DuPont presents the cavalcade of America. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the cavalcade of America, sponsored by DuPont, makers of better things for better living through chemistry. Tonight we are privileged to present the distinguished stars of the American theater, Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontaine, in a new Christmas miracle play written for our times by Stephen Vincent Benet. It is called A Child is Born. I'm your narrator. It's my task to say just where and how things happen in our play. It's an old task, old as the human heart, old as those bygone players and there are who in old days when faith was nearer earth, played out the mystery of Jesus' birth in Hall or Village Vino Market Square for all who chose to come and see them there. So we tonight, who are your players too, ask to tell that self-entailed tale to you. The time is time, the place is anywhere. The voices speak to you across the air to say that once again a child is born. A child is born. I pray you all give us your audience and hear this matter with reverence. There is a town where men and women live as people do in troubled times, times when the world is shaken. There is an inn. A woman sings there in the early morning. Singing her head, singing her head. Now what will you say? Singing again. I told you not to sing. I'm sorry, I forgot. Forgot. That's fine. That's wonderful. That answers everything. The country's occupied. We have no country. You've heard of that perhaps. You've seen there, St. Joseph, haven't you? You know just what can happen to our sort of people once there's a little trouble. Answer me. I've seen. I know. But... But, oh, la, la, la, sometime I think your ways will drive me mad. Is it your business what King Herod does? Is it your place to sing against King Herod? Do you pretend to know the ins and outs of politics and why the great folk do the thing they do? And why have to bear them? Because it's we, we, we who have to bear them, first and last and always in every country and in every town. They sing just like dry wheat between the stones. Don't you know that? I know that somehow kings should not be wicked and grind the people down. I know that kings like Herod should not be... All right. All right. I'm not denying that. I'm reasonable enough. I know the world. It's a bad world, but it must last our time. Herod is Herod, but my end's my end. I do the best I can. I pay my taxes here in this conquered and forsaken land. And as for all your fine, rebellious souls who hide in the hills and stir up trouble, call themselves the two and prophesy that something new is coming to the world. The Lord knows what. Well, it's a long time coming. And meanwhile, we're the wheat between the stones. Something must come. Believe it if you choose, but meantime, if we're clever, we can live and even thrive a little. Clever wheat that slips between the grinding stones and grows into the good, the profitable grains. At least if you will not sing subversive songs to other people, but your poor old husband who loves you still in spite of all your fancies and always will. Come, wife. I've got some news. I didn't mean to be so angry with you. Give us a kiss. I couldn't help the child. I know you think of that this time of year. He's my son too, and I think of him. I couldn't help his dying. No, husband, no. He stretched his little arms to me and died. And yet I had the priest, the high priest too. I didn't spare the money. No, my husband, I'm a barren bough. I think and sing, and I'm a barren bough. Oh, come, come, come. The fault is mine. I had my joyous season, my season of full ripening and fruit, and then the silently aching breast. I thought I would have children. I was wrong. But my flesh aches to think I do not have them. I did not mean to speak of this at all. I do not speak of it. I will forget. Nothing at all. It was long past and gone. Tell me your news. Is it good news? The best. The prefect comes to dinner here tonight with all his officers. Oh, yes, I know the enemy, of course the enemy, but someone had to see them. And they are pay. Cash. On the nail. Yes. Good. I thought you'd say so. Oh, we'll make no great profit. Not tonight. I've seen the bill of fare they asked of me. Quails in midwinter. Well, we'll give them quails and charge them for them too. Oh, the trick. They must be well served. I'll care for that, the honest innkeeper, the thoughtful man. Oh, do not spoil my servants with large, yes, your worship. And he won't. He pinches pennies. But once he's come here, he will come again, and we shall live, not die, and put some coins, solid enemy and lovely coin under the heart. Spoil the Egyptians. What's that? I'll go. Maids aren't up yet, lazybones. A minute, just a minute. It's early, yet you needn't beat the door down. This is an honest inn. Oh, good morning. Hey, Elstree, is that you? You keep with us in? Yes, sir. I'm from the prefect. No other guest shall be entertained at your inn tonight after sundown. The prefect wishes all the rooms to be at the disposal of his guests. Sir, when the prefect first commanded me, there was a party of my countrymen engaged for a small room. You'll hear no noise, no noise at all. This is the prefect's feast, the saponadio. You heard your old? Yes, sir. Yes, indeed, sir. Well, see that carried out. No other guests. Hail, Caesar. Hail, Caesar. Oh, that's a pleasant. All the rooms at the disposal of the prefect. No other guests. Remember, no other guests. I will remember. Do so. It's an order. Now, about the quail. You make the sauce. That's the important thing. A quail can taste like quail with a good sauce. You have your herbs? Yes. Well, then, begin, begin. It's morning and we haven't too much time. Sara, Leah, where are those lazy servants? Leah and Sara, come and help your mistress. Now, arouse the fools. There's work to do today. And the day passed and the night fell on the town, silent and still and cold. The houses lay huddled in dark beneath the watching stars and only the inn windows streamed with light. What's the prefect saying up there? Gentlemen, men of Rome, mindful of Rome's historic destiny and of our good friend King Herod, who has chosen a alliance with Rome rather than a youthless shuttle, keep them under with a firm hand. Oh, what was he saying up there? I don't know the big words. The soldier said- You and your soldier. Oh, he's not so bad. He brought me a trinket, please. You and your Roman tricks. I hate serving them. I'd like to spit in their cups each time I serve them. Oh, you wouldn't dare. Oh, wouldn't I though? Here, here. What's this? Why are you standing idle? They're calling for more wine. Let Leah serve them. She likes their looks. Sara. Yes, mistress. Please, Sara. We've talked like this so many times. Very well, mistress, but let her go first. Get up the stairs, you little salt-compet. I hope he pinches you. Mistress, it's not my fault. Does Sara have to? Go, go. Both of you. You ought to beat the girl. She's insolent and shows it. You can't be too hard on her. Her father's dead, and her brother's in the hills. And yet she used to be a merry child. I can remember her when she was merry a long time since. You always take their side, and yet you think a self-respecting inn could have some decent and well-mannered maids. No such luck. Follums and flots. A lot of them. Give me a stool. I'm tired. Say, uh, thirty dinners and double for the prefect and the wine. They're second-best in common. Not bad, but then... Why do you sit there staring at the fire, so silent and so waiting and so still? I do not know. I'm waiting. Waiting for what? I do not know. For something new and strange. Something I have dreamt about in some deep sleep, truer than any waking. Heard about long ago, so long ago, in sunshine and the summer grass of childhood, when the sky seemed so near. I do not know its shape, its will, its purpose. And yet all day its will has been upon me, and there is light in it and fire and peace, newness of heart and strangeness like a sword, and all my body trembles under it, and yet I do not know. You are tired, my dear. Well, we shall sleep soon. No, I'm not tired. I'm expectant of a runner before a race, a child before a feast day, a woman at the gates of life and death, expectant for it all, for all of us who live and suffer on this little earth with such small brotherhood. Something begins. Something is full of change and startling stars. And yet I cannot read it. Yes, I wait and strive and cannot find it. Look! What's this? They can't come in. I don't care who they are. We have no room. Close the door. Well? Is this the inn, sir? We have travelers in its place and calls. May we enter? Who is it? Just a pair of hungry people, a woman and a man. I'm sorry for them. My wife and I are weary. May we come in? I'm sorry, my good men. We have no room tonight. The prefect's orders. No room at all? Now, now, it's not my fault. You look like honest and well-meaning folk and nobody likes turning trade away, but I'm not my own master. Not tonight. It may be in the morning. Wait! Must you mix in this? Wait! Good sir, the enemy are in our house and he... Oh, yes. I did not see your wife. I did not know. Her name is Mary. She is near her time. Yes, yes. Go, get a lantern. Quickly. What? Quickly. I once had a child. You have no room. We have no room. That's true. And it would not be right not here. Not now. Not with those men whose voices you can hear, voices of death and iron. King Herod's voices. Better the friendly be. What am I saying? There is. We have a stable at the inn, safe from the cold at least. And if you choose, you shall be very welcome. We share it. Gladly and with great joy. The lantern. Have it. Nay, I will take it. I can see the plan. Come. Well, I suppose that you must have your way and any other night. There are decent people, or seem to be. He has his arm about her, moving out the roughness of the path for her. Although they are not even people of our town, as I suppose you know. So rough a path to tread with weary feet. Men, there's frost upon the air tonight. I'm cold, or yes, I must be cold. That's it. That's it now, to be sure. Come, shut the door. Something begins. Begins. Starlit and sunlit. Something walks abroad in flashing spirit and fire. Something is loose to change the shaken world. The night deepens. The stars march in the sky. The prefect's men are gone. The inn is quiet. But in the street outside. I can see something. I can see something. I can see. Wait, I'll open the window for you. I'll find the thoughts. They're shepherds from the hills. Shepherds? Yes, mrs. They have books and shoes. The cat has poked a ragged on their backs. Their hands are blue. Blue as a bird. They have failed some sentries. Not the wine, but the good news. His feet are shining with it. Cold and so late. Poor creatures. Call them in. The prefect's men are gone. I'll get the master. He's dozing. Do as I tell you. Come in. Come in. Carry a file and rest. Where did they go? Would they not stay with us? They did not even look on me. They looked ahead. They have gone to a stable. The stable of our inn. The stable our inn. And they are gone. Gone? But, mrs. Do you hear? Hear that? Hear what? The tread of seeds on the hard ground. Iron hooked and really clear. And the mead that comes from out to eat. They have never seen such things. And they are great lords. Great kings with strange and memorable beads. The crowns upon their heads. What's that? What's that? Lords, nobles, kings here in Bethlehem in our poor town. What fortune. Oh, what fortune. Stand from the window there, you silly girl. I'll speak to them. My gracious noble lords, worthy and mighty kings, are humbled in as honored by your high nobility. Come in. Come in. We fire and bed and wine. Come in. Come in. Carry a file and rest. We cannot stay. We follow the bright stars. I do not understand it. They are gone. They did not even look at me. Your poor. So there is no other inn. They follow the poor shepherds to the stable. They would not carry with us. No, not one. And yet. Peace, husband, you know well enough why none would carry with us and so do I. I lay a while in sleep and the voice said to me, Gloria, Gloria, in excess this day the child is born. The child, the child is born. And yet I did not rise and go to him, though I had waited and expected long, for I was jealous that my child should die and her child live. And so I have my judgment. And it's just. Dreams. Were they the shepherds and the kings? Is it a dream, this glory that we feel, screaming upon us and yet not for us? Now, mistress, mistress, didn't I thought not you was. You told me to seek the strangers in the stable and see they had all care. I forgot. The fourth was mine. You told me also, but I did not fall. If there was any fault, wife, it was mine. I did not wish to turn them for my door. And yet I know I love the chink of money. Love it too well. The good sound something coin. Love it. Oh, God, since I am speaking truth better than wife or fire or chick or child, better than country, better than good fame, would sell my people for it in the street, all for the price, but sell them. And there are many like me. And God piteous. God piteous indeed, for we are human and not always see the vision when it comes. The shining change. Or if we see it, do not follow it because it's too hard, too strange, too new. And now I know that standing in this light will be half alive these many years, rooting on my own sorrow, my own pain. Life is not lost by dying. Life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day in all the thousand small uncaring ways. The smooth, appeasing compromises of time which are king hered and king hered men, always and always. Life can be lost without vision, but not lost by death. Lost by not caring, willing going on beyond the ragged edge of fortitude to something more, something no man has seen. You who love money, you who love yourself, you who love bitterness, and I who loved and loved and thought I could not love again. And all the people of this little town rise up. The loves we had were not enough. Something is loose to change the shaken world, and with it we must change. Now that's well said. Who speaks there? Who are you? Who? My name is Dismas. I'm a thief. You know, star, flea-bitten sort of boy who haunts dark alleyways in any town. Sleeps on a fruit sack, runs from the police, begs what he can, and borrows what he must, that's me. How did you get here? By the door, innkeeper, the cellar door. Lock upon the door. I could pick locks like that with five. What have you taken? Nothing. I tried the stable first. Then your cellar slipped in, crept up, rolled underneath the bench while all your honest facts were turned, and then... And then? Well, something happened. I don't know what. I didn't see your chaperones or your kings, but in the stable I did see the child. Just threw a crack in the book one moment's face. That's all that I can tell you. Is he for me as well? Is he for me? For you as well. Is he for all of us? There are so many of its worthy mistress. Beggars who show their sores in aspirons. Women cough their lungs out in the cold. Slaves, oh, I've been one. Thieves and renegades who knife each other for a bit of bread, having no other way to get the bread. The vast sea, the wretched and the poor, whose murmur comes so faintly to your ears in this fine country. Does he come to all of us or just to you? To every man alive. I wish I could believe it. And if you did, no doubt you'd give up feeding. Gently, lady, gently. Feeding's my trade, the only trade I know. But if it were to, if he had really come to all of us, I'd say to all of us, then honest man as thief, I'd hang upon a cross for him. Would you? Well, I see I said something that I'd like, something uncouth and bold and terrifying. Yet I'll tell you this, it won't be till each one of us is willing, not you, not me, but every one of us, to hang upon a cross for every man who suffers, starves, and dies. But there'll be no crosses, and no tyrants, no herds, and no slaves. Well, it's pleasant thinking things might be so, so I'll say farewell. I've taken nothing. He was a fair child to look on. Wait. Why? What is it you see there by the window? The dawn, the common dawn, the ordinary and poor and mortal day. The shepherds and the kings have gone away, the evangelicalic visitors are gone. He is alone. He must not be alone. I do not understand you, why in your eyes. Do you not see, because I see at last, this Mr. Thief is right. He comes to all of us, or comes to none. We are the earth, his word must so like wheat, and if it finds no earth it cannot grow. We are his earth, the mortal and the dying, led by no star, the sullen and the slut, the thief, the selfish man, the barren woman, and yet unless we go, his message falls. Will he bring peace? Will he bring brotherhood? He would bring peace. He would bring brotherhood, and yet he will be mocked at in the street. Will he slay King Herod and Unitho? He will not slay King Herod. He will die. There will be other Herod, other tyrants, great wars and ceaseless struggles to be freed, not always one. These are sad tidings. No, no. They are glad tidings of great joy, because he brings man freedom in his hands. The thought, the wish, the dream of brotherhood, never and never wholly to be lost. The water and the bread of the oppressed, the stay and sucker of the resolute, the hummus of the valiant and the brave, the new word that has changed the shaken world. And though he die, his word shall grow like wheat, and every time a child is born in pain and love and freedom, hardly one, born and gone forth to help and raise mankind, there will be women with a right to say, Gloria, Gloria, in excess this day a child is born. Gloria, Gloria, come let us go. What can we bring him? What mortal gifts. I have a ribbon. It's my previous. It's not nuts, but he might play with it. I have a little bell my father gave me. It used to make me merry. I kept it. He may have it. My pocket's empty. My rag's a bear, but I can sing to him. That's what I'll do. And if he needs a thief to die for him, don't speak of dying. It's a nasty thing, nasty and cold. And I will give my gold. I say I'll give my gold, all of my gold, every round piece. Oh, do not look at me so judgingly with your child's candid eyes. I'm but a man. I will give all, give all, give all my heart. And I, my face, through all the years and years, though I forget, though I am led astray, though after this I never see his face, I will give all my face. Come, let us go. We the poor earth, but we the faithful earth, not yet the joyful, not yet the triumphant, but faithful, faithful to the end of time. Come. Come, are ye faithful, joyful and triumphant? Come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem. Come, let us be all ye, one and king and angel, who come then up and join me. Come, let us adore thee. Come, let us adore thee. Come, come. To Alfred Luntz and Linfantan and to Steven Vincent Benet, who wrote A Child is Born, DuPont extends its warm thanks and deep appreciation for their contribution at this Christmas season on the cavalcade of America. And to all our cavalcade listeners, we extend our Christmas greeting, a greeting of peace on earth, goodwill toward men. Those words are as radiantly hopeful as ever in this bitter year of war and as strong. So it is with hope and courage and abiding faith that the 200,000 men and women of DuPont join at this Christmas season with people of goodwill everywhere, in which for the greatest gifts of all, victory and peace. Ladies and gentlemen, the cavalcade of America, sponsored by DuPont, will present Paul Muny in Eagle's Nest, a play about Garibaldi, the liberator who brought freedom to the Italian people, a freedom which has since been snatched away from them by a ruthless dictator. Be with us again next week when the cavalcade of America presents Paul Muny as Garibaldi. On tonight's program, the orchestra and original score by Arden Cornwell were under the direction of Donry. This is Clayton Collier sending best wishes from DuPont. This program came to you from New York. This is the National Dark Casting Company. Thank you.
