CUE:

(COLUMBIA BROADCASTING SYSTEM)

(.........30 seconds.........)

WELLES:

Good evening. This is Orson Welles ... Your producer of a special series of broadcasts...presented by the makers of Pabst Blue Ribbon...the Mercury Summer Theatre of the Air.

MUSIC:

WELLES THEME...TSCHAIKOWSKY'S B FLAT MINOR CONCERTO

AMECHE:

Tonight and every Friday night...blended-splendid Pabst Blue Ribbon presents you with a front row seat at one of the greatest plays ever produced. So here is America's famous producer, writer, director ... Orson Welles ... to tell you about tonight's performance...

WELLES:

Our story tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is an original for radio by that most original of radio writers, Miss Lucille Fletcher. Its title "The Search for Henri Le Fevre." Mercedes McCambridge will be heard as Madame Le Fevre. And so that our story may move without interruption there'll be no between acts intermission on this broadcast, our sponsors having kindly omitted their usual commercial message at that time. So right now before we get started, let's give Jim Ameche a chance to say his say about --

AMECHE:

...About blended-splendid Pabst Blue Ribbon. Friends, as you relax in the comfort of the summer evening to enjoy Mr. Welles' exciting radio drama, I hope that - right beside you - on chair arm or table, is a tall, frosted, foam-capped glass of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Believe me -- the makers of Pabst Blue Ribbon are doing their best these thirsty days and nights to supply your dealer ... and thus supply you ... with all this truly great beer you'd like. Occasionally, conditions make this pretty difficult. But of this you can be sure ... every bottle you do get will be, as always, the happy result of blending never less than 33 fine brews into one great beer. As always, 33 fine brews blend their individual taste tones to give you that splendid flavor ... not too light ... not too heavy ... but fresh, clean, sparkling with the real beer taste coming through just the way you like it. So, please keep right on asking for it ... it's sure worth asking for ... blended-splendid Pabst Blue Ribbon.

And now Orson Welles and his own Mercury production of -- "The Search for Henri Le Fevre."

(THEME MUSIC) A STRANGE SLOW SAD PIECE. THROUGHOUT FOLLOWING.

ADOLPHUS:

I had just set down the last note on paper. Do you know what it is to write a piece - the agony, the drudgery, the exaltation? To wrest a thought out of the drab days of rain - to hear music in one's head, while outside the drizzle patters down, and the heads of the mountains are shrouded in mist. And then - one morning it comes. It is spring in the branches outside the window. The mountains glitter, the air is blue and bright, and crystalline. And the melody comes into your heart, and nestles close as though it had always been there. A fever consumes you. Hours melt away at the piano. Time, people mean nothing. The world revolves around this rocking song, this tender magic. There are no terrors, save to break the spell...

(MUSIC OUT)

 

ADOLPHUS:

So it was with this piece. I had just set down the last note on paper. I was happy and weary and full of peace. I lay down on the sofa to relax before Suzette brought in my supper. There is a radio near the couch. That night I turned it on..

SOUND:

CLICK OF RADIO...WARMING UP. MUSIC BEGINS. IT IS THE STRANGE MUSIC OF THE THEME.

WE HEAR IT FOR A FEW SECONDS AS OVER A RADIO. THEN ADOLPHUS SPEAKS IN A HUSHED, TERRIFIED VOICE.

ADOLPHUS:

Horror crawls upon me sometimes, out of the shadows, like an animal thing. It grimaces at me from the corner of my room. But this time, it was upon me. It was in my brain. For that music on the radio playing now - was - the music I had just set down on paper.

HE BREAKS OFF. A BRIEF PAUSE. WE HEAR THE MUSIC CONTINUING. THEN HIS VOICE AGONIZED AND ECHOING.

ADOLPHUS:

Suzette! Suzette!

(A DOOR OPENS, SLAMS SHUT)

 

SUZETTE:

(YOUNGISH, FRESH VOICE, CALM AND DEMURE) Yes, monsieur?

ADOLPHUS:

Suzette! Come here. Listen to this thing. You hear it, don't you? That is real music playing?

SUZETTE:

Yes, monsieur. The radio is playing real music.

ADOLPHUS:

It is not an illusion - a hallucination of some kind - in my own brain?

SUZETTE:

No, monsieur. It is real music. And - very pretty.

ADOLPHUS:

Pretty!

SUZETTE:

What is the matter, monsieur? Is anything wrong? Do you not like it? Then - we will turn it off.

ADOLPHUS:

No - no. Leave it alone. Listen to it. Sit there - beside the radio. And I will get it for you.

SUZETTE:

What, monsieur?

ADOLPHUS:

My score. (HE COMES BACK, PANTING. WE HEAR THE CRACKLE OF HEAVY MUSIC PAPER.) Look at it. Note for note...even as they play..(WE HEAR A FLUTE MELODY) ....My flute...there it is!...and I thought....(WE HEAR HIS FIST PUNCHING THE TABLE) It's a joke - a joke - an incredible joke!..

SUZETTE:

Oh, monsieur. I cannot read music. I do not understand.

ADOLPHUS:

Perhaps someone in this building has heard me playing - but no - no...the orchestration is the same - and the orchestration is a secret, quiet thing that one does alone....Perhaps they have stolen the score - someone has copied it - but I only finished it this afternoon - it has been here in the drawer - and on the piano - unless - unless - someone else - there is someone else - someone like me - with my brain - my soul - my genius...a kind of double...

(THE MUSIC STOPS)

 

SILENCE FOR A SECOND

SUZETTE:

(QUIETLY) It's over now, monsieur. Do you want me to turn it off?

ADOLPHUS:

(STRAINED) No - no. See what they announce. See what they dare to say.

ANNCR'S VOICE:

(OVER RADIO. SUAVELY) You have been listening to..the Elegy for Orchestra, Opus 42, by...Henri Le Fevre!... (FADE)

ADOLPHUS:

(WILDLY) Henri Le Fevre...(MORE WILDLY)...Henri Le Fevre!...

SUZETTE:

(CLICKING OFF RADIO) Calm yourself, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

Henri Le Fevre! Why - I have never even heard of the man. He is an imposter...and they - they are - liars...(IN A HALF SUFFOCATED VOICE)...Get me the broadcasting station, at once!

(A SHRED OF THE MUSIC STEALS IN THROUGH FOLLOWING)

 

ADOLPHUS:

She slipped out of the room, and I sat there, staring at the freshly-written pages. My brain was reeling. It was my music - every little note - every turn of phrase...Before me, the silent radio faced me like a mocking, sardonic Sphinx.

(THE DOOR OPENS)

 

M. PICARD:

(SOLICITOUS. SOFT VOICED) Adolphus - my good fellow - what has happened?

ADOLPHUS:

(STARTLED) Monsieur Picard?

SUZETTE:

I thought it best to bring him, monsieur...your good friend...

ADOLPHUS:

Did you call the broadcasting station?

SUZETTE:

(TIMID) Yes, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

And - what did they say?

M. PICARD:

Calm yourself - my dear fellow..

ADOLPHUS:

What did they say?

SUZETTE:

They said...monsieur...(CRYING OUT) Oh, Monsieur Picard, I am afraid -

M. PICARD:

(FIRMLY) They said, Adolphus, that it was composed by this Henri Le Fevre. An old piece. He wrote it nearly fifteen years ago.

ADOLPHUS:

What?

M. PICARD:

Adolphus. Dear boy, Do try to be calm. Dear me. You composers are so temperamental. Sit down and try to analyze this thing...from a mental viewpoint.

ADOLPHUS:

Fifteen years ago! But I finished it today -

M. PICARD:

The brain is such a queer thing, Adolphus. And a musician's brain. Ah, that is still a puzzle to us scientists. Ten years ago - perhaps even fifteen years ago - you heard this piece - somewhere. Perhaps your conscious brain scarcely noted it. You were thinking your own thoughts. But your sub-conscious reached out and grasped it for itself - and now, fifteen years later -

ADOLPHUS:

What are you trying to say, M. Picard - that the piece is not mine - that I stole it from this imposter?

M. PICARD:

No - no, I assure you, my dear Adolphus. You have always been utterly original -

ADOLPHUS:

I wrote that piece myself - do you hear? I tore it out, bit by bit from my own creative imagination. If I had remembered it - even in my own subconscious - would it have come so hard? It would have flowed out, like a dream. But I had to struggle. Look at these erasures - and these cuts - this coda...

M. PICARD:

Hm. And you say - this was exactly this way on the radio?

ADOLPHUS:

Exactly. As though they had copied out the parts in the twinkling of an eye - and an orchestra was reading my score.

M. PICARD:

Very strange. But still -

ADOLPHUS:

The man either stole my piece - somehow - or else, there was some terrible coincidence - some simultaneous, crooked streak of identical inspiration - that leaped across the world.

M. PICARD:

Oh, monsieur - such things do not happen -

ADOLPHUS:

(BROODING) Fifteen years ago...they said...fifteen years ago...he set it down - and finally - like a wave traveling slowly across a boundless ocean - it came to me -

M. PICARD:

Adolphus -

ADOLPHUS:

(FIERCELY) Who is this Henri Le Fevre? I should like to know him, to confront him face to face.

M. PICARD:

Henri Le Fevre. - You have never heard of him, Adolphus?

ADOLPHUS:

No.

M. PICARD:

He was rather a famous composer in my youth. A writer of symphonies and operas. He wrote the Waltz of the Dead...the Symphonie Diabolique...an opera, The Black Maskers...

ADOLPHUS:

I know nothing of him but this piece - which is mine.

M. PICARD:

Ah - well I suppose you are too modern for all that neurotic rubbish. And his vogue has probably passed.

ADOLPHUS:

And what has happened to him? Is he still alive?

M. PICARD:

I do not know, Adolphus. I am not a musician.

ADOLPHUS:

But you could find out for me - soon?

M. PICARD:

(HESITANTLY) I suppose I could...but do you really think it wise? What good would it do you to see this man - this perfect stranger? .. to quarrel with him...? He would not believe you.

ADOLPHUS:

Whether he believes me or not means absolutely nothing. I must confront him, do you hear? M. Picard - I am convinced that there is something unreal about all this. Fate has played me some trick. There is some horrible linkage between this man and myself - some string vibrating in his brain - which has caused a like vibration in my own...I must find him - I must somehow break the spell -

M. PICARD:

And supposing - this - Henri Le Fevre - is dead?

ADOLPHUS:

Dead or alive - I must find him, Monsieur Picard. [I must find him!]

SILENCE

(MUSIC: A PIANO IRRITATINGLY PLAYING ONE PHRASE OF THE THEME OVER AND OVER AGAIN AS THOUGH SEEKING SOME MEANING IN THE NOTES.)

 

SUZETTE:

(READING CAREFULLY) Henri Le Fevre...Born 1885. Rouen, France. Educated at the Ecole Normale, fellowship student in composition, the Paris Conservatoire. Won Prix de Rome, 1908, with piece entitled Etudes Contrapuntales. Studied under Saint-Saens for two years. Made first great success with performance of opera, "Hecate," which was presented at the Paris Opera in - (THE PIANO BREAKS OFF) Do you want me to go on, monsieur?

ADOLPHUS:

(IMPATIENTLY) No - no. These dictionaries tell you nothing - they make everything smell of dust and corruption. Has the mail come yet?

SUZETTE:

No, monsieur. Only the package of music from the library.

ADOLPHUS:

His music?

SUZETTE:

Yes, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

Then - what are we waiting for? Give me the scissors - quickly (SOUND OF TEARING PAPER) Henry Le Fevre...The Black Maskers...Symphonie Diabolique..Song of Shadow...How musty it all looks - musty and old and unfamiliar...except for this - on - Elegy...this Opus 42...(THE MUSIC BEGINS TO STEAL IN STRANGELY) (HE SPEAKS IN A HOARSE WHISPER) Incredible to think of all those years...Look, Suzette - the paper is already turning yellow - the engraving is old-fashioned - and yet..it's exactly..

(THE DOOR OPENS)

 

M. PICARD:

(SHARPLY) Adolphus -

ADOLPHUS:

Yes?

M. PICARD:

I have a letter from his publishers. He is still alive.

ADOLPHUS:

Thank God!

M. PICARD:

But there is some mystery about him. They would not give me his present address.

ADOLPHUS:

What do you mean?

M. PICARD:

They say they have not heard from him in ten years. His musical output has ceased. He submits nothing - does not answer their letters.

ADOLPHUS:

Then - how do they know he is still alive?

M. PICARD:

They hear occasionally from Madame Le Fevre.

ADOLPHUS:

Madame Le Fevre?

M. PICARD:

He has a wife, who lives in Rouen.

ADOLPHUS:

Good. We will write to her at once.

(SILENCE)

 

M. PICARD:

I am afraid that will not be too easy, Adolphus.

ADOLPHUS:

Why? There is no mystery about her, too?

M. PICARD:

Rouen was in the path of battle, Adolphus. Madame Le Fevre can no longer be a young woman. She may now be dead.

ADOLPHUS:

And she may still be alive and hearty. Stop raising so many imaginary obstacles. We will find her through a detective agency - advertisements in the newspapers - the Red Cross. What is the matter with you, M. Picard? Are you afraid of this - Henri Le Fevre?

M. PICARD:

No - no, Adolphus. It is only your mood - your terrible excitement. You must try to be calm - you must not be too disappointed - in case..

ADOLPHUS:

In case - what?

M. PICARD:

Nothing. I will try to get in touch with the Red Cross.

SILENCE

ADOLPHUS:

Creation - inspiration - musical thoughts of any kind - had stopped for me with that music on the radio. I could not rest - eat - sleep. I was oppressed by a strange futility. The shadow of this man - this unknown being - lay over me, keeping me in darkness, like the beetling crag of some cliffs overhanging a valley. Word came at last from the Red Cross -

M. PICARD:

(READING A TELEGRAM) Home of Henri Le Fevre in Rouen destroyed by bombs. Whereabouts of composer and Madame Le Fevre unknown.

(MUSIC: SINISTER CHORD)

 

M. PICARD:

(SPEAKING DRYLY) There - Adolphus - you see...?

ADOLPHUS:

(PASSIONATELY) He is alive - I tell you - alive...

M. PICARD:

Oh - Adolphus -

ADOLPHUS:

If he were dead, I would not feel it. I would be free. But I cannot take up my pen. I cannot write. I cannot even think one thought, without wondering whether it may not already be his.

M. PICARD:

How can you think such things, Adolphus? This poor, hounded, homeless man - is probably ill - old - dying..

ADOLPHUS:

Even - dying - he has reached out a hand to clutch away my genius. M. Picard, was I ever lazy? My musical output has been enormous. Symphonies. Operas. Tone-poems. Songs. Now, what do I do all day long? Stand at my window, and stare out at the mountains...And at night - I am tortured by visions..

M. PICARD:

Visions..?

ADOLPHUS:

Nightmares, M. Picard..Nightmares of crooked, foreign streets, and church steeples...and bells...bells run by clockwork, tolling the hours...I dream of rooms, dark, ugly little rooms...and a little girl with long, honey-colored hair, who cries and cries...

M. PICARD:

You have been reading too much, Adolphus. Your brain is tired.

ADOLPHUS:

No - no - do you not understand? These streets - those rooms - that little girl...It is his life of which I am dreaming...It is Rouen. Somehow or other, it has been born to me - It has entered my soul, together with his music..to haunt me...(IN A STRANGE VOICE) You think me - mad - don't you, Monsieur Picard?

A SECOND'S PAUSE

(KNOCKING AT THE DOOR)

 

(THE DOOR OPENS)

 

SUZETTE:

Monsieur Picard?

M. PICARD:

Yes?

SUZETTE:

There is a lady downstairs to see Monsieur Flynn.

M. PICARD:

A lady? Who is this lady?

SUZETTE:

She says she heard that Monsieur Flynn was making some inquiries about her husband...

ADOLPHUS:

(BURSTING OUT) It is Madame Le Fevre - !

M. PICARD:

Adolphus -

ADOLPHUS:

Bring her up here - at once!

M. PICARD:

Adolphus - I beg you - calm yourself...You will frighten her. You must not be too hasty -

ADOLPHUS:

I will not frighten her. I will only find out where he is. Or perhaps - even seeing her - sometimes reality shrivels everything. The truth becomes drab - commonplace -

SUZETTE:

(SLIGHTLY OFF MIKE) This way, Madame Le Fevre...over here..Yes, madame...this door...

(MUSIC: A STRANGE SOFT OFF KEY RENDITION OF THE THEME. OVER FOLLOWING)

 

ADOLPHUS:

I stood quite motionless in the center of the room. A woman dressed in black confronted me across the waste of polished floor. She was thin, a little stooped. Her pale eyes looked middle-aged, washed out with crying. Yet, there was another look in them - a look of some drowned and monstrous terror...

MADAME LE FEVRE:

(A CURIOUS DEAD VOICE) Monsieur...Adolphus..Flynn..?

ADOLPHUS:

Yes.

MME. LE FEVRE:

I am Cecile Le Fevre. I have heard that you are searching for my husband, Henri.

ADOLPHUS:

Yes, madame.

MME. LE FEVRE:

Why do you wish to see him, monsieur?

ADOLPHUS:

Why do I wish to see him? You have not heard of my strange predicament, Madame?

MME. LE FEVRE:

No. I have heard nothing. I arrived in this country two weeks ago - penniless.

ADOLPHUS:

You arrived alone?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Yes.

ADOLPHUS:

And - your husband?

MME. LE FEVRE:

My husband remained in Switzerland, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

(BITTERLY DISAPPOINTED) Switzerland!

MME. LE FEVRE:

Yes, monsieur. He has lived there for many years.

ADOLPHUS:

But why? I thought they said - your home was in Rouen?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Rouen was my home, monsieur. My husband and I have been..estranged...for the last ten years.

ADOLPHUS:

Oh.

A BRIEF PAUSE

MME. LE FEVRE:

But - there is much I know about my husband's work - if it is about that you wish to know.

ADOLPHUS:

Ten years. You have not seen him for ten years?

MME. LE FEVRE:

No, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

Hm. Do you know his Opus 42, his Elegy for Orchestra?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Yes, monsieur

ADOLPHUS:

When did he write it?

MME. LE FEVRE:

About fifteen years ago. Yes. I remember the piece well. I copied out the parts for him myself.

ADOLPHUS:

Then you would know the music when you see it...(RATTLE OF PAPER)..Is this the piece, Madame?

MME. LE FEVRE:

(A SECOND'S PAUSE) Yes, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

I wrote this music, madame - a month ago - out of my own head.

MME. LE FEVRE:

Impossible, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

Impossible? But I tell you - it is so.

MME. LE FEVRE:

How could it be? This is my husband's piece. I remember the night he wrote it - a hot, midsummer night. The windows were open. We could hear the bells of Rouen ringing the hours. He could not sleep. Our little daughter had been crying...

ADOLPHUS:

Your - little - daughter..?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Does this distress you, monsieur?

ADOLPHUS:

No - no. Please go on.

MME. LE FEVRE:

He rose from his bed, saying that his head ached. He lit a candle, and disappeared down the stairs. A little while later, I heard the piano begin to play softly. I called down to him, and warned him not to waken Louise -

ADOLPHUS:

Louise - ?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Our little daughter - who had been crying -

ADOLPHUS:

Yes - ?

MME. LE FEVRE:

And then I fell asleep. Next morning, when I woke up, the bed was empty. He was downstairs at the piano, writing out the final chords.

ADOLPHUS:

Go on.

MME. LE FEVRE:

He wanted to call the piece Pavane for Louise - after our little daughter - but I would not let him. It was too sad, I said - and I made him call it just - Elegy. But he said it was her piece, and that he had been thinking of her crying all the time he set it down...it was as though all the sadness that was in his love for her had gone into the melody.

ADOLPHUS:

How - strange..

MME. LE FEVRE:

You see - monsieur - it was not just an ordinary piece.

ADOLPHUS:

No. (BURSTING OUT) But - I still do not understand. I wrote this music out of beauty - out of spring sunshine and wind and birdsong and joy -

MME. LE FEVRE:

My husband used to say that piece held in its heart all the horror of life - the insidious madness of human love - the frailty of all loveliness -

ADOLPHUS:

I remember the morning when I woke, and first heard that melody ringing in my head. It was like the wind - the pure wind, sighing through spring branches -

MME. LE FEVRE:

He could never understand why it was so popular. He did not want to publish it. He hid it away - saying it was like a premonition...it had come to him, like some hideous omen from another world...(A BRIEF PAUSE) (IN A BROKEN VOICE)...And he was - right, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

How do you mean?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Our little daughter - Louise...She - died - a little while later -

SILENCE

ADOLPHUS:

Mme. Le Fevre -

MME. LE FEVRE:

Yes, monsieur...I - I beg your pardon for crying.

ADOLPHUS:

I - do not want to see your husband - or hear this music ever again. My search is ended. Do you believe in ghosts, madame?

MME. LE FEVRE:

No, monsieur. I have been through too much to believe in poor, sad ghosts.

ADOLPHUS:

But - I do. I believe that - neither your husband nor myself really wrote that piece. There is some further horror - some demon force - at work in this music. It captured him - it has captured me.

MME. LE FEVRE:

I do not know, monsieur. My husband was always a wretched, melancholy man.

ADOLPHUS:

Tell me, Madame Le Fevre - did your husband write any music after he wrote this piece?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Not - much more, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

You mean - it wracked his brain - as it has wracked mine? Leaving him without inspiration?

MME. LE FEVRE:

No. It was not that. He continued to write. He still writes. But nothing he has written for ten years has had any meaning.

ADOLPHUS:

What do you mean?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Monsieur Flynn - have you not already guessed the truth? My husband has gone - mad. He has been mad for the last ten years - shut up in an asylum - in Switzerland.

ADOLPHUS:

Oh!

MME. LE FEVRE:

I have told very few people. It is a form of horrible neurosis. Work neurosis, the doctors call it. He seems to have lost his heart. The events of his past life are meaningless to him. He has forgotten Rouen, he has forgotten me - he has forgotten our little dead Louise..

ADOLPHUS:

(SOFT VOICE) How - terrible -

MME. LE FEVRE:

Now he sits in a bare room, and writes music all day long. He has become a slave, a machine. They tell me that his shelf is packed with scores - but all of them are only an endless jumble of notes - notes such as a child might scrawl across the paper -

ADOLPHUS:

(CRYING OUT) And it was the music - the - ghost music - that did this?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Who knows, monsieur? Terrible things happen - the mind snaps.

ADOLPHUS:

Terrible things -

MME. LE FEVRE:

If I told you - I should betray my husband. I should tell you something which has never passed my lips till now.

ADOLPHUS:

But you must tell me. Do you not see - how vitally important it is to me? I - I am linked somehow with your husband. And perhaps - I too - am destined to go...mad.

MME. LE FEVRE:

No - no, monsieur. You must not think such things.

ADOLPHUS:

There were the seeds of madness in this thing, even from the beginning. There was something uncanny. Why should that radio play that music - just after I had finished the piece? Why should you - you, a perfect stranger - have come here - and found me..?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Monsieur - believe me - people do not go mad easily. To be destroyed, as my husband was destroyed - one must have deep sadnesses - and love...One must have human ties - a wife - a beautiful little child. You have no such ties, monsieur - have you?

ADOLPHUS:

(SLOWLY) No...I have no ties...

MME. LE FEVRE:

My husband went mad, because he loved too much. When our little Louise died; he thought that he had killed her. She died of simple pneumonia, but he could never understand [that]. He became insane with grief...He thought he was her murderer! (A BRIEF SILENCE) (IN A LOW TENSE VOICE) Don't you see, monsieur...you - who live here alone - whose life is so - quiet -

ADOLPHUS:

(A PECULIAR VOICE) Madame Le Fevre -

MME. LE FEVRE:

I - beg your pardon, monsieur.

ADOLPHUS:

I have seen you before, Madame Le Fevre.

MME. LE FEVRE:

(LAUGHING NERVOUSLY) I, monsieur - ?

ADOLPHUS:

(CONFUSED. CLOUDY. YET WITH RISING INTENSITY) I have met you - somewhere. I have heard your story. You have come here - before..?

MME. LE FEVRE:

No, monsieur. I have never come here before.

ADOLPHUS:

Then - why should your face seem so suddenly familiar? And your words ...There is something uncanny about this thing, madame...For a moment there - for a moment - I - I thought - I - knew..

MME. LE FEVRE:

(A LOW VOICE) Knew what - monsieur?

ADOLPHUS:

I - I thought I - knew - you - and your husband - and Louise. And that I had lived...

MME. LE FEVRE:

(A BROKEN STRAINED TENSE VOICE, SHARPLY) Monsieur..!

ADOLPHUS:

(STILL CLOUDY. HOVERING) (THE MUSIC BEGINS TO STEAL IN) Perhaps it was - only in one of my nightmares - but somehow...

MME. LE FEVRE:

(FEVERISHLY) Try to remember...please!

ADOLPHUS:

Remember...remember...

MME. LE FEVRE:

(FEVERISHLY) The little house in Rouen...the stone house...the tree in the garden...the coffee on Sunday afternoons - the Bechstein piano by the window...the bedroom with the calico curtains...the little...

ADOLPHUS:

(AS IN A DREAM) The little doll-carriage underneath the stairs...Louise's doll-carriage...(HE CRIES OUT IN A TERRIBLE VOICE) Louise!...Louise!

MME. LE FEVRE:

Henri!

ADOLPHUS:

(WILDLY) What have they done to her? They have taken her away...And I - I have killed her...Her little doll-carriage waits at the bottom of the stairs...But she will never come back - never come back... (HE SOBS WILDLY)

MME. LE FEVRE:

No..no..She has been dead for ten years...You must not think of her anymore. You are getting better. Doctor Picard says you are getting well -

ADOLPHUS:

(SUDDENLY STOPPING) Doctor...Picard...

MME. LE FEVRE:

Your doctor, Henri..

ADOLPHUS:

(A STRANGE COLD VOICE) What are you talking about? I - I have no doctor.

MME. LE FEVRE:

Don't you see, my darling. Your long search is over. You are Henri Le Fevre. And your own music has come back to you at last...and little by little...it will all come back...your memories...your genius...you will be able to go out into the world again.

ADOLPHUS:

(HOVERING) I...am...Henri Le Fevre...?

MME. LE FEVRE:

Yes, darling.

ADOLPHUS:

(RISING IN INTENSITY) I?...I...(HE LAUGHS STRANGELY) I - a shriveled old madman? I - locked up in the walls of a lunatic asylum for ten years...writing a jumble of notes, like a little child..Then - who is Adolphus Flynn?

MME. LE FEVRE:

A name you made up, my darling...A poor, mad name.

ADOLPHUS:

My symphonies are rubbish, you say? My adoring public are only shadows running across the walls...And these mountains beyond my window....these mountains...(HE LAUGHS AGAIN) (FIERCELY) You are lying to me!

MME. LE FEVRE:

Henri -

ADOLPHUS:

I tell you - my name is Adolphus Flynn...

MME. LE FEVRE:

Look, Henri - this room...these bare, white walls - these bars across the window...this door one cannot open from the inside. For ten years, Henri - for ten years I have waited - for a glimmer to come - for some little memory, like that music... For ten years I have prayed for you - every day -

ADOLPHUS:

For ten years...while I sat here - (HE CRIES OUT) I do not believe it.

MME. LE FEVRE:

Doctor Picard -

(THE DOOR OPENS)

 

PICARD:

Henri - my dear fellow -

ADOLPHUS:

You - call me - Henri, too?

PICARD:

I cannot tell you how happy I am, Mme. Le Fevre. The experiment has worked beyond our fondest hopes. I have been listening to every word...and you have handled it exactly right.

ADOLPHUS:

Monsieur Picard - am I - Henri Le Fevre?

PICARD:

Yes.

ADOLPHUS:

I have been - mad - for ten years? You have deceived me for ten years ...?

PICARD:

Not deceived you, my dear fellow. We only humored your whims, hoping that you would snap back some day. It was your whim to think that you were a composer named Adolphus Flynn - your whim to sign your name to all these scores - your whim to live utterly alone, and work all day and half the night..You were quite happy - until one day, a little piece you had composed for your daughter long ago, came back into your mind...memory began again...You began the search for your lost self..

MME. LE FEVRE:

Oh, Henri - if you could have known - how my heart beat - when Doctor Picard first telephoned......And now -

ADOLPHUS:

But I -

PICARD:

Naturally - my poor fellow - it must be a terrible shock. After ten years, one cannot be cured overnight. Rest - much rest - will be necessary - and many little talks. But you will see - in a few months - we may hope for something quite remarkable - Monsieur and Madame Le Fevre...!

SILENCE

(MUSIC: THE SAD MUSIC OF THE THEME)

 

ADOLPHUS:

In a few months - he said - in a few months I would be able to go back. I would take up the threads of my old life as Henri Le Fevre...I am still here - here in this room, with its bare white walls and its door that locks from the outside. I am still here - although I know now for sure that my name is Henri Le Fevre. A sadness is in my heart, an unutterable pain that I can never conquer. Rouen has come back, the stone house, the little doll-carriage underneath the stairs. And my arms ache with longing for a little dead child, with long, honey-colored hair...There is no music in me now...no music save that one tune, which sings in my head all day long...my Pavane for Louise. If I could only get it out of my mind, I might be able to work again. I might be happy, as I once was happy. I might look out of my window, and find a symphony in the sunset on the mountains...That is why I will not go back. I will not leave this room, until I find him again - until I find.....Adolphus Flynn....

(MUSIC UP)

 

AMECHE:

You've just heard Orson Welles' Mercury production of "The Search for Henri Le Fevre," a radio play by Lucille Fletcher. Mr. Welles will be back in just a few seconds to tell you about next week's offering of the Mercury Summer Theatre. But first, a few words from our sponsors on a very important subject. (CUE FOR MILWAUKEE CUT IN). The makers of Pabst Blue Ribbon are holding their prices at the levels established by OPA last month. Also, ever since Government price control ended, they have urgently counseled each wholesale distributor of Pabst Blue Ribbon throughout the country to do likewise. Further, the makers of Pabst Blue Ribbon strongly urge beer retailers all over the country to do the same. For we believe it is up to all of us to do our utmost in the battle against inflation. And now ... Mr. Welles.

WELLES:

Well, next week, ladies and gentlemen, we're bringing you the first radio show we ever put on the air for CBS. We haven't done it since. We look back at it fondly. We hope our memories aren't mistaken. We hope you'll enjoy it. It's a great favorite of everyone's childhood and I don't think anybody ever outgrows it. The great tale of adventure by Robert Louis Stevenson -- "Treasure Island."

So, join us next week, please -- same time, same station. Until then, speaking for my sponsors, the makers of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer, and for the whole Mercury Theatre, including as usual, Maestro Bernard Herrmann, who was responsible as usual for the music on tonight's show, and speaking for Mercedes McCambridge who is responsible for the very fine performance as Madame Le Fevre and for the whole gang, I remain, as always, Obediently Yours ....

(MUSIC .. THEME IN TO FINISH)

 

AMECHE:

This program come to you through the courtesy of the Pabst Brewing Company of Milwaukee, Wisconsin -- makers of blended-splendid Pabst Blue Ribbon.

This is CBS ... the COLUMBIA BROADCASTING SYSTEM.

(MUSIC: WELLES THEME) - fade theme 20 seconds -

WABC .... New York

HITCH-HIKE COMMERCIAL

AMECHE:

Saluting Yesterday ... Challenging tomorrow ... that is the slogan of the Milwaukee Centurama ... the 100th Birthday party of Pabst Blue Ribbon's native city ... Milwaukee, Wisconsin, now being celebrated in that thriving metropolis on the shore of Lake Michigan. As old residents of Milwaukee ... Pabst was founded two years before the City itself ... Pabst Blue Ribbon joins Milwaukee in saluting a proud and glorious yesterday. Yes ... and Pabst Blue Ribbon joins Milwaukee in challenging the future ... certain that the future of our home city, of all this great country, is as high, as wide, as handsome ... as the bright blue skies of freedom. Milwaukee, we salute you ... on your 100th Birthday.