 Place is manute of dust, for life is measured only by the span of years. But the living of that life determines the shape of the testament that shall be probated by those that follow. And so, in retrospect, we trace two lives that found themselves in the soft dusk of a summer evening, starring Peter Van Eyck. We have a magnificent obsession that surged in the hearts of two people, very much in love. A story that began on a summer evening at Mrs. Falconer's ruining house in the East 30s just off Second Avenue. Mrs. Falconer's place is unique in that it has a verandah with a porch swing, a heavenly oasis in the inferno of Manhattan at the twilight hour of a day in late August. And it's out here that Mrs. Falconer wages her personal battle with the heat, swinging lazily while she talks to her newest rumour, Mrs. Briggs. For like many other girls at Yoke, to Mrs. Falconer, talk is an obsession. A thunder shower, Mrs. Briggs, that's all we need right now, a thunder shower. Oh, you think so? I never can decide about thunder showers. Like rain, of course, but there has to be lightning along with it. Well... Say, Mrs. Briggs, here comes Mr. Martin. I didn't tell you about him. He's an artist. Him and his wife come here and took the Paula Suite over a year ago. A more in love couple you never seen. Shhh, I'll tell you later. Evening, Mr. Martin. Good evening, Mr. Martin. Oh, good evening. Sure, a scorcher today, wasn't it? This is Mrs. Briggs. She's taken Mr. Collins' old room. Ah, you do, Mr. Martin. Yeah, well, you know Mrs. Briggs, Mr. Martin is just the most wonderful painting you've ever seen. The refined kind, I mean. Oil, pictures and portraits. Of course he had bad luck for a long time, but now. Well, you know them pictures all over billboards of soap and things like that? Well, Mr. Martin's got a new job, drawn for them billboards. And he's going to make... You're mistaken, Ms. Forfner. I had a job drawing for those billboards. I was fired an hour ago. Fired? Yeah, here's the back rent I owe you till today. I have some money left, but I've got to keep it. I can't pay you in advance. I'm sorry. Oh, of course, as long as it's you. Only, well, I was... Don't worry about your rent. Yeah. Somehow I'll see that you get it. Hello, David. May. You mustn't look so. You mustn't, my darling. No matter what this day has been for you. Please, David. Mary, if you're only new. You needn't tell me. I do know the job. Yes. And I'm glad. Glad? So must you be. David Martin drawing billboard heads. It is a kind of sacrilege. What are the real creations that's in your heart? I can't talk about it now. No, David, listen to me. We're going to talk about it. No. You're tired, hearty tired, so just lie down and rest. David, you're going away. You shouldn't stay here longer because of me. Don't talk like that. I cannot go. There's too much that holds me here. You know that. You've never mentioned Leslie Marshall, but he's written to you weeks ago. He's written you to come west and share his studio to get back to the kind of painting you should be doing. And you're going. There's a bus that leaves at nine o'clock. The money you have left is just enough for fare. You're going to take that bus tonight. I can't leave. You know that. And you know why. No, you can't leave. You must stay. Dreams we've shared for you can go unfulfilled because of me. I don't care. I don't care if I ever paint again. Listen, and we heard this melody together in Naples on that magic day, the day of our meeting. Help me, David, to remember this Naples day. The young American girl newly arrived in Italy unsure of herself and of the language. And the man who had taken that street by chance, stopping and watching half amused, she tried so hard to make herself understood. Senior. Yes, yes, Miss. Where is the office? Miss, maybe you understand French. French? Maybe a little, but possibly. Perhaps English would be better. You don't speak English. I will leave to you, the judge. Oh, I don't believe it. And the American Express office is just around the corner. Oh, thank you. It's always the first place the newly arrived American girls to see him. Oh, forgive me. I am David Mark. I'm Mary Randolph, and thank you so very much. Wait. What? Please don't go. You know, it's funny, but for the first time in my memory I do not know what to say to a girl. Well... Do not misunderstand. I'm aware that, well, two people do not meet like this, at least by tradition. They are not supposed to. I'm afraid I must agree with you. And yet, how can I say it? The fact is so simple. But the words... Ms. Randolph, if only you had first met my mother instead of me. Your mother? Why? She's such a wonderful old lady. Very wise. She would have said, Here at last is the girl I must introduce to my son. And then, besides, she might have given that sound a fairly respectable reference. Completely without prejudice, of course. Really? And what would she have said of him? Oh, that he was born in a small French town near Paris, that he was an ordinary boy, not too good, not too bad, not for some inexplainable reason he determined to devote his life to painting. And so, went to Italy to study. There, he wasted three whole years under one day. One day, he met a girl on the street who was looking for the American Express office. And that changed everything? You think that's impossible? You really hear studying? I have been, and you? I come to study voice with Pietro Camroni. A singer? Then you can't refuse. I see who. It just happens I have two tickets for the opera tonight. With very good eyes from these particular seats you can almost see the stage. Please, you must say yes. You don't really have tickets. No. You see, I cannot even lie to you. But I will get them. Come with me, Mary Reynolds. You see, I'm a prophet. And these are prophetic words. This is more than a chance meeting of two strangers. Believe me, very great deal depends on your reply. I know. I feel that too. I believe you were actually afraid at first. In a way, I was myself. Yes, but that didn't matter. I couldn't have stopped myself from seeing you again, even if I wanted to. More memories. David, we must bring back the other memories. That night, the opera. You and I, in the highest tier of seats, looking down almost on the heads of the singers far below. But that made no difference. For we saw, nor heard, no one. Nothing, save each other. And the days that followed, those wonderful carefree days. Castellamere, Sorrenton, Capri. The blue grotto in Capri. The hills above the town. The music there too. The music of the Cypresses, the wind blew through them. And the one hill that we chose apart from all the others, like a little world unto ourselves. And that's what was there alone. Do you hear that? The very hills of Capri called back your name. Which only proves that they know now that they belong to you. Were they surprised to hear it? Not at all. They're used to my whims. I simply told them they were now yours, that I gave them to you. Oh, I'm extremely grateful. Thank you, Mr. Martin. Of course, I should warn you. It is not altogether an outright gift. No. No. There's the matter of a very small payment. No, I was afraid of that. No, Shylock. Would another very small kiss be fair enough? No. Oh, David. Have I remembered today to tell you that I love you? Not today. I do love you, my darling. I adore you, Mary. This is going to be something serious, I can always tell. You get that sombre look deep in your eyes and your voice drops half an octave. David, you want to tell me something? Yes, Mary. I must get back to my work. And there's only one way that that is possible. You must marry me. Well, I'm sure no girl ever got a more flattering proposal. Now, I have it all planned. The wedding at my mother's place, it'll mean so much to her. And afterward, we'll go to Paris. I know of a perfect studio and more upon that. In Paris? Of course, Paris. It is my home. The logical place for me to do serious work is... But what about my work? Oh, you're singing. If you still wish to study, we shall find you some teacher in Paris when we can afford it. David, I don't think you understand. Certainly understand. You wish to be a singer. All right. Put everything in its time and in its order. And your painting is first in order, is that it? Naturally, Mary. Please do not be unreasonable. This is not like you. Why is it unreasonable to want to finish what I've started? You wouldn't give up your work. Why should I? Because, as my wife, there's no need for you to work. Well, perhaps you think there is. I see. You haven't faith enough in me to believe I can support you. I didn't say that. In any way, that's beside the point. Beside the point? Why must you paint in Paris anyway? Why not here? I have my reasons. Many of them. Already I've stayed in Italy far longer than I intended. Which is my fault, of course. But I'm sorry to have detained you. Mary, please. I'm sure these weeks have met a great loss to art. An irreparable loss. Mary, listen to me. We mustn't speak like that to one another. This is childish. Childish? So it's childish for me to want to go on with my singing. Something that's really important to me. Oh, don't worry, David. You'll have no further trouble with my interference in your plan. Because I'll have no place in those plans. Now or ever, you can depend on it. Back to the story of David Martin. And the pathetically sweet story of a summer evening. Starring Peter Van Eyck. The best we have in the future lies in the memories of the past. For memory is the guardian. Is our wisdom and surety and hope in the future. And so in the precious memories of David and Mary, the bridge between tomorrow and yesterday is spanned. And the courage is reborn to cleave to the irrevocable truth of color, line and form. A truth that must burn as a lamp in the darkness and be in the heart and soul of the artist the power of surge of creation. And the one honest and unswerving obsession though you were gone from me in anger. Gone. My world and the which you had brought light and warmth was dark and desolate again. You were gone and with you had gone something of myself. And I knew then that unless I found you, I'd never paint again. It was the end as though quiet death. Go on, David, quickly. The memories that are left. They're so little time. And you must leave tonight. You must go and take that bus. Remember. David, remember. After all those futile months of parting. Vienna. Finally learned you had gone there. And I followed you, forgetting my work, forgetting everything, searching for you enough that all seemed hopeless. And then suddenly there you were. More fragile and more beautiful than ever. On a bench in the Hofburg garden. Just as though we'd had a rendezvous. And when I saw you looking up at me with wonder and happiness in your eyes, I knew, I knew that all of what men call time had passed before to make that single moment just for us. And you took a piece of paper from your pocket and gave it to me. It was a poem that you'd written the night before. There's beauty in the very thought of you, my dear. The music and the echo of your laughter. My life is more than life when you're near. And when you leave, my universe goes after. David, you asked her, David, faster. The other memories that are left are waiting in that little church in your hometown. The ceremony in French that I could only have, understand. Our honeymoon, in Paris at last. And that impossibly tiny studio that you call the Martin Palace. A new painting. Painting with all of the genius that was in you. And always with you is my inspiration. And yet it seemed fortunate, forgottenness. Still, all I had to offer you was hardship and a poverty that seemed to grow worse each passing day. But you never mentioned it, never complained. And then at last, at long, long last, that day I had been waiting for, praying for. And that evening in the studio as I arrived. Even the mall. Very much, nothing at all really. Just champagne and caviar and fat chicken and oranges as big as cabbages and strawberries out of season. Oh, but you shouldn't. My budget. Oh, I'm a little bored with your budget. Please burn it the next time we have a fire. What is it? What's happened? Now, don't you lie to me. I can tell by your eyes. Nothing at all important has happened. The little check, that's all. What's a check? More or less, in the life of a successful artist. Let me see it, please. Well, if you must, have it here somewhere. Oh, here. 12,000 francs. Is that what it says? How? Where? Well, there was a certain collector who thought 12,000 francs a fair price. For what? For the painting which won the Grand Prix at the National Institute today. The Grand Prix? You... You're not joking with me. Does that check look like a joke? Oh... Oh, David. I have one. Surely that's not a cause for tears. I admit it's a bit of a shock to have more than 50 francs in this house at one time. I can help it. I'm so happy for you. What canvas was it? The seascape, of course. You have done no better. You and I. You and I? Then I haven't seen, did you? I have really helped somehow. Helped? My darling, don't you know the truth? You are the creator in the studio. And I am merely the instrument of expression. The work I had done before that David met in Naples? What was it? Meaningless splashes of collar upon a canvas. Oh, Mary, you and you alone have given me the key to whatever greatness I may possess. This canvas, this price, it is not the end, it is but the beginning. Oh, I'm sure of that. I have a great purpose now, my darling. One that nothing shall stop me from achieving. This nameless wonder that's between us two. This love that is more than love must live on, on beyond us both, in color and in line and in form. Other men must know and feel and be warned by it long after both of us are gone. And I promise you, it shall be so. Nothing under heaven shall prevent it. Nothing under heaven. It was your promise, David. That was your promise. Now quickly, the last of our memories. It's so near the end. The voyage home. Sailing on the yield of all. Yes, the voyage. I was so sure our real future lay in America. In your homeland. And I was so confident of great achievement. We were coming here to our glorious future. To our glorious future. Indeed, to Mrs. Faulkner's rooming house off 2nd Avenue. To the dead end of dreams and the sudden death of genius. Stop it, David. That's all. It's ended. The curtain's down. And our parade of memories is over. It must be. That was the final time we'll call them up. Now you're going. How can I go? Each word that we have said, each fragment of a memory, only holds me here more sharply. No, it's a fragment of memory that must release you. Your promise to me in Paris. The day of the Grand Prix. Say it again. Now. Let that be our parting. This nameless wonder that is between us two. This love that is more than love must live on. Beyond us both. In color and in line and in form. Other men must know and feel and be warned by it. Long after both of us are gone. And I promise you it shall be so. That promise must be fulfilled, David. And it will be if you go now. I know that. Please, please, my darling. But how can I? You must. It will mean that I too am freed. You're sure? Yes, David. Then I shall go. What are you going to do? I have to pack. I couldn't leave without. You'll leave with nothing, David. You'll just break clean. Go now, just as you are and take that bus. Take nothing? Nothing. When you're mine again. Goodbye. Goodbye, Mary. Mrs. Riggs, I never believe in talking about anyone. Because of what you do, why you're so cold. Martin, I... Forgive me if I was a drop before, but there were reasons. You may have ranked the room so that couple after all. Yeah, but I... I'm leaving now, tonight. Tonight? You're going to get a new job? Yes. A tremendously important new job. Good night, Mrs. Faulkner. Yeah, but Mr. Martin, wait, you... Well, what do you know about that? It's gone without a bit of baggage. And no telling what condition the rooms are in. Come on, let you and me see, Mrs. Riggs. Good mistake. Hey, did you notice his eyes, Mrs. Faulkner? Like there was fires burning in him. Yeah. Imagine walking out and leaving everything as... Uh-oh. What? Even left that. What is it? Picture of his wife. Only picture he had left of all that he come here with. Hmm. He wouldn't sell it. I even come in here one day and found him talking to it. Talking to a picture, mind you. They... Don't you mean his wife is... Well, good Lord, didn't I tell you? David Martin's wife died in pneumonia more than six months ago. He stayed on alone here ever since. The words of Mary that ring in David's ears like the soft chimes of a syringe. The words of Mary that ring in David's ears like the soft chimes of a silver carry-on. The words of Mary that ring in David's ears This love that is more than love must live on beyond us both in color and line and form. In color and line and form. Other men must know and feel and be warmed by it long after both of us are gone. Other men must know and feel and be warmed by it long after both of us are gone. These words are the incentive, the purpose, the driving force of all creation which no true artist may escape were always in the mind of the creator color, line, and form must become the supreme and magnificent obsession. You have been listening to obsession.