43-08-03_A_Friend_to_Alexander.txt

Suspense! This is the man in black, here again to introduce Columbia's program, Suspense. Tonight from Hollywood, we bring you two of America's most artful and distinguished stars. From the Metro Goldwyn Mare Lot Studios comes Mr. Robert Young. And from Warner Brothers, Miss Geraldine Fitzgerald. Mr. Young and Miss Fitzgerald are with us to play in an unusual tale by the unusual James Thurber. An excerpt from the book, My World and Welcome to It, called A Friend to Alexander, adapted for radio by Freya Howard, is tonight's study in suspense. If you've been with us before, you will know that suspense is compounded of mystery and suspicion and dangerous adventure. In this series are tales calculated to intrigue you. To stir your nerves, to offer you a precarious situation, and then withhold the solution until the last possible moment. And so it is with Mr. Thurber's poignant and strange story, and the performances of Robert Young as the man who was a friend to Alexander, and of Geraldine Fitzgerald as his wife, Bess, who relates these events to us. We again hope to keep you in suspense. Harry was a laughing, happy-go-lucky fellow before he began to have those dreams. I guess he was pretty much like dozens of other men who go to work every morning, settle down in soft chairs with their newspapers after dinner, and like a weekend in the country now and then. He was fond of easy living and good times. Like everyone else, he talked of the war, rationing tires, and his golf scores. Until. Until those nightmares began to plague him. At first, I was amused. You know, I've been dreaming about Aaron Burr every night. What for? Well, how do I know what for? Aaron Burr is a funny person to be dreaming about nowadays. Why? I mean, with all the countries in the world at war with each other. What's so funny about dreaming? Maybe you're upset. Well, everybody dreams, don't they? I don't see why you'd see Aaron Burr in your dreams. Well, I do. Where do you see him? Oh, places. In Washington Square or Bowling Green or on Broadway. Even here on 55th Street? Mostly downtown. I'll be talking to a woman in the Victoria, a woman holding a white lace parasol. Oh. And suddenly there will be Aaron Burr, bowing and smiling and smelling like a carnation, telling his stories about France and getting off his insults. Who is the woman in the Victoria? Hmm? What? The woman. Who is she? Well, how do I know? You know about people in dreams, don't you? They're nobody at all, or everybody. Ah, but you see Aaron Burr plainly enough, though. I mean, he isn't anybody or nobody, or everybody. All right, all right. You have me there, but I don't know who the woman is. Are you sure? What's more, I don't care. Maybe it's Madame Jumel, or Mittens Willett, or a girl I knew in high school. Who's Mittens Willett? She was a famous New York actress in her day, 50 years ago or so. She's buried in an old cemetery on Second Avenue. I've seen the tombstone. That's very sad. Why is it? Oh, I mean, she probably died young. Almost all women did in those days. He's a vile, cynical cad. I was standing and talking to Alexander Hamilton when Burr stepped up and slapped him in the face. When I looked at Hamilton, who do you suppose it was? I don't know. Who? My brother, Walter. The one I've told you about. The one who was killed by that drunk in the cemetery. Harry, I never could get that story straight. I've told you about it a dozen times. This drunk came up to him when his back was turned and. What was he doing in the cemetery? That's not the point. He was killed. That's what's important. And I loved him very much. I don't understand what. What's the use of telling you every time I mention it? You start asking the same questions. I understand now, dear. When you looked at Hamilton, he was your brother, Walter. Yes. Harry, maybe. Maybe we ought to go to the country for more weekends. Weekends? Yes. I'm going to bed. For a time that evening, I worried about Harry. Not about his dream. Why shouldn't he dream? But I wondered about his health. He looked so, so worried somehow, so unlike himself. I was glad when he went to bed. A good night's sleep was just what he needed, I thought. How could I know? The next morning, we were quietly eating our grapefruit when Harry flung down his spoon. I wish he'd go back to France and stay there, him and his lala. Who, dear? Oh, you mean Aaron Burr. Did you dream about him again? Yes, he said lala to me. Why should he say la la? I was at the tavern and we were drinking ale, and I said something funny. I don't remember what it was. Something amusing about what Ben Franklin had said to Washington once. It was one of those things, you know. No, I don't. Have some more coffee, dear. I don't want any coffee. I made this remark, and everyone laughed. Everyone but Burr, that is. He sort of sniffed, and then he said, la la. Well, why not? I mean, is there anything wrong about him saying la la? It was the way he said it. He was sneering at me. They all noticed it. Who, dear? Who noticed it? The others, all of them. And Hamilton. I was there with Hamilton. It was swell. Until Burr came in. Aaron Burr. I don't see why you dream about him all the time. Don't you think you should take some luminol? I'm not sick, I tell you. I know what I'm dreaming. I just thought, well, it's always Burr, and that seems odd. Well, why? Why shouldn't I dream about Burr if I want to? But you don't want to. No, but I can't help it. Everywhere I go with Alexander, sooner or later Burr shows up. Makes those nasty remarks. Last night he elbowed Alexander out of his way. Did it deliberately. Alexander? Hamilton. Oh, Alexander Hamilton. Yes, goodness knows I'm familiar enough with him by this time to call him by his first name. Harry, you know, we might go to the Old Rovers Inn this weekend. You'll like it there. Hamilton has become not only my brother, Walter, but practically every other guy I've ever liked. Don't you like the Old Rovers Inn anymore? Isn't it natural that Hamilton should represent my brother and guys I like? That's natural, isn't it? Yes, I suppose it is. Well, then, why are you looking at me like that? You know, dear, I wish you'd go and see Dr. Fox. I don't want to see Dr. Fox. I want Aaron Burr to stop sneering at me in my clothes. He looks at me, and his lips curl up, and he says, La, Mr. Andrews, what odd tastes you have. I wish you'd go and see Dr. Fox. I'm going to the zoo and feed popcorn to the rhinoceros. That makes things seem right. For a little while, anyway. I thought he'd forgotten all about that ancient pistol duel, because for two days after that, he lost his haggard, tired look and actually seemed cheerful. But one night, about five in the morning, he came into my room in pajamas and bare feet, his hair disheveled and his eyes wild. You got him. He got him. The rotter got him. Alexander fired in the air and smiled at him, just like Walter must have smiled. Like Walter? Oh, yes, dear. Your brother Walter, who was killed in the cemetery. This was at Weehawken in New Jersey. What? Your brother? No, Hamilton and Burr. The duel. Hamilton had a white ruff around his neck. Burr was in black tights, French clothes. Alexander lifted his pistol and fired in the air and then smiled at Burr. And then that fiend from hell took deliberate aim. He took so long. He meant to take his time about it. I saw him grin. And then he pointed his pistol at Alexander and fired. He killed him in cold blood, the foul scum. Oh, darling. Don't, darling. Here. Here, dear. Take some of these pills. I don't want them. Oh, take it. You'll feel better. I don't want any, I tell you. Here, darling. Swallow. Please. Swallow. All right. There. That's better. Cad. A rotten, sneaking cad. He grinned just as he fired. And Alexander clutched himself at the stomach. Then shook his head and tried to walk forward. Then he fell with his mouth open as though he wanted to say something. And Burr stood there, grinning. He was better after that. But I kept urging him to see Dr. Fox. At first he refused, but later he decided to humor me. He was humoring me by this time, and Dr. Fox too. How have you been feeling, Doc? Oh, fairly well, Mr. Andrews. My pulse has been a st. Now, just what seems to be the trouble? Nothing. Nothing wrong with me. He has nightmares. You look a little underweight. Perhaps your diet. Oh, I'm not underweight. Overweight, maybe. But not underweight. Getting enough exercise? Same as usual. He's worried about something. He always has this same dream. Aha! A dream, eh? What kind of a dream? Just a plain old dream. Aha! No, it isn't. It's about his brother Walter, who was killed in a cemetery by a drunken man. Only it isn't really about him. Really? Why, very few people are actually killed in cemeteries. It's an interesting coincidence, if I may say so. You mean, you know somebody who was killed in a cemetery, too? Is that the coincidence? No, I. I meant your brother being killed in a cemetery. You know, dead in his cemetery. A sort of. Do you follow me? No. I think you should go see Dr. Fox, Dr. Fox. Hmm. Interesting. Yes, very interesting. I, uh, I wonder if you'd mind stepping into the next room, Mr. Andrews. I want to give you a thorough examination. Write in here, sir, and we'll just have a look at you. Well, I hope you're satisfied. You heard what he said. There's nothing the matter with me at all. I'm glad your heart is so fine. He said so, you know. He said your heart is fine. Sure, it's fine. My heart's fine. Everything's fine. And you know what I was thinking? No, what? I was just thinking that now that Alexander Hamilton is dead, why, you won't see any more of Aaron Burr. Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right. But I was wrong. Aaron Burr did not leave my husband to sweeter or more peaceful dreams. Harry said nothing about it for several mornings, but I could tell he was still being tortured by those ghosts. He brooded over his breakfast. He didn't answer me when I spoke to him. I dropped my butter knife, and he jumped. What was that? Only my knife. Oh. Harry, are you still dreaming about that man? Oh, I wish I hadn't told you about it. Forget it, will you? I can't forget it with you going on this way. Can't you forget I mentioned it? Maybe you should see a psychiatrist. Oh, bosh. What does he do now? What does who do? Aaron Burr. I don't see why he keeps coming into your dreams now. He goes around bragging that he did it with his eyes closed. Says he didn't even look. Didn't look when? When he killed Alexander in that duel. Well, what? He claims he can hit the Ace of Spades at 30 paces blindfolded. Furthermore, since you ask what he does, he jostles me at parties now. I think you should stay out of this, Harry. It wasn't any business of yours anyway. And it happened so long ago. I'm not getting into anything. It's getting into me. Can't you see that? I see that we've got to get you away from here. Oh, maybe if you slept someplace else for a few nights, you wouldn't dream about him anymore. I don't know. Let's go to the country tomorrow. We'll stay at the Limelock Lodge. Bess, why can't we visit the Crowleys? They live in the country. All right, fine. Bob has a pistol, and we could do a little target shooting. What do you want a pistol for? Plenty of open space. I'd think you'd want to get away from shooting. Yes, surety. The vacation seemed a success at first. When we arrived at the Crowley's house in the cab, I thought I had left my suitcase at the railroad station. Harry laughed his old normal laugh for the first time in many days as he found the bag and handed it to me. And then he leaned over and kissed me. Good old Connecticut. Oh, Harry, this is wonderful. Oh, we'll have a grand time there. Yes, dear. Hello, Biz. Hi, Harry. Here they come. Good old Bob. Remind me to tell him that rabbit joke. Hello, Madison. I'll take your bags, Mr. Andrews. Thank you, Madison. Good to see you. Thank you, sir. Hello there. Biz, what a wonderful day. Well, Bob, how's the old country squire? Oh, fine. How's it been? Never better. Boy, it's good to be here. Hello, Alice. Well, you too. I'm so glad you've come. It's kind of dull here in the hinterland. Oh, I'm glad, too. Say, wait till you get one of our extra special cold martinis into you. You'll feel chip-shave. Still know how to mix them, huh? Better never. Get lots of practice these long country winters. Oh, it was grand seeing Harry's face relaxed and smiling over his cocktail glass. When I went to bed that night, I felt that at last that nasty old business of the dream was over. And I was happy. But when I awoke the next morning, when I awoke, I saw my husband lying rigid on his back, staring at the ceiling. One Henry Andrews, an architect. What's the matter, dear? Nothing. Oh, why don't you go back to sleep, Harry? It's only eight o'clock, and this is the country. One Henry Andrews, an architect. What are you talking about? That's what he calls me. Calls you who? One Henry Andrews, an architect, he keeps saying in his nasty little sneering voice. One Henry Andrews! Come, Harry, please, don't yell. You'll wake the whole house. Darn it, people want to sleep. I'm beneath you. I'm just anybody. I'm a man in a gray suit. Be on your good behavior, my good man, he says to me. Or I shall have one of my lackeys give you a taste of the riding crop. Why should he say that to you? You ask me why. He wasn't such a great man, was he? I mean, didn't he try to sell Louisiana to the French or something behind Washington's back? He was a traitor. Then why worry what he said? He was a scoundrel, but a very brilliant mind. I was in hopes you weren't going to dream about him anymore. I thought if we came up here. It's him or me. I can't stand this forever. Neither can I. As I had expected, Harry spent most of the afternoon with Bob shooting at targets. At first, they just aimed at the paper squares. It all seemed to be good-natured and in fun. After a while, Harry stood with his back to the dead tree trunk on which the targets were nailed. Then he walked 30 paces ahead in a stiff-legged manner, and his face was set in stern lines. His revolver was at arm's length above his head when he turned suddenly and fired. Bob dropped to the ground, scared. Hey, what's the big idea, Harry? But Harry didn't answer. He started to walk back to that dead tree trunk again. Then, with his back to the target, he began marking off the 30 paces. Bob called to him I think they kept their arms hanging straight down. I don't think they stuck them up in the air. But my husband continued to count off. At the 30th step, he lowered his arm, wheeled about suddenly, and fired from his hip. Hey there, watch out! Two of the shots missed the tree, but the last one hit it. Like a mechanical man or someone in a trance, Harry began to walk back to the tree again without a word. His lips tight, his eyes bright, his breathing coming fast. And look, it's my turn! But Harry about faced and stalked on. This time, when he fired, his eyes were closed. Poor Bob didn't know what to make of this strange behavior. Hey, good heavens, man, give me that gun, will you? Without a protest, Harry let him have it. For the first time, he spoke. I. I need a lot more practice, I guess. Well, not with me standing around. Come on, let's get back to the house and shake up a drink. Gee, I've got the jumps. I need a lot more practice. I guess I must have slept soundly that night because I didn't hear him leave the room. He must have crawled out of bed, dressed silently, and crept out of the room. The sun was just coming up, and the light was hard, and the air was cold. Then I heard the shot. Harry! I threw on the dressing gown and ran downstairs. The Crowley's were in the hall. Oh, good heavens, Beth. Is Harry all right? It sounds like it. Where is he? What's he doing? It sounds as though he's out behind the studio, shooting. Alice. Oh, no, no. Take it easy, Beth. Bob will go out and get him. Maybe he had a nightmare or walked in his sleep. No, no, no. He never walks in his sleep. He's awake all right. Let's go down and get some coffee. He'll need some. Yes, I'll need some, too. What the dickens is the matter with him, anyway? I don't know. I'm so sorry. Bob, you go get him. At your service, madam, alive or dead. Bob, stop it. Okay, I'll do my best. Come on, Beth. We'll go to the kitchen. What's that noise? Where? In the kitchen. Oh. Oh, it's you, Madison. Yes, ma'am. Well, you're shaking. I was just in London, ma'am. No, no, no. It's all right, Madison. You'll go on back to bed. Clotido is. Kid, ma'am, and I saw. Oh, you tell Clothita that it's all right. Mr. Andrews is shooting a little. He couldn't sleep. Yes, ma'am. Yes. I don't know what to do, Alice. Oh, Lord. I guess the Crowley's were relieved when the cab came to drive us to the station early that day. Their maid had threatened to leave. The neighbors were complaining about the early morning disturbance. And their own nerves were ragged. Boy, I'll need a drink after that. Yes, and make mine a stiff one. Gee, I'm sure glad he's gone. Well, it was either he or Clothida. You can't afford to lose a good cook these days. Say, what do you think's the matter with him? I don't know. It's what Clothida would call the chutes, I guess. You know, he said a funny thing when I went out and got him this morning. Well, let's have it. I could stand a funny thing. I asked him what the deuce he was doing out there in that freezing air with only his pants and shirt and shoes on, and. You know what he said? What? I'll get him one of these nights. That's just what he said. By this time, I was really frightened. When you returned to the city, Harry was a picture of gloom. Our first night back, I looked at him as he lay on the chaise longue in my bedroom in his blue dressing gown, smoking a cigarette. He was haggard and tired, and he kept biting his lower lip. I mixed a scotch and water nightcap for him. No thanks, no liquor. I need a steady hand. Watch my hand. Does it tremble? No. Is it steady? Yes, very. That's good. That's very good. You need a steady hand, you know. A what, dear? Oh, things. Harry, will you sleep in my room tonight? No, you keep shaking me all night to keep me awake. You're afraid to let me meet him. Are you still on that? Why do you think everybody's better than I? I can outshoot him the best day he ever lived. Oh, of course, Harry. In the waistcoat. Right next to the middle button. He has three big pearl buttons on his waistcoat. Came from France. Why don't you dream about somebody else? Anybody else? Please. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like to have me dream about somebody who wouldn't hurt a fly. Somebody like that. Because you'd know I'd never get in a duel with him. A duel? You're dreaming of a duel now? Ever since Hamilton died. Burr knows I hate him. It's nearly over now. Harry? It's him or me. I'll get him, the rotter. But Harry. I know I'll get him. See, I have a modern pistol. He has to use an old fashioned single shot muzzle loader. Is that quite fair? Fair? What do I care if it's fair or not? Was it fair the way he shot Alexander? Was it? Don't be mad at me, Harry. Oh, I'm sorry, darling. I'm very unhappy. I'm sorry, darling. And I'm worried sick. Well, I'm sorry, darling. Don't cry. Please don't cry. It upsets me when you cry. I mustn't be upset. I must be very calm and rested. My hand must be steady tonight. Especially tonight. I'm so worried, Harry. Don't worry about me. I'll be all right. I'll be fine. My hand is like a rock. Later, when I kissed him goodnight, I knew it was really goodbye. He didn't say anything, and neither did I. It's just that he seemed so far away, in another world. And each moment I felt that he was becoming more and more remote. Something told me he wasn't coming back. I couldn't sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, I went to Harry's room. He was sleeping peacefully. I sat down in his chair and watched over him for a long while. Then, finally, I must have fallen asleep. A beautiful morning. It was about five in the morning when I awoke. Harry was talking in his sleep. Ah, yes, the doctor. Good of you to come, doctor. Yes, often misty at this hour. Harry. Are they loaded? Splendid. Harry, wake up. Yes, I'm perfectly ready. Is Mr. Burr? He is. Good. Shall we proceed? No, I do not care to make a statement. Very well. Yes, I understand perfectly. Ten paces. Turn and fire at the dropping of the handkerchief. Yes, ten paces. Harry. Thank you for acting as my second, Mr. Jay. Of course, extremely good of you. Very well, then I'm quite ready. One, two, three, four, five, don't, Harry, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, Harry, dear, Harry. Dr. Fox was puzzled when he examined Harry the next morning. Oh, extraordinary. His heart was as sound as a dollar when I saw him the other day. He seemed to be fine, Dr. Fox. I can't understand it. What? Why his heart stopped as if he'd been shot. Shot? Yes. Of course, there are no gunshot wounds and no. Shot? Now, Mrs. Andrews. That's it. Shot. Now, now, you'll have to calm yourself. You can't help him now. I should have known it would happen. I kept. staring at Harry's right hand. The three fingers next to the index finger were closed stiffly on the palm, as if gripping the handle of a pestle. The taut thumb was doing its part to hold that invisible handle tightly and unwaveringly. But it was the index finger which held my eye the longest. I looked carefully to make sure I was right. Yes. Yes, it was so. That index finger was curved inward slightly, as if it were about to press the trigger of a pestle. So there had been a duel after all. Perhaps there was no gunshot wound. But Harry had been shot as surely as he was dead. Dr. Fox saw me staring and spoke to me. What are you looking at, Mrs. Andrews? Harry never even fired a shot. Aaron Burr killed him the way he killed Hamilton. What are you talking about? Aaron Burr shot him through the heart. I knew he would. Yes, but there's no evidence. I knew he would. Then Dr. Fox put an arm around me. He looked at me gently and a bit frightened, the way I used to look at Harry when he told me about his dreams. He led me to his assistant and whispered something. He thought I didn't hear him, but I did. She's crazy. Stark raving crazy. I let the assistant take me away. Maybe he thought I was crazy, too. But now. I knew Aaron Burr got Harry just as he had killed Hamilton in that old quarrel long ago. I knew he was. I knew he was. And so closes A Friend to Alexander, starring Robert Young and Geraldine Fitzgerald, the James Thurber story, which was tonight's tale of suspense. The producer of these broadcasts is William Spear, who, with Robert Louis Sheon, guest director, Freya Howard, author, and Bernard Herrmann and Lucienne Marowick, conductor and composer, collaborated in presenting A Friend to Alexander. Now, CBS is pleased to announce that beginning August 17th at 10 to 10 30 Eastern War Time, Mr. Robert Young, whom you've heard as star of tonight's suspense, will begin a brand new CBS series entitled Passport for Hunter. Passport for Hunter will bring you each week the adventures of an American newspaper reporter among the people of the United Nations. Next week's broadcast will be written and directed by Norman Corwin, with music by Bernard Herrmann. And the star, as we have said, will be Robert Young. This is your narrator, the man in black, inviting you to be with us next week at this same time when, with Miss Agnes Moorhead and with a repeat performance by popular request of the play called Sorry, Wrong Number, we again hope to keep you in suspense. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System. I'm gonna do it.