 Family Theater presents Mal Farer, Jane Withers, and Rad O'Connor. The mutual network in cooperation with Family Theater presents Mal Farer and Rad O'Connor in The Hound of Heaven. To introduce the drama, you'll host us, Jane Withers. Tony LaFranco. Family Theater's only purpose is to bring to everyone's attention a practice that must become an important part of our lives. If we are to win peace for ourselves, peace for our families, and peace for the world, Family Theater urges you to pray, pray together as a family. Tonight, Family Theater takes great pleasure in presenting The Hound of Heaven, starring Mal Farer as Francis Thompson and Rad O'Connor as the narrator. I fled him. I fled him down the nights. Yes, you fled him. You eluded him. I fled him down the nights and down the days. Yes, you twisted, turned, tried to escape him, but did you ever really escape him? Whether shall I go from thy spirit, or whether shall I flee from thy face, if I ascend up into heaven, thou art there, if I descend into hell, thou art present. His name was Francis Thompson, of all the lonely and obscure men who lived in London that year of 1887. None had made his bed in hell more surely than he. For him, each night was a lying down in hunger and fear. Each morning, a slow awakening to pain. Hey, Taff, come on up, I say. Yes. Yes. You can't sleep there, you know that? I know. I'm sorry, officer. All right now, get along with you. Come on, along with you, I say. Or Francis Thompson, waking upon the Thames embankment. Each morning was a slow return to pain. A remembrance of dreams twisted by hunger made hideous by fear. Dreams of delirium shot through with dying stars in the river's mist that always had their ending somewhere at the broken edge of the world, with the night stick prodding his chest, the agony of waking to another day. And then as he would get to his feet brushing the dirt and matted leaves from his coat, pulling it tight about him against the fog, London too, it seemed, returned to life, with the first cab in the street clop-cropping by, the first macro-peddler crying his worries, but the first farmer's cart piled high with Surrey Hay and the whistle of the Edinburgh Express coming down from the northern hills. As he awoke, London awoke with him, and they faced each other at the beginning of the day, the man of bone and flesh against the city of stone, the man with a tired heart driving his broken knuckles against the stone which never yielded. Each day began as another, a hatony for a mug of tea, tuppence for a stale loaf of bread, a furtive search for an old rag, a wadded newspaper to line his shoes, and then the long tramp in search for work. Pardon, sir, would there be a place for me somewhere? No work today. Would you be needing a manager? Sorry, we have all our help we need. Unemployment, Francis. Unemployment. It's the scourge that can lash a man's spirit. It's a cross, a contradiction of economies that hangs heavily upon shoulders of people like you. So you've got to keep walking, keep searching. Maybe somewhere you'll find work, you can't stop not a rest. Take a turn down this street. Not there. Through the crooked alley to the haberdasher shop. Sorry, no work for you. Try the greengrocer across the street. Sorry, no work for you. Perhaps the wine shop, try that. Sorry, no work for you. The warehouse. The warehouse. Sorry, no work for you. Sorry, no work for you. Yes, Francis, the day is over. The long tramping from door to door. Huddle there in the darkened doorway and take your rest. There'll be no bread for your hunger tonight, no roof above your head. And there'll be no drug to soothe the madness in your throat and brain. Lie in the doorway and take your rest. For tomorrow's another day, and if you live, there'll be more miles to walk. Death comes slowly to the afflicted, so you cannot hope for much tonight. What's that? A drum, perhaps. It could be the failing beat of your heart. No, it's not that. I hear it often. It stops, then it begins again. Your imagination. No, it's like footsteps. As though someone were following me. Don't be silly. Try to rest. No matter where I go, I hear them. They follow me always. It's the drug, Francis. You're craving. It's not the drug, or my imagination. They are footsteps. And then follow me wherever I go. I'm like a man with a hound's crying after me. A hundred things in a swamp. And I hear these footsteps. Night and day, I hear them. There. Wait. It's footsteps all right. Someone's approaching the doorway. Hello? You there? You all right? I'm all right. Well, Eddie, you shouldn't be lying here in the doorway. You'll catch your death a call here. Let me help you out. I'm all right, I say. Are you? I tell you, laddie, this is a bad night for a man's body and soul. What right have you to talk about bodies and souls? You're right of one human being to another, laddie. Well, you can save your words. I'm not interested. Lad, I know you're sick. I know you're alone. That's why I'd like to help you. What do you mean? Help. I want you to come home with me. My name's McMasters. I'm a bootmaker by trade, but I can put you to work if you want a job. Work? You'll owe me nothing, lad. Nothing at all. But why should you do this for me? Why shouldn't I, lad? If the situation were reversed, it's you who'd be reaching out your hand to me. This way it's my good fortune. Here, come along now, lad. It's a warm bed for you tonight and a good day's work in the morning. How goes the work? Not so well, Mr. McMasters. I'm afraid I don't think I was cut out for a cobbler. Oh, you're just learning, lad. It's only three weeks you've been here. Tell me, lad, I don't want to pry or anything, but what is your trade or profession? I have none, Mr. McMasters. Oh, if I did, I suppose you'd call it journalism. You write then? Yes. What do you write, Francis? Oh, the usual thing, I suppose. Reviews, essays, some poetry. The sort of things that never sell. Here, lad, try some of this tobacco. It's an Irish mixture. Thank you. Light? Thank you. Where did you go to school, Francis? You sure? It's about four miles from Durham. And you were studying... I wanted to enter the priesthood. I failed. I'm sorry. It's strange when you come to think of it. I'm 28, you know. You'd think that in 28 years a man would be able to win one victory. You'd think that, but it isn't true. After I was rejected for the priesthood, my father sent me to Manchester to study medicine. Six years. Examinations every two years. I failed all of them. Defeat for me was like a web. I seemed to be caught in it, woven into its pattern. After a while, I became afraid to try anything at all for fear I'd fail at it. That's why I came to London. To break the pattern. No, to lose myself. To crawl into the darkest corner of the city and hide. Laddie, laddie, how long have you? Two years come, November. Two years? On the streets, in doorways, the way I found her? Laddie, how could you do it? How could you lean? I don't know. Maybe it was because I prayed. I'd say that. Only sometimes there was even no belief in my prayers. And I felt as if God were not listening to me. You see, living the way I did in hunger and a sorted nervous condition, loneliness, you can't think clearly sometimes. You doubt your own mind's power to think. And then you can't pray right. Only I went on praying and I'm still alive. That's all I know. And God willing, you'll stay alive, Francis. For you have a roof over your head now and a job. And maybe time to write. Maybe time to write something great and good. It would be pleasant to be able to say that Francis Thompson settled down to an ordered life and turned out a great work of literature. But he rewarded his benefactor in some generous way. But the facts are quite different. Thompson was useless around the copper shop. He was willing but clumsy and inefficient. He scribbled verses when he should have been working. And his few earnings were spent to satisfy the craving for opium, which constantly tortured him. He spent three months with McMasters and then one day disappeared. McMasters waited for him to return that night. He waited many nights as the autumn months passed into winter, but Francis Thompson never came back. Of the many unfortunate McMasters had befriended and given jobs, Thompson alone proved a disappointment. He was my only failure, McMasters wrote. He was my only failure. Here you, where do you think you're going? Huh? What? Stay away from that church. There's other places for trumps. I wasn't going in... Ah, drunk, dirty. Going to crawl into church where it's worn me. Thought no one would see you. Go ahead, get on your way. The church? Yes. Get along, I say. Yes, that's where I can go. Here you, you come along with me. I'll take you to a place where you can... No, leave me be. Have mercy upon me. Christ, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon me. The Lord, have mercy upon you, Francis Thompson. Have mercy. Upon your weaknesses and failures. Have mercy. And through you on all the poor and broken who walk in the city streets. Help us all, oh God. From the city itself and the cruelty of stone and the horror of the pavement. Oh, defend me, oh God. From the arms house and the prison and the doorway. Defend me, oh God. From the hunger and the day and the wakefulness at night. From the torn coat and the broken shoes and the stairs of pity and the stairs of contempt. Deliver me, oh God. And give us this day our daily bread. Give me this day my daily bread. But more than bread alone, oh God. Give us the strength to earn our bread. Hear me, oh God. Christ, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on me. Time to go, Francis. The church is empty. I'm putting out the candles one by one. I cannot go. If I leave, I'll forget how to pray. You must. Where? Somewhere, a doorway perhaps. There's that grain warehouse and cock lane if you could force a window. No. The rats. There is always the embankment. It's snowing. Then what? I don't know. Perhaps this is the end of all my running. Death. Death comes slowly to the afflicted. But not to me. A loaf of bread, a mug of coffee and three or... Or is it four days? He's dizzy spells. Feet are like cough. No, it can't be far off now. Even to me. Do you want to die? Do I want to live this way? Do you not know, Francis, that while you live, your body is the temple of God? God doesn't live in me. God is perfection and health and beauty. Can God live in a broken body and a mind that doubts its own reason? No, I lost God some time after I left the cobbler shop. I lost him somewhere in the alleys of East Cheep. But has God lost you, Francis? What? Has he lost you? But if I deny him, how can he find me? Listen. Do you hear that? The footsteps. The footsteps of the hound. Do you remember, Francis? The footsteps. Yes. Yes, they always follow me. But there's something inside me. Oh, God, forgive me. Some fear, some dread that keeps me running from those footsteps. What's wrong? Why are you running? It's nothing. I... I fainted. Please, someone, help me. Help me, please. There, it's all right. What happened? You've been quite sick. Sick? Don't you remember? How long have I been... Three days. Don't you remember? Three days. You were running along the street. Yes. Yes, I remember now. And you were the girl that... brought you here to this boarding house. I'm afraid I've put you to a lot of trouble. I think I'd better go. Oh, but you can't. You're sick. The doctor said you must rest and eat. He said you were dying from starvation. You called a doctor? I had to. But that cost money. I have nothing to... Oh, don't say it. Lie back. I'll fix the pillow. What is your name? Anne. Who are you? What sort of work do you do? Oh, nothing very much. Nothing important. I didn't mean to pry. I just wondered. Anne. Yes? Maybe you haven't done anything important, as you say. I don't know who you are. What you are. But I've been wandering across a plain of fever and delirium. Three days, you tell me. Dreams come up like clouds over those three days. But in the end, it seemed that I heard footsteps behind me. They were after me. And I ran and ran. And far on the edge of a plain, I... I saw a cross standing. And I thought, if I can reach that cross, I'll be safe. So I ran toward it. Only when I got there, it wasn't a cross. It was you. Do you understand? You mean that you don't care what I am? No. No. I only wonder what I can ever do for you in return. And so, through the kindness of a complete stranger, an outcast, much like himself, the healing of Frances Thompson began. To him, this girl gave of the little she had, food, clothing and encouragement. But more than that, a knees from loneliness. To her, he gave things unknown in her life. Tenderness and reverence and respect. Then at last, Frances Thompson began to write. The Passion of Mary. A poem. Paganism, Old and New. An essay. Two things finished, actually finished. It's hard to believe that I had the power, the sheer mental power to work them through. Frances Thompson was right. His work was good. And Wilfred Menel, editor of the magazine, Mary England, published the pieces. The author and extended to him the hand which would lift him from obscurity. But Frances Thompson about to reach for the hand suddenly withdrew himself. What about Anne? Frances? Anne, I sold them to Mr. Menel. And Anne, he's interested in me. He wants me to come and live with him, to do my work at his home. I mean, he wants us. Us? Yes. You see, I told him we were to be married. And that I would come only if you were with me. No. I want you to marry me, Anne. Don't you understand? Yes, I understand. But you, you're a great writer. And you've got the chance now to get away from this, away from the streets, and be with the people of your own kind. But, no, Frances, I won't marry you. But why? You're not talking sense, Anne. Why? I'm not worthy of you, Frances. You know that. You're great and good. I might only hurt you. It's been good what we've had together, Frances, but you'll have to go on alone now. You'll have to go on alone. And so the girl who had lifted him from the streets vanished from his life. All that day he searched for all the next and the next. But she disappeared. He turned away from the extended hand of Menel in his search for her. And the days passed into weeks, weeks into a month, then two months as he tramped the mighty labyrinths of London. But he never found her. As a face as he looked into, none was hers. And then one day, at last, sitting on a bench in Covent Garden, barren from the grief that had drained him, he heard the familiar sound of footsteps. Frances? Yes. She's gone. You'll never find her again. I know. Now there's nothing left. Nothing but the footsteps. Do you hear them? I hear them. Think back, Frances. Strange how each time you cried, each time the horror of life has risen up to crush you, you heard the footsteps. Yes. Each time I've lost a sense of God, I've heard them. Only in those times? I would begin to hear them faintly when my faith grew weaker in my prayers. And then at last, when I had lost a sense of God, they beat like thunder in my ears. As they're beating now? Yes. As they beat the night Ann came in? Yes. And the Night McMasters found you? Yes. Yes. What are you driving at? Don't you know? Think, Frances. Think. Is it possible you could touch God by the hand and not know it? Well, hound of heaven, the footsteps of God and Charing Cross, no matter where I fled, they followed. Down the nights and days, twisted lanes and passageways of all London, down the years and months and days they followed. God's love pressing in on me when I denied Him. God's love hounding me through the swamps of despair. God, who wouldn't let me go, even though I had denied Him. God, looking at me out of her eyes and touching me with her hands. Yes. I know now. I know. These footsteps. Then search out your soul, Frances, and put what you find into words. All the hunger and pain and loneliness of these tortured years. Right at, Frances. I fled Him down the nights and down the days. I fled Him down the arches of the years. I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind. And in the midst of tears I hid from Him. Write it for all to read, Frances, I've beaten the hungry that tempted the weak, for those like you all over the world. I hid from Him from those strong feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase and unperturbed pace, deliberate speed, majestic instancy they beat, and a voice beat more insistent than the feet. All things betray thee who betrayest me. Put into words the streets and the sleepless nights, the cold sweats and the agony of thought. Put Anne into them, for you'll never find her again. And McMasters. And put the losing of God into words the awful loneliness. For though I knew His love who followed, yet I was sore at dread, lest having Him I might have not beside. And Frances put into words the joy that came when God had found you once again. And I, and I draws the chase with unperturbed pace, deliberate speed, majestic instancy, and past those noise at feet, a voice comes yet more fleet. Our fondest, blindest weakest, I am he whom thou seekest. Yes, put all this into words, Frances, that others may draw courage from them and find their way to peace. And it is you, Frances Thompson, who went down to make a bed in hell, but found God's love and mercy following you, even there. Fondest, blindest, weakest, I am he whom thou seekest. And so Frances Thompson, who today ranks among the great poets, went on to build a new life for himself, hated by the kindness of the mental family, went on to complete the hound of heaven and give the world one of the most inspiring poems of all literature, the story of God's love and mercy. Do you have a favorite time to pray? One friend of mine, a woman, thinks that the best time to pray is in the morning, particularly a morning bright with sunshine when the skies are blue and the birds are singing. Prayers in the morning, she says, are prayers of hope. Now another friend, a man, says that he prays best by the little reminders of the day, the sounding of a church bell, the sight of a poor beggar on the street, the shock of a narrow escape at a busy intersection, seeing the inspiration on the face of a nun, watching a policeman helping an old lady across the street, the feeling of hunger appeased after a good meal. He says prayers like this are mostly prayers of thankfulness. And still another friend, a woman, insists that the best time to pray is when the dark comes and gently enfolds this garish, gaudy world of ours. Prayers at night are inclined to be prayers of love, both of God and neighbor. What I'm trying to do is prove that it doesn't really matter when you pray, as long as you do pray. But pray especially as a family, for there's great joy in praying with others. Who of us still hasn't heard that the family that prays together stays together? More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. From Hollywood, Family Theater has brought you Mel Pharrell and Rod O'Connor in the Hound of Heaven. Jane Withers was your hostess. Others in our cast were Mae Clark, Ted D'Corsair, Ted Osborne, and John Larch. The script was written by Frederick Lipp, with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman, and was directed for Family Theater by Joseph F. Mansfield. This series of Family Theater broadcasts is made possible by the thousands of you who felt a 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 and talent to appear on our Family Theater stage. To them and to you, our humble thanks. This is Tony LaFranco expressing the wish of Family Theater that the blessing of God may be upon you and your home and inviting you to join us next week at the same time when Family Theater will present Roddy McDowell in The Flame and the Sword. Don McNeil will be the host. Join us, won't you? Family Theater is broadcast throughout the world and originates in the Hollywood studios of the world's largest network, the Mutual Broadcasting System.