The Cavalcade of America, presented by DuPont.
Prior to the American Revolution, English players held a monopoly on theatrical entertainment
in this country.
One of the first Americans who dared persist in the theory that American folk life and
characters were worth portrayal on the stage was Joseph Jefferson, America's first great
comedian, whose name is synonymous with his most famous characterization, Rip Van Winkle.
It is the story of Jefferson that we are dramatizing this evening.
And everyone who has fought to gain an objective in business or music or on the stage should
feel a certain kinship with a famed American actor.
For example, I know a lot of research chemists who would be sympathetic.
These men know perhaps better than any of us what it is to make literally hundreds of
attempts before reaching a goal, or perhaps having to discard an idea altogether after
working on it for years.
But DuPont chemists and others the world over constantly are creating new products or improving
existing ones for the greater comfort and convenience of us all.
Their objective is aptly expressed in the DuPont pledge, better things for better living
through chemistry.
As an overture, Don Voorhees and his cavalcade orchestra will play Poor Piero from Jerome
Kern's operetta, The Cap and the Fiddle.
The Cap and the Fiddle.
Joseph Jefferson's choice of profession was neither accidental nor surprising.
His father was actor-manager of a troupe of traveling players, his mother a featured actress
in the company, and young Joseph was born literally in the theater.
Many hardships attended his father's pioneering efforts to bring growl within the reach of
provincial Americans.
A characteristic incident occurred when Joseph was nine years old.
The company was journeying by packet boat on the Erie Canal attempting to meet expenses
by playing in the various towns along the route.
The night after their Syracuse engagement, young Joseph, his mother and father, and the
actors are gathered in the cabin of the packet boat.
The actors are obviously disgruntled.
I tell you my worthy followers of Thespis, with one more disaster such as we fell off
at Syracuse last night, we shall not live to reach Chicago.
Mother, why do they say that?
Do they fear the Indians will shoot us?
No Joseph, they're complaining because we don't make more money.
Mr. Jefferson, as you know, we are all experienced actors of reputation.
Why of course.
That empty house we played to in Syracuse last night was an affront to our dignity.
Yes, and to our pocket books as well.
It is not a matter for jest, Mr. Jefferson.
I suspect we did not take in enough money to pay our full package on this boat.
Your suspicions are entirely correct, my dear lady.
Mr. Jefferson, this is not a time for levity.
The situation is serious.
Good evening, Mr. Jefferson.
Oh, good evening, Captain.
Unpleasant weather on the Erie tonight.
I ain't come to discuss the weather, Mr. Jefferson.
I come to discuss a matter of ten dollars passage money that's still owing to me.
And if that money ain't paid by the time we get to Buffalo, I'm warning you.
I'll hold all your luggage.
You mean you'll hold our costumes and clothing?
Why that's ridiculous.
Hold Mr. Jefferson here.
He's responsible.
Please, please be reasonable, Captain.
It's not our fault that it rained in Syracuse last night.
I know nothing about it and care less.
Acton's the devil's business.
My parents teach him, don't permit me to see play acton on a stage.
But I'll tell you, I've got a hankering to see what acton's like.
I'll make you a sporting proposition, Mr. Jefferson.
Yes, Captain?
If the folks in your troop will cut up for me here a bit in the cabin, just to give me
a taste of what play acton's like, I'll call it square about the passage money only.
Now that is a sporting proposition.
Ladies and gentlemen, you have heard the captain's offer.
Will you help me redeem your luggage by performing a scene from one of our plays?
No, certainly not.
I should say Captain's offer is an insult to our profession, asking us to cut up for
him.
I shall retire to the upper deck.
And I will go with you.
Oh, stay, please stay.
It'll be such an easy matter to oblige the captain.
I would say not.
Oh, let them go, dear.
We'll find some way to pay the captain if I have to sign on as a deckhand.
Father.
Yes, Joe?
Let me help.
I'll give the captain a show.
What?
A little shaver like.
What?
A little shaver like.
What?
A little shaver like.
What?
A little shaver like.
What?
A little lad know about play act.
Well, I'll have you know, Captain, that my son is the fourth Jefferson in a direct line
to adopt the stage as his profession.
Has the lad ever performed on the stage?
Our son made a successful appearance when he was but four years old with the great G.D.
Rice.
The black face minstrel who sings Jump Jim Coe and Zip Coon?
Well, I've heard tell him up and down the whole length of the canal.
I can sing Zipkoon just the way Mr. Wright sings it.
He taught me how.
Well, mind you, I ain't saying I'll take the lad's song and return for that ten dollars, Mr. Jefferson.
I'll have to hear it first.
Shall I sing now, Mother? Shall I dance too?
Yes, sing and dance the first dance with me. We'll see if the Captain enjoys it.
Mother, you play the guitar.
All right.
I was down in Sandy Hollow all afternoon, and the first man I'd ever see was Zipkoon.
Old Zipkoon, he is an anti-staller.
Boy, he pays all the man, Joe Cooney, in a holler.
Pile him up a gum tree, Cooney, on the stump.
It over doubles, doubles, Zipkoon will jump.
Shall I go on, Mother?
Yes, go on.
Oh, it's old Sookie Blue Skin. She is in love with me.
I went down in the afternoon to take a dish of tea.
What do you think now, Sookie?
Half a shop of white chicken foot and problem here without any butter.
Now, that's enough. I've got to get back on deck.
Didn't you like the song, Captain?
I'm satisfied.
Your passage money is paid, Mr. Jefferson.
You're a real sportsman, Captain.
Thank you.
Thank you, Captain.
Now, see you folks on deck.
But Mother, he didn't clap once.
He didn't even smile.
I don't think he liked it.
Don't you worry about the applause, child.
I'm proud of you.
You earned more in these few minutes than my whole company earned
last night at Syracuse.
Ten dollars for one song, and you're only nine years old.
Just keep that record up, my boy.
You'll be a credit to your mother and father,
and to the American stage.
Joseph Jefferson followed the family tradition and became an actor.
But despite his early practical training and inherent love for the theater,
he had reached the age of 29 without having attained any more than the standing of a respectable member of a stock company.
He was far from his goal of being a star.
The year is 1858.
We find young Jefferson and his wife on vacation in a Pennsylvania boarding house,
wiling away a rainy afternoon reading and chatting.
Well, it's a bitter experience facing the fact that I'm a failure.
Failure? Oh, nonsense, Joseph.
Just this rainy afternoon, depressing you.
Smile the sun will shine, and you'll be making plans for next season.
Plans for another season in stock.
Well, I suppose I should be grateful for it.
It's a living.
After all, I'm only a comedian.
But a great comedian, dear.
I wish the public thought so, Margaret.
You know, I'm still obsessed with a desperate longing to find a great comedy role.
A role in which tears will alternate with laughter.
Someday, perhaps years hence, a great dramatist will create such a character.
But I'm afraid I shan't be alive to play the role.
Hmm?
Oh, I'm so sorry. What did you say, dear?
Oh, it's just the same old dream, Margaret. You've heard it too often.
I don't wonder you've returned to your book.
Oh, forgive me.
What are you reading?
The Life and Letters of Washington Irving. It's fascinating, Joseph.
His descriptions are so perfect.
Hmm.
But, why, Joseph, here's your name. He mentions you.
No, it can't be. It's my father, Douglas.
No, no, it isn't, dear. Listen. He says,
I saw the young Joe Jefferson at Lollakeen Theatre as Goldfinch in The Road to Ruin.
But I thought his father one of the best actors I've ever seen.
And the sun reminds me of him in look, gesture, size, and make-up.
I was delighted with young Jefferson's performance.
But Washington Irving mentions only distinguished people, successful men and women.
Well, but...
I feel practically immortal to think that he actually mentioned a lonely stock company comedian like me.
It is thrilling, dear.
Margaret, Washington Irving's sketchbook. Why haven't I thought of it before?
It's an overpowering idea. Rip Van Winkle.
Rip Van Winkle, dear.
Why, it's the role I've been seeking.
Don't you see, Margaret, it's the character I've dreamed of.
With the proper dramatization, Rip Van Winkle can be one of the greatest characters of the American stage.
From that moment, Joseph Jefferson lived, breathed, and dreamed Rip Van Winkle.
He discovered several mediocre dramatizations of Washington Irving's legend,
and he labored day and night to improve them.
In the fall of that same year, 1858, he persuaded the manager, Mr. John T. Raymond,
to present his play, Rip Van Winkle, in Carouse's Hall in Washington, D.C.
The curtain has fallen on that opening performance of Rip Van Winkle starring Joseph Jefferson.
At stage, Jefferson's fellow actors are gathered in small groups discussing the play.
I told Jefferson the play would ever be a success, but of course he wouldn't listen.
You know, there were times during rehearsals when he nearly convinced me that he was right and we were all wrong.
No.
But you can't fool the American public.
Why, certainly not.
Scarcely any applause after the final curtain.
The greatest failure I've seen in my 20 years in the theater.
Well, after all, what is Rip Van Winkle?
The story of a good-for-nothing village loafer and drunkard.
What a hero.
You know, I've almost begun to wonder if there isn't something wrong with Joe Jefferson.
With his brain, I mean.
Whenever he puts on that Rip Van Winkle costume, there's a queer look in his eye.
He doesn't seem to be in this world at all.
Crush, here comes the manager.
Yes, yes, on his way to Jefferson's dressing room.
I'd give half a week's pay to hear what he tells Jefferson about this performance.
Good evening, Mr. Raymond.
Good evening. Is Mr. Jefferson still in his room?
We haven't seen him come out, sir.
And I asked him to wait for me.
I've been waiting for you, Mr. Raymond. Come in.
Yes.
Well, Jefferson, there's no need in my telling you the play was a dismal failure.
No, there's no need.
I'm sorry, Mr. Raymond.
The greatest failure I've ever seen in the theater.
Here, you'd better close the door. Some of the cast is outside.
Oh, yes.
Well, I'm sorry for your sake, Mr. Raymond, that the play wasn't a success.
Well, all I hope, Jefferson, is that this Rip Van Winkle failure has taught you a lesson.
What's that?
Go back to the roles you can play.
Asa Trenchard and our American cousin, Bob Baker and the rivals, Caleb Plummer.
Those are the roles for you.
Mr. Raymond, I won't believe that Rip Van Winkle need be a failure.
What?
Well, you know, every man has a dream, a goal which gives him hope.
Well, my dream, my ambition, is to become as distinguished in the field of comedy
as Edwin Forrest and Edwin Booth are in the field of tragedy.
You're deluding yourself, my poor Jefferson.
A comedian will never be recognized as a great actor.
The public accepts only tragedians as artists.
A wise man knows his own limitations.
Well, permit me my dream, Mr. Raymond.
I grant you that my dramatization of Rip Van Winkle was poor,
but tonight's performance has proved to me that the character of Rip Van Winkle is all that I had hoped.
From this moment, I had but one goal,
to find a playwright capable of creating a strong play for this great character.
It was five years before Joseph Jefferson's dream approached fulfillment.
Failing in his attempts to interest playwrights in the story,
he was obliged to accept a four-year stock company engagement in Australia.
Finally, upon his arrival in London from Australia,
he persuaded the brilliant playwright, Dean Bousico,
to dramatize the appealing tale of the lovable, shipless Dutchman of the Catskill Mountains.
Now at last in the year 1865, the critical moment in Joseph Jefferson's life is at hand.
He is on the stage of the Adelphi Theatre in London,
preparing for the final rehearsal of the new play, Rip Van Winkle.
Dean Bousico, the author, has just entered the theatre, and Jefferson greets him eagerly.
Oh, Bousico, I feared you'd never attend the rehearsal.
I'm so anxious for your opinion.
Well, I hope the play's a success for your sake, Jefferson.
Thank you.
I'm sorry to open a Webster's theatre.
What? Is the gossip true then about your quarrel with Webster?
True. Certainly it's true. Webster's a pompous, strutting ninkum poop.
An ignoramus who buys the theatre and considers himself an authority.
An acting lighting stage set.
The fool should never be permitted to manage a theatre.
He should be hawking fish to housewives.
Here, here. Rally round, my fellow Thespians.
Take Mr. Bousico. The second Shakespeare is delivering himself of an opinion.
That's enough from you, Bous. Bedford.
Now listen, Bousico. Can't you and Webster declare a truce till after the opening night?
We three must work together. Why, it's your play, his theatre, and my first great role.
There'll be no truce, Mr. Jefferson.
Glory, it's Mr. Webster himself.
So, I'm a strutting ninkum poop, am I, Bousico? An ignoramus, a clown.
You've known my opinion of you for some time, Webster.
Well, in the presence of these actors, I'll tell you my opinion of you and your plays.
Your Rip Van Winkle will not open here on Monday night, nor will my theatre ever again harbour a play of yours.
Rip Van Winkle won't open?
If you think I'm dependent upon your patronage, well, sir, you're mistaken.
I'll be well pleased never to set foot within this so-called theatre of yours again. Good day to you.
Bousico, wait!
You're not called upon to interfere, Jefferson. The cast is dismissed.
What, what? Mr. Webster, you can't mean this. We've rehearsed for weeks.
The play's been advertised throughout London.
I can't care if it's been advertised throughout the entire world.
No vain hot-tempered grommetist will call me a clown and ignoramus.
Mr. Webster, will you hear me, sir?
Nothing you say better than will change my mind.
You will grant, Mr. Webster, that I am one of the oldest and the most populous stars in the British eye.
Yes, but what's that got to do with the situation?
Just this, sir.
Mr. Jefferson, in a manner of speaking, came here to London to compete with me in my own field.
My nose was a bit out of joint to be offered a secondary part in this play.
But after Mr. Jefferson's very first reading, I lost all my resentment in honest admiration.
Mr. Jefferson's ability has nothing to do with the case.
It's still Bousico's play, and I refuse to produce it.
True, Mr. Webster, it's Bousico's play.
And that's the only reason Mr. Jefferson consented to open here in London, because Bousico had a contract with you.
Mr. Jefferson was anxious for the American people to hear it, Van Winkle first.
Neither Mr. Jefferson nor Mr. Bousico will be the losers if you refuse to produce this play.
No, no, no. What do you mean, Mr. Webster?
You and the people of London will be the losers.
I beg you, let London have the triumph of first producing this great play.
What shall I say? For Miss Joseph Jefferson to score his greatest success in our country.
That's an exterring praise, my British actor, for a Yankee.
It's the honest praise of one actor for the talents of a far superior artist.
That is the greatest compliment I've ever received, that's good. I shall never forget your words.
Mr. Webster, Rip Van Winkle must open Monday night.
Believe me, a hundred years from now, fifty, in twenty-five years, your quarrel with Bousico will be forgotten.
It's of no importance if you'll pardon the liberty of an old actor.
If your name survives, Mr. Webster, it will survive as the man who first presented the great American comedian,
Joseph Jefferson, in his greatest role, Rip Van Winkle.
Joseph Jefferson in Rip Van Winkle did open at the Adelphi Theatre in London on that Monday night, September 5th, 1865.
The curtain rises on the fourth act.
Rip Van Winkle has returned to his native village, Falling Waters, in the Catskill Mountains, after his strange sleep of twenty years.
His hair and beard are long and white, bleached by the storms that have rolled over his head.
The villagers, believing he's an idiot, taunt him.
Mr. Henryk Vedder, who loves Rip's daughter, does not recognize the old man, but he attempts to befriend him.
Can I help you?
Just tell me where I live.
Why, what's your name?
Well, I don't know, but I believe I know what it used to be.
My name, it used to be Rip Van Winkle.
Rip Van Winkle?
Impossible!
Well, I wouldn't say it to it myself.
I tell you how it was.
Last night I went away up into the mountain, and I met a strange kind of man, and we got drinking, and I guess I got pretty drunk.
And then I woke up this morning, I was dead.
Fool fellow, he's crazy. Rip Van Winkle has been dead these twenty years.
Send them away!
Are we so soon forgotten when we are gone? No one remembers Rip Van Winkle.
And then Rip's wife, Gretchen, invites Rip to dine at her house, although she does not know him.
And at Gretchen's house Rip is in despair because his daughter, Meanie, does not know him either.
Why do you give so earnestly and fondly on me?
I'm afraid to tell you, my dear, because if you say it is not true, maybe it would break my heart.
But Meanie, either I dream or I am mad. But I am your father.
My father?
Yes, but hear me, my dear, and then you will know.
Now this village here is the village of falling waters.
Well, that was my home.
I had here in this place my wife Gretchen and my child Meanie, little Meanie, and my dog Schneider.
That's all the family what I got.
Oh, try and remember me dear, won't you?
You see, this night there was a storm and my wife drives me from my house and I went away.
So I got back now and my wife is gone and my home is gone.
And my child looks in my face and don't know who I am.
I do, father.
Oh, my child, somebody knows me now. Somebody knows me.
And at length as this great American folk play ends, Rip produces from his old game bag a document
which proves that the scoundrel Derrick has unlawfully seized his property.
And at last Gretchen knows her husband Rip Van Winkle.
Oh, Rip, I drove you from your home, but do not desert me again.
I will never speak one unkind word to you and you shall never see a crown on my face.
Rip.
Yes?
You may even stay out all night if you like.
No, thank you. I had enough of that.
Oh, Rip, you can get tight as often as you please.
No, I don't touch another drop.
Oh, yes, you will, father. But see, here are all the neighbors coming to welcome you home.
Well, bring in all the children and the neighbors and the dogs and everything.
Have a drink, Rip.
No, thank you. I swore off, you know.
Well, I won't count this one.
For this, this will go down with the prayer.
I'll drink all your good health and your families,
and may they all live long and prosper.
The character of Rip Van Winkle became Jefferson's whole existence.
It was never necessary for him to play any other role.
Jefferson was the first American actor to dignify the art of comedy in this country.
Through his superb artistry and through his persistent efforts to raise the social and intellectual standing of the actor,
Joseph Jefferson helped gain undying prestige for the American stage,
and he has accorded the American actor an honored place in the cavalcade of America.
When you attend the theater or a movie, it's the actors on the stage or on the screen who hold your attention.
Without them, there would be no show.
But they'd be the first to tell you that without the people behind the scenes, directors, writers, cameramen, musicians, electricians, scenery experts, stagehands, and countless others, there would be no play or movie.
And strange as it may seem, among those backstage people are the research chemists.
You can see evidence of their work on every hand.
For example, the amber, blue, red, and other lights which bathe the stage in warm colors are projected through sheets of gelatin, products of chemistry.
The colors in costumes and curtains and background drops owe their brilliance to dyes developed by the chemists.
Many a costume itself is fashioned of fabric made possible by that beautiful man-made yarn rayon.
Even the makeup used by actors and actresses on stage and screen was born in the chemist laboratory.
Speaking of the movies, it was the chemists who developed the modern motion picture film now in universal use.
While in many a picture palace in regular theater, the seats themselves are covered with handsome coated fabrics.
And of course you've noticed how colorful and gay modern theaters are.
Much of this beauty comes from long-lasting finishes, also products of the chemist skill.
Many other examples of the chemist contributions are to be found in the entertainment world.
But these suffice to show that research chemistry is doing its share to help us enjoy our lighter moments too.
Just as chemistry's contributions to commerce and industry in the home are helping to make our lives more productive, happier, more comfortable.
Though you seldom see him or hear very much about him, the research chemist is constantly at work backstage, so to speak.
If you'll simply look about you at home, at work, or wherever you are, you will see products which he has created or improved.
And his goal, aptly expressed in the DuPont pledge, is to continue to provide better things or better living through chemistry.
John W. Hyatt, the father of plastics, will be the subject of our broadcast when next week at the same time DuPont again presents the Cavalcade of America.
This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.