Capra in Washington, 1938

The first thing we did in our Capitol City--Sidney Buchman and I and the whole crew-was to go rubbernecking in a sightseeing bus. We wanted to see Washington just as our dewy-eyed freshman Senator from Montana would see it: the Capitol, the Supreme Court, the White House--our trinity of liberty, three in one and one in three-the godhead of freedom on earth; the memorials to our great

Presidents Washington and Lincoln; the statues of our founding fathers who established

the rule of "we the people"; the stately crosses, row on row, honoring the bravery of men

who died for freedom, the sentinel trees in Arlington Cemetery flying autumn colors in

their honor.

These were the sights that were certain to unglue the freshman senator from

Montana, just as they did this little old country boy from California. (255)

He unlocked another door. "Senate press gallery," he said, leading us down a short,

but steep, flight of stairs to the front row of balcony seats. And there, in a voice reserved

for reading the Dead Sea Scrolls, Jim Preston announced: "The chamber of the Senate, the

Upper House of the Congress of the United States of America."

I'm a silly goose about things patriotic, so it was a natural-I got a bad case of goose

pimples. There it was, spread out below me, as silent and awe-inspiring as an empty

cathedral-the Senate! Right in front of us was the Senate clock. We could touch it.

Beneath the clock, the Vice President's dais, and fanning out from the dais, the ninety-six desks. (256)

Along with dozens of tourists, I read the words that were carved on the Memorial wall, the words of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. I heard the voice of a child reciting the words. There, next to me, an eight-year-old boy was holding the hand of a very old man--whose body and sight were failing and reading him Lincoln's inspirational words in a voice as clear and innocent as a bell. And the old man smiled to himself, nodded proudly after each sentence. I looked up at the marble face of Lincoln. Only imagination, of course, but I was sure he smiled.

Then the boy led the old man to the opposite wall and read him the carved words of the Second Inaugural Address. Never had Lincoln's impassioned, moral indictment of slavery sounded so eloquent, so moving, so powerful as when that young boy read it to his grandfather. That scene must go into our film, I thought. We must make the film if only to hear a boy read Lincoln to his grandpa. (259-60)

From Frank Capra, The Name Above the Title: An Autobiography (1971)