Colburn is in the Red Parlor of The White House.
Mrs. Lincoln, noting her appearance, inquires as to its cause. When Nettie tells her what is wrong, Mrs. Lincoln comforts the young woman.
“Your brother shall have a furlough,” she promises, “if Mr. Lincoln has to give it himself.”
Nettie is thanking her profusely when Mrs. Miller (also a spiritualist medium) seats herself at a grand piano. Under “control” she brings her hands down on the keyboard with striking force and begins to play a grand march.
Everyone falls still. The march plays on. CAMERA MOVES IN on the doorway to the hall.
Abruptly, Mrs. Miller’s hands lift from the keys, the room is deathly still. The door opens.
Standing there is President Lincoln.
He enters, telling them he heard the first notes of the march exactly when he reached the head of the grand staircase. “I kept step with it as I came down,” he tells them, smiling. “It stopped precisely as I reached the parlor door.”
He crosses the room, the stress of his responsibilities evident on his drawn features, in his weary movements. Still, he smiles with kindly greeting at the young medium and puts a hand on her head.
“So this is our little Nettie, is it, that we have heard so much about?” he says.
Her smile is that of a shy school girl as she murmurs, “Yes, sir.”
He leads her to an ottoman and seats her. Sitting on the chair in front of her, he repeats that, indeed, her brother will be furloughed, then asks, in a gentle, genial way, about her mediumship.
Awed by his presence, the young woman can barely answer him beyond a muted, “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir.”
“You know, of course,” he tells her, “that I cannot openly declare belief in what you do or I would surely be pronounced insane and probably incarcerated. I can scarcely risk that when the fate of our nation is in such peril.”
Nettie murmurs, “No, sir.”
Lincoln smiles. “Well, how do you do it?” he asks.
Mr. Laurie, coming to her rescue, seats them in a circle and, in lowered light, they all join hands. Nettie closes her eyes, breathing deeply.
In an instant, she has passed under whatever control possesses her when she sits.
It is no timid schoolgirl who speaks now. Her voice strong and forceful, she tells the President that “after the disaster at Fredericksburg it is essential that you bolster the sagging morale of the Army.”
CAMERA MOVES IN on her face which is, somehow, not her face.
“Go in person to the front,” her voice directs the President, “taking with you your wife and children; leaving behind your official dignity and all manner of display.
“Resist the importunities of officials to accompany you and take only such attendants as may be absolutely necessary; avoid the high grade officers and seek the tents of the private soldiers. Inquire into their grievances; show yourself to be what you are, ‘The Father of your People’. Make them feel that you are interested in their sufferings and that you are not unmindful—”
As she speaks on, Robert’s voice breaks in to say that Lincoln, apparently heeding this advice, did as the voice declared, his visit to the front rallying the Army of the Potomac, a turning point in the Civil War.
“Then the voice which spoke so strongly, so unlike Nettie Colburn’s normal voice, told Abraham Lincoln something even more important.”
Nettie Colburn is on her feet now, looking squarely into the President’s eyes, speaking with the utmost solemnity and force of manner, her voice resonant as she says, “You must not abate the terms of the issue uppermost in your mind. You must not delay its enforcement as a law beyond the opening of the year. This act will be the crowning event of your administration and your life.
“You are being counseled by strong parties to defer the enforcement of it. These parties hope to supplant it by other measures and to delay action. You must, in no way, heed such counsel but stand firm to your
Mrs. Lincoln, noting her appearance, inquires as to its cause. When Nettie tells her what is wrong, Mrs. Lincoln comforts the young woman.
“Your brother shall have a furlough,” she promises, “if Mr. Lincoln has to give it himself.”
Nettie is thanking her profusely when Mrs. Miller (also a spiritualist medium) seats herself at a grand piano. Under “control” she brings her hands down on the keyboard with striking force and begins to play a grand march.
Everyone falls still. The march plays on. CAMERA MOVES IN on the doorway to the hall.
Abruptly, Mrs. Miller’s hands lift from the keys, the room is deathly still. The door opens.
Standing there is President Lincoln.
He enters, telling them he heard the first notes of the march exactly when he reached the head of the grand staircase. “I kept step with it as I came down,” he tells them, smiling. “It stopped precisely as I reached the parlor door.”
He crosses the room, the stress of his responsibilities evident on his drawn features, in his weary movements. Still, he smiles with kindly greeting at the young medium and puts a hand on her head.
“So this is our little Nettie, is it, that we have heard so much about?” he says.
Her smile is that of a shy school girl as she murmurs, “Yes, sir.”
He leads her to an ottoman and seats her. Sitting on the chair in front of her, he repeats that, indeed, her brother will be furloughed, then asks, in a gentle, genial way, about her mediumship.
Awed by his presence, the young woman can barely answer him beyond a muted, “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir.”
“You know, of course,” he tells her, “that I cannot openly declare belief in what you do or I would surely be pronounced insane and probably incarcerated. I can scarcely risk that when the fate of our nation is in such peril.”
Nettie murmurs, “No, sir.”
Lincoln smiles. “Well, how do you do it?” he asks.
Mr. Laurie, coming to her rescue, seats them in a circle and, in lowered light, they all join hands. Nettie closes her eyes, breathing deeply.
In an instant, she has passed under whatever control possesses her when she sits.
It is no timid schoolgirl who speaks now. Her voice strong and forceful, she tells the President that “after the disaster at Fredericksburg it is essential that you bolster the sagging morale of the Army.”
CAMERA MOVES IN on her face which is, somehow, not her face.
“Go in person to the front,” her voice directs the President, “taking with you your wife and children; leaving behind your official dignity and all manner of display.
“Resist the importunities of officials to accompany you and take only such attendants as may be absolutely necessary; avoid the high grade officers and seek the tents of the private soldiers. Inquire into their grievances; show yourself to be what you are, ‘The Father of your People’. Make them feel that you are interested in their sufferings and that you are not unmindful—”
As she speaks on, Robert’s voice breaks in to say that Lincoln, apparently heeding this advice, did as the voice declared, his visit to the front rallying the Army of the Potomac, a turning point in the Civil War.
“Then the voice which spoke so strongly, so unlike Nettie Colburn’s normal voice, told Abraham Lincoln something even more important.”
Nettie Colburn is on her feet now, looking squarely into the President’s eyes, speaking with the utmost solemnity and force of manner, her voice resonant as she says, “You must not abate the terms of the issue uppermost in your mind. You must not delay its enforcement as a law beyond the opening of the year. This act will be the crowning event of your administration and your life.
“You are being counseled by strong parties to defer the enforcement of it. These parties hope to supplant it by other measures and to delay action. You must, in no way, heed such counsel but stand firm to your
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