The Price

by Arthur Miller

  VICTOR, laughing: Solomon, you are one of the greatest. But I’m way ahead of you, it’s not going to work.

  SOLOMON, offended: What “work”? I don’t know how much time I got. What is so terrible if I say that? The trouble is, you’re such a young fella you don’t understand these things—

  VICTOR: I understand very well, I know what you’re up against. I’m not so young.

  SOLOMON, scoffing: What are you, forty? Forty-five?

  VICTOR: I’m going to be fifty.

  SOLOMON: Fifty! You’re a baby boy!

  VICTOR: Some baby.

  SOLOMON: My God, if I was fifty … ! I got married I was seventy-five.

  VICTOR: Go on.

  SOLOMON: What are you talking? She’s still living by Eighth Avenue over there. See, that’s why I like to stay liquid, because I don’t want her to get her hands on this.… Birds she loves. She’s living there with maybe a hundred birds. She gives you a plate of soup it’s got feathers. I didn’t work all my life for them birds

  VICTOR: I appreciate your problems, Mr. Solomon, but I don’t have to pay for them. He stands. I’ve got no more time.

  SOLOMON, holding up a restraining hand—desperately: I’m going to buy it! He has shocked himself, and glances around at the towering masses of furniture. I mean I’ll … He moves, looking at the stuff. I’ll have to live, that’s all, I’ll make up my mind! I’ll buy it.

  VICTOR—he is affected as Solomon’s fear comes through to him: We’re talking about everything now.

  SOLOMON, angrily: Everything, everything! Going to his portfolio: I’ll figure it up, I’ll give you a very nice price, and you’ll be a happy man.

  VICTOR, sitting again: That I doubt.

  Solomon takes a hard-boiled egg out of the portfolio.

  What’s this now, lunch?

  SOLOMON: You give me such an argument, I’m hungry! I’m not supposed to get too hungry.

  VICTOR: Brother!

  SOLOMON—cracks the shell on his diamond ring: You want me to starve to death? I’m going to be very quick here.

  VICTOR: Boy—I picked a number!

  SOLOMON: There wouldn’t be a little salt, I suppose.

  VICTOR: I’m not going running for salt now!

  SOLOMON: Please, don’t be blue. I’m going to knock you off your feet with the price, you’ll see. He swallows the egg. He now faces the furniture, and, half to himself, pad and pencil poised: I’m going to go here like an IBM. He starts estimating on his pad.

  VICTOR: That’s all right, take it easy. As long as you’re serious.

  SOLOMON: Thank you. He touches the hated buffet: Ay, yi, yi. All right, well … He jots down a figure. He goes to the next piece, jots down another figure. He goes to another piece, jots down a figure.

  VICTOR, after a moment: You really got married at seventy-five?

  SOLOMON: What’s so terrible?

  VICTOR: No, I think it’s terrific. But what was the point?

  SOLOMON: What’s the point at twenty-five? You can’t die twenty-six?

  VICTOR, laughing softly: I guess so, ya.

  SOLOMON: It’s the same like secondhand furniture, you see; the whole thing is a viewpoint. It’s a mental world. He jots down another figure for another piece. Seventy-five I got married, fifty-one, and twenty-two.

  VICTOR: You’re kidding.

  SOLOMON: I wish! He works, jotting his estimate of each piece on the pad, opening drawers, touching everything. Peering into a dark recess, he takes out a pencil flashlight, switches it on, and begins to probe with the beam.

  VICTOR—he has gradually turned to watch Solomon, who goes on working: Cut the kidding now—how old are you?

  SOLOMON, sliding out a drawer: I’m eighty-nine. It’s such an accomplishment?

  VICTOR: You’re a hell of a guy.

  SOLOMON, smiling with the encouragement and turning to Victor: You know, it’s a funny thing. It’s so long since I took on such a load like this—you forget what kind of life it puts into you. To take out a pencil again … it’s a regular injection. Frankly, my telephone you could use for a ladle, it wouldn’t interfere with nothing. I want to thank you. He points at Victor. I’m going to take good care of you, I mean it. I can open that?

  VICTOR: Sure, anything.

  SOLOMON, going to armmoire: Some of them had a mirror … He opens the armoire, and a rotted-up fur rug falls out. It is about three by five. What’s this?

  VICTOR: God knows. I guess it’s a rug.

  SOLOMON, holding it up: No-no—that’s a lap robe. Like for a car.

  VICTOR: Say, that’s right, ya. When they went driving. God, I haven’t seen that in—

  SOLOMON: You had a chauffeur?

  VICTOR: Ya, we had a chauffeur.

  Their eyes meet. Solomon looks at him as though Victor were coming into focus. Victor turns away. Now Solomon turns back to the armoire.

  SOLOMON: Look at that! He takes down an opera hat from the shelf within. My God! He puts it on, looks into the interior mirror. What a world! He turns to Victor: He must’ve been some sporty guy!

  VICTOR, smiling: You look pretty good!

  SOLOMON: And from all this he could go so broke?

  VICTOR: Why not? Sure. Took five weeks. Less.

  SOLOMON: You don’t say. And he couldn’t make a comeback?

  VICTOR: Well some men don’t bounce, you know.

  SOLOMON—grunts: Hmm! So what did he do?

  VICTOR: Nothing. Just sat here. Listened to the radio.

  SOLOMON: But what did he do? What—?

  VICTOR: Well, now and then he was making change at the Automat. Toward the end he was delivering telegrams.

  SOLOMON, with grief and wonder: You don’t say. And how much he had?

  VICTOR: Oh … couple of million, I guess.

  SOLOMON: My God. What was the matter with him?

  VICTOR: Well, my mother died around the same time. I guess that didn’t help. Some men just don’t bounce, that’s all.

  SOLOMON: Listen, I can tell you bounces. I went busted 1932; then 1923 they also knocked me out; the panic of 1904, 1898 … But to lay down like that …

  VICTOR: Well, you’re different. He believed in it.

  SOLOMON. What he believed?

  VICTOR: The system, the whole thing. He thought it was his fault, I guess. You—you come in with your song and dance, it’s all a gag. You’re a hundred and fifty years old, you tell your jokes, people fall in love with you, and you walk away with their furniture.

  SOLOMON: That’s not nice.

  VICTOR: Don’t shame me, will ya?—What do you say? You don’t need to look any more, you know what I’ve got here.

  Solomon is clearly at the end of his delaying resources. He looks about slowly; the furniture seems to loom over him like a threat or a promise. His eyes climb up to the edges of the ceiling, his hands grasping one another.

  What are you afraid of? It’ll keep you busy.

  Solomon looks at him, wanting even more reassurance.

  SOLOMON: You don’t think it’s foolish?

  VICTOR: Who knows what’s foolish? You enjoy it—

  SOLOMON: Listen, I love it—

  VICTOR:—so take it. You plan too much, you end up with nothing.

  SOLOMON, intimately: I would like to tell you something. The last few months, I don’t know what it is—she comes to me. You see, I had a daughter, she should rest in peace, she took her own life, a suicide….

  VICTOR: When was this?

  SOLOMON: It was … 1916—the latter part. But very beautiful, a lovely face, with large eyes—she was pure like the morning. And lately, I don’t know what it is—I see her clear like I see you. And every night practically, I lay down to go to sleep, so she sits there. And you can’t help it, you ask yourself—what happened? What happened? Maybe I could have said something to her … maybe I did say something … it’s all … He looks at the furniture. It’s not that I’ll die, you can’t be afraid of that. But … I’ll tell you the truth—a minute
ago I mentioned I had three wives … Slight pause. His fear rises. Just this minute I realize I had four. Isn’t that terrible? The first time was nineteen, in Lithuania. See, that’s what I mean—it’s impossible to know what is important. Here I’m sitting with you … and … and … He looks around at the furniture. What for? Not that I don’t want it, I want it, but … You see, all my life I was a terrible fighter—you could never take nothing from me; I pushed, I pulled, I struggled in six different countries, I nearly got killed a couple times, and it’s … It’s like now I’m sitting here talking to you and I tell you it’s a dream, it’s a dream! You see, you can’t imagine it because—

  VICTOR: I know what you’re talking about. But it’s not a dream—it’s that you’ve got to make decisions before you know what’s involved, but you’re stuck with the results anyway. Like I was very good in science—I loved it. But I had to drop out to feed the old man. And I figured I’d go on the Force temporarily, just to get us through the Depression, then go back to school. But the war came, we had the kid, and you turn around and you’ve racked up fifteen years on the pension. And what you started out to do is a million miles away. Not that I regret it all—we brought up a terrific boy, for one thing; nobody’s ever going to take that guy. But it’s like you were saying—it’s impossible to know what’s important. We always agreed, we stay out of the rat race and live our own life. That was important. But you shovel the crap out the window, it comes back in under the door—it all ends up she wants, she wants. And I can’t really blame her—there’s just no respect for anything but money.

  SOLOMON: What’re you got against money?

  VICTOR: Nothing, I just didn’t want to lay down my life for it. But I think I laid it down another way, and I’m not even sure any more what I was trying to accomplish. I look back now, and all I can see is a long, brainless walk in the street. I guess it’s the old story; do anything, but just be sure you win. Like my brother; years ago I was living up here with the old man, and he used to contribute five dollars a month. A month! And a successful surgeon. But the few times he’d come around, the expression on the old man’s face—you’d think God walked in. The respect, you know what I mean? The respect! And why not? Why not?

  SOLOMON: Well, sure, he had the power.

  VICTOR: Now you said it—if you got that you got it all. You’re even lovable! He laughs. Well, what do you say? Give me the price.

  SOLOMON—slight pause: I’ll give you eleven hundred dollars.

  VICTOR—slight pause: For everything?

  SOLOMON, in a breathless way: Everything.

  Slight pause. Victor looks around at the furniture.

  I want it so I’m giving you a good price. Believe me, you will never do better. I want it; I made up my mind.

  Victor continues staring at the stuff. Solomon takes out a common envelope and removes a wad of bills.

  Here … I’ll pay you now. He readies a bill to start counting it out.

  VICTOR: It’s mat I have to split it, see—

  SOLOMON: All right … so I’ll make out a receipt for you and I’ll put down six hundred dollars.

  VICTOR: No-no … He gets up and moves at random, looking at the furniture.

  SOLOMON: Why not? He took from you so take from him. If you want, I’ll put down four hundred.

  VICTOR: No, I don’t want to do that. Slight pause. I’ll call you tomorrow.

  SOLOMON, smiling: All right; with God’s help if I’m there tomorrow I’ll answer the phone. If I wouldn’t be … Slight pause. Then I wouldn’t be.

  VICTOR, annoyed, but wanting to believe: Don’t start that again, will you?

  SOLOMON: Look, you convinced me, so I want it. So what should I do?

  VICTOR: I convinced you!

  SOLOMON, very distressed: Absolutely you convinced me. You saw it—the minute I looked at it I was going to walk out!

  VICTOR, cutting him off, angered at his own indecision: Ah, the hell with it. He holds out his hand. Give it to me.

  SOLOMON, wanting Victor’s good will: Please, don’t be blue.

  VICTOR: Oh, it all stinks. Jabbing forth his hand: Come on.

  SOLOMON, with a bill raised over Victor’s hand—protesting: What stinks? You should be happy. Now you can buy her. a nice coat, take her to Florida, maybe—

  VICTOR, nodding ironically: Right, right! We’ll all be happy now. Give it to me.

  Solomon shakes his head and counts bills into his hand. Victor turns his head and looks at the piled walls of furniture.

  SOLOMON: There’s one hundred; two hundred; three hundred; four hundred … Take my advice, buy her a nice fur coat your troubles’ll be over—

  VICTOR: I know all about it. Come on.

  SOLOMON: So you got there four, so I’m giving you … five, six, seven … I mean it’s already in the Bible, the rat race. The minute she laid her hand on the apple, that’s it.

  VICTOR: I never read the Bible. Come on.

  SOLOMON: If you’ll read it you’ll see—there’s always a rat race, you can’t stay out of it. So you got there seven, so now I’m giving you …

  A man appears in the doorway. In his mid-fifties, well-barbered; hatless, in a camel’s-hair coat, very healthy complexion. A look of sharp intelligence on his face.

  Victor, seeing past Solomon, starts slightly with shock, withdrawing his hand from the next bill which Solomon is about to lay in it.

  VICTOR, suddenly flushed, his voice oddly high and boyish: Walter!

  WALTER—enters the room, coming to Victor with extended hand and with a reserve of warmth but a stiff smile: How are you, kid?

  Solomon has moved out of their line of sight.

  VICTOR—shifts the money to his left hand as he shakes: God, I never expected you.

  WALTER, of the money—half-humorously: Sorry I’m late. What are you doing?

  VICTOR, fighting a treason to himself, thus taking on a strained humorous air: I … I just sold it.

  WALTER: Good! How much?

  VICTOR, as though absolutely certain now he has been had: Ah … eleven hundred.

  WALTER, in a dead voice shorn of comment: Oh. Well, good. He turns rather deliberately—but not overly so—to Solomon: For everything?

  SOLOMON—comes to Walter, his hand extended; with an energized voice that braves everything: I’m very happy to meet you, Doctor! My name is Gregory Solomon.

  WALTER—the look on his face is rather amused, but his reserve has possibilities of accusation: How do you do?

  He shakes Solomon’s hand, as Victor raises his hand to smooth down his hair, a look of near-alarm for himself on his face.

  CURTAIN

  Act Two

  The action is continuous. As the curtain rises Walter is just releasing Solomon’s hand and turning about to face Victor. His posture is reserved, stiffened by traditional control over a nearly fierce curiosity. His grin is disciplined and rather hard, but his eyes are warm and combative.

  WALTER: How’s Esther?

  VICTOR: Fine. Should be here any minute.

  WALTER: Here? Good! And what’s Richard doing?

  VICTOR: He’s at M.I.T.

  WALTER: No kidding! M.I.T.!

  VICTOR, nodding: They gave him a full scholarship.

  WALTER, dispelling his surprise: What do you know. With a wider smile, and embarrassed warmth: You’re proud.

  VICTOR: I guess so. They put him in the Honors Program.

  WALTER: Really. That’s wonderful.—You don’t mind my coming, do you?

  VICTOR: No! I called you a couple of times.

  WALTER: Yes, my nurse told me. What’s Richard interested in?

  VICTOR: Science. So far, anyway. With security: How’re yours?

  WALTER—moving, he breaks the confrontation: I suppose Jean turned out best—but I don’t think you ever saw her.

  VICTOR: I never did, no.

  WALTER: The Times gave her quite a spread last fall. Pretty fair designer.

  VICTOR: Oh? That’s great. And the boys? Th
ey in school?

  WALTER: They often are. Abruptly laughs, refusing his own embarrassment: I hardly see them, Vic. With all the unsolved mysteries in the world they’re investigating the guitar. But what the hell … I’ve given up worrying about them. He walks past Solomon, glancing at the furniture: I’d forgotten how much he had up here. There’s your radio!

  VICTOR, smiling with him: I know, I saw it.

  WALTER, looking down at the radio, then upward to the ceiling through which the battery once exploded. Both laugh. Then he glances with open feeling at Victor: Long time.

  VICTOR, fending off the common emotion: Yes. How’s Dorothy?

  WALTER, cryptically: She’s all right, I guess. He moves, glancing at the things, but again with suddenness turns back. Looking forward to seeing Esther again. She still writing poetry?

  VICTOR: No, not for years now.

  SOLOMON: He’s got a very nice wife. We met

  WALTER, surprised; as though at something intrusive: Oh? He turns back to the furniture. Well. Same old junk, isn’t it?

  VICTOR, downing a greater protest: I wouldn’t say that. Some of it isn’t bad.

  SOLOMON: One or two very nice things, Doctor. We came to a very nice agreement.

  VICTOR, with an implied rebuke: I never thought you’d show up; I guess we’d better start all over again—

  WALTER: Oh, no-no, I don’t want to foul up your deal.

  SOLOMON: Excuse me, Doctor—better you should take what you want now than we’ll argue later. What did you want?

  WALTER, surprised, turning to Victor: Oh, I didn’t want anything. I came by to say hello, that’s all.

  VICTOR: I see. Fending off Walter’s apparent gesture with an over-quick movement toward the oar: I found your oar, if you want it.

  WALTER: Oar?

  Victor draws it out from behind furniture. A curved-blade sweep.

  Hah! He receives the oar, looks up its length, and laughs, hefting it. I must have been out of my mind!

  SOLOMON: Excuse me, Doctor; if you want the oar—