LOUISE: Well, for one thing, Max called here at seven-thirty.
QUENTIN: Max? What for?
LOUISE: Apparently the whole executive committee was in his office, waiting to meet with you tonight. His hand goes to his head; open alarm shows on his face. He called three times, as a matter of fact.
QUENTIN: My God, I— How could I do that? What’s his home number?
LOUISE: The book is in the bedroom.
QUENTIN: We were supposed to discuss my handling Lou’s case. DeVries stayed in town tonight just to—settle everything. Breaks off. What’s Max’s number, Murray Hill 3 . . . what is it?
LOUISE: The book is next to the bed.
QUENTIN: You remember it, Murray Hill 3, something.
LOUISE: It’s in the book.
Pause. He looks at her, puzzled.
I’m not the keeper of your phone numbers. You can remember them just as well as I. Please don’t use that phone, you’ll wake her up.
QUENTIN, turning: I had no intention of calling in there.
LOUISE: I thought you might want to be private.
QUENTIN: There’s nothing “private” about this. This concerns the food in your mouth. The meeting was called to decide whether I should separate from the firm until Lou’s case is over—or permanently, for all I know. Remembering the number, he goes to the phone. I’ve got it—Murray Hill 3 . . .
She watches him go to the phone. He picks it up, dials one digit. And much against her will . . .
LOUISE: That’s the old number.
QUENTIN: Murray Hill 3–4598.
LOUISE: It’s been changed. A moment. Cortland 7–7098.
QUENTIN—she is not facing him; he senses what he thinks is victory: Thanks. Starts again to dial, puts down the phone. I don’t know what to say to him. She is silent. We arranged for everybody to come back after dinner. It’ll sound idiotic that I forgot about it.
LOUISE: You were probably frightened.
QUENTIN: But I made notes all afternoon about what I would say tonight! It’s incredible!
LOUISE, with an over-meaning: You probably don’t realize how frightened you are.
QUENTIN: I guess I don’t. He said a dreadful thing today—Max. He was trying to argue me into dropping Lou and I said, “We should be careful not to adopt some new behavior just because there’s hysteria in the country.” I thought it was a perfectly ordinary thing to say but he—he’s never looked at me that way, like we were suddenly standing on two distant mountains; and he said, “I don’t know of any hysteria. Not in this office.”
LOUISE: But why does all that surprise you? Max is not going to endanger his whole firm to defend a Communist. You tend to make relatives out of people.
QUENTIN: You mean . . .
LOUISE: I mean you can’t have everything; if you feel this strongly about Lou you probably will have to resign.
QUENTIN, after a pause: You think I should?
LOUISE: That depends on how deeply you feel about Lou.
QUENTIN: I’m trying to determine that; I don’t know for sure. What do you think?
LOUISE, in anguish: It’s not my decision, Quentin.
QUENTIN, puzzled and surprised: But aren’t you involved?
LOUISE: Of course I’m involved.
QUENTIN: I’m only curious how you—
LOUISE: You? Curious about me?
QUENTIN: Oh. We’re not talking about what we’re talking about, are we?
LOUISE, nodding in emphasis: You have to decide what you feel about a certain human being. For once in your life. And then maybe you’ll decide what you feel about other human beings. Clearly and decisively.
QUENTIN: In other words . . . where was I tonight.
LOUISE: I don’t care where you were tonight.
QUENTIN, after a pause: I sat by the park for a while. And this is what I thought. With difficulty: I don’t sleep with other women, but I think I behave as though I do. She is listening; he sees it and is enlivened by hope. Maybe I invite your suspicion in order to—to come down off some bench, to stop judging others so perfectly. Because I do judge, and harshly too, when the fact is I’m bewildered. I wonder if I left that letter for you to read about that girl—in order somehow to start being real. Against his own trepidation but encouraged by her evident uncertainty: I met a girl tonight. Just happened to come by, one of the phone operators in the office. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I will. Quite stupid, silly kid. Sleeps in the park, her dress ripped. She said some ridiculous things. But one thing struck me; she wasn’t defending anything, upholding anything, or accusing—she was just there, like a tree or a cat. And I felt strangely abstract beside her. And I saw that we are killing one another with abstractions. I’m defending Lou because I love him, yet the society transforms that love into a kind of treason, what they call an issue, and I end up suspect and hated. Why can’t we speak with the voice that speaks below the “issues”—with our real uncertainty? I came home just now—and I had a tremendous wish to come out—to you. And you to me. It sounds absurd, but this city is full of people rushing to meet one another. This city is full of lovers.
LOUISE: And what did she say?
QUENTIN: I guess I shouldn’t have told you about it.
LOUISE: Why not?
QUENTIN: Louise, I don’t know what’s permissible to say any more.
LOUISE, nodding: You don’t know how much to hide.
QUENTIN, angering: All right, let’s not hide anything; it would have been easy to make love to her. Louise reddens, stiffens. And I didn’t because I thought of you, and in a new way—like a stranger I had never gotten to know. And by some miracle you were waiting for me, in my own home.
LOUISE: What do you want, my congratulations? You don’t imagine a real woman goes to bed with any man who happens to come along? Or that a real man goes to bed with every woman who’ll have him? Especially a slut, which she obviously is?
QUENTIN: How do you know she’s a—
LOUISE, laughing: Oh, excuse me, I didn’t mean to insult her! You’re unbelievable! Suppose I came home and told you I’d met a man on the street I wanted to go to bed with—because he made the city seem full of lovers.
QUENTIN, humiliated: I understand. I’m sorry. I would get angry too but I would see that you were struggling. And I would ask myself—maybe I’d even be brave enough to ask you—how I had failed.
LOUISE: Well, you’ve given me notice; I get the message. She starts out.
QUENTIN: Louise, don’t you ever doubt yourself? Is it enough to prove a case, to even win it—shouts—when we are dying?
Mickey enters at the edge of the stage. Elsie enters on second platform, opening her robe as before.
LOUISE, turning, in full possession: I’m not dying. I’m not the one who wanted to break this up. And that’s all it’s about. It’s all it’s been about the last three years. You don’t want me. She goes out.
QUENTIN, to himself: God! Can that be true?
MICKEY: There’s only one thing I can tell you for sure, kid—don’t ever be guilty.
QUENTIN: Yes! Seeking strength, he stretches upward. Yes! But his conviction wavers; he turns toward the vision. But if you had felt more guilt, maybe you wouldn’t have . . .
ELSIE, closing her robe: He’s a moral idiot!
QUENTIN: Yes! That is right. And yet . . . What the hell is moral? And what am I, to even ask that question? A man ought to know—a decent man knows that like he knows his own face!
Louise enters with a folded sheet and a pillow.
LOUISE: I don’t want to sleep with you.
QUENTIN: Louise, for God’s sake!
LOUISE: You are disgusting!
QUENTIN: But in the morning Betty will see . . .
LOUISE: You should have thought of that.
The phone rings. He loo
ks at sheets, makes no move to answer.
Did you give her this number?
It rings again.
Did you give her this number? With which she strides to the phone. Hello! Oh, yes. He’s here. Hold on, please.
QUENTIN: I can’t sleep out here; I don’t want her to see it. He goes to the phone with a look of hatred.
LOUISE: It’s Max.
Surprised, he takes the phone from her.
QUENTIN, into phone: Max? I’m sorry, the whole thing just slipped my mind. I don’t know how to explain it, I just went blank, I guess. Pause. The radio? No, why? . . . What? When? Long pause. Thanks . . . for letting me know. Yes, he was. Good night . . . Ya, see you in the morning. Hangs up. Pause. He stands staring.
LOUISE: What is it?
QUENTIN: Lou. Was killed by a subway train tonight.
LOUISE—gasps: How?
QUENTIN: They don’t know. They say “fell or jumped.”
LOUISE: He couldn’t have! The crowd must have pushed him!
QUENTIN: There is no crowd at eight o’clock. It was eight o’clock.
LOUISE: But why? Lou knew himself! He knew where he stood! It’s impossible!
QUENTIN, staring: Maybe it’s not enough—to know yourself. Or maybe it’s too much. I think he did it.
LOUISE: But why? It’s inconceivable!
QUENTIN: When I saw him last week he said a dreadful thing. I tried not to hear it. Pause. She waits. That I turned out to be the only friend he had.
LOUISE, genuinely: Why is that dreadful?
QUENTIN, evasively, almost slyly: It just was. I don’t know why. Tears forming in his eyes, he comes toward Listener. I didn’t dare know why! But I dare now. It was dreadful because I was not his friend either, and he knew it. I’d have stuck it to the end but I hated the danger in it for myself, and he saw through my faithfulness; and he was not telling me what a friend I was, he was praying I would be—“Please be my friend, Quentin” is what he was saying to me, “I am drowning, throw me a rope!” Because I wanted out, to be a good American again, kosher again—and proved it in the joy . . . the joy . . . the joy I felt now that my danger had spilled out on the subway track! So it is not bizarre to me.
The tower blazes into life, and he walks with his eyes upon it.
This is not some crazy aberration of human nature to me. I can easily see the perfectly normal contractors and their cigars, the carpenters, plumbers, sitting at their ease over lunch pails; I can see them laying the pipes to run the blood out of this mansion; good fathers, devoted sons, grateful that someone else will die, not they, and how can one understand that, if one is innocent? If somewhere in one’s soul there is no accomplice—of that joy, that joy, that joy when a burden dies . . . and leaves you safe?
Maggie’s difficult breathing is heard. He turns in pain from it, comes to a halt on one side of the sheets and pillow lying on the floor at Louise’s feet.
I’ve got to sleep; I’m very tired. He bends to pick up the sheets. She makes an aborted move to pick up the pillow.
LOUISE, with great difficulty: I—I’ve always been proud you took Lou’s case. He picks up sheets and pillow, stands waiting. It was—courageous. She stands there, empty-handed, not fully looking at him.
QUENTIN: I’m glad you feel that way. But he makes no move either. The seconds are ticking by. Neither can let down his demand for apology, or grace. With difficulty: And that you told me. Thanks.
LOUISE: But—you are honest, that way. I’ve often told you.
QUENTIN: Recently?
LOUISE: Good night.
She starts away, and he feels the unwillingness with which she leaves.
QUENTIN: Louise, if there’s one thing I’ve been trying to do it’s to be honest with you.
LOUISE: No, you’ve been trying to keep the home fires burning and see the world at the same time.
QUENTIN: So that all I am is deceptive and cunning.
LOUISE: Not all, but mostly.
QUENTIN: And there is no struggle. There is no pain. There is no struggle to find a way back to you?
LOUISE: That isn’t the struggle.
QUENTIN: Then what are you doing here?
LOUISE: I—
QUENTIN: What the hell are you compromising yourself for if you’re so goddamned honest!
He starts a clench-fisted move toward her and she backs away, terrified and strangely alive. Her look takes note of the aborted violence, and she is very straight and yet ready to flee.
LOUISE: I’ve been waiting for the struggle to begin.
He is dumbstruck—by her sincerity, her adamance. With a straight look at him, she turns and goes out.
QUENTIN, alone, and to himself: Good God, can there be more? Can there be worse? Turning to the Listener: See, that’s what’s incredible to me—three years more! What did I expect to save us? Suddenly, God knows why, she’d hold out her hand and I hold out mine, and laugh, laugh it all away, laugh it all back to—her dear, honest face looking up to mine . . . Breaks off, staring into the distance. Far upstage, Louise looks at him with pride, as of old. Back to some everlasting smile that saves. That’s maybe why I came; I think I still believe it. That underneath we’re all profoundly friends! I can’t believe this world; all this hatred isn’t real to me! Turns back to his “living room,” the sheets. Louise is gone now. To bed down like a dog in my living room, how can that be necessary? Then go in to her, open your heart, confess the lechery, the mystery of women, say it all. . . . He has moved toward where she exited, now halts. But I did that. So the truth, after all, may merely be murderous? The truth killed Lou, destroyed Mickey. Then how do you live? A workable lie? But that comes from a clear conscience! Or a dead one. Not to see one’s own evil—there’s power! And rightness too!—so kill conscience. Kill it. Glancing toward her exit: Know all. admit nothing, shave closely, remember birthdays, open car doors, pursue Louise not with truth but with attention. Be uncertain on your own time, in bed be absolute. And thus be a man—and join the world. And in the morning, a dagger in that dear little daughter’s heart! Flinging it toward Louise’s exit: Bitch! Sits. I’ll say I have a cold. Didn’t want to give it to Mommy. With disgust: Pah! Papapapapa. Sniffs, tries to talk through his nose. Got a cold in my nose, baby girl . . .
He groans. Pause. He stares; stalemate. A jet plane is heard. An airport porter appears, carrying two bags, as Holga, dressed for travel, moves onto the highest level, looking about for Quentin. A distant jet roars in take-off. Quentin glances at his watch, and, coming down to the chair . . .
Six o’clock, Idlewild. Now he glances up at Holga, who is still looking about her as in a crowd. It’s that the evidence is bad for promises. But how else do you touch the world—except with a promise? And yet, I must not forget the way I wake; I open up my eyes each morning like a boy, even now; even now. That’s as true as anything I know, but where’s the evidence? Or is it simply that my heart still beats? . . . Certainly, go ahead, I’ll wait.
He follows the departing Listener with his eyes; now he rises, follows “him” upstage.
You don’t mind my staying? I’d like to settle this. Although actually, I—laughs—only came to say hello.
He turns front. He stares ahead; a different kind of relaxation is on him now, alone. The stage is dark but for a light on him. Now the tower is seen, and Maggie on the second platform near him. Suddenly she raises herself up.
MAGGIE: Quentin? Quentin?
QUENTIN, in agony: I’ll get to it, honey. He closes his eyes. I’ll get to it.
He strikes sparks from a lighter held to a cigarette. All light is gone.
ACT TWO
The stage is dark. A spark is seen, a flame fires up. When the stage illuminates, Quentin is discovered lighting his cigarette—no time has passed. He continues to await the Listener’s return and walks a few steps in thought, and as he does a
jet plane is heard, and the airport announcer’s voice: “. . . from Frankfurt is now unloading at gate nine, passengers will please . . .” It becomes a watery garble, and at the same moment Holga, as before, walks onto the upper level with the airport porter, who leaves her bags and goes. She looks about as in a crowd, then, seeing “Quentin,” stands on tiptoe and waves.
HOLGA: Quentin! Here! Here! She opens her arms as he evidently approaches. Hello! Hello!
He turns from her to the returned Listener at front and comes to him downstage. Holga moves out.
QUENTIN: Oh, that’s all right, I didn’t mind waiting. How much time do I have?
He sits at the forward edge of the stage, looks at his watch. Maggie appears on the second platform, in a lace wedding dress; Lucas, a designer, is on his knees, finishing the vast hem. Carrie, a Negro maid, stands by, holding her veil. Maggie is nervous, on the edge of life, looking into a mirror.
I think I can be clearer now.
MAGGIE, in an ecstasy of fear and hope: All right, Carrie, tell him to come in! As though trying the angular words: My husband!
CARRIE, walking a few steps to a point, where she halts: You can see her now, Mr. Quentin.
They are gone. Quentin continues to the Listener.
QUENTIN: I am bewildered by the death of love. And my responsibility for it.
Holga moves into light again, looking about for him at the airport.
This woman’s on my side; I have no doubt of it. And I wouldn’t want to outlive another accusation. Not hers.
Holga exits. He stands, agitated.
I suddenly wonder why I risk it again. Except . . .
Felice and Mother appear.
You ever felt you once saw yourself—absolutely true? I may have dreamed it, but I swear that somewhere along the line—with Maggie, I think—for one split second I saw my life; what I had done, what had been done to me, and even when I ought to do. And that vision sometimes hangs behind my head, blind now, bleached out like the moon in the morning; and if I could only let in some necessary darkness it would shine again. I think it had to do with power.
Felice approaches, about to remove the bandage.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 61