 The Mutual Broadcasting System, in cooperation with Family Theatre Incorporated, presents Descent into Paradise, starring Edgar Berrier, Natalie Wood, and Phillip Terry. John Lund is your host. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Do you remember a day, maybe for some of you a day long ago, but a day to remember always? The day when you stood beside someone you love and pledged your faith in one another until death do us part. And on that day, together you ask God to bless you, to bless your marriage. That is a prayer that should be on our lips, not only on the day of marriage, but every day. And when we as a family join together and ask God to bless our home, we can be sure that he will hear our prayers and help us in all difficulties. Pray together as a family. Make daily family prayer a family practice. And in your hearts and homes there will always be the peace and happiness that comes with God's wonderful help. If you stand at the bridge where the Chicago River meets Lake Michigan, you can see the towering skyscrapers shoot up from the river banks. You can see the great Michigan Boulevard with its elegant shops. And then as you look down below to the lower level, a subterranean passageway that follows the black, swirling Chicago River westward, a panorama of contrast unfolds, unequal by few cities in the world. The lower level was roofed by the streets above, shadowed by the skyscrapers and warehouses on its north and south banks. As you move along lower level, you will note the ghoulish-looking shops, one-time speakeasies during the Chicago's reign of terror. All are deserted now, save one, the lower level cafe. Proprietor, Adam Adams. My name is Adams. Before I took over the lower level cafe, it was a hideout and hangout for the Chicago underworld. I ran the cafes, I found it, red checkered tablecloths, sawdust on the floor, and an old upright piano with a few bullet holes still in the framework. My customer is called to place, quaint. Coming down those 40 steps one rainy evening in the early 30s on my way to the cafe, I saw a guy leaning up against one of the pillars. A coat collar turned up and soaked to the skin. He finished smoking a cigarette, tossed the butt into the river and started for it, so I grabbed his arm. I wouldn't go after that butt, son. Why not? It's too wet. Have a dry one. No thanks. Just finished. You know, it's kind of slippery on that edge, especially during the rain. Sort of makes sliding in much easier, don't you think? Ah, it's the coming back that's tough. You see, there's nothing to grab on to. I wasn't figuring on coming back. Well, that's generally the idea until you're in. What's the matter, you broke? Does it make any difference? Ah, ah, it does. Hey, hey, look, I, ah, I know a joint where we can get some hot coffee. Free. How about it? Why not? I've got lots of time. At my cafe, I found out something about Robert Morrison. It was a piano accompanist for some big concert singer on tour. There was an Astiata smash-up. She was killed and his whole left hand was crushed. I'd been on a bum ever since. And the river was his last beat. After I fed him, I told him I needed a piano player in my cafe. He suspected I needed one like I needed two heads. But he did take the job. A week later, I handed him his first paycheck. Ha, he broke down a crop. Well, he had a good one coming to him. You see, he told me all about his little girl, whose mother had died in childbirth and was now with the, ah, with the AIDS Society. And today, today was going to bring her home. You see, today was her birthday. Well, late that afternoon, I was leaving the cafe when I saw them having a picnic on the north bank of the river. Wouldn't it be fun, Daddy, to have a picnic every day? You wouldn't want a birthday every day, would you? Oh, yes. Then I'd be real grown up. You mean grown up. And I could cook for you and sew and everything. But you'd get old too fast. Well, you'd be 365 years old by next July. Well, I could stop having birthdays after I was grown up. Grown up, darling. Grown up. Look, Daddy, the locomotive across the river. Looks like it's backing up. But it's leaving that car all by itself. They've moved it to a siding. Must be a special car. What's special about it? Oh, important people generally have private cars. Sometimes the president of the United States rides in one. I remember the great musician Patoreschi always traveled on his concert tours in a private car. But do they just leave the car there? Oh, no. When they're ready to go to another city, the locomotive pitches it on and off they go. My house, like we do. Well, geniuses are not usually sociable people. They don't like crowds. Is that why you're not sociable, Daddy? Who told you that? Mrs. McGivney at the AIDS Society. She did, eh? What are you writing, Daddy? Oh, just some music. Oh, I know. Do re mi fa si la. Oh, no, no, no. Do re mi fa so la ti do. Is that what you're writing? Not exactly. I'm writing a story of that river. A story? Like Alice in Wonderland? Well, it's not that kind of a story. It's a musical story of the river. Please tell it to me, Daddy. Well, it's kind of hard to tell in words. Those notes tell of that river when it was a little stream far, far away, beyond the railway station, farther than we can see. Farther than the steam shovel? Much farther. And the music here shows this happy little stream flowing in from the meadows, playing along its banks filled with willows, making the flowers grow in the grass and giving life to the small trees. And birds, too? We'll put in birds, too. Now these notes, they tell how the stream moves up and becomes a river. And it gets wider and wider and the water rushes faster. And that brings on a new kind of music. Then we hear the sounds of the city in the distance, the pounding steam shovels, the blast of locomotives. Just like the one we heard? Exactly. And we come past the skyscrapers and those big buildings over there, and then comes the music of the bridges, opening all along the rivers the big boats come through. And then, where the river rushes past Adams Cafe, it sweeps onto the Michigan Avenue Bridge, and we hear a thousand tones swelling into a terrific crescendo of chords. And that's the death march of the river disappearing into the lake. Now, if I could only hear it play it as it should be. Why can't you play it, Daddy? It takes two hands to play that sort of music. But when your hands get better, you'll be able to play it, won't you? We'll see. Can't we be in the story? You are, darling. You're the inspiration for every note. Now you go and play while I finish putting this music down. That was real good. Oh? Where did you come from, young lady? Across the river, by the bridge. Are you lost? No. Daddy and I are having a picnic, but he's busy now. Oh, I see. I know why you don't live in a real house. Well, why? Because you're a genius and you're not very sociable. Who told you all that? My daddy. He's not sociable either. And what does he do that makes him unsociable? He plays the piano. Uh-huh. So that's it. Can you play Chopsticks? Chopstick? You mean like this? There. No, that's not right. It isn't. Can you play it right? You have to play it with one hand like this. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. What happens to the other hand? My daddy plays it with me. Would you play with me? You mean you want me to play the right hand, is that it? Yes, and I'll count, huh? All right. You count. Now, ready, begin. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Wasn't that much better? Bravo. Much. That's the way my daddy and I play it. What's that music on your piano? Something I was practicing. Would you like to hear it? Oh, yes. My daddy writes music like that, but he can't play it. Why not? He heard his hand, and he hasn't played for a long time. He used to play with two hands just like you. I'm sure it will get well again. Now, don't you think you'd better run along to your picnic? Your father might wonder where you are. Do you live in a train all the time? Only when I'm traveling. Wouldn't you rather live in a house? Well, this is a little more convenient. You could come and stay with us. I could ask my daddy. You're the little princess. What's your name? Margaret Morrison. What's yours? Jose Miguel Arantino. Gee, that's a funny name. Is it your real name? Yes. You're sure you're not making it up? Like Jabberwocky and the Gryphon or the Bandersnatch. No, no, I didn't make it up. Didn't they tease you about it at school? When I went to school, it didn't sound funny. I tell you what I do. For you, I change it. You can call me Jose. How's that? Nope. I don't like that either. You don't. How about Joe? I'll have to call you Mr. Joe. Why couldn't you just call me Joe? It isn't respectful. All right, Mr. Joe. Now you better run along. Can I come tomorrow? Any time. You are always welcome. Maestro, maestro, good news. The hall is a complete cell. Who's it is? This is Margaret. Margaret, may I present Sr. Pietro de Nerval, my manager. How do you do? Maestro, I don't understand. Who is it this Bambini? What's she doing here? I heard Joe playing the piano. I mean Mr. Joe, so I came to visit him. Joe? Joe who? Joe me, I am Joe. Mr. Joe, and what's your name? Look a little girl, please. Please go away. Nobody interrupts the maestro at this hour. She is my most critical audience. Audience? A street away thing. Can you play chopsticks? Joe, chop a steak. Maestro, this is an unprecedented. Of course he plays chopstick. All managers are frustrated virtuosos. This child is a bewitched you maestro. Is that bad? All three of us can play together. Like Daddy, Adam and me. Dear little girl, is it dollar? Go away, please. Do you want me to go away, Mr. Joe? No, of course not. Maestro, my bish is lost. I will take her myself to the police. She is not lost. Now perhaps if we all play chopstick, then she might go away. Am I Margaret? All right. I'll sit next to Mr. Joe and you. Say, what is your name? His name is worse than mine. Call him Kilroy. All right, Mr. Kilroy, you sit beside me. Maestro, this is a sheer madness. I refuse. Pietro, Pietro, do as she asks. Yes, maestro. Now you, Mr. Joe, play with the right hand. And Mr. Kilroy, play with the middle. All play down here. Ready? Ready? Pietro, ready. Now all count. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Mr. Kilroy, you're playing the wrong note. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was the next day I met little Margaret skipping across the bridge. She said her father had sent her to the music store to get some manuscript like the kind she was carrying. And on her way back from the music store, she stopped by the railway sighting to see her pal, Mr. Joe. Hello, Mr. Joe. I'm a no, Mr. Joe. I'm a what do you call a Kilroy. So it's you again. I said hello and you didn't say hello back. Hello. And a goodbye. The maestro's in a no mood. He's upset. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. You mean Mr. Joe's stomach is upset? His stomach is ahead. Everything is a bad, bad goodbye. Why, that's terrible. I know just the right thing for him. Now you just hold this music for him. Now what do you want? I'll go to Mr. Gleason's drug store. No, no, please. You put him right to bed and take his temperature. I know just what to get for him. Oh, maestro. Yes, maestro. I thought I heard you talking to someone. No, no, no, maestro, I was talking to myself. There is a place for people like that. That manuscript in your hand, what is it? It must be the one Massini asked me to look at. Why didn't you say it was here? Well, it's a... I don't know what's got into you lately, Pietro. Let me see it. Pietro, listen to this. I would have sworn Massini didn't have it in him. I would have sworn it too. Why aren't you in bed? I brought you some castor oil. Bed castor oil? Mr. Kuroi said your stomach was upset. You just said he was upset. You said stomach. Oh, maestro, this isn't too much. You don't sound like you're sick, Mr. Joe. It really was, but you have restored me. I'm fine now. Oh, well, I better go home now. My daddy is waiting. Oh, yes, yes, darling, go home. Can I have my daddy's music, Mr. Kuroi? Music? Oh, yes, yes, here it is right on the piano. Wait a minute. Pietro, I thought you said this was Massini's music. That's my daddy's. Mr. Kuroi was taking care of it. Well, maestro, I tried to... Let me get this straight. That music was brought here by the child. Yes, and it belongs to my daddy. Look, maestro, it's very possible that this man, Morrisini, can be a copyist for some well-known composer. He does not. He works for Adam, and he wrote that because I sawed him. Saw him. Well, Margaret, maybe he was copying those notes from some other score. He did not, because it's all about a little stream with flowers and trees and the birds singing. You mean this part? Yes, and then the river gets bigger and the steam shovels and the trains make all kinds of noise and Clancy's barge whistle. And then there's the big buildings and then the river goes by Adam's Cafe, where my daddy works. He plays the piano in Adam's Cafe. Yes. So that's it. Where's the rest of the music? You didn't lose any pages, did you? No. Maybe Mr. Kuroi lost some. I did not. Pietro, this man has written a great musical story of that river. It should be completed. Something like this on my program would be fresh, vital. Oh, Mr. Kuroi. Long age of man Beethoven. Yes, of man Beethoven. But can someone write great music now? This is heart and imagination. Now he must finish it, I insist. You insist. Don't you hear her say he's a genius? Margaret, I must see your father at once. Oh, my daddy doesn't talk to anyone, but Adam and me. He's not very sociable. You see, I told you, he's a genius. Yes, though, shut up. Margaret, couldn't you tell your father that aren't Tino... Oh, he wouldn't believe you. I could tell him my friends, Mr. John, Mr. Kuroi would like to see him. I don't think that would do it. And we could go to see him. Oh, one of the worlds the greatest of atosos. Go to see him. A bar room piano player. Oh, that would be outrageous. No. I alone shall go to this man. I shall request him to come here. I know who self-sacrifice Pietro, but that would be no way to treat a genius. Now I tell you what we do. We'll all go to see him. Oh, goody, then we can all play chopsticks. It was later that same afternoon when Morrison came to my cafe looking worried. He told me how he sent the kid for some manuscript paper more than two hours ago, and she hadn't come back. He thought she might have stopped over to have a chat with me because she was a great one for making friends. Well, we both started to look for when all of a sudden, coming down to 40 steps from the bridge, was little Margaret with two men. Morrison said, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Well, Margaret, with two men, Morrison's first reaction was Trojan officer, so he asked me to talk to him and he slipped back into the cafe. Yoo-hoo, Mr. Adams. Oh, Mr. Adams. Oh, hello, Margaret. Gentlemen, I'm sorry about this. It won't ever happen again. This is Mr. Joan, Mr. Kilroy. Yeah, Mr. D-D-Dil-Kilroy? The name is Dene Rale. Pietro Dene Rale. Never mind. As you were saying, sir. Well, I... All I was saying is, what can I do for you boys? Do? Do you know who this is? Pietro, please, please. Mr. Adams, where could I find Margaret's father? Oh, you're an old friend of Morrison's. Is that it? No, a new friend. Well, that's okay. He's right inside the cafe. Where's my daddy? Daddy? This is Mr. Joan, Mr. Kilroy. The name is Arantino. Arantino? The pianist? You see? He knows. Why don't you crawl into the woodwork, pal? Morrison, this manuscript. Is it your own composition? But how did you get it? That's another story, but is it yours? Yes, but I still don't understand. Margaret brought it to me accidentally, of course. I left it with Mr. Kilroy. It was a heavenly-inspired accident. I knew it was great the moment I heard it. Yes, yes, Pietro. Of course, indeed. But it isn't finished yet. That's one of the reasons I am here. If you would finish it. I should like permission to include it in my repertoire. I want to present it next Sunday at Orchestra Hall. The maestro will bring you fame and fortune. Pietro, please. What do you say, Morrison? May I use it? I don't know what to say. I wrote it just for something to do. No. You wrote it because it had to be written. And what difference does it make? Why or when? It's a wonderful piece of music. I had thought of it as a symphony. You need strings, brass, so many instruments. I can't promise you Toscanini. But if you will accept an arantino with piano and orchestra, it should be great. Gee, Daddy, as then we can hear the steam shovels and the squeaking bridges and everything. Well, it may not be ready in time, maestro, and possibly we can play it later in the tour. Possibly we will play it here. It means cancelling a dozen engagements throughout the country. Mr. Arantino, I'd like to ask a favor. Yeah? I've never heard this composition played with two hands. Would you play it for me? Thank you for the privilege. Shall I tell him about the little stream and how it growed? Grew Margaret. Yes. Yes, I think he understands these things and much more. I'll tell you what you can do, Margaret. You can explain them to Mr. Kilroy while I play the music. First there was a little stream far, far away, farther than the railway station. I played among the meadows with the flowers. Standing there, all this was like remembering a dream. I saw thousands of people in orchestra hall listening to the life and death of a river. Arantino, little Margaret and Morrison. Each held a child's hand as she went skipping up the 40 steps to the upper level. And I said to Kilroy, he was walking with me. Well, I seen it happen. A stairway to paradise that led down to a riverfront. But Kilroy wasn't listening. He was looking up at the little girl nearly, nearly bawling and mumbling something about, of such is the kingdom of the heaven. Of such is the kingdom of heaven. I guess there isn't one of us that has to admit that at times we get to worrying. We worry about a lot of things, business affairs, our jobs, our future. And when we pick up the papers and see that one marriage in three goes on the rocks and we see reports about juvenile delinquency, we even begin to worry about our own family. Yes, there are many things today that tend to separate a family. That's why we need all the help we can have to bring our families together. There's nothing that will bring a family closer in unity and understanding in the common bond of trust and faith in God. The simple expression of that faith, the daily practice of family prayer is the greatest inspiration and example we can give our children. Family prayer can and will bring God's blessing on our home, the blessing of harmony and understanding because a family that prays together stays together. This is John Lund saying good night and God bless you. Before saying good night, we'd like to thank Natalie Wood for her performance as Margaret, Edgar Berrier for the role of Jose, and Phillip Terry for his performance as Morrison. Our thanks also to John Slot for adapting his play for radio and to Max Tehr for his music. Heard in tonight's play was an adaptation from Victor Young's Manhattan Concerto played by pianist Harry Souffman. Mel Williamson directed, John Ryder produced the program. Others who appeared in tonight's program were Lou Merrill and Jack Petruzzi. Next week, our family theater drama will be No Greater Love. Your host will be Frank Leahy. This series of the Family Theater broadcast is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this kind of program by the mutual broadcasting system which has responded to this need and by the actors and technicians in the motion picture and radio industries. This program is heard overseas through the facilities of the United States Armed Forces Radio Services. Tony LaFranco speaking. This is the Mutual Broadcasting System.