MAGGIE, with a hush of fear on her voice: I want to tell you why I went into analysis.
QUENTIN: Darling, you’re always making new revelations, but—
MAGGIE: But you said we have to love what happened, didn’t you? Even the bad things?
QUENTIN, seriously now, to match her intensity: Yes, I did.
Clergyman and woman exit.
MAGGIE: I . . . was with two men . . . the same day.
She has turned her eyes from him. A group of wedding guests appears on second platform.
I mean the same day, see. She almost weeps now, and looks at him, subservient and oddly chastened. I’ll always love you, Quentin. But we could just tell them we changed our mind—
QUENTIN: Sweetheart—an event itself is not important; it’s what you took from it. Whatever happened to you, this is what you made of it, and I love this! Quickly to Listener: Yes!—that we conspired to violate the past, and the past is holy and its horrors are holiest of all! Turning back to Maggie: And . . . something . . . more . . .
MAGGIE, with hope now: Maybe . . . it would even make me a better wife, right?
QUENTIN: That’s the way to talk!
Elsie enters above and joins group of guests.
MAGGIE, with gladness, seeing a fruit of past pain: ’Cause I’m not curious! You be surprised, these so-called respectable women, they smile and their husbands never know, but they’re curious. But I know all that, so I know I have a king! But there’s people who’re going to laugh at you!
QUENTIN: Not any more, dear, they’re going to see what I see. Come!
MAGGIE, not moving with him: What do you see? Tell me! Bursting out of her: ’Cause I think . . . you were ashamed once, weren’t you?
QUENTIN: I see your suffering, Maggie; and once I saw it, all shame fell away.
MAGGIE: You . . . were ashamed!?
QUENTIN, with difficulty: Yes. But you’re a victory, Maggie, you’re like a flag to me, a kind of proof, somehow, that people can win.
Louise enters upstage, brushing her hair.
MAGGIE: And you—you won’t ever look at any other woman, right?
QUENTIN: Darling, a wife can be loved!
MAGGIE, with a new intensity of conflict: Before, though—why did you kiss that Elsie?
QUENTIN: Just hello. She always throws her arms around people.
MAGGIE: But—why’d you let her rub her body against you?
QUENTIN, laughing: She wasn’t rub—
MAGGIE, downing a much greater anxiety: I saw it. And you stood there.
QUENTIN, trying to laugh: Maggie, it was a meaningless gesture—
MAGGIE: You want me to be like I used to be—like it’s all a fog? Now pleadingly, and faintly wronged: You told me yourself that I have to look for the meaning of things, didn’t you? Why did you let her do that?
QUENTIN: She came up to me and threw her arms around me, what could I do?
MAGGIE, in a flash of frightened anger: Just tell her to knock it off!
QUENTIN, taken aback: I . . . don’t think you want to sound like this, honey.
WOMAN GUEST: Ready! Ready!
The guests line up on the steps, forming a corridor for Maggie and Quentin.
QUENTIN: Come, they’re waiting.
He puts her arm in his; they turn to go. A wedding march is heard.
MAGGIE, almost in tears: Teach me, Quentin! I don’t know how to be! Forgive me I sounded that way.
QUENTIN, as against the vision of Louise: No. Say what you feel; the truth is on our side; always say it!
MAGGIE, with a plea, but going on toward the guests: You’re not holding me!
QUENTIN, half the stage away now, and turning toward the empty air, his arm still held as though he were walking beside her: I am, darling, I’m with you!
MAGGIE, moving along the corridor of guests: I’m going to be a good wife. I’m going to be a good wife.
CARRIE: God bless this child.
MAGGIE, faltering as she walks into darkness: Quentin, I don’t feel it!
The wedding march is gone. Louise exits upstage.
QUENTIN, both frustrated and with an appeal to her, moving downstage with “her” on his arm: I’m holding you! See everybody smiling, adoring you? Look at the orchestra guys making a V for victory! Everyone loves you, darling! Why are you sad?
Suddenly, from the far depths of the stage, she calls out with a laugh and hurries on in a fur coat, indicating a wall at front.
MAGGIE: Surprise! You like it? They rushed it while we were away!
QUENTIN,—they are half a stage apart: Yes, it’s beautiful!
MAGGIE: See how large it makes the living room? Rushing toward left: And I want to take down that wall too! Okay?
QUENTIN, not facing in her direction; to his memory of it: But we just finished putting those walls in.
MAGGIE: Well, it’s only money; I want it big, like a castle for you!
QUENTIN: It’s lovely, dear, but we’re behind in the taxes.
MAGGIE: Used to say, I have one word written on my forehead. Why can’t it be beautiful now? I get all that money next year.
QUENTIN: But you owe almost all of it—
MAGGIE: Don’t hold the future like a vase—touch now, touch me! I’m here, and it’s now!
She rushes into semi-darkness, where she is surrounded by Carrie, a dresser, and a secretary.
QUENTIN, against himself, alone on the forestage: Okay! Tear it down! Make it beautiful! Do it now! Maybe I am too cautious . . . Forgive me!
Her voice is suddenly heard in a recorded vocal number. He breaks into a genuine smile of joy and dances for a moment alone, as a group of executives surround Maggie. Now Maggie appears in a gold dress out of the group of cautiously listening executives. Quentin rushes to her.
QUENTIN: Maggie, sweetheart—that’s magnificent!
MAGGIE, worried, uncertain: No! Tell me the truth! That piano’s off, you’re not listening!
A pianist, wearing sunglasses and smoking, emerges from the group listening to the record.
QUENTIN: But nobody’ll ever notice that!
MAGGIE: I notice it. Don’t you want me to be good? I told Weinstein I wanted Johnny Block, but they give me this fag and he holds back my beat!
The pianist walks away, silently insulted.
QUENTIN: But you said he’s one of the best.
MAGGIE: I said Johnny Block was best, but they wouldn’t pay his price. I make millions for them and I’m still some kind of a joke.
QUENTIN: Maybe I ought to talk to Weinstein. . . . He hurries to a point upstage.
MAGGIE, calling after him: No, don’t get mixed up in my crummy business, you’ve got an important case—
QUENTIN: Weinstein, get her Johnny Block! Turning back to her as a new version of the number comes on: There now! Listen now! She flies into his arms. The executives leave, gesturing their congratulations. See? There’s no reason to get upset.
MAGGIE: Oh, thank you, darling!
QUENTIN: Just tell me and I’ll talk to these people any time you . . .
The music goes out.
MAGGIE: See? They respect you. Ask Ludwig Reiner, soon as you come in the studio my voice flies! Oh, I’m going to be a good wife, Quentin, I just get nervous sometimes that I’m . . . only bringing you my problems. But I want my stuff to be perfect, and all they care is if they can get rich on it. She sits dejectedly.
QUENTIN: Exactly, dear—so how can you look to them for your self-respect? Come, why don’t we go for a walk? We never walk any more. Sits on his heels beside her.
MAGGIE: You love me?
QUENTIN: I adore you. I just wish you could find some joy in your life.
MAGGIE: Quentin, I’m a joke that brings in money.
QUENTIN: I think it’s starting to c
hange though—you’ve got a great band now, and Johnny Block, and the best sound crew—
MAGGIE: Only because I fought for it. You’d think somebody’d come to me and say: Look, Maggie, you made us all this money, now we want you to develop yourself, what can we do for you?
QUENTIN: Darling, they’d be selling frankfurters if there were more money in it; how can you look to them for love?
Pause. Her loneliness floods in on her.
MAGGIE: But where will I look?
QUENTIN, thrown down: Maggie, how can you say that?
Maggie—she stands; there is an underlying fear in her now: When I walked into the party you didn’t even put your arms around me. I felt like one of those wives or something!
QUENTIN: Well, Donaldson was in the middle of a sentence and I—
MAGGIE: So what? I walked into the room! I hire him, he doesn’t hire me!
Louise appears upstage in dim light; she is cold-creaming her face.
QUENTIN: But he is directing your TV show, and I was being polite to him.
MAGGIE: You don’t have to be ashamed of me, Quentin. I had a right to tell him to stop those faggy jokes at my rehearsal. Just because he’s cultured? I’m the one the public pays for, not Donaldson! Ask Ludwig Reiner what my value is!
QUENTIN: I married you, Maggie. I don’t need Ludwig’s lecture on your value.
MAGGIE, looking at him with strange, unfamiliar eyes: Why—why you so cold?
QUENTIN: I’m not cold, I’m trying to explain what happened.
MAGGIE: Well, take me in your arms, don’t explain. He takes her in his arms, he kisses her. Not like that. Hold me.
QUENTIN—he tries to hold her tighter, then lets go: Let’s go for a walk, honey. Come on.
MAGGIE, sinking: What’s the matter?
QUENTIN: Nothing.
MAGGIE: But Quentin—you should look at me, like I existed or something. Like you used to look—out of your self.
Maggie moves away into darkness, meets maid, and changes into negligee.
QUENTIN, alone: I adore you, Maggie; I’m sorry; it won’t ever happen again. Louise exits. Never! You need more love than I thought. But I’ve got it, and I’ll make you see it, and when you do you’re going to astound the world!
A rose light floods the bed; Maggie emerges in a dressing gown.
MAGGIE, indicating out front: Surprise! You like it? See the material?
QUENTIN: Oh, that’s lovely! How’d you think of that?
MAGGIE: All you gotta do is close them and the sun makes the bed all rose.
QUENTIN, striving for joy, embracing her on the bed: Yes, it’s beautiful! You see? An argument doesn’t mean disaster! Oh, Maggie, I never knew what love was!
MAGGIE, kissing him: Case during the day, like maybe you get the idea to come home and we make love again in daytime. She ends sitting in a weakness; nostalgically. Like last year, remember? In the winter afternoons? And once there was still snow on your hair. See, that’s all I am, Quentin.
QUENTIN: I’ll come home tomorrow afternoon.
MAGGIE, half humorously: Well, don’t plan it.
He laughs, but she looks at him strangely again, her stare piercing. His laugh dies.
QUENTIN: What is it? I don’t want to hide things any more, darling. Tell me, what’s bothering you?
MAGGIE, shaking her head, seeing: I’m not a good wife. I take up so much of your work.
QUENTIN: No, dear. I only said that because you—Striving to soften the incident—you kind of implied that I didn’t fight the network hard enough on that penalty, and I got it down to twenty thousand dollars. They had a right to a hundred when you didn’t perform.
MAGGIE, with rising indignation: But can’t I be sick? I was sick!
QUENTIN: I know, dear, but the doctor wouldn’t sign the affidavit.
MAGGIE, furious at him: I had a pain in my side, for Christ’s sake, I couldn’t stand straight! You don’t believe me, do you!
QUENTIN: Maggie, I’m only telling you the legal situation.
MAGGIE: Ask Ludwig what you should do! You should’ve gone in there roaring! ’Stead of a polite liberal and affidavits—I shouldn’t have had to pay anything!
QUENTIN: Maggie, you have a great analyst, and Ludwig is a phenomenal teacher, and every stranger you meet has all the answers, but I’m putting in forty per cent of my time on your problems, not just some hot air.
MAGGIE: You’re not putting forty per cent of—
QUENTIN: Maggie, I keep a log, I know what I spend my time on!
She looks at him, mortally wounded, goes upstage to a secretary, who enters with an invisible drink. Maid joins them with black dress, and Maggie changes.
I’m sorry, darling, but when you talk like that I feel a little like a fool. Don’t start drinking, please.
MAGGIE: Should never have gotten married; every man I ever knew they hate their wives. I think I should have a separate lawyer.
QUENTIN, alone on forestage: Darling, I’m happy to spend my time on you; my greatest pleasure is to know I’ve helped your work to grow!
MAGGIE, as a group of executives surrounds her: But the only reason I went to Ludwig was so I could make myself an artist you’d be proud of! You’re the first one that believed in me!
QUENTIN: Then what are we arguing about? We want the same thing, you see? Suddenly to Listener: Yes, power! To transform somebody, to save!
MAGGIE, emerging from the group, wearing reading glasses: He’s a very good lawyer; he deals for a lot of stars. He’ll call you to give him my files.
QUENTIN, after a slight pause; hurt: Okay.
MAGGIE: It’s nothing against you; but like that girl in the orchestra, that cellist—I mean Andy took too much but he’d have gone in there and got rid of her. I mean you don’t laugh when a singer goes off key.
QUENTIN: But she said she coughed.
MAGGIE, furiously: She didn’t cough, she laughed!
QUENTIN: Now, Maggie.
MAGGIE: I’m not finishing this tape if she’s in that band tomorrow! I’m entitled to my conditions, Quentin—and I shouldn’t have to plead with my husband for my rights. I want her out!
The executives are gone.
QUENTIN: I don’t know what the pleading’s about. I’ve fired three others in three different bands.
MAGGIE: Well, so what? You’re my husband. You’re supposed to do that. Aren’t you?
QUENTIN: But I can’t pretend to enjoy demanding people be fired—
MAGGIE: But if it was your daughter you’d get angry, wouldn’t you? Instead of apologizing for her?
QUENTIN, envisioning it: I guess I would, yes. I’m sorry. I’ll do it in the morning.
MAGGIE, with desperate warmth, joining him, sitting center: That’s all I mean. If I want something you should ask yourself why, why does she want it, not why she shouldn’t have it. . . . That’s why I don’t smile, I feel I’m fighting all the time to make you see. You’re like a little boy, you don’t see the knives people hide.
QUENTIN: Darling, life is not all that dangerous. You’ve got a husband now who loves you.
Pause. She seems to fear greatly.
MAGGIE: When your mother tells me I’m getting fat, I know where I am. And when you don’t do anything about it.
QUENTIN: But what can I do?
MAGGIE: Slap her down, that’s what you do!
Secretary enters with imaginary drink, which Maggie takes.
QUENTIN: But she says anything comes into her head, dear—
MAGGIE: She insulted me! She’s jealous of me!
QUENTIN: Maggie, she adores you. She’s proud of you.
MAGGIE, a distance away now: What are you trying to make me think, I’m crazy? Quentin approaches her, groping for reassurance. I’m not crazy!
QUENTIN, carefull
y: The thought never entered my mind, darling. I’ll . . . talk to her.
MAGGIE: Look, I don’t want to see her any more. If she ever comes into this house, I’m walking out!
QUENTIN: Well, I’ll tell her to apologize.
Secretary exits.
MAGGIE: I’m not going to work tomorrow. She lies down on the bed as though crushed.
QUENTIN: Okay.
MAGGIE, half springing up: You know it’s not “okay”! You’re scared to death they’ll sue me, why don’t you say it?
QUENTIN: I’m not scared to death; it’s just that you’re so wonderful in this show and it’s a pity to—
MAGGIE, sitting up furiously: All you care about is money! Don’t shit me!
QUENTIN, quelling a fury, his voice very level: Maggie, don’t use that language with me, will you?
MAGGIE: Call me vulgar, that I talk like a truck driver! Well, that’s where I come from. I’m for Negroes and Puerto Ricans and truck drivers!
QUENTIN: Then why do you fire people so easily?
MAGGIE, her eyes narrowing—she is seeing him anew: Look. You don’t want me. What the hell are you doing here?
Father and Dan enter, above them.
QUENTIN: I live here. And you do too, but you don’t know it yet. But you’re going to. I—
Father: Where’s he going? I need him! What are you?
QUENTIN, not turning to Father: I’m here, and I stick it, that’s what I am. And one day you’re going to catch on. Now go to sleep. I’ll be back in ten minutes, I’d like to take a walk.
He starts out and she comes to attention.
MAGGIE: Where you going to walk?
QUENTIN: Just around the block. She watches him carefully. There’s nobody else, kid; I just want to walk.
MAGGIE, with great suspicion: ’Kay.
Father and Dan exit.
He goes a few yards, halts, turns to see her taking a pill bottle and unscrewing the top.
QUENTIN, coming back: You can’t take pills on top of whisky, dear. He has reached for them. She pulls them away, but he grabs them again and puts them in his pocket. That’s how it happened the last time. And it’s not going to happen again. Never. I’ll be right back.
MAGGIE—an intoxication weighs on her speech now: Why you wear those pants? He turns back to her, knowing what is coming. I told you the seat is too tight.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 64