Quiet Please - The Girl With the Flaxen Hair

Quiet, please.

The American Broadcasting Governor presents Quiet, please.

Which is written and directed by Willis Cooper and which features artist Keppel.

Quiet, please, for the night's cold of dawn.

You would think that I'm going home after more than half a year

here in a little town in France would be happy.

I came over here in November on one of those pulled four jobs.

I've been here in Vignacot ever since.

The house here was built in 1341.

In the old cemetery up near the abandoned airfield

it can tell you how many generations of rush forts have lived in that year.

It was, of course, the artist kind of coincidence that I, Andrew Fierre,

a General of Schwartz, who's family of the Americans since the days of Lafayette,

should return to his ancestral home.

I am the first rush fort who has stepped inside this house since the First World War

when Colonel Paul Mori rush fort decided to mandate down.

Madame Simone, who owns the house now, has been a most satisfactory do I end

for me and to Ahmed Ali in the moose in my Algerian assistant,

even if she does have difficulty comprehending my French and I heard.

I have succeeded in having the ancient piano tuned as an American cook here in town

who was a piano tune in civilian life.

And Ahmed Ali and I are spent some pleasant evenings,

often at the other piano, and in long and complicated discussions of Christian

and Mohammedan theology.

Ahmed shares with me an inordinate admiration for the works of Ravel

and in particular the one called,

Babam, the portion font, the font,

Babam for the dead princess.

Do you remember?

I remember that this night we'd been talking about the curious quality of faithless

and the colors the whole life of the Mohammedan.

It's all described for us, the prophet said,

before we're born, you see.

Much used to admit that individuals can offer the patterns of their own lives

and the others.

Won't you open?

We only think we all are the mandrel.

Whatever we may do is merely bringing to life the cosmic place

that is already written for us.

Good bound by the script as actors are.

Matter of fact, the all actors playing part in the drama

are comedy.

We've never rehearsed.

But unfolds for us.

Minutes and minutes.

Hour by hour.

Stay by this.

It's reducing life through a pretty uninteresting formula.

No, by all means no.

On the contrary, I find it provides me at least with it,

consuming curiosity to see what's on the next page.

Well, it certainly simplifies things, doesn't it?

Occasionally, provided surprise, such as the fact that I'm not

going to play the Babam again for you tonight,

what is written is written.

In that case, I'll just crop the profit and play it for you then.

See what it is?

Do you want it?

Of course.

Oh, come on.

Yes.

Right.

Sorry, I don't know.

No, it's not it.

It seems the old gentleman is in some kind of trouble.

It needs me again.

Can't you get through one evening without calling for help?

I'm sorry.

I really have to go, you know.

I am all right.

See you in the morning, then.

Right.

Good night.

Uh, Ahmed.

Yeah?

Was that written too?

Oh, okay.

Turn out the life for you, Ahmed.

Thanks.

Thank you.

Bye.

Hi.

Hi, Leica.

Who's that?

Her.

Who are you?

Yeah.

We look like this.

Wow.

I am the princess.

No, wait a minute.

I'm sorry.

I heard you crying myself.

And I wanted to see you.

Are you very nice?

Well, thank you.

Where are you? I can't see you.

I'm not here.

I can see you.

I'll turn on the light.

Come on.

What?

Or why not?

Well, I can turn on the light.

I have to go away.

Go away.

Go home, you mean?

It isn't exactly home.

It's where I go.

Did you run away from your mother?

No.

I don't have any mother.

Oh.

Could you try some more?

Why?

Why would you like to hear?

My mother.

The one I was playing?

Yeah, the one.

Why do you call it your song?

Because I'm the princess.

I did.

You have a name?

Oh, yes.

Yes.

It's a very pretty name.

Yes.

Please, please.

All right.

All right.

All right.

Hey, I have a bit of an eye.

Oh, it was beautiful.

Oh, thank you.

I'm not going.

I can't drop the bar to take with you.

I don't know what that is.

It's nice to read.

Yeah, thank you.

Well, maybe your folks would like it.

I don't have any help.

You remember?

Me?

Oh, yes, sir.

I have a wife.

You don't have a little girl?

No.

Not yet.

I think you're a little girl, if you want me to.

You could.

Well, I don't know much about it.

Well, I don't know much about it.

I haven't seen you yet.

Come here, you can see me.

It's a real one, you want to.

I'd like to very much.

But now I have to go.

Would you like me to go with you?

Yeah, it's also dark out.

And it's late.

Oh, no.

I'm not afraid of the dark.

I will take you now.

In the dark, I thought the touch of the child's lips on my forehead.

And I was conscious of his sweetness

and the sadness was almost a physical blow.

And she spoke again in the darkness.

What was that?

I called to her.

Joan, wait.

Wait, child.

Wait, my daughter.

And then the door closed.

And I was alone.

I sat for a long time in the dark,

thinking of what the war had done to so many thousands of children.

Nameless, homeless, hopeless.

And it was a long time before I began to suddenly wonder.

This little girl, this little princess spoke English.

Where did she learn that?

And where did she learn the name of the song?

Why was she afraid of the light?

And I smiled to myself as I called the baby of a little girl ghost.

But my dreams when I'd gone to bed in the dark,

were of a little girl who skipped by my side and called me father.

But it faded into nothingness when I reached for her hand.

The question asked me about her.

He knew nearly all the unhappy, skinny children of vineyard code.

Nameless, homeless, homeless.

I'm sure I remember.

I asked Miss Lewis the quick girl of a little hospital.

No, I'm certain I've never seen a child that answers to that.

Do you say you'll need a little children?

Joan, that's right.

I've never seen her.

Well, new children appear almost every day.

I'll watch for her.

I watched the children of the town from my office window.

I found myself pain only half part of the attention of the ponderous trivialities

the town dignitaries brought to my desk.

I found myself listening for a certain voice in the clamor of children playing sumbling in the street.

You will pardon me, I'm sure.

I've always considered myself a practical, downward person.

And I wish you to consider the effect such an occurrence has upon such a man.

You can't understand, I'm sure.

But I was forced to choose almost inescapable conclusions.

The first, that I had seen it goes, I discarded it once.

Almost it once.

The second, that I had had an extraordinarily vivid dream.

This conclusion I accepted.

But often, I am not so sure I know right and wrong.

There's a way to know to make sure.

I had almost forgotten that.

It wasn't merely curiosity.

Something about this sweet childish voice had aroused sentiments in me that I didn't know I possessed.

Margaret and I have been married seven years.

We've resigned ourselves to the fact that we should probably always be childless.

We've been married for seven years.

Margaret and I have been married seven years.

We've resigned ourselves to the fact that we should probably always be childless.

The dream, the homeless, fabulous, nervous ways who had come to me in a darkness.

Makes you not be the child Margaret and I wish we could have.

I determined to try to bring her back.

I admit I felt foolish as I can have found on the dark of the piano.

And I close my flesh light beside the keyboard.

I was to regret that.

It was very dark and very quiet as I began.

This is silly.

This nonsense won't bring her.

Oh, right here.

John.

It was so beautiful.

Where did you come from?

I just came in.

Where have you been all this time, child?

I've been looking everywhere for you.

But you didn't play my son?

I was afraid it wouldn't bring you.

Did you really want?

I wanted you very much.

I'm very glad.

I was afraid nobody would be happy.

John.

Where do you live?

What?

I'm not sure.

But what do you mean by that?

I'm just not sure.

I don't remember very well, but.

Well, John, haven't you any parents?

Well, John, haven't you any parents?

Yeah?

No.

Are they...

Well, they're not there.

They're just...

No.

I don't understand you, dear.

Why do you call me, dear?

Well, I...

Because you're not here?

Why?

Do you want me?

Yes, John.

Do you have a little girl if you want?

No.

Because I could be a little girl.

Well, perhaps you could.

I could call you not here.

Why?

Oh, yes.

And I would have a mom too?

Oh, yes.

I wouldn't like it.

Oh, I would like it very much.

Can I turn on the lights now so we can see each other?

No.

You couldn't see if you can turn on the lights.

I'm not pretty.

I'm sure you're pretty.

I don't know.

You'd have blue eyes and dark hair.

Yes.

And you'd have a pretty little snub nose.

With freckles.

Is that the way you were?

Exactly.

Would my mom love me too?

As much as I do, darling.

You might not love me.

Can you all about me?

Oh, yes, I would.

I would love you and my mom very much.

All my life I would love.

Then it settled.

Now, let's have a look at you.

Shall we?

I picked up my flashlight and pressed the switch.

I called John.

John!

But there was no answer.

I sprang up and flipped the wall, switched the bare-brow,

hanging from the ceiling through every object in a moment

of bright relief.

I was alone.

And as I stood there,

dazed in the sudden brightness,

I heard a small sound.

I heard it.

I need not tell you of the bitterness in my heart

when I realized what I had done.

I need not tell you of the agony that something racing

into the night outside calling frantically for the child.

I need to tell you of a doubt and wonder.

The wild thoughts that clutched at me.

Was it a dream?

It couldn't have been a dream.

Is it a gross-time scene?

I couldn't bring myself to believe that.

And yet...

I took leave of absence.

Ackman and I, and Miss Lewis,

searched every corner of the town.

We took long trips into the country,

delved into ancient deserted houses,

questioned hundreds of people.

There is another single place too, that camera.

It was a dream, Andrew.

But I knew it couldn't have been a dream.

I know my friends tried their best to dissuade me.

I could not give up my search.

Night after night I set it for the piano.

Never the sound of a softly opening door,

or never anything but silence and solitude,

and an overpowering sense of guilt.

And I fell ill.

Ackman and Miss Lewis were with me a great deal.

It's kind of a good thing to have friends.

Watching me, nursing me,

stilling my delirium,

that it is you I want.

At last the fever passed and I opened my eyes

to the same dingy,

ancient room in the house of my forefathers.

Then lying around in my bed at night,

I came to the final,

the inescapable conclusion.

Joan did not exist.

Joan had lived in this house in some of the time.

Joan did not exist.

This was a haunted house.

And I remember how I wept a hole in the dark one night,

thinking now I had vanished from you forever.

I whispered her name in the darkness.

I am alone in my home.

There can be nobody at that piano.

I listen again.

That's the song.

It sounds as if a child is playing it.

Joan.

I had to come back.

Joan?

I was afraid you didn't want me real.

You did come back.

Do you want me?

I don't know how we can do without you, darling.

I know.

I heard you crying in the night.

I did cry, Joan.

I know.

I cried too.

You know what I thought.

You know why I cried.

Yes.

You thought I was a girl.

But you're not.

No.

Darling.

And you are going to be our little girl.

You're sure you want me.

More than anything else in the world.

But you swear.

Yes.

No matter what happens.

No matter what happens.

And you always love me.

Always.

And you don't mind.

You could have seen me for a little while.

Whatever you say, Joan, I can't lose you again.

And if I'm different when you're painting.

How old are you, Joan?

Well, I'm not old at all.

Good.

I don't understand you.

Of course you're not old.

No.

I don't need that.

My darling, I don't understand.

Well, you have to take me the way I am.

If you really want to.

Of course.

You sound like a grown-up when you said that.

I know why it's written.

Joan.

Thanks.

You took me for your very own.

No matter what happens.

And I spoke with all the deeps and serenity

of a man entering into a silent compact involving a life

of three people.

I do, Joan.

I will love you as long as I live.

Now turn on the lights and let me see my little girl.

No.

Why not, darling?

Because if you turn on the light, you can't tell me.

But why can't I?

Why?

Because I'm not born yet, you see.

Joan.

But I will.

I'll be your really, truly own little girl.

But.

Is this true child?

Yes.

It's true.

Now I can tell you the rest.

The rest.

What?

You said I would be your little girl.

No matter what happens.

Yes.

I meant it.

You asked me.

You said.

I couldn't tell you before.

Tell me what?

Darling, what?

Oh, darling.

I love you so much.

And I do see you.

I wanted you to be my father.

Well, what is it?

Child, what is it?

I'll be your little girl.

But not until very long.

Well, what do you mean by that?

It is written by me.

I have to die in an eight-year-old.

And it was the next morning that Othlinet brought me the cable ground from Margaret.

He read it to me.

Our daughter born this morning seven o'clock.

Seven pounds dark-haired, blue-eyed lovelace.

How do you like Joan for a name?

Love Margaret.

You were pink.

The man going home after eight months in a little pond in France.

Would you a happy man?

A happy man to see a new barn, darling.

You think so?

Find you.

The title of the next five three stories of Anne.

It was written and directed by Willis Cooper.

The man who spoke to you was Ernest Peppin.

And Joan Laser played Joan.

Donald Riggs was op-modally.

And the man who spoke to you was Ernest Peppin.

And Joan Laser played Joan.

Riggs was op-modally.

And Anne Seymour was missing us.

Albert Brumman played the music for five days.

And I'll put a word about next week. Here is our writer director, Willis Cooper.

Next week after more than two years, this series of quiet plays come to an end.

And for our show next week, number 107, I'm giving you a play based on the title of the series.

And so until next week at the same time, I'm quietly yours, Ernest Chappell.

This is ABC, the American Broadcasting Company.