QUENTIN: And on top of that she came back again the other night, flew into my room—reborn! She made me wonder how much I believe in life.
FELICE, rushing on: I had my nose fixed! Could I show it to you? The doctor took the bandage off, but I put it back because I wanted you to be the first! Do you mind?
QUENTIN, turning to her: No. But why me?
FELICE: Because—remember that night I came up here? I was trying to decide if I should have it done. ’Cause there could be something insincere about changing your nose; I wouldn’t want to build everything on the shape of a piece of cartilage. You don’t absolutely have to answer me, but—I think you wanted to make love to me that night. Didn’t you?
QUENTIN: I did, yes.
FELICE: I knew it! And I felt it didn’t matter what kind of nose I had! So I might as well have a short one! Could I show it to you?
QUENTIN: I’d like very much to see it.
FELICE: Close your eyes. He does. She lifts the bandage. Okay. He looks. She raises her arm in blessing. I’ll always bless you. Always!
He slowly turns to the Listener as she walks into darkness.
QUENTIN: And I even liked her first nose better. And yet I may stand in her mind like some important corner she turned in life. And she meant so little to me. I feel like a mirror in which she somehow saw herself as glorious.
Two pallbearers in the distance carry an invisible coffin.
It’s like my mother’s funeral.
Mother appears on upper platform, arms crossed as in death.
I still hear her voice in the street sometimes, loud and real, calling me. And yet she’s under the ground. That whole cemetery—I saw it like a field of buried mirrors in which the living merely saw themselves. I don’t seem to know how to grieve for her.
Father appears, a blanket over him; two nurses tend him.
Or maybe I don’t believe that grief is grief unless it kills you.
Dan appears, talking to a nurse.
Like when I flew back and met my brother in the hospital.
The nurse hurries out, and Quentin has gotten up and moved to Dan.
DAN: I’m so glad you got here, kid; I wouldn’t have wired you, but I don’t know what to do. You have a good flight?
QUENTIN, to Dan: But what’s the alternative? She’s dead, he has to know.
DAN, to Quentin: But he was only operated on this morning. How can we walk in and say, “Your wife is dead”? It’s like sawing off his arm. Suppose we tell him she’s on her way, then give him a sedative?
QUENTIN: But Dan, don’t you think it belongs to him? After fifty years you owe one another a death.
DAN: Kid, the woman was his right hand; without her he was never very much, you know—he’ll fall apart.
QUENTIN: I can’t agree; I think he’s got a lot of stuff—Without halt, to the Listener: Which is hilarious! . . . Because! He was always the one who idolized the old man, and I saw through him from the beginning! Suddenly we’re changing places, like children in a game! I don’t know any more what people are to one another!
DAN, as though he had come to a decision: All right; let’s go in, then.
QUENTIN: You want me to tell him?
DAN, unwillingly, afraid but challenged: I’ll do it.
QUENTIN: I could do it, Dan. It belongs to him, as much as his wedding.
DAN, relieved: All right, if you don’t mind.
They turn together toward Father in the bed. He does not see them yet. They move with the weight of their news. Quentin turns toward Listener as he walks.
QUENTIN: Or is it simply that I am crueler than he?
Now Father sees them and raises up his arm.
DAN, indicating Quentin: Dad, look . . .
FATHER: For cryin’ out loud! Look who’s here! I thought you were in Europe!
QUENTIN: Just got back. How are you?
DAN: You look wonderful, Dad.
FATHER: What do you mean, “look”? I am wonderful! I tell you, I’m ready to go through it again! They laugh proudly with him. I mean it—the way that doctor worries, I finally told him, “Look, if it makes you feel so bad you lay down and I’ll operate!” Very fine man. I thought you’d be away couple months more.
QUENTIN, hesitantly: I decided to come back and—
DAN, breaking in, his voice turning strange: Sylvia’ll be right in. She’s downstairs buying you something.
FATHER: Oh, that’s nice! I tell you something, fellas—that kid is more and more like Mother. Been here every day . . . Where is Mother? I been calling the house.
The slightest empty, empty pause.
DAN: One second, Dad, I just want to—
Crazily, without evident point, he starts calling, and moving upstage toward the nurse. Quentin is staring at his father.
Nurse! Ah . . . could you call down to the gift shop and see if my sister . . .
FATHER: Dan! Tell her to get some ice. When Mother comes you’ll all have a drink! I got a bottle of rye in the closet. To Quentin: I tell you, kid, I’m going to be young. Mother’s right; just because I got old I don’t have to act old. I mean we could go to Florida, we could—
QUENTIN: Dad.
FATHER: What? Is that a new suit?
QUENTIN: No, I’ve had it.
FATHER, remembering—to Dan, of the nurse: Oh, tell her glasses, we’ll need more glasses.
QUENTIN: Listen, Dad.
Dan halts and turns back.
FATHER, totally unaware, smiling at his returned son: Yeah?
QUENTIN: Mother died. She had a heart attack last night on her way home.
FATHER: Oh, no, no, no, no.
QUENTIN: We didn’t want to tell you but—
FATHER: Ahhh! Ahhh, no, no, no.
DAN: There’s nothing anybody could have done, Dad.
FATHER: Oh. Oh. Oh!
QUENTIN, grasping his hand: Now look, Dad, you’re going to be all right, you’ll—
FATHER—it is all turning into a deep gasping for breath: Oh boy. Oh boy! No, no.
DAN: Now look, Dad, you’re a hell of a fella. Dad, listen—
FATHER: Goddammit! I couldn’t take care of myself, I knew she was working too hard!
QUENTIN: Dad, it’s not your fault, that can happen to anyone—
FATHER: But she was sitting right here. She was—she was right here!
QUENTIN: Pa . . . Pa . . .
Dan moves in close, as though to share him.
FATHER: Oh, boys—she was my right hand! He raises his fist and seems about to lose his control again.
DAN: We’ll take care of you, Dad. I don’t want you to worry about—
FATHER: No-no. I’ll be all right. God! Now I’m better! Now, now I’m better!
They are silent.
So where is she?
QUENTIN: In the funeral parlor.
FATHER, shaking his head—an explosive blow of air: Paaaaaah!
QUENTIN: We didn’t want to tell you but we figured you’d rather know.
FATHER: Ya. Thanks. Thanks. I’ll . . . He looks up at Quentin. I’ll just have to be stronger.
QUENTIN: That’s right, Dad.
FATHER, to no one, as Mother disappears above: This . . . will make me stronger. But the weeping threatens; he clenches his jaw, shakes his head, and indicates a point. She was right here!
He is taken away by the nurses and Dan. Quentin comes slowly to the Listener.
QUENTIN: Still and all, a couple months later he bothered to register and vote. . . . Well, I mean . . . it didn’t kill him either, with all his tears. I don’t know what the hell I’m driving at. It’s connected to . . .
The tower gradually begins to light. He is caught by it.
I visited a concentration camp in Germany.
He has started towar
d the tower when Felice appears, raising her arm in blessing.
FELICE: Close your eyes, okay?
QUENTIN, turned by her force: I don’t understand why that girl sticks in my mind. He moves toward her now. She did, she offered me some . . . love, I guess. And if I don’t return it—it’s like owing for a gift that you didn’t ask for.
Mother has appeared again; she raises her hand in blessing as Felice does.
FELICE: I’ll always bless you!
She exits and Mother is gone.
QUENTIN: When she left . . . I did a stupid thing. I don’t understand it. There are two light fixtures on the wall of my hotel room . . .
As he speaks Maggie enters onto second platform, dressed in negligee, hair disheveled. Quentin struggles against his own disgust.
I noticed for the first time that they’re . . . a curious distance apart. And I suddenly saw that if you stood between them—He spreads out his arms—you could reach out and rest your arms.
Just before he completely spreads his arms, Maggie sits up, her breathing sounds.
MAGGIE: Liar! Judge!
He drops his arms, aborting the image; Maggie exits.
Now Holga appears and is bending to read a legend fixed to the wall of a torture chamber.
QUENTIN: Oh. The concentration camp . . . this woman . . . Holga took me there.
HOLGA, turning to “him,” as though he stood beside her: This is the room where they tortured them. No, I don’t mind, I’ll translate it.
She returns to the legend; he slowly approaches behind her.
“The door to the left leads into the chamber where their teeth were extracted for gold; the drain in the floor carried off the blood. At times, instead of shooting, they were individually strangled to death. The barracks on the right were the bordello where women—”
QUENTIN: I think you’ve had enough, Holga.
HOLGA: No, if you want to see the rest—
QUENTIN, taking her arm: Let’s walk, dear. Country looks lovely out there.
They walk. The light changes to day.
They sure built solid watchtowers, didn’t they! Here, this grass looks dry; let’s sit down.
They sit. Pause.
I always thought the Danube was blue.
HOLGA: Only the waltz; although it does change near Vienna, out of some lingering respect for Strauss, I suppose.
QUENTIN: I don’t know why this hit me so.
HOLGA: I’m sorry! Starting to rise as she senses an estrangement—to raise his spirits: You still want to see Salzburg? I’d love to show you Mozart’s house. And the cafés are excellent there.
QUENTIN, turning to her now: Was there somebody you knew died here?
HOLGA: Oh no. I feel people ought to see it, that’s all. And you seemed so interested.
QUENTIN: Yes, but I’m an American. I can afford to be interested.
HOLGA: Don’t be too sure. When I first visited America after the war I was three days under questioning before they let me in. How could one be in forced labor for two years if one were not a Communist or a Jew? In fact, it was only when I told them I had blood relatives in several Nazi ministries that they were reassured. It’s as though fifteen years of one’s life had simply vanished in some insane confusion. So I was very glad you were so interested.
QUENTIN, glancing up at the tower: I guess I thought I’d be indignant, or angry. But it’s like swallowing a lump of earth. It’s strange.
HOLGA, pressing him to lie down, cheerfully: Come, lie down here for a while and perhaps—
QUENTIN: No, I’m— He has fended off her hand. I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to push you away.
HOLGA, rebuffed and embarrassed: I see wildflowers on that hill; I’ll pick some for the car! She gets up quickly.
QUENTIN: Holga? She continues off. He jumps up and hurries to her, turning her. Holga. He does not know what to say.
HOLGA: Perhaps we’ve been together too much. I could rent another car at Linz; we could meet in Vienna sometime.
QUENTIN: I don’t want to lose you, Holga.
HOLGA: I hear your wings opening, Quentin. I am not helpless alone. I love my work. It’s simply that from the moment you spoke to me I felt somehow familiar, and it was never so before. . . . It isn’t a question of getting married; I am not ashamed this way. But I must have something.
QUENTIN: I don’t give you anything?
HOLGA: You give me very much. . . . It’s difficult for me to speak like this. I am not a woman who must be reassured every minute, those women are stupid to me. . . .
QUENTIN, turning her face to him: Holga, are you weeping—for me?
HOLGA: Yes.
QUENTIN: It’s that I don’t want to abuse your feeling for me—I swear I don’t know if I have lived in good faith. And the doubt ties my tongue when I think of promising anything again.
HOLGA: But how can one ever be sure of one’s good faith?
QUENTIN, surprised: God, it’s wonderful to hear you say that. All my women have been so goddamned sure!
HOLGA: But how can one ever be?
QUENTIN—he kisses her gratefully: Why do you keep coming back to this place? It seems to tear you apart.
Mother is heard softly singing a musical comedy ballad of the twenties.
HOLGA, after a pause; she is disturbed, uncertain: I . . . don’t know. Perhaps . . . because I didn’t die here.
QUENTIN, turning quickly to Listener: What?
HOLGA: Although that would make no sense! I don’t really know!
QUENTIN, going toward the Listener at the edge of the stage: That people . . . what? “Wish to die for the dead.” No-no, I can understand it; survival can be hard to bear. But I—I don’t think I feel that way. . . . Although I do think of my mother now, and she’s dead. Yes! He turns to Holga. And maybe the dead do bother her.
HOLGA: It was the middle of the war. I had just come out of a class and there were British leaflets on the sidewalk. And photographs of a concentration camp. And emaciated people. One tended to believe the British. I’d had no idea. Truly. It isn’t easy to turn against your country; not in a war. Do Americans turn against America because of Hiroshima? There are reasons always. And I took the leaflet to my godfather—he was still commanding our Intelligence. And I asked if it were true. “Of course,” he said, “why does it excite you?” And I said, “You are a swine. You are all swine.” I threw my briefcase at him. And he opened it and put some papers in it and asked me to deliver it to a certain address. And I became a courier for the officers who were planning to assassinate Hitler. . . . They were all hanged.
QUENTIN: Why not you?
HOLGA: They didn’t betray me.
QUENTIN: Then why do you say good faith is never sure?
HOLGA, after a pause: It was my country—longer, perhaps, than it should have been. But I didn’t know. And now I don’t know how I could not have known.
QUENTIN: Holga, I bless your uncertainty. You don’t seem to be looking for some goddamned . . . moral victory. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be distant with you. I— Looks up.
HOLGA: I’ll get the flowers! She starts away.
QUENTIN: It’s only this place!
HOLGA, turning, and with great love: I know! I’ll be right back! She hurries away.
He stands in stillness a moment; the presence of the tower bores in on him; its color changes; he now looks up at it and addresses the Listener.
QUENTIN: I think I expected it to be more unfamiliar. I never thought the stones would look so ordinary. And the view from here is rather pastoral. Why do I know something here? Even hollow now and empty, it has a face, and asks a sort of question: “What do you believe as true as this?” Yes! Believers built this, maybe that’s the fright—and I, without belief, stand here disarmed. I can see the convoys grinding up this hill, and I inside
; no one knows my name and yet they’ll smash my head on a concrete floor! And no appeal . . . He turns quickly to the Listener. Yes! It’s that I no longer see some final saving grace! Socialism once, then love; some final hope is gone that always saved before the end!
Mother appears; Dan enters, kisses her, and exits.
MOTHER, to an invisible small boy: Not too much cake, darling, there’ll be a lot of food at this wedding.
QUENTIN: Mother! That’s strange. And murder?
MOTHER, getting down on her knees to tend the little boy: Yes, garters, Quentin, and don’t argue with me. . . . Because it’s my brother’s wedding and your stockings are not to hang over your shoes!
QUENTIN—he has started to laugh but it turns into: Why can’t I mourn her? And Holga wept in there, why can’t I weep? Why do I feel an understanding with this slaughterhouse?
Mother laughs. He turns to her.
MOTHER, to the little boy: My brothers! Why must every wedding in this family be a catastrophe! . . . Because the girl is pregnant, darling, and she’s got no money, she’s stupid, and I tell you this one is going to end up with a mustache! That’s why, darling, when you grow up, I hope you learn how to disappoint people. Especially women.
QUENTIN, watching her, sitting nearby: But what the hell has this got to do with a concentration camp?
MOTHER: Will you stop playing with matches? Slaps an invisible boy’s hand. You’ll pee in bed! Why don’t you practice your penmanship instead? You write like a monkey, darling. And where is your father? If he went to sleep in the Turkish bath again, I’ll kill him! Like he forgot my brother Herbert’s wedding and goes to the Dempsey-Tunney fight. And ends up in the men’s room with the door stuck, so by the time they get him out my brother’s married, there’s a new champion, and it cost him a hundred dollars to go to the men’s room! She is laughing.
Father with secretary has appeared on upper platform, an invisible phone to his ear.
FATHER: Then cable Southampton.
MOTHER: But you mustn’t laugh at him, he’s a wonderful man.
FATHER: Sixty thousand tons. Sixty.
Father disappears.
MOTHER: To this day he walks into a room you want to bow! Warmly: Any restaurant—one look at him and the waiters start moving tables around. Because, dear, people know that this is a man. Even Doctor Strauss, at my wedding he came over to me, says, “Rose, I can see it looking at him, you’ve got a wonderful man,” and he was always in love with me, Strauss. . . . Oh, sure, but he was only a penniless medical student then, my father wouldn’t let him in the house. Who knew he’d end up so big in the gallstones? That poor boy! Used to bring me novels to read, poetry, philosophy, God knows what! One time we even sneaked off to hear Rachmaninoff together. She laughs sadly; and with wonder more than bitterness. That’s why, you see, two weeks after we were married; sit down to dinner and Papa hands me a menu and asks me to read it to him. Couldn’t read! I got so frightened I nearly ran away! . . . Why? Because your grandmother is such a fine, unselfish woman; two months in school and they put him into the shop! That’s what some women are, my dear—and now he goes and buys her a new Packard every year. With a strange and deep fear: Please, darling, I want you to draw the letters, that scribbling is ugly, dear; and your posture, your speech, it can all be beautiful! Ask Miss Fisher, for years they kept my handwriting pinned up on the bulletin board; God, I’ll never forget it, valedictorian of the class with a scholarship to Hunter in my hand . . . A blackness flows into her soul. And I came home, and Grandpa says, “You’re getting married!” I was like—like with small wings, just getting ready to fly; I slept all year with the catalogue under my pillow. To learn, to learn everything! Oh, darling, the whole thing is such a mystery!
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 57