The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  ADRIAN: Those are understandable suspicions, Marcus.

  MARCUS, with a light laugh: But why!

  MAYA: It is marvelous, Adrian, how understandable everything is for you.

  ADRIAN: I didn’t say that at all, Maya; I know practically nothing about Marcus, so I could hardly be making an accusation, could I?

  MARCUS: Of course not. It’s only that the whole idea is so appalling.

  ADRIAN: Well, I apologize. But it’s so underwater here an outsider is bound to imagine all sorts of nightmares.

  MAYA: You have no nightmares in America?

  ADRIAN: You know me better than that, Maya—of course we have them, but they’re different.

  IRINA, revolving her finger: Is music?

  MARCUS: In a moment, dear.

  MAYA: I really must say, Adrian—when you came here the other times it was the Vietnam War, I believe. Did anyone in this country blame you personally for it?

  ADRIAN: No, they didn’t. But it’s not the same thing, Maya.

  MAYA: It never is, is it?

  ADRIAN: I was arrested twice for protesting the war. Not that that means too much—we had lawyers to defend us and the networks had it all over the country the next day. So there’s no comparison, and maybe I know it better than most people. And that’s why I’m not interested in blaming anyone here. This is impossible, Marcus, why don’t we find a restaurant, I’m beginning to sound like an idiot.

  MARCUS: We can’t now, I’ve invited . . .

  ADRIAN: Then why don’t you meet us somewhere. Sigmund? What do you say, Maya—where’s a good place?

  MARCUS: Not tonight, Adrian.

  Adrian turns to him, catching a certain obscure decision. Marcus addresses Sigmund.

  I took the liberty of asking Alexandra to stop by.

  Sigmund turns his head to him, surprised. Maya turns to Marcus from upstage, the plate in her hand.

  To Maya: I thought he ought to talk to her. To Sigmund: I hope you won’t mind.

  MAYA, turns to Sigmund, and with a certain surprise: You will talk with Alexandra?

  Sigmund is silent.

  IRINA, revolving her finger: Jazz?

  MARCUS: In a moment, dear.

  SIGMUND: She is coming?

  MARCUS: She said she’d try. I think she will. To Adrian: She is a great admirer of Sigmund’s.

  Maya comes down to Adrian with a plate. She is watching Sigmund, who is facing front.

  MAYA: I think you should have asked if he agrees.

  MARCUS: I don’t see the harm. She can just join us for a drink, if nothing more.

  ADRIAN, accepting the plate: Thanks. She a writer?

  MAYA: Her father is the Minister of Interior. She points at the ceiling. He is in charge . . .

  ADRIAN: Oh! I see. He turns to watch Sigmund, who is facing front.

  MARCUS: She writes poetry.

  MAYA: Yes. She glances anxiously to Sigmund. Tremendous . . . spreads her arms . . . long poems. She takes a glass and drinks deeply.

  MARCUS, on the verge of sharpness: Nevertheless, I think she has a certain talent.

  MAYA: Yes. You think she has a certain talent, Sigmund?

  MARCUS: Now, Maya . . . He reaches out and lifts the glass out of her hand.

  MAYA: Each year, you see, Adrian—since her father was appointed, this woman’s poetry is more and more admired by more and more of our writers. A few years ago only a handful appreciated her, but now practically everybody calls her a master. Proudly: Excepting for Sigmund— until now, anyway. She takes the glass from where Marcus placed it.

  SIGMUND, pause: She is not to my taste . . . he hesitates . . . but perhaps she is a good poet.

  MAYA, slight pause: But she has very thick legs.

  Marcus turns to her.

  But that must be said, Marcus . . . She laughs. We are not yet obliged to overlook a fact of nature. Please say she has thick legs.

  MARCUS: I have no interest in her legs.

  MAYA: Sigmund, my darling—surely you will say she . . .

  MARCUS: Stop that, Maya . . .

  MAYA, suddenly, at the top of her voice: It is important! She turns to Sigmund.

  SIGMUND: She has thick legs, yes.

  MAYA: Yes. She presses his head to her hip. Some truths will not change, and certain people, for all our sakes, are appointed never to forget them. How do the Jews say?—If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, may I cut off my hand? . . . To Irina: You want jazz?

  IRINA, starts to rise, happily: Jazz!

  MAYA, helping her up: Come, you poor girl, we have hundreds . . . I mean he does. She laughs. My God, Marcus, how long I lived here. She laughs, nearly weeping. I’m going crazy . . .

  SIGMUND, stands: I must walk. I have eaten too much. He buttons his jacket.

  ADRIAN, indicating below: What about those men?

  Sigmund beckons Adrian toward the double doors at left. He moves toward the left door, which he opens as Adrian stands, starts after him, then halts and turns with uncertainty to Marcus and Maya, who look on without expression. Adrian goes out, shutting the door. Sigmund is standing in the corridor.

  MAYA, to Irina: Come, we have everything. She goes and opens an overhead cabinet, revealing hundreds of records. From Paris, London, New York, Rio . . . you like conga?

  Irina reads the labels. Maya turns her head toward the corridor. Marcus now turns as well.

  SIGMUND: Do you understand?

  ADRIAN: No.

  SIGMUND: I am to be arrested.

  ADRIAN: How do you know that?

  SIGMUND: Alexander is the daughter of . . .

  Adrian: I know—the Minister of . . .

  SIGMUND: Marcus would never imagine I would meet with this woman otherwise.

  ADRIAN: Why? What’s she about?

  SIGMUND: She is collecting the dead for her father. She arrange for writers to go before the television, and apologize for the government. Mea culpa—to kissing their ass.

  Slight pause.

  ADRIAN: I think you’ve got to leave the country, Sigmund.

  Maya crosses the room.

  SIGMUND: Is impossible. We cannot discuss it.

  Maya enters the corridor, closing the door behind her.

  MAYA: Get out.

  SIGMUND, comes to her, takes her hand gently: I must talk to Adrian.

  MAYA: Get out, get out! To Adrian: He must leave the country. To Sigmund: Finish with it! Tell Marcus.

  SIGMUND, turns her to the door, a hand on her back. He opens the door for her: Please, Maya.

  She enters the room, glancing back at him in terror. He shuts the door.

  IRINA, holding out a record: Play?

  Maya looks to Marcus, who turns away. Then she goes and uncovers a record player, turns it on, sets the record on it. During the following the music plays, a jazz piece or conga. First Irina dances by herself, then gets Marcus up and dances with him. Maya sits, drinking.

  Pause.

  SIGMUND: You have a pistol?

  ADRIAN: . . . A pistol?

  SIGMUND: Yes.

  ADRIAN: No. Of course not. Pause. How could I carry a pistol on an airplane?

  SIGMUND: Why not? He has one in his valise. I saw it.

  Pause.

  ADRIAN: What good would a pistol do?

  Pause.

  SIGMUND: . . . It is very difficult to get pistol in this country.

  ADRIAN: This is unreal, Sigmund, you can’t be thinking of a . . .

  SIGMUND: If you will engage him in conversation, I will excuse myself to the bathroom. He has put his valise in the bedroom. I will take it from the valise.

  ADRIAN: And do what with it?

  SIGMUND: I will keep it, and he will tell them that I have it. In this case they will not arrest me.

&nb
sp; ADRIAN: But why not?

  SIGMUND: They will avoid at the present time to shoot me.

  ADRIAN: . . . And I’m to do . . . what am I to . . .

  SIGMUND: It is nothing; you must only engage him when I am excusing myself to the bathroom. Come . . .

  ADRIAN: Let me catch my breath, will you? . . . It’s unreal to me, Sigmund, I can’t believe you have to do this.

  SIGMUND: It is not dangerous, believe me.

  ADRIAN: Not for me, but I have a passport. . . . Then this is why Marcus came back?

  SIGMUND: I don’t know. He has many friends in the government, but . . . I don’t know why.

  ADRIAN: He’s an agent.

  SIGMUND: Is possible not.

  ADRIAN: Then what is he?

  SIGMUND: Marcus is Marcus.

  ADRIAN: Please, explain to me. I’ve got to understand before I go in there.

  SIGMUND: It is very complicated between us.

  ADRIAN: Like what? Maya?

  SIGMUND: Maya also. Slight pause. When I was young writer, Marcus was the most famous novelist in our country. In Stalin time he has six years in prison. He could not write. I was not in prison. When he has returned I am very popular, but he was forgotten. It is tragic story.

  ADRIAN: You mean he’s envious of you.

  SIGMUND: This is natural.

  ADRIAN: But didn’t you say he’s protected you . . .

  SIGMUND: Yes, of course. Marcus is very complicated man.

  ADRIAN: But with all that influence, why can’t you sit down and maybe he can think of something for you.

  SIGMUND: He has thought of something—he has thought of Alexandra.

  ADRIAN: You mean he’s trying to destroy you.

  SIGMUND: No. Is possible he believes he is trying to help me.

  ADRIAN: But subconsciously . . .

  SIGMUND: Yes. Come, we must go back.

  ADRIAN: Just one more minute. You’re convinced he’s not an agent.

  SIGMUND: My opinion, no.

  ADRIAN: But how does he get all these privileges?

  SIGMUND: Marcus is lazy. Likewise, he is speaking French, English, German—five, six language. When the foreign writers are coming, he is very gentleman, he makes using salon, he is showing the castles, the restaurants, introduce beautiful girls. When these writers return home they say is no bad problem in this civilized country. He makes very nice impression, and for this they permit him to be lazy. Is not necessary to be agent.

  ADRIAN: You don’t think it’s possible that he learned they were going to arrest you and came back to help you?

  Sigmund looks at him, surprised.

  That makes as much sense as anything else, Sigmund. Could he have simply wanted to do something decent? Maybe I’m being naive, but if he wanted your back broken, his best bet would be just to sit tight in London and let it happen.

  Sigmund is silent.

  And as for calling Alexandra—maybe he figured your only chance is actually to make peace with the government.

  Sigmund is silent.

  You grab that gun and you foreclose everything—you’re an outlaw. Is it really impossible to sit down with Marcus, man to man? I mean, you’re pinning everything on an interpretation, aren’t you?

  SIGMUND: I know Marcus.

  ADRIAN: Sigmund—every conversation I’ve ever had with him about this country, he’s gone out of his way to praise you—your talent and you personally. I can’t believe I was taken in; he genuinely admires your guts, your resistance. Let me call him out here.

  Sigmund turns, uncertain but alarmed.

  What’s to lose? Maybe there’s a string he can pull, let’s put his feet to the fire. Because he’s all over Europe lamenting conditions here, he’s a big liberal in Europe. I’ve seen him get girls with those lamentations. Let me call him on it.

  SIGMUND, with a blossoming suspicion in the corners of his eyes: I will never make speech on the television . . .

  ADRIAN, alarmed: For Christ’s sake, Sigmund, you don’t imagine I would want that. He explodes. This is a quagmire, a fucking asylum! . . . But I’m not helping out with any guns. It’s suicide, you’ll have to do that alone. He goes to the door.

  SIGMUND: Adrian?

  ADRIAN: I’m sorry, Sigmund, but that’s the way I feel.

  SIGMUND: I want my manuscript. If you wish to talk to Marcus, I have nothing to object . . . on this basis.

  Adrian looks at him, unsatisfied, angry. He turns and flings the door open, enters the room.

  ADRIAN: Marcus? Can I see you a minute?

  MARCUS: Of course. What is it?

  ADRIAN: Out here, please . . . if you don’t mind?

  Marcus crosses the room and enters the corridor. Sigmund avoids Marcus’s eyes, stands waiting. Marcus turns to Adrian as he shuts the door.

  MARCUS: Yes?

  Maya opens the door, enters the corridor, shuts it behind her. Marcus turns up his robe collar.

  ADRIAN, breaks into an embarrassed grin: I’m not sure what to say or not say. . . . I’m more of a stranger than I’d thought, Marcus . . .

  MARCUS: We’re all strangers in this situation—nobody ever learns how to deal with it.

  ADRIAN: . . . I take it you have some contacts with the government.

  MARCUS: Many of us do; it’s a small country.

  ADRIAN: I think they ought to know that, ah . . . He glances to Sigmund, but Sigmund is not facing in his direction. If he’s to be arrested, he’ll—resist.

  Maya turns quickly to Sigmund, alarm in her face.

  MARCUS: I don’t understand—To Sigmund, with a faintly embarrassed grin: Why couldn’t you have said that to me?

  Sigmund, bereft of an immediate answer, starts to turn to him.

  Well, it doesn’t matter. He is flushed. He turns back to Adrian. Yes?

  ADRIAN: What I thought was, that . . .

  MARCUS: Of course, if we’re talking about some—violent gesture, they will advertise it as the final proof he is insane. Which is what they’ve claimed all along. But what was your thought?

  ADRIAN: I have the feeling that the inevitable is being accepted. They act and you react. I’d like to sit down, the four of us, and see if we can come up with some out that nobody’s ever thought of before.

  MARCUS: Certainly. But it’s a waste of time if you think you can change their program.

  ADRIAN: Which is what, exactly?

  MARCUS: Obviously—to drive him out of the country. Failing that, to make it impossible for him to function.

  ADRIAN: And you think?

  MARCUS: There’s no question in my mind—he must emigrate. They’ve taken the work of his last five years, what more do you want?

  ADRIAN: There’s no one at all you could approach?

  MARCUS: With what? What can I offer that they need?

  ADRIAN: Like what, for example?

  MARCUS: Well, if he agreed to emigrate, conceivably they might let go of the manuscript—providing, of course, that it isn’t too politically inflammatory. But that could be dealt with, I think—they badly want him gone.

  ADRIAN: There’s no one up there who could be made to understand that if they ignored him he would simply be another novelist . . .

  MARCUS, laughing lightly: But will he ignore them? How is it possible? This whole country is inside his skin—that is his greatness—They have a right to be terrified.

  ADRIAN: Supposing there were a copy of the manuscript.

  MARCUS: But there isn’t, so it’s pointless talking about it.

  ADRIAN: But if there were.

  MARCUS: It might have been a consideration.

  ADRIAN: . . . If they knew it would be published abroad.

  MARCUS: It might slow them down, yes. But they know Sigmund’s personality.

  ADRIAN: How
do you mean?

  MARCUS: He’s not about to trust another person with his fate—it’s a pity; they’d never have found it in this house in a hundred years. The cellar’s endless, the gallery upstairs full of junk—to me, this is the saddest part of all. If it had made a splash abroad it might have held their hand for six months, perhaps longer. With a regretful glance at Sigmund: But . . . so it goes. Pause. He blows on his hands. It’s awfully cold out here, come inside . . . He starts for the door.

  ADRIAN: There’s a copy in Paris.

  Maya and Sigmund turn swiftly to him.

  MARCUS: . . . In Paris.

  ADRIAN: I sent it off this morning.

  MARCUS: This morning?

  ADRIAN: I ran into a cousin of mine; had no idea she was here. She took it with her to Gallimard—they’re my publishers.

  A broken smile emerges on Marcus’s face. He is filling with a swirl of colors, glancing first at Maya, then at Sigmund, then back to Adrian.

  MARCUS: Well then . . . that much is solved. He goes to the door.

  ADRIAN: They should be told, don’t you think?

  MARCUS, stands at the door, his hand on the knob, finally turns to all of them: How terrible. Slight pause. To Maya and Sigmund: Such contempt. Slight pause. Why? . . . Can you tell me? They avoid his gaze. He turns to Adrian. There’s no plane to Paris today. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. This is Tuesday, Adrian.

  SIGMUND: I did not ask him to say that.

  MARCUS: But perfectly willing to stand there and hope I’d believe it.

  ADRIAN: I’m sorry, Marcus . . .

  MARCUS, laughing: But Adrian, I couldn’t care less.

  MAYA, moving to him: Help him.

  MARCUS: Absolutely not. I am finished with it. No one will ever manipulate me, I will not be in that position.

  MAYA: He is a stupid man, he understands nothing!

  ADRIAN: Now, hold it a second . . .

  MAYA: Get out of here!

  ADRIAN: Just hold it a second, goddammit! I’m out of my depth, Marcus, but I’ve apologized. I’m sorry. But you have to believe it was solely my invention; Sigmund has absolute faith in you.

  SIGMUND: You can forgive him, Marcus—he tells you the truth; he believes you are my friend, he said this to me a moment ago.

  ADRIAN: I feel he’s drowning, Marcus, it was just something to grab for. He holds out his hand. Forgive me, it just popped out of my mouth.