beside me. And the grave speeches I should make were fermenting in my mind and crowding out all thoughts -- even thoughts of her. A boy of twenty-five sitting in the general assembly, speaking gravely of laws and the affairs of the people -- and not remembering my own. And, back at home, a girl -- lorn for an absent lover, remembering promises, and waiting and waiting. And waiting. (MUSIC ... OUT) ABE: In the store, of a dark January morning-- ANN: I haven't had any word from him for ever so long but -- he's so busy. And they take so much of his time, you know. Maybe there'll be a letter tomorrow. OFFUTT: Jack Armstrong had a letter from him last week, Annie. He wasn't too busy to write to Jack. ANN: Oh. Well, the Armstrong's are his oldest friends, you know. OFFUTT: Sure seems strange he don't write to you. ANN: He's busy. OFFUTT: Lot of pretty girls down there in Vandaly, I hear tell. ABE: But never a girl in Vandalia to make me turn my solemn head. I was full of the thrill of helping to make the laws that my people were to live by. And I was fascinated by the strutting politicians in their tall hats. And I made great argument with them in the long tavern nights. And I put off the letters till tomorrow. And tomorrow and tomorrow. ANN: I expect a letter any day now. Or maybe he'll be coming home again soon. AUNT HANNAH: Figured you'd be lookin' around a little, Annie, for yourself. Think maybe he might have give ya the mitten? ANN: Oh, no, Aunt Hannah. He'd never do that to me. AUNT HANNAH: Well, I sure hope he ain't, Annie. Ye just keep up your spirits and a day'll come. A day'll come, I always say. Have ya wrote HIM a letter? ANN: Why, I write him nearly every day. I'll be hearing from him any day. Just like you said. ABE: "Tomorrow, I'll write," I said. "Tomorrow." And I sat in my lonely room. And I remembered the hillside in the summertime. And the haze of the heat lying heavy on the low hills or beyond the curves of the Sangamon. I remembered a hand in mine as we sat on a hillside above the town. And the homesick song of the cicadas in the orchard. And the reluctant, westering sun. I remembered what I had said to her on that long summer afternoon. And, alone in my mean little room, I wept to remember. But I did not write. And, today, after all the years, I weep again, remembering. (MUSIC ... MOURNFUL) ANN: He'll be coming back. He'll be coming back for his birthday. Won't he? Why, the session is over now and he'll be coming back from Vandalia on a tall horse and there isn't a thing that'll hold him back from me. I know he'll be back home for his birthday. (MUSIC ... AN ACCENT, THEN UNDER) ABE: The gavel fell and the booming voice spoke. "I do now declare this general assembly adjourned." And I took horse for home. And now my heart was heavy with doubt for I remembered my long silence and my mind now wrestled with darkest premonitions. What would my homecoming be -- after those long months of silence? (MUSIC ... AN ACCENT, THEN UNDER) ABE: Yes, I loved her. Must you ask? Can you remember back to the days when you were twenty-five? Can you remember what little thing can make a lovers' reuniting? Or break it? Can you remember the little tenderness a recreant lover might bring to his dear one? The small thoughtfulness? The simple, humble thing that says, "I have not forgotten"? And that brings the happy smile that banishes doubt and wipes away the memory of unwritten words and--? (MUSIC ... OUT) ABE: "Wait," I remembered. I remembered the pleasant saint, the patron of all of us who love. I remembered paper hearts. And poesies of verse. And ribbons and lace. And, in the pouring rain, I lifted up my head and said, "I thank you, Saint Valentine." And the morning came and I was home and my horse was tied up at the hitching post. And I strode into the store, all muddy and triumphant. |
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| Ownership | MS |
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| Submission Date | Feb 07, 2004 |