Louise: But how?
QUENTIN: Well, for example—you never turn your back on me in bed?
Louise: I never turned my—
QUENTIN: You have turned your back on me in bed, Louise, I am not insane!
Louise: Well, what do you expect? Silent, cold, you lay your hand on me?
QUENTIN, fallen: Well, I—I’m not very demonstrative, I guess. Slight pause. He throws himself on her compassion. Louise—I worry about you all day. And all night.
LOUISE—it is something, but not enough: Well, you’ve got a child; I’m sure that worries you.
QUENTIN, deeply hurt: Is that all?
LOUISE, with intense reasonableness: Look, Quentin, you want a woman to provide an—atmosphere, in which there are never any issues, and you’ll fly around in a constant bath of praise—
QUENTIN: Well, I wouldn’t mind a little praise, what’s wrong with praise?
LOUISE: Quentin, I am not a praise machine! I am not a blur and I am not your mother! I am a separate person!
QUENTIN, staring at her, and what lies beyond her: I see that now.
LOUISE: It’s no crime! Not if you’re adult and grown-up!
QUENTIN, quietly: I guess not. But it bewilders me. In fact, I got the same idea when I realized that Lou had gone from one of his former students to another and none would take him—
LOUISE: What’s Lou got to do with it? I think it’s admirable that you—
QUENTIN: Yes, but I am doing what you call an admirable thing because I can’t bear to be—a separate person. I think so. I really don’t want to be known as a Red lawyer; and I really don’t want the newspapers to eat me alive; and if it came down to it Lou could defend himself. But when that decent, broken man who never wanted anything but the good of the world sits across my desk—I don’t know how to say that my interests are no longer the same as his, and that if he doesn’t change I consign him to hell because we are separate persons!
LOUISE: You are completely confused! Lou’s case has nothing—
QUENTIN, grasping for his thought: I am telling you my confusion! I think Mickey also became a separate person—
LOUISE: You’re incredible!
QUENTIN: I think of my mother, I think she almost became—
LOUISE: Are you identifying me with—
QUENTIN: Louise, I am asking you to explain this to me because this is when I go blind! When you’ve finally become a separate person, what the hell is there?
LOUISE, with a certain unsteady pride: Maturity.
QUENTIN: I don’t know what that means.
LOUISE: It means that you know another person exists, Quentin. I’m not in analysis for nothing.
QUENTIN, questing: It’s probably the symptom of a typical case of some kind, but I swear, Louise, if you would just once, of your own will, as right as you are—if you would come to me and say that something, something important was your fault and that you were sorry, it would help.
In her pride she is silent, in her refusal to be brought down again.
Louise?
LOUISE: Good God! What an idiot! She exits.
QUENTIN: Louise . . .
He looks at his papers, the lights change. A sprightly music is heard. Anonymous park loungers appear and sit or lie about.
How few the days are that hold the mind in place; like a tapestry hung on four or five hooks. Especially the day you stop becoming; the day you merely are. I suppose it’s when the principles dissolve, and instead of the general gray of what ought to be you begin to see what is. Even the bench by the park seems alive, having held so many actual men. The word “now” is like a bomb through the window, and it ticks.
An old woman crosses with a caged parrot.
Now a woman takes a parrot for a walk. What will happen to it when she’s gone? Everything suddenly has consequences.
A plain girl in tweeds passes, reading a paperback.
And how bravely a homely woman has to be! How disciplined of her, not to set fire to the Museum of Art.
A Negro appears, in pantomime asking for a light, which Quentin gives him.
And how does he keep so neat, and the bathroom on another floor? He must be furious when he shaves.
The Negro hurries off, seeing his girl.
Alone: And whatever made me think that at the end of the day I absolutely had to go home?
Maggie appears, looking about for someone, as Quentin sits on “park bench.”
Now there’s a truth; symmetrical, lovely skin, undeniable.
MAGGIE: ’Scuse me, did you see a man with a big dog?
QUENTIN: No. But I saw a woman with a little bird.
MAGGIE: No, that’s not him. Is this the bus stop?
QUENTIN: Ya, the sign says—
MAGGIE, sitting beside him: I was standing over there and a man came with this big dog and just put the leash in my hand and walked away. So I started to go after him but the dog wouldn’t move. And then this other man came and took the leash and went away. But I don’t think it’s really his dog. I think it’s the first man’s dog.
QUENTIN: But he obviously doesn’t want it.
MAGGIE: But maybe he wanted for me to have it. I think the other man just saw it happening and figured he could get a free dog.
QUENTIN: Well, you want the dog?
MAGGIE: How could I keep a dog? I don’t even think they allow dogs where I live. What bus is this?
QUENTIN: Fifth Avenue. This is the downtown side. Where do you want to go?
MAGGIE, after thinking: Well, I could go there.
QUENTIN: Where?
MAGGIE: Downtown.
QUENTIN: Lot of funny things go on, don’t they?
MAGGIE: Well, he probably figured I would like a dog. Whereas I would if I had a way to keep it, but I don’t even have a refrigerator.
QUENTIN: Yes. That must be it. I guess he thought you had a refrigerator.
She shrugs. Pause. He looks at her as she watches for the bus. He has no more to say.
LOUISE, appearing: You don’t talk to any woman—not like a woman! You think reading your brief is talking to me?
She exits. In tension Quentin leans forward, arms resting on his knees. He looks at Maggie again.
QUENTIN, with an effort: What do you do?
MAGGIE, as though he should know: On the switchboard. Laughs. Don’t you remember me?
QUENTIN, surprised: Me?
MAGGIE: I always sort of nod to you every morning through the window.
QUENTIN, after an instant: Oh. In the reception room!
MAGGIE: Sure! Maggie! Points to herself.
QUENTIN: Of course! You get my numbers sometimes.
MAGGIE: Did you think I just came up and started talking to you?
QUENTIN: I had no idea.
MAGGIE—laughs: Well, what must you have thought! I guess it’s that you never saw me altogether. I mean just my head through that little window.
QUENTIN: Well, it’s nice to meet all of you, finally.
MAGGIE—laughs: You go back to work again tonight?
QUENTIN: No, I’m just resting for a few minutes.
MAGGIE, with a sense of his loneliness: Oh. That’s nice to do that. She looks idly about. He glances down her body as she rises. Is that my bus down there?
QUENTIN: I’m not really sure where you want to go. . . .
A man appears, eyes her, glances up toward the bus, back to her, staring.
MAGGIE: I wanted to find one of those discount stores; I just bought a phonograph but I only have one record. I’ll see you! She is half backing off toward the man.
MAN: There’s one on Twenty-seventh and Sixth Avenue.
MAGGIE, turning, surprised: Oh, thanks!
QUENTIN, standing: There’s a record store around the corner, you know
.
MAGGIE: But is it discount?
QUENTIN: Well, they all discount—
MAN, slipping his hand under her arm: What, ten per cent? Come on, honey, I’ll get you an easy fifty per cent off.
MAGGIE, to the man, starting to move off with him: Really? But a Perry Sullivan . . . ?
MAN: Look, I’ll give it to you—I’ll give you two Perry Sullivans. Come on!
MAGGIE—she halts, suddenly aware, disengages her arm, backs: ’Scuse me, I—I—forgot something.
MAN, reaching toward her: Look, I’ll give you ten records. Calls off: Hold that door! Grabs her. Come on!
QUENTIN, moving toward him: Hey!
MAN, letting her go, to Quentin: Ah, get lost! He rushes off. Hold it, hold the door!
Quentin watches the “bus” go by, then turns to her. She is absorbed in arranging her hair—but with a strangely doughy expression, removed.
QUENTIN: I’m sorry, I thought you knew him.
MAGGIE: No. I never saw him.
QUENTIN: Well—what were you going with him for?
MAGGIE: He said he knew a store. Where’s the one you’re talking about?
QUENTIN: I’ll have to think a minute. Let’s see . . .
MAGGIE: Could I sit with you? While you’re thinking?
QUENTIN: Sure!
They return to the bench. He waits till she is seated; she is aware of the politeness, glances at him as he sits. Then she looks at him fully, for some reason amazed.
That happen to you very often?
MAGGIE, factually: Pretty often.
QUENTIN: It’s because you talk to them.
MAGGIE: But they talk to me, so I have to answer.
QUENTIN: Not if they’re rude. Just turn your back.
MAGGIE—she thinks about that, and indecisively: Oh, okay. As though remotely aware of another world, his world: Thanks, though—for stopping it.
QUENTIN: Well, anybody would.
MAGGIE: No, they laugh. I’m a joke to them. You—going to rest here very long?
QUENTIN: Just a few minutes. I’m on my way home—I never did this before.
MAGGIE: Oh! You look like you always did. Like you could sit for hours under these trees, just thinking.
QUENTIN: No. I usually go right home. Grinning: I’ve always gone right home.
MAGGIE: See, I’m still paying for the phonograph, whereas they don’t sell records on time, you know.
QUENTIN: They’re afraid they’ll wear out, I guess.
MAGGIE: Oh, that must be it! I always wondered. ’Cause you can get phonographs. How’d you know that?
QUENTIN: I’m just guessing.
MAGGIE, laughing: I can never guess those things! I don’t know why they do anything half the time! She laughs more deeply. He does. I had about ten or twenty records in Washington, but my friend got sick, and I had to leave. Pause. Thinks. His family lived right over there on Park Avenue.
QUENTIN: Oh. Is he better?
MAGGIE: He died. Tears come into her eyes quite suddenly.
QUENTIN, entirely perplexed: When was this?
MAGGIE: Friday. Remember they closed the office for the day?
QUENTIN: You mean—astounded—Judge Cruse?
MAGGIE: Ya.
QUENTIN: Oh, I didn’t know that you—
MAGGIE: Yeah.
QUENTIN: He was a great lawyer. And a great judge too.
MAGGIE, rubbing tears away: He was very nice to me.
QUENTIN: I was at the funeral; I didn’t see you, though.
MAGGIE, with difficulty against her tears: His wife wouldn’t let me come. I got into the hospital before he died. But the family pushed me out and—I could hear him calling, “Maggie . . . Maggie!” Pause. They kept trying to offer me a thousand dollars. But I didn’t want anything, I just wanted to say good-by to him! She opens her purse, takes out an office envelope, opens it. I have a little of the dirt. See? That’s from his grave. His chauffeur drove me out—Alexander.
QUENTIN: Did you love him very much?
MAGGIE: No. In fact, a couple of times I really left him.
QUENTIN: Why didn’t you altogether?
MAGGIE: He didn’t want me to.
QUENTIN: Oh. Pause. So what are you going to do now?
MAGGIE: I’d love to get that record if I knew where they had a discount—
QUENTIN: No, I mean in general.
MAGGIE: Why, they going to fire me now?
QUENTIN: Oh, I wouldn’t know about that.
MAGGIE: Although I’m not worried. Whereas I can always go back to hair.
QUENTIN: To where?
MAGGIE: I used to demonstrate hair preparations. Laughs, squirts her hair with an imaginary bottle. You know, in department stores? I was almost on TV once. Tilting her head under his chin: It’s because I have very thick hair, you see? I have my mother’s hair. And it’s not broken. You notice I have no broken hair? Most women’s hair is broken. Here, feel it, feel how— She has lifted his hand to her head and suddenly lets go of it. Oh, ’scuse me!
QUENTIN: That’s all right!
MAGGIE: I just thought you might want to feel it.
QUENTIN: Sure.
MAGGIE: Go ahead. I mean if you want to. She leans her head to him again. He touches the top of her head.
QUENTIN: It is, ya! Very soft.
MAGGIE, proudly: I once went from page boy to bouffant in less than ten minutes!
QUENTIN: What made you quit?
A student sitting nearby looks at her.
MAGGIE: They start sending me to conventions and all. You’re supposed to entertain, you see.
QUENTIN: Oh yes.
MAGGIE: There were parts of it I didn’t like—any more. She looks at the student, who turns away in embarrassment. Aren’t they sweet when they look up from their books!
The student walks off, mortified. She turns with a laugh to Quentin. He looks at her warmly, smiling. A clock strikes eight in a distant tower.
QUENTIN: Well, I’ve got to go now.
MAGGIE: ’Scuse me I put your hand on my head.
QUENTIN: Oh, that’s all right. I’m not that bad. He laughs softly, embarrassed.
MAGGIE: It’s not bad to be shy.
Pause. They look at each other.
QUENTIN: You’re very beautiful, Maggie.
She smiles, straightens as though his words had entered her.
And I wish you knew how to take care of yourself.
MAGGIE: Oh . . . Holding a ripped seam in her dress: I got this torn on the bus this morning. I’m going to sew it home.
QUENTIN: I don’t mean that.
She meets his eyes again—she looks chastised.
Not that I’m criticizing you. I’m not at all. You understand?
She nods, absorbed in his face.
MAGGIE: I understand. I think I’ll take a walk in the park.
QUENTIN: You shouldn’t. It’s getting dark.
MAGGIE: But it’s beautiful at night. I slept there one night when it was hot in my room.
QUENTIN: God, you don’t want to do that. Glancing at the park loungers: Most of the animals around here are not in the zoo.
MAGGIE: Okay. I’ll get a record, then. ’Scuse me about my hair if I embarrassed you.
QUENTIN, laughing: You didn’t.
MAGGIE, touching the top of her head as she backs away: It’s just that it’s not broken. He nods. I’m going to sew this home. He nods. She indicates the park, upstage. I didn’t mean to sleep there. I just fell asleep.
Several young men now rise, watching her.
QUENTIN: I understand.
MAGGIE: Well . . . see you! Laughs. If they don’t fire me!
QUENTIN: ’By.
She passes two men who walk step for step
behind her, whispering in her ear together. She doesn’t turn or answer. Now a group of men is beginning to surround her. Quentin, in anguish, goes and draws her away from them.
Maggie! He takes a bill from his pocket, moving her across stage. Here, why don’t you take a cab? It’s on me. Go ahead, there’s one right there! Points and whistles upstage and right. Go on, grab it!
MAGGIE: Where—where will I tell him to go?
QUENTIN: Just cruise in the Forties—you’ve got enough there.
MAGGIE: Okay, ’by! Backing out: You—you just going to rest more?
QUENTIN: I don’t know.
MAGGIE: Golly, that’s nice!
The men walk off as Louise enters between Quentin and Maggie, continuing to her seat downstage. Maggie turns and goes to the second platform and lies down as before. Quentin moves down toward Louise, stands a few yards from her, staring at her optimistically. She remains unaware of him, reading.
QUENTIN: Yes. She has legs, breasts, mouth, eyes . . . how beautiful! A woman of my own! What a miracle! In my own house! He bends and kisses Louise, who looks up at him surprised, perplexed, lighting a cigarette. Hi. She keeps looking up at him, aware of some sea-like opening in the world. What’s the matter? She still doesn’t speak. Well, what’s the matter?
LOUISE: Nothing.
She returns to her book. Mystified, disappointed, he stands watching, then opens his briefcase and begins taking out papers.
Close the door if you’re going to type.
QUENTIN: I always do.
LOUISE: Not always.
QUENTIN: Almost always. He almost laughs, he feels loose, but she won’t be amused, and returns again to her book. How about eating out tomorrow night? Before the parents’ meeting?
LOUISE: What parents’ meeting?
QUENTIN: The school.
LOUISE: That was tonight.
QUENTIN, shocked: Really?
LOUISE: Of course. I just got back.
QUENTIN: Why didn’t you remind me when I called today? You know I often forget those things. I told you I wanted to talk to her teacher.
LOUISE, just a little more sharply: People do what they want to do, Quentin. An unwilling shout: And you said you had to work tonight! She returns to her book.
QUENTIN: I didn’t work.
LOUISE, keeping to her book: I know you didn’t work.
QUENTIN, surprised, an alarm beginning: How did you know?
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 60