Light the Lamp for Me

( )  ( )              WYLLIS COOPER
5:00 - 5:30 P.M.      SEPTEMBER 26, 1948      SUNDAY

No. 2 [(65)] - "LIGHT THE LAMP FOR ME"

WJZ - ABC - Sun. Sept. 26 1948 - 5:00 - 5:30 PM EDST
REH -     - Fri Sept 24, - 1:30 - 3:30 PM Studio 2-D
            Sun Sept 26 2:00 - 5:00 PM Studio 8-A

[Praeteritis pluries; futurus semel.] 

[page 2]

CHAPPELL: Quiet, please.


CHAPPELL: Quiet, please.

(MUSIC ... THEME ... FADE FOR ...)

ANNCR: ABC presents "Quiet, Please!" which is written and directed by Wyllis 
Cooper, and which features Ernest Chappell. 

"Quiet, Please!" for today is called "Light the Lamp for Me."

(MUSIC ... THEME ... END ...)

MANFRED: They say that my historical books, my stories based upon happenings 
in the past, are extraordinarily vivid. They say they are minutely accurate; 
that they read as if I had actually been there and seen the happenings in 
person. They say that my descriptions of the early days of the California 
Missions, particularly of the San Fernando Mission, are more painstakingly 
detailed than even the contemporary accounts of the brown-robed Franciscans 
who lived and laboured, prayed and died, in the shadows of its adobe walls. 
And they wonder what undiscovered source material I alone have access to.

And now the time has come to tell.


Do you know San Fernando? La Misión San Fernando Rey de España?

With the statue of Father Serra beside the fountain in the Memory Garden 
across the road? The screen door that opens into the musty little office, and 
the sign that reads "Curios"?


And the arches of the cloister, where the cracked plaster shows the ancient 
'dobe bricks? And the wrought iron bars on the windows, and the sheep-pen down 
at the end of the cloisters, where the surly old ram glowers at you through 
the wire?

Do you know the convento, and the glass cases of gold-threaded vestments 
against the walls; the old weapons, and the bridles and stirrups, and the 
utensils carved from wood? And the sagging old door frames, and the wooden 
steps, and the still-room?

Do you know the still-room, the distillery where the old monks made brandy 
from the sour wine of the Valley?

The remains of copper pipes, and vats, and an ancient still, and a wooden 
platform with steps, worn and eroded by time and countless foot-steps, 
priestly and secular. A cramped tall room, window-less and faintly odorous, on 
a damp day, of the spirit of the grape that was distilled there.

The dust of a hundred and fifty years; and the walls covered with names and 
dates scratched into the crumbling 'dobe. Jean and Vinnie, from Toldeo. Kilroy 
and Harry Bubeck of San Francisco. Staff-Sergeant Pearl Parmelee of the WAC 

[Coda] [END MUSIC]

And my cigarette lighter slipped from my fingers as I started to light a 
cigarette. In the half-darkness of the still-room it bounded into a far 
corner, under the platform, and with an appropriate remark about the 
perversity of inanimate objects, I went down on all fours and crawled in the 
dust to retrieve it.


In the furthest, dirtiest corner, of course. And a loose 'dobe brick alongside 
it. A brick that concealed a hidden treasure? I smiled briefly at the conceit 
as my fingers probed in the space where the brick had been. And -

(MUSIC: ... AN ACCENT ...)


MANFRED: - there [U]was[/U] something there.

A lamp, I discovered when I crawled out clutching it.

An ancient bronze lamp, green with age; a lamp like those the Romans used: 
something like a modern sauce-boat, and a musty, frayed wick protruding from 
its snout. A most interesting discovery here in a California mission. I took 
the lamp to the door the better to examine it...and made another discovery.

The lamp was full of oil. The wick was greasy with it. 

Here was more than a mystery!

And, curiously, I flipped my lighter and touched the flame to the wick.


MANFRED: Yes. Thunder.

Thunder, and darkness around me. And only the tiny flame of the lamp to reveal 
the yawning door and the 'dobe bricks of the wall...and in its feeble light 
the bricks looked newer, cleaner...and the great copper still inside the room 
gleamed brightly and cast flickering reflections of the ancient lamp back at 
me. And a voice spoke in my ear . . .

SOLDIER: Que tiene usted, amigo?

MANFRED: He stood close beside me, this soldier in morion and steel 
breastplate, one hand on the hilt of a long straight sword with a basket hilt.

A Spanish soldier of the late eighteenth century, and he was real flesh-and-
blood, by the weight of his grip on my soldier.


Now my Spanish is very limited, and this apparition was a very astonishing 
thing. Astonishing, I thought -- impossible! And I answered him in English..

What happened? I asked.

SOLDIER: Ah, Ingles, ha? (PRECISELY) English, I mean.

MANFRED: I'm American - what's going on here?

SOLDIER: I am Irish.

MANFRED: You are?

SOLDIER: My name was Peter Paul O'Brien in Galway. And now I am Pedro Pablo 
Obregon, soldier in the armies of His Majesty of Spain, and a lost man as ever 

MANFRED: I - oh! I get it. The cinema, eh?

SOLDIER: Cinema?

MANFRED: Movies?

SOLDIER: I am afraid I do not understand you, caballero.

MANFRED: But what made it get dark so suddenly?

SOLDIER: It has been dark for near four hours, amigo.

MANFRED: It's - what kind of joke is this?

SOLDIER: There is no joke.


SOLDIER: And you could be telling me how you came in possession of my lamp.

MANFRED: Your lamp?

SOLDIER: My lamp.

MANFRED: I'm sorry. I found it in there.

SOLDIER: Where I hid it yesterday.


MANFRED: Yesterday! It's been in there a hundred years if it's been there a 


MANFRED: It must have been. [Look at it!]

SOLDIER: Well...perhaps it has been, then.

MANFRED: Of course.

SOLDIER: Friend, would you be knowing the date?


SOLDIER: The year and the day?



MANFRED: Why - September -

SOLDIER: I will tell you. September twenty-sixth,


SOLDIER: 1799.


MANFRED: Look here -

SOLDIER: No. There is no point at all in keeping you in ignorance, amigo. 
Since you found the lamp and lighted the same...

MANFRED: Go on, friend.

SOLDIER: It is my lamp. I found it one day, in Spain. And I carried it with me 
for long years afore I found out what were its powers.


[La Golondrina]


SOLDIER: It was in Granada, I mind, that I first found out. A dark night in 
the barracks, and I bethought meself of the little lamp. And I mind I was 
thinking of the days of the Saracens in Granada as I lighted the little wick, 
and... caramba. When it flamed up, I was sitting ferninst two of them.

MANFRED: Two of whom?

SOLDIER: The Saracens, the Moors, bedad. Scimitars they had, and long spears, 
and great black beards.

MANFRED: I don't believe it.

SOLDIER: [U]You're[/U] here, are ye not? From your own time. You lighted the 
lamp whilst you were thinking of the old days.

MANFRED: Well, I --

SOLDIER: Hear me, man, for ye've not much more time to listen. That is the 
power of the lamp then. Think of a time, and light the lamp, and y'are there. 
Blow it out and you're still there. But light it again, and think of another 
time - yer own, belike, and - it's like that.

MANFRED: I don't believe --

SOLDIER: It makes little difference, amigo, what ye think. Give me back me 

MANFRED: Well, now, look here. How do I know it's yours, and how do I know -

SOLDIER: I have the means to take it from you. (HE LOOSENS HIS SWORD IN IS 
SCABBARD) I could run you through -

MANFRED: You wouldn't get away with it. The police would -

SOLDIER: Man, listen. Do not be judging events by the standards of yer own 
time, for that is not now. I'll have back me lamp.


MANFRED: I won't give it to you.

SOLDIER: It was in me mind to let you live, as best ye could, a full hundred 
and fifty years afore yer own time, but I see I must not do it.

MANFRED: Now, look here, there's such a thing as law in -

SOLDIER: Be still. For if ye blow it out and light it again, and wish yourself 
back where ye came from, then I'd not have the lamp at all at all. And since I 
cannot wish ye back myself, there is only one thing to do.

MANFRED: And he leaned across my shoulder and blew out the lamp, and in the 
darkness I heard the sound of steel as he drew his sword. I felt the wind from 
the swordstroke, and my hat was plucked from my head. And, in frantic reflex I 
swung the lamp, and it struck [X]something[/X], [flesh and bone] and in the 
dark I heard a groan, and the clashing of steel as Pedro Pablo Obregon fell.

I waited a long time before I applied my lighter to the wick of the little 
lamp and thought of home-time.

And the thunder crashed



and I stood there in the sunny afternoon, alone. And the old ram blatted, and 
an impatient automobile-horn sounded on the highway, and the 'dobe bricks were 
crumbling and ancient again.

And there was a sword-cut in my hat, I saw as I picked it up; and there was 
blood, fresh blood, on the base of the little bronze lamp. And so I blew out 
the flame that flickered so pale in the sunshine, and I wiped it off, and sat 
down, and thought and thought.

(MUSIC: FOR AN ACCENT . . . . . .)


MANFRED: Days later, when I went back to the year 1799, to a time two weeks 
after my first visit there, when I went back to arrange for masses to be said 
for the repose of the soul of Pedro Pablo Obregon late of Galway, I asked one 
of the good fathers to translate for me the worn, dim inscription incised into 
the base of the lamp. "It is hard to read," he told me, "for the letters are 
different, old." But it was Latin, and at last he made it out. [PRAETERITUS 
PLURIES, FUTURUS SEMEL] "The past many times[,"] [X]it said[/X] "The past many 
times, the future but once."

And I wondered then, and I wished that I had had more time to talk with 
Obregon, and learn of his excursions into the past, and whether [U]he[/U] had 
possessed the hardihood to take [U]his[/U] one trip into the future. For truth 
to tell, I myself had not.

But I made many trips back and learned many things, which you may have 
exclaimed at in my books. Yes, I was there; I saw John Frémont, and Pío Pico 
was my friend, and I saw the marchers behind the Bear flag in the days of the 
California Republic. And I knew many people, whose names are in history now. I 
knew them and they knew me, and we were friends.

You ask how? I have but to light my lamp, and think of a time and I am there. 
There are only two restrictions; one, that I can change only time, not place. 
If I wish to see Chicago in the mid-nineties, I must go to Chicago; if I would 
watch the battle of Hastings in 1066, I must go to England. And the other-I 
may see the future only once. And I find myself incapable of choosing a time 
in the future which I would want to see. But let us speak of the past a while 


[se ballastra vida      Carmela]

MANFRED: Do you know the old Vicente de la Osa adobe, in Encino, where Balboa 
Street runs into Ventura Boulevard? The long, low adobe house with the thick 
walls, and the broad fountain in the yard? You must have driven past it dozens 
of times.

I lived there, with my wife, Concepción (Conchita) Morales, all through the 
year 1821.

I think that was the happiest period of my life. Yes, the little bronze lamp 
was a priceless gift. A gift that no mortal should ever possess, I am afraid. 
For there were certain things.....

Immutable laws governed it. I have no idea where it came from, who discovered 
its powers, who fixed its powers. But brought evil as well as good. 
Sorrow as well as joy. Punishment, shall we say, for the possession of such 
transcendent powers?

I had hoped that with the lamp, I would be enabled to live again certain happy 
days. But I found that once lived, those days were forever gone.

I remember how I found it out.

It was not always easy to explain my long absences from Conchita and our home 
in the Valley. I couldn't say, "Corazon, I have been visiting other times"! I 
did the best I could, and almost always Conchita was satisfied, and happy that 
I had returned.


But there was the time when I had been away, and miscalculated the time when I 
came back. It was six months later than I thought. And the house was dark and 
silent as I walked up the path. I called Conchita! Conchita! and there was no 
answer. Only old Tiburcio, her father, was there [X]sitting[/X] [squatting] in 
the darkness, and his quavering voice answered me.

TIBURCIO: Manfredo! Es te, Manfredo?

MANFRED: Hola, Tiburcio. Where's everybody?

TIBURCIO: You have been gone long time, Manfredo.

MANFRED: I'm sorry. I meant to get back earlier, but something happened, and I 
- how's Conchita? (THERE IS NO ANSWER) I'm hungry, and I - what's the matter, 

TIBURCIO: Que' dices?

MANFRED: I said I'm hungry. Mucho tengo hambre. What's to eat?

TIBURCIO: No es nada.

MANFRED: What's that? What's the matter? Where's Conchita?


(MUSIC: ... AN ACCENT ...)

MANFRED: What did you say, Tiburcio?

TIBURCIO: She died four days ago, Manfredo. Your child was born -

(MUSIC: ... AN ACCENT ...)

TIBURCIO: and she died.



MANFRED: And I turned and went away and sat by the fountain for a long, long 
time. My child. My child would live and die before I was born. My wife.....


And I dried my tears as I suddenly thought, "Why, I can bring her back! All 
I've got to do is light the lamp again, and think of a time long before this, 
and she'll be back. And I did, and I found myself [still] in the same time, 
with old Tiburcio huddled in the shadow of the house, and Conchita dead.

No, there are limitations to everything: if I had not been such a fool I would 
have thrown the lamp away and come back to my own time to live out my life.

But I didn't.

I planted an acacia tree beside her grave. You can find it perhaps, some day, 
if you're near the old de la Osa house. Today it's withered and dead of old 
age. I planted it with these hands, and it is more than a hundred years old.


MANFRED: I never went back to the old days at the de la Osa house. I've been 
past there a number of times. I know where the grave is, and the acacia, and I 
know where to find our initials, Conchita's and mine, scratched with a Spanish 
dagger in the 'dobe wall when it was soft and fresh. But it is a place of 
sorrow and remembered happiness for me, and I seldom go there.

But I have been many places.


I did not meet George Washington. I talked with Baron von Steuben at Valley 
Forge, but the General himself was unapproachable. I watched the Custer 
massacre from a hilltop above the Little Big Horn, and I could tell you some 
interesting facts about that fight. I saw Marie Antoinette mount the steps to 
the scaffold in Paris, and I turned away in sick horror, and when I had 
lighted my lamp again I found myself in the midst of a crowd celebrating 
Lindbergh's flight from the United States.

I knew a man in Newyork named Sydney Breese, and I sat in an old house where a 
skyscraper stands now and watched Sydney carving his own tombstone. And you 
can see the tombstone yourself, if you're walking past Trinity Churchyard some 
day, in Newyork. "Ha, Sydney, Sydney, liest thou here?" it reads, and I 
remember how Sydney laughed as he tapped away at the inscription....

Yes; the little lamp has taken me many places.

And my books, they say, are accurate, marvels of detail.

I wonder, did the Irishman in Spanish uniform ever visit this age, on his one 
excursion into the future?

Did the others who owned it before him, come and stare curiously at us?

Or were they as feared of the future, of seeing the future too soon, as I was?

(MUSIC: ... AN ACCENT ...)


MANFRED: The years, the long years, have taken a heavy toll. 

The Indian arrow in my shoulder at Fort Dearborn... The fever in the swamps 
with Hernando Cortes' army in Mexico.... The slash I got in my leg from the 
baby dinosaur in Arizona half a million years ago....

And [all] the sorrows, [all] the sadnesses....


I learned some interesting facts last night. My doctor. Katherine Sprague 
Hunter, M. D. A practical, hard-headed woman; a friend; my doctor. Last night 
we sat late, and spoke of many things. Many things.


DOCTOR: Of course I believe it, Manfred. I find it difficult to believe it, 
but ... yes, I believe it.

MANFRED: I'm glad you do. I was afraid ...

DOCTOR: I rather envy you.

MANFRED: Don't envy me, Katherine.


MANFRED: I've too many things on my conscience; things that came about through 
this lamp, you know. (A PAUSE) Peter Paul O'Brien, that I murdered -

DOCTOR: Let's not say murdered, Manfred.

MANFRED: Murdered. In 1799. And Conchita.

DOCTOR: That you couldn't help, you know.

MANFRED: I don't know. Perhaps if I'd come back sooner ...

DOCTOR: You never know. If you could have had adequate medical attention, 
perhaps ...

MANFRED: If I could have gone back earlier, and taken you back with me ....

DOCTOR: You couldn't do that, though.

MANFRED: No. Only myself. I - I feel a sense of inadequacy, Katherine. I feel 
that with this amazing power, I should have done something with it. Something 
for other people, instead of for myself alone. I wish ...

DOCTOR: Your books, you know.

MANFRED: Yes, I know. The books. But after all - and now, after what you've 
told me tonight .....


MANFRED: It's too late. Isn't it?

DOCTOR: I don't know.


MANFRED: But you said ...

DOCTOR: I said I'm afraid you haven't too much time, Manfred. I said you had 
better begin to set your affairs in order.

MANFRED: They're in order. As much in order as they ever will be.

DOCTOR: After you told me the story about the lamp, I wondered...

MANFRED: Wondered?

DOCTOR: If perhaps there weren't some loose ends somewhere ... sometime, I 
mean ... that might need catching up.

MANFRED: No, I don't think so. No. I think not. Except ... as I said ... I 
wish there were at least a few things I could do. For someone else.

DOCTOR: You know about that, Manfred. I don't.

MANFRED: If I ... if I could have taken back a gift of .... happiness ... to 
someone. But I didn't. When I got the lamp, I killed a man. When I met 
Conchita ... (HE STOPS) I sat and watched Custer's men being slaughtered ...

DOCTOR: What could you have done?

MANFRED: I might have fought with them. I might have contributed -

DOCTOR: Contributed your own death. What good would that have done?

MANFRED: Maybe I'd been happier.

DOCTOR: I think not.

MANFRED: I've been handed the greatest opportunity of all time, and - what 
have I done with it?

DOCTOR: (AFTER A PAUSE) Manfred, why are you so afraid of the future?


MANFRED: (AFTER A PAUSE) What makes you think I'm afraid of the future?

DOCTOR: You are. Aren't you?

MANFRED: Not afraid of it.

DOCTOR: Yes, you are.

MANFRED: Well ... who isn't? The past ... that's happened; we know about it. 
We can take care of ourselves in the past. But ... the future ...

DOCTOR: But the future is the place where you might find that gift you want to 
bring to humanity. [X]To others, if you don't like the pomposity.[/X]

MANFRED: I don't know.

DOCTOR: Something's there. Something that might help us if we know a little 
about it.


DOCTOR: You say you owe a debt, Manfred.


DOCTOR: I don't want to remind you of what I told you tonight, but -

MANFRED: (SIGHS) How long have I got, Katherine?

DOCTOR: Shall I tell you?

MANFRED: Tell me.

DOCTOR: You may have six months.


DOCTOR: Or you may have ten years.

MANFRED: But the six months is more likely.

DOCTOR: (AFTER A PAUSE) Yes, it is. Or ...

MANFRED: Or what?

DOCTOR: Or less.


MANFRED: (AFTER A PAUSE) Katherine, I'm afraid.

DOCTOR: It's your decision, Manfred. (A PAUSE) But there's not much time.

MANFRED: What if I find -


MANFRED: Well, if I find I'm dead when I go into the future? Would that be 

DOCTOR: You might be dead an hour from now, Manfred.


DOCTOR: You, or I, or anyone.

MANFRED: But - Katherine, to go away into uncertainty with this death sentence 
of yours hanging over me - I'm frightened.

DOCTOR: You don't have to go, Manfred. But you said -

MANFRED: I remember what I said. (A PAUSE) After all, I don't suppose it makes 
much difference when I die.

DOCTOR: I think I would welcome the opportunity to see what is ahead of 

MANFRED: Maybe I wouldn't be able to come back.

DOCTOR: You have only to light the lamp, you said.

MANFRED: I know, but ...(HE PONDERS) They might not let me come back.


MANFRED: The people I'll find. Maybe they'll be so ... advanced they won't 
want to let any of their secrets come back to us. After all, we could affect 
their own time, you know.[/X]

DOCTOR: I rather think they would be glad to help us. Because anything we 
might do with their secrets could conceivably help them.


MANFRED: Yes, I suppose. I suppose so.

DOCTOR: Well, think it over, Manfred.

MANFRED: I will.


DOCTOR: Telephone me in the morning.

MANFRED: All right.

DOCTOR: Good night.

MANFRED: Good night.


MANFRED: I sat there for a long time, thinking it all over. It is something of 
a shock to be told that you are near the inevitable close of your life. To 
know that death is so irrevocably near. I think that [X]fact[/X] faded from my 
mind in those black hours, and only the overpowering curiosity remained, the 
curiosity that Katherine had set afire in me. I know only that the clock was 
striking four when I pinched out a last cigarette and reached over for the 
lamp. I was quite calm as I touched the flame of my lighter to the wick, and I 
said aloud "I wish I could see the future."


MANFRED: The tiny flame from the lamp cast its beams almost in vain. For the 
room that I sat in was only a shell of what it had been. The floor was ripped 
and torn, with great jagged holes in it. The walls had almost disappeared. I 
could look out over the city from any angle. And the little light from my lamp 
was the only light there was, anywhere.

I called out; there was no answer. I called again; still there was nothing but 
the oppressive silence. I moved; a part of the wall collapsed beside me.



And in the east the first glow of the sunrise brightened the morning, and I 
put out the light of the lamp. I do not know how long I stood there in the 
ruined room, unmoving, gazing out on a scene of desolation such as man has 
never seen before. And as the sun rose higher into the forbiddingly dark sky, 
new scenes of ruin and ashes came into view. There was nothing.

The city was gone. As far as the eye could see.. desolation. And one living 
man to view it.


No, I don't know how far into the future I went. I said, "I wish I could see 
the future" you remember. It may be that the time I am in is a hundred years 
from your time. A hundred, or five, or one hour. But it is the future. And how 
shall I come back to you?

The lamp is out. There is no way here to light it again. My matches... I have 
none. My lighter is on the table in this room, somewhere in the past.

If I could light the lamp, I could return, and perhaps there is some way that 
we could work together and plan and eventually avoid this doom which I alone 
have seen with my own eyes.

There might be time. [X], if only I could come back to you, and bring you the 

But how can I [X]do it now[/X] [come back]? Who is there to light the lamp for 
me? And for you?


ANNCR: The title of today's "Quiet, Please!" story was "Light the Lamp for 
Me." It was written and directed by Wyllis Cooper, and the man who spoke to 
you was Ernest Chappell.

CHAPPELL: And Pat O'Malley played the Irish soldier; [X]Sid Cassell[/X] [Floyd 
Buckley] was Tiburcio, and the doctor was Kathleen Niday. 

The music for "Quiet, Please!" is played by Albert Buhrmann. Now for a word 
about next week's "Quiet, Please!" story, here is our writer-director Wyllis 

COOPER: Next week's story is called "Meet John Smith, John."

[I've written you a story that I call Meet John Smith John]

[CHAPPELL: And so till next week I am EC]



10:30 am