MARCUS, silently clasps his hand for an instant, and lets go; to Sigmund and Maya especially: Come inside. We’ll talk.
ADRIAN, as Marcus turns to the door: . . . Marcus?
Marcus turns to him. He is barely able to continue.
Don’t you think—it would be wiser—a bar or something?
MARCUS: I’m expecting Alexandra.
ADRIAN: Could you leave a note on the door? But it’s up to you and Sigmund. To Sigmund: What do you think?
SIGMUND, hesitates: It is for Marcus to decide. He looks at Marcus. It is his house.
Marcus expressionless, stands silent.
MAYA: Darling . . . delicately . . . it will endure a thousand years. Marcus looks at her. . . . I’ve read it. It is all we ever lived. They must not, must not touch it. Whatever humiliation, whatever is necessary for this book, yes. More than he himself, more than any human being—this book they cannot harm. . . . Francesco’s is still open. She turns to Adrian. But I must say to you, Adrian—nothing has ever been found in this house. We have looked everywhere.
ADRIAN: It’s entirely up to Marcus. To Marcus: You feel it’s all right to talk in there?
Long pause.
MARCUS, with resentment: I think Maya has answered that question, don’t you?
ADRIAN: Okay. Then you’re not sure.
MARCUS: But you are, apparently.
ADRIAN, slight pause; to Sigmund: I think I ought to leave.
SIGMUND: No, no . . .
ADRIAN:: I think I’m only complicating it for you—
SIGMUND: I insist you stay . . .
ADRIAN, laughs nervously, his arm touching Sigmund’s shoulder: I’m underwater, kid, I can’t operate when I’m drowning. Without pausing, to Marcus: I really don’t understand why you’re offended.
MARCUS: The question has been answered once. There has never been any proof of an installation. But when so many writers congregate here, I’ve had to assume there might be something. The fact is, I have always warned people to be careful what they say in there—but only to be on the safe side. Is that enough?
SIGMUND: Come! To Marcus, heartily, as he begins to press Adrian toward the door: Now I will have one big whisky . . .
Marcus laughs, starting for the door.
ADRIAN, separating himself from Sigmund: I’ll see you tomorrow, Sigmund.
Silence. They go still.
This is all your marbles, kid. It’s too important for anyone to be standing on his dignity. I think I’m missing some of the overtones. To Marcus: But all I know is that if it were me I’d feel a lot better if I could hear you say what you just said—in there.
MARCUS: What I said?
ADRIAN, slight pause: That you’ve always warned people that the government might be listening, in that room.
SIGMUND: Is not necessary . . .
ADRIAN: I think it . . .
SIGMUND: Absolutely not! Please . . . He presses Adrian toward the door and stretches his hand out to Marcus. Come, Marcus, please.
Sigmund leads the way into the room, followed by Adrian, then Marcus and Maya. For an instant they are all awkwardly standing there. Then Sigmund presses his hand against his stomach.
Excuse me one moment. He goes up toward the bedroom doorway.
ADRIAN, suddenly alerted, starts after Sigmund: Sigmund . . .
But Sigmund is gone. He is openly conflicted about rushing after him . . .
MAYA: What is it?
ADRIAN, blurting, in body-shock: Level with him. Marcus . . . this is your Hemingway, your Faulkner, for Christ’s sake—help him!
Sigmund enters from bedroom, a pistol in his hand. Irina, seeing it, strides away from him in fright.
SIGMUND, to Marcus: Forgive me. I must have it. He puts it in his pocket.
IRINA, pointing at his pocket: Shoot?
SIGMUND: No, no. We are all friend. Alle gute Freunde hier.
IRINA: Ah. She turns questioningly to Marcus, then Adrian, Maya, and Sigmund.
Pause.
ADRIAN: Marcus?
Marcus, at center, turns front, anger mounting in his face. Maya goes and shuts off the record player. Then she turns to him, waiting.
Will you say it? In here? Please?
END OF ACT ONE
ACT TWO
Positions the same. A tableau, Marcus at center, all waiting for him to speak. Finally he moves, glances at Sigmund.
MARCUS: They are preparing a trial for you.
MAYA, clapping her hands together, crying out: Marcus!
She starts toward him, but he walks from her, turning away in impatience. She halts.
When?
Marcus is silent, downing his resentment.
Do you know when?
MARCUS: I think within the month.
MAYA, turning to Sigmund: My God, my God.
SIGMUND, after a moment: And Otto and Peter?
MARCUS: I don’t know about them. He goes in the silence to his chair, sits.
Pause.
ADRIAN: What would they charge him with?
MARCUS: . . . Fantastic. Break off a trip, fly across Europe, and now I’m asked—what am I asked?—to justify myself? Is that it?
Unable to answer, Adrian evades his eyes, then glances to Sigmund for aid; but Sigmund is facing front and now walks to a chair and sits.
MAYA, to Marcus: No, no, dear . . . Of Sigmund: It’s only such a shock for him . . .
MARCUS, rejecting her apology, glances at Adrian: . . . Section Nineteen, I’d imagine. Slandering the state.
ADRIAN: On what grounds?
MARCUS: He’s been sending out some devastating letters to the European press; this last one to the United Nations—have you read that?
ADRIAN: Just now in Paris, yes.
MARCUS: What’d you think of it?
ADRIAN, with a cautious glance at Sigmund: It was pretty hot, I guess—What’s the penalty for that?
MARCUS: A year. Two, three, five—who knows?
Slight pause.
MAYA: It was good of you to return, dear.
Marcus does not respond. She invites Sigmund’s gratitude.
. . . Sigmund?
SIGMUND, waits an instant: Yes. Thank you, Marcus.
Marcus remains looking front.
It is definite?
MARCUS: I think it is. And it will affect every writer in the country, if it’s allowed to happen.
SIGMUND: How do you know this?
Slight pause.
MARCUS: My publisher had a press reception for me day before yesterday—for my book. A fellow from our London embassy turned up. We chatted for a moment, then I forgot about him, but in the street afterwards, he was suddenly beside me . . . we shared a cab. Slight pause. He turns directly to Sigmund. He said he was from the Embassy Press Section.
SIGMUND: Police.
MARCUS, lowers his eyes in admission: He was . . . quite violent . . . his way of speaking.
SIGMUND: About me.
Slight pause.
MARCUS: I haven’t heard that kind of language . . . since . . . the old days. “You are making a mistake,” he said, “if you think we need tolerate this scum any longer . . .”
MAYA: My God, my God . . .
MARCUS: “You can do your friend a favor,” he said, “and tell him to get out this month or he will eat his own shit for five or six years.”
Maya weeps.
“And as far as a protest in the West, he can wrap it in bacon fat and shove it up his ass.” Pounded the seat with his fist. Bloodshot eyes. I thought he was going to hit me for a moment there. . . . It was quite an act.
ADRIAN: An act?
MARCUS: Well he wasn’t speaking for himself, of course. Slight pause. I started a letter, but I know your feelings about leaving�
�I felt we had to talk about it face to face.
SIGMUND: Please.
MARCUS, hesitates, then turns to Adrian: Are you here as a journalist?
ADRIAN: God, no—I just thought I’d stop by . . .
MAYA: He has written a novel about us.
MARCUS, unguarded: About us? Really! . . .
ADRIAN: Well, not literally . . .
MARCUS: When is it coming out?
ADRIAN: It won’t. I’ve abandoned it.
MARCUS: Oh! That’s too bad. Why?
ADRIAN: I’m not here to write about you, Marcus . . . honestly.
Marcus nods, unconvinced. Adrian addresses Sigmund as well.
I’ll leave now if you think I’m in the way . . .
Sigmund doesn’t react.
MARCUS: It’s all right. Slight pause. But if you decide to write something about us . . .
ADRIAN: I’ve no intention . . .
MARCUS, smiling: You never know. We have a tactical disagreement, Sigmund and I. To me, it’s really a question of having had different experiences—although there are only seven or eight years between us; things that he finds intolerable are actually—from another viewpoint—improvements over the past . . .
ADRIAN, indicating Maya: I only found out today you were in prison . . .
MARCUS: A camp, actually—we dug coal.
ADRIAN: Six years.
MARCUS: And four months.
ADRIAN: What for?
MARCUS: It’s one of those stories which, although long, is not interesting. He laughs. The point is simple, in any case. We happen to occupy a . . . strategic zone, really—between two hostile ways of life. And no government here is free to do what it would like to do. But some intelligent, sympathetic people are up there now who weren’t around in the old times, and to challenge these people, to even insult them, is to indulge in a sort of fantasy . . .
SIGMUND, pointing to the ceiling: Marcus, this is reality?
MARCUS: Let me finish . . .
SIGMUND: But is very important—who is fantastic? He laughs. We are some sort of characters in a poem which they are writing; is not my poem, is their poem . . . and I do not like this poem, it makes me crazy! He laughs.
ADRIAN: I understand what he means, though . . .
SIGMUND: I not! I am sorry. Excuse me, Marcus—please continue.
MARCUS, slight pause: They ought not be forced into political trials again . . .
SIGMUND: I am forcing . . . ?
MARCUS: May I finish? It will mean a commitment which they will have to carry through, willingly or not. And that can only mean turning out the lights for all of us, and for a long time to come. It mustn’t be allowed to happen, Sigmund. And it need not happen. Slight pause. I think you have to get out. For all our sakes.
With an ironic shake of his head, Sigmund makes a long exhale.
MARCUS: . . . I’ve called Alexandra because I think you need a line of communication now. If only to stall things for a time, or whatever you . . .
SIGMUND, toward Maya: I must now communicate with Alexandra.
MARCUS: She adores your work, whatever you think of her.
Sigmund gives him a sarcastic glance.
This splendid isolation has to end, Sigmund—it was never real and now it’s impossible.
SIGMUND, shakes his head: I will wait for her. I may wait?
MARCUS: I certainly hope you will. Slight pause. I only ask you to keep in mind that this goes beyond your personal feelings about leaving . . .
SIGMUND: I have never acted for personal feelings.
MARCUS, insistently: You’ve been swept away now and then—that United Nations letter could change nothing except enrage them . . .
SIGMUND: I may not also be enraged?
MAYA: Don’t argue about it, please . . .
SIGMUND, smiling to her: Perhaps is time we argue . . .
MAYA: Sigmund, we are all too old to be right! She picks up a glass.
MARCUS: Are you getting drunk?
MAYA: No, I am getting sorry. Is no one to be sorry? I am sorry for both of you. I am sorry for Socialism. I am sorry for Marx and Engels and Lenin— She shouts to the air. I am sorry! To Irina, irritably: Don’t be frightened. She pours a drink.
Pause.
ADRIAN: I’d like to take back what I asked you before, Marcus.
MARCUS: How can I know what is in this room? How ludicrous can you get?
ADRIAN: I agree. I wouldn’t be willing to answer that question in my house either.
SIGMUND: But would not be necessary to ask such question in your house.
ADRIAN: Oh, don’t kid yourself . . .
MARCUS: The FBI is everywhere . . .
ADRIAN: Not everywhere, but they get around. The difference with us is that it’s illegal.
SIGMUND: Vive la différence.
MARCUS: Provided you catch them.
ADRIAN, laughs: Right. He catches Sigmund’s dissatisfaction with him. I’m not saying it’s the same . . .
SIGMUND, turns away from Adrian to Maya: Please, Maya, a whisky.
MAYA, eagerly: Yes! She goes up to the drink table. Silence. She pours a drink, brings it to Sigmund.
ADRIAN: Did this woman say what time she . . .
MARCUS: She’s at some embassy dinner. As soon as she can break away. Shouldn’t be long. Slight pause. He indicates Sigmund’s pocket. Give me that thing, will you?
Sigmund does not respond.
ADRIAN: Go ahead, Sigmund.
SIGMUND: I . . . keep for few minutes. He drinks.
Pause.
ADRIAN: I’m exhausted. He hangs his head and shakes it.
MAYA: You drink too fast.
ADRIAN: No . . . it’s the whole thing—it suddenly hit me. He squeezes his eyes. Mind if I lie down?
MARCUS, gesturing toward the couch: Of course.
Adrian goes to the couch.
What’s your feeling?
ADRIAN: He’s got to get out, I’ve told him that. He lies down. They’re doing great, what do they need literature for? It’s a pain in the ass. He throws an arm over his eyes, sighs. Christ . . . it’s unbelievable. An hour from the Sorbonne.
MAYA, a long pause; she sits between Sigmund and Marcus, glancing uncomfortably from one to the other: It was raining in London?
MARCUS: No, surprisingly warm. How’s your tooth?
MAYA, pointing to a front tooth, showing him: They saved it.
MARCUS: Good. He painted the bathroom.
MAYA: Yes, he came, finally. I paid him. The rest of the money is in the desk.
MARCUS: Thanks, dear. Looks very nice.
Slight pause.
MAYA, leans her elbow on her knee, her chin on her fist, observes her leg, then glances at Marcus: My bird died on Sunday.
MARCUS: Really? Lulu?
MAYA: Yes. I finally found out, though—she was a male. To Sigmund: And all these years I called him Lulu!
SIGMUND: I can give you one of my rabbits.
MAYA: Oh, my God, no rabbits. She sighs. No birds, no cats, no dogs . . . Nothing, nothing anymore. She drinks.
Pause.
ADRIAN, from the couch: You ever get mail from your program?
MAYA: Oh, very much. Mostly for recipes, sometimes I teach them to cook.
SIGMUND: She is very comical. She is marvelous actress.
ADRIAN: It’s not a political . . . ?
MAYA: No! It’s too early in the morning. I hate politics . . . boring, boring, always the same. . . . You know something? You are both very handsome.
Sigmund and Marcus look at her and laugh softly.
You too, Adrian. She looks at her glass. And this is wonderful whisky.
ADRIAN: Not too much, dear.
MAYA: No, no. She gets
up with her glass, moves toward the window at right. There was such a marvelous line—that English poet, what was his name? Very famous . . . you published him in the first or second issue, I think. . . . “The world . . .” She presses her forehead. Marcus observes her, and she sees him. I’m not drunk, it’s only so long ago. Oh, yes! “The world needs a wash and a week’s rest.”
ADRIAN: Auden.
MAYA: Auden, yes! A wash and week’s rest—what a wonderful solution.
ADRIAN: Yeah—last one into the Ganges is a rotten egg.
They laugh.
MARCUS: Every now and then you sound like Brooklyn.
ADRIAN: That’s because I come from Philadelphia. How do you know about Brooklyn?
MARCUS: I was in the American army.
ADRIAN, amazed, sits up: How do you come to the American army?
MAYA: He was sergeant!
MARCUS: I enlisted in London—we had to get out when the Nazis came. I was translator and interpreter for General McBride, First Army Intelligence.
ADRIAN: Isn’t that funny? Every once in a while you come into a kind of—focus, that’s very familiar. I’ve never understood it.
MARCUS: I was in almost three years.
ADRIAN: Huh! He laughs. I don’t know why I’m so glad to hear it . . .
MARCUS: Well, you can place me now—we all want that.
ADRIAN: I guess so. What’d she mean, that you published Auden?
MAYA: Marcus was the editor of the magazine, until they closed it.
ADRIAN, toward Sigmund: I didn’t know that.
SIGMUND: Very good editor—Marcus was first editor who accept to publish my story.
MAYA: If it had been in English—or even French or Spanish—our magazine would have been as famous as the New Yorker.
MARCUS, modestly: Well . . .
MAYA, to Marcus: In my opinion it was better . . . To Adrian: But our language even God doesn’t read. People would stand on line in the street downstairs, like for bread. People from factories, soldiers from the army, professors . . . It was like some sort of Bible, every week a new prophecy. Pity you missed it . . . It was like living on a ship—every morning there was a different island.
MARCUS, to Sigmund with a gesture of communication: Elizabeth didn’t look well, is she all right?
SIGMUND: She was very angry tonight. She is sometimes foolish.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 92