 The Cavalcade of America sponsored by Dupont, maker of better things for better living through chemistry, presents Stephen Vincent Benet's modern miracle play, A Child is Born, starring Helen Hayes as the innkeeper's wife with Philip Maravale as the husband. Ladies and gentlemen, Stephen Vincent Benet's reverend and inspiring play, A Child is Born, was especially written for Cavalcade one year ago. We repeat it tonight because it was so widely acclaimed as a drama of great power and because it uniquely relates to a war-torn world, the timeless story of the Christmas birth in Judea. To introduce A Child is Born, Cavalcade is privileged to present William Rose Benet, brother of the late Stephen Vincent Benet. Mr. Benet. Christmas this year is not merely a day of gifts and trees. Our nation is learning something that is said in the drama you are about to hear. We are learning that life can be lost without vision, but not lost by death. The man who wrote those words died speaking against tyrants. The dream of human brotherhood was his dream. Now the tide of battle is turned. Slowly but surely we are wearing down the forces of manifest and unbearable evil. But there is also this. What my brother meant when he said here, something is loose to change the shaken world. He meant a better future for all men. Remember that. The voices that speak here are not only of their time, but of our own. The voice of the thief Dismas, not least. This is truly a miracle play, old but forever new. That answers everything. The country is occupied. We have no country. You've heard of that perhaps? You've seen the soldiers, haven't you? You know just what can happen to us sort of people once there's a little trouble. Answer me. I've seen, I know, but... But, oh, la, la, la, sometimes 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 things they do and why we 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 time. They grind us like dry wheat between the stones, don't you know that? I know that somehow King should not be wicked and grind down the people. 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 in's my in. 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 out in the hills and stir up trouble, call themselves prophets too and prophesy that something new is coming to the world, the Lord knows what. Well, it's a long time coming. And meanwhile, wear 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 grain. At least if you'll not sing subversive songs to other people, but you 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 was my son too, and I think of it. I couldn't help his dying. No, my husband. 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 am a barren bow. I think and sing and am a barren bow. The fault is mine. I had my joyous season. My season of full ripening and fruit, and then the silence and the 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 will forget, not sing 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 has to feed them. And they'll pay? On the nail? 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. You know the trick? Yes. They must be well-served. I'll care for that. The honest innkeeper, the thoughtful man. Oh, I do not spoil my servants with largesse 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 coin, some solid enemy and lovely coin under the heartstone. Ah, spoil the Egyptians, eh? Hark, what's that? Oh, I'll go. The maids aren't up yet. Lazy bones. A minute, just a minute. It's early, yet you needn't beat the door down. This is an honest inn. Good morning. Hail Caesar. Are you keeper of this inn? Yes, sir. Orders from the prefect. No other guests 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. He'd hear no noise, no noise at all. This is the prefect's feast, the satanalia. You've heard your orders. Yes, sir. Yes, indeed, sir. See, they are carried out. No other guests. Hail Caesar. Hail Caesar. Well, that's pleasant. All rooms at the disposal of the prefect. No other guests. Remember, no other guests. I will remember. Do so. It is an order. And now, about the quail. You'll make the sauce. That's the important thing. A crow 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. Sarah? Leah? Where are those lazy servants? Leah and Sarah, come and help your mistress. I'll rouse the fools. There's work to do today. You are listening to Helen Hayes as the innkeeper's wife and Philip Maravale as the innkeeper and Stephen Vincent Bonet as a child is born. Presented on the cavalcade of America, sponsored by DuPont. And the day passed and night fell on the town, silent and still and cold. The houses lay huddled and dark beneath the watching stars and only the in-windows streamed with light. Gentlemen, men of all... What's the prefect saying? I'm full of Rome's historic destiny and of our good friend, King Aaron, who has chosen alliance with Rome rather than a useless struggle. Keep them under with a firm hand. What is he saying up there? I don't know. I don't know the big words. The soldier said... Oh, you and your soldier. No, he's not so bad. He brought me a trinket. See? You and your Roman trinkets. What's this? Why are you standing idle? They're calling for more wine. Let Leah serve them. She likes their looks. Sarah. Yes, mistress. Please, Sarah, we've talked like this so many times. Very well, mistress, but let her go first. Get up the stairs, you little soldier's comfort. I hope it pinches you. Mistress, it's not my fault. Does Sarah have to...? Go, go. Both of you. You ought to beat the girl. She's insolent and showed it. She can't be too hard on her. Her father's dead, 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. Yet you think a self-respecting in could have some decent and well-mannered maids? But no such luck. Solans and sluts, the lot of them. Give me a stool, I'm tired. Say, thirty dinners. And double for the prefect. And the wine. Best, second best, 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've dreamt about in some deep sleep. Truer than any waking. Heard about long ago, 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're tired, my dear. Well, we shall sleep soon. No, I am not tired. I am expectant as a runner is before a race, a child before a feast day, a woman at the gates of life and death. Expectant for us 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 sparkling stars. Cannot read it yet. I wait and strive and cannot find it. What's that? They can't come in. I don't care who they are. We have no room. Go to the door. Is this the end, sir? We're travelers and it's late and cold. May we enter? Who is it? Just a pair of country 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 man. We have no room tonight. The prefect orders. No room at all? No, no, 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. Must you mix in this? Wait! Good sir, the enemy are in our house and we 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, I once had a child. 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 beasts. What am I saying? There is, we have a stable at the end, safe from the cold at least. And if you choose, you should be very welcome. Will you share it? Gladly, and with great joy. The lantern husband? Nay, I will take it. I can see the path. Come. Well, I suppose that you must have your way and any other night. They're decent people or seem to be. He has his arm about her smoothing 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. There's a 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 flesh and spirit and fire. Something is loose to change the shaken world. The night deepens. The stars march in the sky. The prefects men are gone. The inn is quiet. But in the street outside. Who sings so late? How can they sing so late? I'll go and see. Wait, I'll rub the windowpane. It's rhymed with frost. They're shepherds from the hills. Shepherd? Yes, mistress. They have crooks and staves. They're tattered coats, a ragged on their backs. Their hands are blue and stinging with the cold. And yet they all seem drunken. Not with wine but with good news. Their faces shine with it. Cold and so late, poor creatures. Call them in. The prefects men are gone. I, but the master... He's dozing. Do as I tell you. Where did they go? Would they not stay with us? Mistress, they did not even look on me. They looked ahead. They have gone toward the stable. The stable of our inn. The stable of our inn? And they are gone. I gone, but... Mistress, do you hear? Hear what? The tread of steeds on the hard ground. A company that comes from out the east. I've never seen such things. I'm afraid. These are great lords. Great kings with strange and memorable beasts. And crowns upon their heads. 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 masters. Worthy and mighty kings. Our humble inn is honoured by your high nobility. Come in, come in. We fire in beds and wine. Come in, come in, tarry a while and rest. We cannot stay. We follow the bright star. They do not understand it. They are gone. They did not even look at me or pause, though there's no other inn. They follow the poor shepherds to the stable. They would not tarry with us? No, not one. Peace, husband. You know well enough why none would tarry with us. And so do I. I lay a while in sleep and a voice said to me, Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, an excelsis tale. 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 is just... Dreams. Were they dreams, the shepherds and the kings? Is it a dream, this glory that we feel streaming upon us and yet not for us? Now, mistress, mistress, it is my fault, not yours. You told me seek the strangers in the stable and see they had all care, but I forgot. Mistress, the fault was mine. You told me also, but I did not go. If there was any fault, wife, it was mine. I did not wish to turn them from my door and yet... I know I love the chink of money. Love it too well. The good, sound, thumping 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. And sell my people for it in the street or for a price, but sell them. And there are many like me and God piteous. God piteous indeed. For we are human and do not always see the vision when it comes. The shining change. Or if we see it, do not follow it because it is too hard, too strange, too new. And now I know this. Standing in this light, who have been half alive these many years, brooding 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 Herod and King Herod's 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 age 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 lost 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. No, that's well said. Who speaks there? Who are you? Oh, my name is Dismiss. I'm a thief. You know, the star-flea-bitten sort of boy who aren't stark 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. The lock upon its old. I could pick locks like that when I was five. What have you taken? Nothing. I tried the stable first, and then your cellar. I slipped in, crept up, rolled underneath the bench while all your honest backs were turned, and then... And then? Well, something happened. I don't know what. I didn't see your shepherds or your kings, but in the stable I did see the child. Just through a crack in the boards, one moment's space. 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 us worthy mistress. Beggars who show their sores and ask for arms. Women who cough their lungs out in the cold slaves, though I've been one. Thieves and runnigates 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. Has he come to all of us or just to you? To every man alive. I wish I could believe. And if you did, no doubt you'd give up thieving. Gently, lady, gently. Thieving's my trade. It's the only trade I know. But if it were true, if he had really come to all of us, I'd say to all of us, then honest man or thief, I'd hang upon a cross for him. Would you? There, I see, I've said something you don't 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, that there will be no crosses and no tyrants, no herds and no slaves. Well, it was pleasant thinking things might be so, and so I'll say farewell. I've taken nothing. And he was a fair child to look at. Wait! Why? What did you see there by the window? The dawn. The common dawn. The ordinary poor and mortal day. The shepherds and the kings have gone away. The great angelic visitors are gone. He is alone. He must not be alone. I do not understand you, wife, nor I. Do you not see? Because I see it last. Dismas the 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, and if it finds no star, the sullen and the slut, the thief, the selfish man, the barren woman, and yet unless we go, his message fails. 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 rule us all? He will not slay King Herod. He will die. There will be other Herods, other tyrants, great wars and ceaseless struggles to be free. Not always one. These are sad tidings of him. No, no, they are glad tidings of great joy. Because he brings man's freedom in his hands. The thought, the wish, the dream of brotherhood, never and wholly to be lost. The water and the bread of the oppressed, the stay and succor of the resolute, the harness of the valiant and the brave, the new word that has come to 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 won, born and gone forth to help and raise mankind, there will be women with a right to say, Gloria, Gloria, in excelsis Deo, a child is born. Gloria, Gloria. Come, let us go. What can we bring to him? What mortal gifts? I have a ribbon. It's my prettiest. It is not much, but he might play with it. I have a little bell my father gave me. It used to make me merry. I've kept it. He may have it. My pocket's empty. My rags are bare. That 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. 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 faith, through all the years and years. Though I forget, though I'm led astray, though after this I never see his face, I will give all my faith. 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, O ye faithful. Joyful and triumphant. Come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem. To Helen Hayes, to Philip Merivale, and to the gifts of Stephen Vincent Bonnet, who wrote A Child Is Born, presents its thanks and deep appreciation for their contribution this Christmas season on the cavalcade of America. Free men know that it is neither incompatible nor inconsistent to celebrate the birthday of the Prince of Peace in the midst of war. Only free men and those who fight for freedom know that this time we have the chance to create the peace that was promised that first Christmas long ago. We of DuPont add our fervent hopes to the prayers for peace. For whatever success DuPont has achieved has come in greatest measure from serving the needs of peace, of better living. So it is with hope and courage and abiding faith that the men and women of the DuPont Company join on this third wartime Christmas with people of goodwill everywhere in a wish for the greatest of all gifts, victory and peace. DuPont invites you to be its guest next Monday evening at the same time when cavalcade presents Richard Arlen as the twice-shipped wrecked Archie Gibbs in U-boat Prisoner, one of the most exciting stories to come out of the submarine war in the Atlantic. The orchestra and chorus this evening were under the direction of Donald Voorhees with special musical score composed by Arden Cornwall. This is Carl Frank sending best wishes from cavalcade sponsor the DuPont Company of Wilmington, Delaware. This is the National Broadcasting Company.