 Great Scenes from Great Plays, starring Walter Hamden. This is John Daly. Beginning tonight, the families of the Episcopal Church in your community bring you each week at this time the Episcopal Actors Guild and invite you to share the dramatic inspiration of Great Scenes from Great Plays as transcribed by famous artists of the American theater. Our play tonight is Sereno de Bergerac by Edmund Rostak and our star in the role of the unforgettable Sereno, the incomparable Walter Hamden. Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Daly. Mr. Hamden, knowing that Sereno has been in your repertoire for many years, I'm sure that you feel it's a great play, not for any particular age, but for all time. Well, I'm convinced, Mr. Daly, that because of its romance, if for nothing else, Sereno will remain forever young and forever new. But even more than that, the play's greatness lies in its power to lift us out of ourselves and so lead us toward a deeper spiritual understanding. And for that reason, I'm delighted to join with the Episcopal Actors Guild this evening in recreating two of its greatest scenes. I'm sure that the sheer nobility of Sereno's character will illustrate the inspiration to which this new series is dedicated by the Episcopal families who sponsor it. As you're about to step into the role itself, Mr. Hamden, what about this amazing character, Sereno? Well, I think Rostar pictures him best through the words of one of his friends who said that Sereno was the best friend and the bravest soul alive. Poets, swordsmen, musicians, philosophers. But even with all these attributes, Sereno becomes sad and melancholy whenever he speaks about love. Think a moment, think of me. Me, whom the plainest woman would despise. Me with this nose of mine that marches on before me by a quarter of an hour. Oh, I have no more illusions. Now and then, bah, I may grow tender, walking alone in the blue cool of evening through some garden fresh with flowers after the benediction of the rain. My poor big devil of a nose in Hale's April and so I follow with my eyes where some boy with a girl upon his arm passes a patch of silver and I feel somehow I wish I had a woman too walking with little steps under the moon and holding my arm so and smiling and I dream and I forget. And then I see the shadow of my profile on the wall. My friend, I have my bitter days knowing myself so ugly, so alone. Sereno never knew, even at his death, that his only great love was returned. That was the tragedy of his love for Roxanne. Well, tonight we have Miss Anne Seymour to play Roxanne who creates grace in her own image. The personification of the adage that love is blind. So on now to Sereno de Bergerac and the story of his love for the exquisite Roxanne who alas loves young Christian, a brother-in-arms from Sereno's own regiment. Most of all, the story of how Sereno wins Roxanne for Christian even as his own heart is breaking. Look, Paris dreams, nocturnal, nebulous. Under blue moon beams hung from wall to wall. Nature's own setting for the scene we play. Yonder, behind her veil of mist, the sane like a mysterious and magic mirror trembles. Sereno, hopelessly in love with Roxanne, knows it is Christian she really loves. But Christian fears that once Roxanne hears him speak she will despise him and Sereno asks, But why, Christian? Because, because I am a fool. I have a sort of rough and ready soldier's tongue, I know that. But with any woman, paralyzed, speechless, dumb, I can only look at them. Oh, if I had words to say what I have here. If I could be a handsome little musketeer with eye. Besides, you know Roxanne, how sensitive. One rough word and a sweet illusion gone. I wish you might be my interpreter. I wish I had your wit. Borrow it then. Your beautiful young manhood lend me that and we too make one hero of romance. What? Would you dare repeat to her the words I gave you day by day? But Sereno. But Christian, why not? I am afraid. I know afraid that when you have her all alone you lose all. Have no fear. It is yourself she loves. Give her yourself. Put it to words. My words upon your lips. But put your eyes, they burn like white. Will you, will you? Does it mean so much to you? It means a comedy, a situation for a poet. Come, shall we collaborate? I'll be your cloak of darkness. Your enchanted sword. Your ring to charm the fairy princess. Now in the Paris night the two musketeers have come to Roxanne's garden. It's almost time now as they stand before Roxanne's house, half hidden in the shrubbery. Over the door is a balcony and a tall window and the two musketeers are all but indistinguishable in the darkness except for the long white plume of Sereno's hat, symbol of his courage. And now Christian appeals to Sereno. Help me. I cannot live unless she loves me. Now this moment. How the devil am I to teach you now this moment? Look, up there, quick, her window. Well, well, well. It does seem very dark. Let's try what can be done. Stand over there, idiot there before the balcony. Let me stand underneath. I'll whisper you what to say. She may hear, she may. Call her. Roxanne. Wait, here. This gravel at her window. There. I, Christian, I had to tell you. I love you. Now be eloquent. You have your theme improvised, raptured eyes. I love you ever more. And ever more and more. And ever more and more. But tell me why you speak so haltingly. Christian, this grows too difficult. Let me stand there. I'll take your place before the balcony and you take mine here underneath. Has your imagination gone lame? Your words tonight hesitate. Why? Through the warm summer gloom they grope in darkness toward the light of you. My words well-aimed find you more readily. My heart is open wide and waits for them. Too large a mark to miss. Moreover, yours fall to me swiftly. Mine was slowly rise. Yet not so slowly as they did at first. They've learned the way and you have welcomed them. Am I so far above you now? So far, if you let fall upon me one hard word out of that height, you crush me. I'll come down. No. Stand you on the bench. Come nearer. No. And why so great a no? Let me enjoy the one moment I ever, my one chance to speak to you unseen. Unseen? Yes, yes. How can you know what this moment means to me? You've never heard till now my own heart speaking. But tonight I indeed speak for the first time. Your voice even is not the same. How should it be? I have another voice tonight, my own, my self-dearing. Where was I? I forget, forgive me. All this is strange like a dream sweet like a dream. Love, I love beyond breath beyond reason, beyond love's own power of loving. Your name is like a golden bell hung in my heart. And when I think of you I tremble and the bell swings and rings. Rucks on, rucks on, along my veins. Rucks on. Yes, that is love. Yes, that is love. That wind of terrible and jealous beauty blowing over me. That dark fire. That music. Yet love seeketh not his own. Dear, you may take my happiness to make you happier, even though you never know I gave it to you. Only let me hear sometimes all alone the distant laughter of your joy. I never look at you, but there's some new virtue born in me, some new courage. Do you begin to understand a little? Can you feel my soul? There in the darkness, breathe on you. Yes. Over tonight, now, I dare say these things, I die to you when you hear them. It is too much. In my most sweet unreasonable dreams, I have not hope for this. Now let me die having lived. It is my voice, mine, my own, that makes you tremble there in the green gloom above me, for you do tremble as a blossom among the leaves. You tremble, and I can feel all the way down along these jasmine branches, whether you will or know the passion of you, trembling. Yes, I do tremble, and I weep, for you and I am yours, and you have made me thus. What is death like, I wonder. I know everything else now. I have done this to you, I myself. Only let me ask one thing more. One kiss? One? Christian, are you good too far? You ask me for... I, yes, but I mean... Yes, willing, make the most of it. I did ask, but I know I asked too much. We'll leave that kiss. Are you still there? We were speaking of... A kiss. The word is sweet, what will the deed be? Are your lips afraid, even of its burning name? Not much afraid, not too much. Have you not unwittingly laid aside laughter, slipping beyond speech, even to tears? One step more, only one, from a tear to a kiss. One step, one thrill. Hush! And what is a kiss? A rosy dot over the eye of loving. A secret whispered to listening lips apart. A moment made immortal with a rush of wings unseen. A sacrament of blossoms, a new song sung by two hearts to an old simple tune. The ring of one horizon around two souls together, all alone. Then come, gather your sacred blossom. Go, Christian, climb. Your old new song, your moment made immortal. Climb up, animal. Roxanne. So... Oh, Roxanne. I won what I've won, the feast of love. And I am Lazarus. Yet I have something here that is mine now and was not mine before I spoke the words that won her. Not for me, kissing my words, my words upon your lips. And thus the poet's words upon the soldier's lips have won the lady's love. Now the setting for our second scene, 15 years later. It is October, Christian has been killed in the wars. On his body was found a letter written on the battlefield. His farewell to Roxanne, which Cyrano had written for him. A letter stained with Christian's blood and Cyrano's tears. Roxanne retired to a convent. Cyrano for ten years has been coming to visit her each week with news of Paris and the court. Above the still living green of the turf, all the foliage is red and yellow and brown. Leaves are falling everywhere and Roxanne sits and talks with an old friend, Deguiche, once Cyrano's old enemy. And you remain here wasting all that beauty forever in mourning. Forever. And still faithful. And still faithful. And his last letter, always at your heart. It hangs here always at my heart. Sometimes I think he has not altogether died. Our hearts meet and his love flows all around me, living. And Cyrano. I see him every week. My old friend takes the place of my gazette, brings me all the news. Every Saturday under that tree where you are now, his chair stands. If the day be fine. I wait for him embroidering. The hour strikes, then I hear I need not turn to look at the last stroke his cane, tapping the steps. He tells me the story of the past week. Ah, here's Lebray. How is it with our friend, with Cyrano? Badly, madame, monsieur. Monsieur. His satires make a host of enemies. But they fear that sort of his. No one dare touch him. And yet though it is true that no one dares attack your friend, the other day at court, somebody said to me, this man, Cyrano, may die accidentally. Thank you. You may thank me. Keep him at home all you can. Tell him to be careful. Careful? Cyrano? Tell him? Oh, no. He'll say I'll die upon what day and in what way I choose myself. But now it is almost time for him to come. So gentlemen, you will forgive me. Of course, madame. Adieu. Adieu. Monsieur, you're warning. Yes, Lebray. It comes too late. I could not tell her. She need not know so soon. I went to see him today, my friend. As I came near his door, I saw him coming out. I hurried on to join him. At the corner of the street as he passed. Could it be an accident, I wonder? At the window overhead, a lackey with a heavy log of wood, let it fall. Cyrano? I ran to him. I found him lying there, a great hole in his head. Is he alive? Alive, yes. But I had to carry him up to his room. Is he suffering? No, unconscious. The doctor? One came for charity. He said fever and lesions of the year. I forget those long names. Oh, if you had seen him there. Let us go quickly. There's no one to care for him. All alone he may die. There, the hour. He will be coming now. All done striking. He never was so late before. Certainly nothing could ever keep him away. Ah, his cane. After 14 years late for the first time? I was detained by... Well? A visitor, most unexpected. Did you tell him to go away? For the time being, yes. I said, excuse me, this is Saturday. A previous engagement one I cannot miss. Even for you. Come back an hour from now. Your friend will have to wait. I shall not let you go too dark. Perhaps a little before dark. I must go. Here, sit here in your chair beneath this tree. The leaves. What color? Perfect Venetian red. Yes, they know how to die. A little way from the branch to the earth. A little fear of mingling with the common dust. Yet they go down gracefully. A fall that seems like flying. Melancholy. You? No, Roxanne. Then let the leaves fall. Tell me now the court news. My gazette. Let me see. Ah. Ah. Saturday the 19th. The king fell ill after eight helpings of great marmalade. His melody was brought before the court. Found guilty of high treason. Upon his majesty revived. The royal pulse is now normal. Sunday the 20th. The queen gave a grand ball. At which they burned 763 wax candles. No. Twenty-second. All the court has gone to front and blow. Twenty. Ah. Still I know. Ah. Nothing, nothing. My old wound at Arras. My poor old friend. Nothing. It will soon be gone. There. It is gone. We all have our old wounds. I have mine here at my heart. This faded scrap of writing. It's hard to read now. All but the blood and the tears. His letter. Did you not promise me that someday, that someday you would let me read it? His letter? You, you wish. I do wish it today. Here. Farewell, rugsan. Because today I die. Aloud. I know that it will be today. My own dearly beloved. My heart still so heavy with love I have not told. And I die without telling you. How you read it, his letter. I remember now the way you have. Of pushing back a lock of hair. With one hand from your forehead. And my heart cries out. His letter. And you read it so. He cries out and keeps crying farewell. My dear, my dearest. In a voice. My own heart's own. My own treasure. In such a voice. My love. As I remember hearing long ago. I am never away from you. Even now I shall not leave you. In another world, I shall be still that one who loves you, loves you beyond measure, beyond measure. How can you read now? It is dark. And all these 14 years you've been the old friend who came to me to be amusing. Rugsan. It was you. And I might have known every time that I heard you speak my name. Nope, it was not I. It was you. I swear. I understand everything else now. The letters. That was you. And the dear foolish words. That was you. No. And the voice in the dark. That was you. On my honor. So that was all you. I never loved you. Yes, you loved me. Even now you love me. No. And why so great a no? No, no. My own dear love. I love you not. How many things have died. And I knew born. Why were you silent for so many years? All the while, every night and every day you gave me nothing. You knew that. You knew here in this letter lying on my breast. Your tears. You knew they were your tears. The blood was his. And why do you break that silence now? Today. Why? Oh, because nothing. I did not finish my dessert. Saturday, 26th. An hour or so before dinner. Monsieur de Bergerac died foully murdered. Cyrano, what have they done to you? Stuck down by the sword of a hero let me fall. Steel in my heart and laughter on my lips. Yes, I said that once. How fate loves a jest. Behold me ambushed. Taken in the rear. My battlefield a gutter. My noble foe a lackey with a log of wood. It seems too logical. I have missed everything. Even my death. They're going to pray now. There goes the bell. Sister, sister. No, no, no. Do not go away. I may not still be here when you return. You shall not die. I love you. No. That is not in the story. For my love. Philosopher and scientist. Poet, musician, dualist. He flew high and fell back again. A pretty wit who's like we lack a lover. Not like other men. Here lies Erkul Savini and the Cyrano de Bergerac. Who was all things. And all in vain. Well, I must go. Pardon. I cannot stay. I never loved but one man in my life. And I have lost him. Twice. Not here. Not lying down. Let no one help me. No one. Only the tree is coming. I feel already shod with marble. Gloved with lead. Let the old fellow come now. He shall find me on my feet. Sword in hand. Cyrano. I can see him there. He grins. He's looking at my nose. That skeleton. What's that you say? Hopeless? Why, very well. But a man does not fight merely to win? No. Better to know one fights in vain. You there, who you? I know you now. My ancient enemies. False or dare. They're pretentious. Compromise. Cowardice. What's that? Surrender? No. Never. Never. You too. Vanity. I knew you would overthrow me in the end. Now I fight on. I fight on. I fight on. Cyrano. Yes. All my laurels you have riven away. And all my roses. Yet in spite of you there is one crown I bear away with me. And tonight when I enter before God my salute shall sweep all the stars away from the blue threshold. One thing without stain. Unspotted from the world in spite of doom my own. And that is... And that is... My... In a moment Walter Hamden will be back and will tell you about next week's play. But now an important message inspired by the great scenes just portrayed. Today all of us are deeply troubled by the discords and divisions of the world we live in. We are frightened by the dark shadows of war which fall across even our brightest days. How we ask ourselves how can we make sense out of this confused and troubled world? The answer to that question is not simple. No one of us is wise enough. No one of us is influential enough to change the immediate conditions under which we have to live. Yet there's something each one of us can do. We can start by seeing to it that we're the kind of people who are ready to live in a better world. The place to begin is with ourselves. In tonight's famous play, Cyrano's lifelong self-denying love for Roxanne moved us deeply. How is a man able to rise to such heights of character? He did it not by crying out in bitterness over his physical ugliness. He did it not by turning his clever wit to destroy the happy marriage of Christian and Roxanne. He did it not by making over the circumstances in which he lived. He did it by making something out of himself. To win any battle with yourself isn't easy, but it's easier if you have help. It's easier if you have encouragement. It's easier if you have guidance. One of the best ways to find such help is to seek it from the church through an experienced clergyman. If you're a member of the church, you will already know from your own experience that this is true. If you're not a member of a church, we urge you to discover just how much richer your life can become. To discover just how much help you can get when you receive that which only the church can give. Perhaps the Episcopal Church will be able to give you what you need. To assist you to know something about the Episcopal Church, what it is, what it stands for, and how it offers you a faith to live by in these difficult times, we have prepared an informative booklet called Finding Your Way. This booklet will be sent to you if you'll send a postcard or letter with your name and address to the station to which you'll listen. In a moment, Walter Hamden, tonight's star in Sereno de Bergerac, will tell you about next week's great scenes from great plays. But first, Mr. Hamden, may I say how wonderful it was hearing you with Sereno again? It was wonderful being here, Mr. Daley. And now with your permission, I would like to announce on behalf of the Episcopal Actors Guild that beginning next week, Walter Hamden will return to this new series as your permanent host. As you have just heard, it will be my happy privilege to act as your host on this program in the weeks to come. My responsibilities will indeed be pleasant since we have planned many evenings of delightful entertainment. You will hear many old favorites, inspiring plays that have made theatrical history, and here to bring them to life will be the most distinguished artists of the stage and screen so that you may be truly assured of enjoying great scenes from great plays. Next week will be our pleasure to present the Cornies Green with the distinguished star of the American stage, Miss Jane Cowell. I hope you will join us. Now an invitation from the Episcopal Church. The Episcopal Church in your community cordially invites you to attend services this Sunday morning. If you're not familiar with the location of your nearest Episcopal Church or of the Hours of Service, you'll find both listed in your local newspaper or church directory. Your rector will be happy to have you join the Episcopal...