 Family Theater presents Pat O'Brien and Victor Jory. Presents Victor Jory and Leo Tolstoy's The Cobbler's Window. To introduce the drama, your host and narrator, Pat O'Brien. He's to himself as did Count Leo Tolstoy in The Monumental War and Peace and Anna Karenina. So large do these works loom in Tolstoy's name that too often we forget the short stories, which rank him as one of history's most prolific literary greats. And perhaps it is because his more famed works deal with life in the Russian courts that Tolstoy's own mode of life is often overlooked. For never was there a count who lived more simply and with more self-denial than he. He gave up, and gladly, the privileges of rank and wealth his birth accorded him and developed his sense of life in social service. And that sense of doing for others is the hallmark of his short stories. Now mirroring this feeling of Tolstoy is the story we've selected for presentation now. And it's with pleasure that we bring you Victor Jory as Martin, the little shoemaker in The Cobbler's Window. From Tolstoy's where love is, there God is also. And so the story begins. In the village lived the shoemaker, Martin. He lived in a basement, in a cramped little room with one window. And through that window, he watched the people who passed by each day. No, it was not really the people he watched, for only their feet could be seen as they hurried by his basement window. But by their boots, Martin the shoemaker would recognize them. There were the highest shiny boots of the young lieutenant, stepping boldly along with their bright scarlet tassels, Bobby. The sensible, heavy black boots of the town, mere treading with measured self-satisfaction. The heavy felt wrappings of the water carrier, shuffling along under the weight of his heavy buckets. And there were the scuffed and well-worn brown boats of the children prancing on their way to school. Martin sitting at his bench would recognize every patch upon them. But till the day's end, none of the passers-by had a word for the lonely little shoemaker, say perhaps gruff instructions on his work for them. So at night, the little man would lock up his shop, start down the village street, his thirst for companionship, taking him inevitably to the sounds of laughter and fellowship that rang out from the tassel. All right, but none of you sad talk tonight, old man. You discourage my trade with your wailings. My wailings? Or is that what the world would call the heartbreak for old man? Is this my wretched reward? Drink your drink, old man, and take your tears away from us. Well, may you laugh, for the son of you have buried your wife and your only dear son. Now, you may laugh, for you do not know how ugly his life when one is old and lonely. But you will one day, I promise you that. God will serve you as he has me. Here, now, now, we'll have none of that talk in here. This is a respectable place, and now keep it so. I am a respectable man, yet look how my hopes have been laid low. Empty is my life. And these are my remaining days. Well, if I could only be taken, taken, that I might see my loved ones again. Ain't no, it's not right to talk like that. You bar man, kill the old man to go away. Such talk has no place here. Well, you've heard my friends, old man. Get out, go back to your shoes. They will listen to you. They have no choice, old man. They have no choice. That was the lot of poor Martin. By day, a lonely figure in the midst of his cluttered shop, and by night, shunned by those he knew. Those who still felt joy in living and in good fellowship. So, day by day, Martin sat and worked, and always before his eyes, trod the feet of the village. And by their feet, Martin knew them and their lives. But one day, a pair of boots passed slowly before the window where Martin sat, and Martin did not recognize them. Heavy lace felt boots they were, well worn, and patched beyond recognition. And they paused before Martin's little window. Then the door opened. Dear old friend, do you not recognize me? You pilgrim? Should I know you? Who is it that calls Martin, old friend? It is Stefan, Martin. I have walked many weary miles to see you. Ah, dear Stefan, this dim light I could not see, but come in, come in. After these many years? It is many years, dear Martin. Yet I still remember the old days, those happy days when we were his brothers in the village. They were good days, Stefan. But come, come, I forget myself. Sit down by the table and we will have some tea. Thank you, Martin. And so you are a pilgrim, Stefan. I had heard you were now a holy man. You do not approve, Martin? Well, it is well enough, I suppose, to be such if things go right with you, as for me, life has been unjust. I cannot find it in my heart to give thanks for what has befallen me. But here, drink your tea. It will take the chill from your bones. In the village I have heard of you, lost Martin. I am truly sorry, but then little brother, the deaths of your wife and son were decreed. Is that decreed, just? I do not think so, Stefan. I have left but one thing to pray for, that I might die also and cheat life of its mean victory over me. No, no, Martin, for that you cannot pray. It is not for you nor for me to petition for death. If it were will that your son die, then it was also will that you live. So it is for the best, even if you fail to believe it. You may say it's Stefan, and for you it may be belief enough. But little brother, what shall one live for, if not for his beloved family? There are others in this world, Martin, when each does not exist independently of the other. The breath of life is given us, and we must treasure it. When you see that, Martin, you will no longer grieve. Life will seem good to you again. You will see, Martin. Do you not know how to read? Of course, of course. Then go and buy a testament, read it well. Everything is explained there. A testament? Yes, Martin, perhaps you will find out why life has been so unrewarding. The words of Stefan had kindled a small blaze of hope in the bleak heart of Martin, and on that very day he bought a testament and began to study it. Martin intended to read only on Sundays and holidays, and at first he did, grumbling here and scoffing there. But as the pages were turned, he became caught up in their story, and he read every day, sounding a loud, the unfamiliar word. And he was so too. And as Martin read, joy filled his heart. For the night grew old and the lamp flickered, he read on, for it seemed that he was finding what Stefan had promised him. Here was the long-awaited and quite unforeseen explanation. Eagerly he began to read of the centurion, the widow's son. And he came to the story of the Pharisee, he desired the Lord to break bread with him. He read how the woman that was a sinner anointed his feet and washed them with her tears, and how he forgave her sins. Slowly, Martin read aloud. Turn and said unto Simon, seeest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet, but she hath washed my feet with her tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. The Pharisee must have been such a man as I. I too have thought only of myself, never of my. And in the Pharisee's house, there was not the least care taken of his guest, though it was the Lord himself. If he had come to me, should I have treated him in the same manner? Thus, with this thought in his mind, Martin rested and soon fell asleep. And as he slept, the small room took on the pre-dawn chill and the kerosene and the lamp burned low until the flickering flame finally died. And still, Martin slept. Martin. Martin. Who is here? Hello. I must have been to wind in the eaves. I silly old man's fears. Martin. Martin, look tomorrow on the street. I am coming. No more that night did the shoemaker sleep, but sat and pondered the strange things he had heard. Soon the first gray light came in the little basement window and as the shoemaker arose, he lighted the stove, put the water in the samovar, took his apron from the hook by the door and sat down by the window to work. But the words he had heard in the night came back to him and Martin looked out the window more than he sowed on the boot in his hand. Finally, he saw the ragged patched boots of an old soldier, Peter, who was painfully shoveling the snow away from his shop. Peter stopped off into rest and beat his hands together in a feeble attempt to warm himself. The little shoemaker laid down his all, rose him his stool and went to the door. Come in. Come in, Peter, and warm yourself a bit. You must be cold. I'm sorry for this shoemaker. My old bones ache with a cold. Come here by the stove, man. No, no, no, no, no, don't trouble to wipe your feet. I will clean it up myself. Here, now, drink a glass of tea. It will dispel the cold for a time. That is comforting, shoemaker. May you be blessed for your kindness to an old man. Oh, say no more. Here, have another glass. You are expecting someone today, shoemaker? Expecting someone? Well, I am, and then I am not. I'm almost ashamed to tell you what I expect, but let me tell you how it happened. You see, brother, last night I was reading the gospel about our lord, how he suffered, how he walked on the earth, how I suppose you have heard about it? Indeed I have, but I am one of the people in darkness. I cannot read. And the strangest thought came to me, brother. Suppose, for example, our lord should come to me or anyone else. How would one know what to do? I do not think you should trouble yourself about such things, Martin. They would not happen to you or me. Such things are for great men, but we are but humble, small people. No, no, no, no, that is wrong, Peter. Why, he even picked out his disciples. Morph among such humble people as we are. He said the proud ones should be humbled and the meek praised on high. Is it the truth that you have read, Martin? Of course, of course. While last night, while I thought upon what I read, I fell asleep, and I heard someone call me by name. And it was as if the voice said to me, be on watch, I shall come tomorrow. Well, would you believe it? It is a strange world, indeed, you maker. But then the world is full of strange things. I must return to my work, brother. What, are you leaving? Or come and have more tea? No, no, I must get back to work. But thanks to you, Martin, for treating me kindly and for the thoughts you set me thinking. They are your thoughts, old friend. Thank no man for them, thank only yourself. But come in again, I'm always glad to see a friend. By this time, the inhabitants of the town were up and about their business, and the traffic in front of the basement window grew heavy. Here came the shiny new galoshes of the master of the house next door, stepping proudly as befitted a prosperous merchant. Two soldiers passed by, one in boots furnished by the crown, and the other in boots of finest Morocco, which Martin had made. And the dainty fur-trimmed galoshes of a fine lady, paced behind by the sturdy, sensible boots of her maidservant. Then came the halting footsteps of a woman and woollen stockings and flimsy light slippers. She passed by the window and stood still near the pane. The shoemaker looked up at her and saw it was a stranger, a woman poorly clad, holding a child that she was trying to cover. Her fingers were clumsy with cold, her shabby summer clothes gave no shelter. And from behind the frame, Martin could hear the child crying as the woman tried to pacify her. And then the little shoemaker ran to the door to call out to her. Woman! My good woman! We meant no harm, sir. Why are you standing in the cold with your child? We'll go on, sir. We meant no harm. No, no, no, no. Come into my room where it is warm. You can manage better. Here. This way. Quickly before the child freezes. But, sir, I have no money. Here, come this way. There. Sit down, my good woman, near to the stove. You can get warm. Here, here, here. Stop the little ones crying. I'm afraid I cannot, sir. He's not eaten since yesterday. That is not good, little mother. I have some bread and there is a cabbage soup on the stove and the broth will be good for him. I will get them. But, little grandfather, the child... Sit, sit down, sit down. I... I will mind, little one. You see, I once had children of my own. And I know how to handle them. Thank you. Thank you, sir. But why are you so kind to someone you do not know? Why did you look through the window and take pity on us? Perhaps I... I seem to have been looking through the window for some wise reason, perhaps for this. But that... that can wait. I would know more of you why you walk the streets with no warm clothing for you or your baby. I'm a soldier's wife. But it is now seven months since they sent my husband away. No tidings. It is a mean lot at best, good woman. But how do you provide for yourself and the child? I lived out as a cook. But I lost that, for they would not keep me with the child. Now I've been to the merchant's wife, and she's promised to take us in, but not until next week. And it is such a long way off. I'm so tired. And he's tired, too, my heart's down. And you have no warm clothes. Just two days since I sold my woolen shawl for a 20-copic piece. Here. Here, little mother. Here, this coat is a poor thing, yet you may turn it to some use. Oh, grandfather, you're so good, so good. People like me see very little of people like you. It's beatings and hardship that are a lot. A thousand thanks, little grandfather. And bless you. Now I... I must take my leave. Here, here, take this for the sake of your child, woman. It's only a 20-copic piece, but it will redeem your shawl. Oh, bless you, sir. Bless you, little one. Now here, here, now no, no, crying. You wrap yourself warmly, leave the wind is bitter. Now the deepening shadows crept across the basement window. But still the shoemaker sat before the window, patching and mending. And still he glanced off and out into the street. Then as the dusk filled the room, he saw an old apple woman in front of his window, on her shoulder a heavy bag of apples. And as she struggled to shift the weight of the bag, Martin hurried to help her. Here, mother, let me help you. The bag is much too heavy for you. Eh, what's that? Oh, thank you, sir, a thousand thanks. Yes. Oh, the bag is torn, I can't make it. Oh, they're rolling all over the scene. Now don't you worry, mother. I'll pick them up for you. Here, here, boy, you stop that. Stop him, catch the little villain. Here, here, boy. No, no, I'm not taking it. Let me go. Let me have him, sir. I'll take charge of the rascal. I'm going to take him to the police. No, no. He will never do it again, eh? Forgive him for the love of God. Oh, let him go indeed. Forgive him. I will forgive him so that he won't soon forget it. Yes. A few days in the workhouse will help him to remember. But Booster, he is only a lad. Turn him loose. I'll pay well for the apple he took. Well, then, if you say... Here, now, boy, ask Booster's forgiveness. I will never do it again. I saw you take the apple. I'm sorry, Grandmother. I'm sorry, but I was so hungry and it was just one apple. Now, here's another apple for you. I'll pay you for it, Booster. Oh, you ruined them that way. They're good for nothings. He ought to be treated so that he would remember it for a whole week. Grandmother, that may be right according to our poor judgment, but not according to the wiser ones than us. If the boy is to be whipped for an apple, then what ought to be done to us for our sins? I truly am sorry, Grandmother. I did not mean to steal. We are commanded to forgive. Else we too may not be forgiven. All should be forgiven and the thoughtless especially. Hey, that's so. But the trouble is that the lads are very much spoiled these days. Now, when I was younger... As than we, who are older, must teach them. Grandfather, you are right. It's just a childish trick. God be with you, boy. Here, Babushka, let me carry your bag. It is on my way. Oh, that's a good boy. Well, let us be off. God's blessings on you, Grandfather. The shoemaker stood motionless, gazing after them. And then, seeing the lamplighter approaching, he hastened back to his room, took down the little lamp and set it on the table. From the shelf he took down the testament and opened it to the place he had marked the night before. And as he looked at the page before him, the little shoemaker thought again of his strange dream. Ah, it was a foolish man, you were, Martin, to expect our Lord to come calling on you. But it's of no matter. The day was well spent in his name. Ah! What was that? Martin, ah, Martin, did you not recognize me after all? Who? Who was it? It was I, Martin. And it was I, Martin. I, too, Martin. And I, Martin. The page before you, Martin, read, and you shall see. For I was hungry, and he gave me meat. I was thirsty, and he gave me drink. I was a stranger and he took me in. And inasmuch as he have done it unto the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Now this is the season of the year when all of us look back at what has been and look ahead at what is yet to be. A new year will be a new start, a wonderful opportunity, a fresh chapter in our lives. Now each of us looks back somewhat regretfully at what is now done and finished, remembering how inadequately we measured up to all our good intentions. But this is a season of hope. Hope. We must look ahead at what could be and can be in the new half-century. If only we will it and work for it. One resolution we urge upon you. Make family prayer a part of your daily program. Let prayer be the heart and sinew of your family circle. Learn the strength and stability that can introduce into your homes and the harmony it can give your lives. Remember the family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. The Hollywood Panley Theater has brought you Victor Jolly in the cobbler's window with Pat O'Brien as your host to narrate him. And Johnny McGovern. This adaptation of Count Leo Tolstoy's classic was written by Arthur Soil with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman and was directed for Family Theater by Jaime Del Valle. Our series of Family Theater broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this type of program, by the mutual network which has responded to this need and by the hundreds of stars of stage, screen and radio who have so unselfishly given of their time to them and to you, our humble thanks. This is Gene Baker inviting you to join us next week at this time when your Family Theater will present Ruth Hussey, George Murphy, Charles Ruggles and Parley Bayer in Urban S. Cop's story of that lovable old judge priest. Join us, won't you? Canada through the facilities of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation and is transmitted to our troops overseas for the Armed Forces Radio Service. Those largest network, thank you.