The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  SIGMUND: I am afraid; that is all. I think I will not be able to write in some other country.

  ADRIAN: Oh, that’s impossible . . .

  SIGMUND: I am not cosmopolitan writer, I am provincial writer. I believe I must hear my language every day, I must walk in these particular streets. I think in New York I will have only some terrible silence. Is like old tree—it is difficult to moving old tree, they most probably die.

  ADRIAN: But if they lock you up . . .

  SIGMUND: Yes, but that is my fate; I must accept my fate. But to run away because of some sort of rumor—I have only some rumor, no? How will I support this silence that I have brought on myself? This is terrible idea, no? How I can accept to be so ridiculous? Therefore, is reasonable, I believe—that I must absolutely understand who is speaking to me.

  ADRIAN, slight pause, a hesitation: I’m going to level with you, Sigmund—I think you’re being far too . . .

  SIGMUND, a frustrated outburst: I am not crazy, Adrian! All turn to him, fear in their faces. He spreads his arms, with an upward glance. Who is commanding me? Who is this voice? Who is speaking to me?

  MAYA: They. An instant’s silence; she seems ashamed to look directly at Sigmund. She gestures almost imperceptibly upward. It is there.

  MARCUS, in protest: Maya!

  MAYA: Why not! To Sigmund: They have heard it all.

  MARCUS, to Sigmund and Adrian: It isn’t true, there’s nothing.

  MAYA, persisting, to Sigmund: He has risked everything . . . for you. God knows what will happen for what has been said here.

  MARCUS, to Sigmund: There’s nothing . . . she can’t know . . . To Maya: You can’t know that . . .

  MAYA, her eyes to the ceiling: Who else have we been speaking to all evening! To them all: Who does not believe it? To Marcus: It is his life, darling—we must begin to say what we believe. Somewhere, we must begin!

  Pause. She sits a distance from Sigmund; only after a moment does she turn to face him as she fights down her shame and her fear of him.

  SIGMUND: So.

  MAYA, downing her shame: Just so, yes. You must go.

  SIGMUND: For your sake.

  MAYA: Yes.

  MARCUS, softly, facing front: It isn’t true.

  MAYA: And yours. For all of us.

  SIGMUND: You must . . . deliver me? My departure?

  Maya stiffens. She cannot speak.

  For your program? His passport . . . ?

  ADRIAN: Sigmund, it’s enough . . .

  MAYA: He had no need to return, except he loves you. There was no need. That is also true.

  SIGMUND, his head clamped in his hands: My God . . . Maya. Pause. To Marcus: They brought you back to make sure my departure?

  ADRIAN, aborting the violence coming: Come on, Sigmund, it’s enough . . .

  SIGMUND, trying to laugh: But she is not some sort of whore! I have many years with this woman! . . .

  ADRIAN: What more do you want!

  MARCUS: Her humiliation; she’s not yet on her knees to him. We are now to take our places, you see, at the foot of the cross, as he floats upward through the plaster on the wings of his immortal contempt. We lack remorse, it spoils the picture. He glares, smiling at Sigmund, who seems on the verge of springing at him.

  ADRIAN, to Sigmund: Forget it, Sigmund—come on . . . To Marcus: Maybe you ought to call that Alexandra woman.

  MARCUS: She’ll be along.

  Silence. The moment expands. Sigmund stares front, gripping his lower face. Adrian is glancing at him with apprehension. Maya is looking at no one.

  SIGMUND, to Maya: You can say nothing to me?

  MAYA, slight pause: You know my feeling.

  SIGMUND: I, not. I know your name. Who is this woman?

  MARCUS: Don’t play that game with him.

  SIGMUND: It is a game?

  ADRIAN: Come on, fellas . . .

  SIGMUND, irritated, to Adrian: Is interesting to me. To Marcus: What is your game? What did you mean?

  MARCUS: It’s called Power. Or Moral Monopoly. The winner takes all the justifications. When you write this, Adrian, I hope you include the fact that they refused him a visa for many years and he was terribly indignant—the right to leave was sacred to civilization. Now he has that right and it’s an insult. You can draw your own conclusions.

  SIGMUND: And what is the conclusion?

  MARCUS: You are a moral blackmailer. We have all humored you, Sigmund, out of some misplaced sense of responsibility to our literature. Or maybe it’s only our terror of vanishing altogether. We aren’t the Russians—after you and Otto and Peter there aren’t a handful to keep the breath of life in this language. We have taken all the responsibility and left you all the freedom to call us morally bankrupt. But now you’re free to go, so the responsibility moves to you. Now it’s yours. All yours. We have done what was possible; now you will do what is necessary, or turn out our lights. And that is where it stands.

  SIGMUND, slight pause: This is all?

  Marcus is silent.

  ADRIAN: What more can be said, Sigmund? What can they give you? It’s pointless.

  SIGMUND, turns to Maya: I am only some sort of . . . comical Jesus Christ? Is only my egotism? This is all? What you can give me, Maya? She is silent. There is nothing?

  In silence, Maya turns to face him.

  You understand what I ask you?

  MAYA: Yes.

  SIGMUND: You cannot? Slight pause. Then he glances toward Marcus. After so many years . . . so many conversations . . . so many hope and disaster—you can only speak for them? He gestures toward the ceiling. Is terrible, no? Why we have lived?

  ADRIAN, to cut off his mounting anger: Sigmund . . .

  SIGMUND, swiftly, his eyes blazing: Why have you come here? What do you want in this country?

  ADRIAN, astonished: What the hell are you . . . ?

  SIGMUND: You are scientist observing the specimens: this whore? this clever fellow making business with these gangsters?

  ADRIAN: For Christ’s sake, Sigmund, what can I do!

  SIGMUND: They are killing us, Adrian—they have destroyed my friends! You are free man—with a gesture toward the ceiling—why you are obliged to be clever? Why do you come here, Adrian?

  MAYA: To save his book.

  ADRIAN: That’s a lie!

  MAYA: But it’s exactly what you told me an hour ago. She stands. To both Sigmund and Adrian: What is the sin? He has come for his profit, to rescue two years’ work, to make more money . . .

  ADRIAN: That’s a goddamned lie!

  MAYA: And for friendship! Oh yes—his love for you. I believe it! Like ours. Absolutely like ours! Is love not love because there is some profit in it? Who speaks only for his heart? And yes, I speak to them now—this moment, this very moment to them, that they may have mercy on my program, on his passport. Always to them, in some part to them for my profit—here and everywhere in this world! Just as you do.

  SIGMUND: I speak for Sigmund.

  MAYA: Only Sigmund? Then why can’t you speak for Sigmund in America? Because you will not have them in America to hate! And if you cannot hate you cannot write and you will not be Sigmund anymore, but another lousy refugee ordering his chicken soup in broken English—and where is the profit in that? They are your theme, your life, your partner in this dance that cannot stop or you will die of silence! She moves toward him. Tenderly: They are in you, darling. And if you stay . . . it is also for your profit . . . as it is for ours to tell you to go. Who can speak for himself alone?

  A heavy brass knocker is heard from below. Sigmund lifts his eyes to the ceiling. Marcus stands and faces Sigmund, who now turns to him. Silence.

  SIGMUND: Tell her, please . . . is impossible . . . any transaction. Only to return my property.

  MAYA, with an abjectness, a terror, taki
ng his hand and kissing it: Darling . . . for my sake. For this little life that I have made . . .

  MARCUS, with anger, disgust: Stop it! He turns to Sigmund. For your monument. For the bowing ushers in the theatre. For the power . . . the power to bring down everyone.

  SIGMUND, spreads his hands, looks up at the ceiling: I don’t know. He turns to Marcus. But I will never leave. Never.

  Another knock is heard. Marcus, his face set, goes out and up the corridor. Sigmund turns to Maya. She walks away, her face expressionless, and stands at the window staring out.

  Forgive me, Maya.

  She doesn’t turn to him. He looks to Adrian.

  Is quite simple. We are ridiculous people now. And when we try to escape it, we are ridiculous too.

  ADRIAN: No.

  SIGMUND: I think so. But we cannot help ourselves. I must give you . . . certain letters, I wish you to keep them . . . before you leave. He sits. I have one some years ago from Malraux. Very elegant. French, you know? Also Gyula Illyés, Hungarian . . . very wise fellow. Heinrich Böll, Germany, one letter. Kobo Abe, Japan—he also. Nadine Gordimer, South Africa. Also Cortázar, Argentina . . . Slight pause. My God, eh? So many writers! Like snow . . . like forest . . . these enormous trees everywhere on the earth. Marvelous. Slight pause. A welling up in him. He suddenly cries out to Maya across the stage. Maya! Forgive me . . . He hurries to her. I cannot help it.

  MAYA: I know. She turns to him, reaches out, and touches his face. Thank you.

  SIGMUND, surprised, he is motionless for an instant, then pulls her into his arms, and holds her face: Oh, my God! Thank you, Maya.

  The voices of Marcus and Alexandra are heard approaching from the darkness up the corridor. The three of them turn toward the door.

  IRINA, revolving her finger, to Maya: Now, music?

  CURTAIN

  THE AMERICAN CLOCK

  A VAUDEVILLE

  Based in part on Studs Terkel’s Hard Times

  1980

  Characters

  THEODORE K. QUINN

  LEE BAUM

  ROSE BAUM, Lee’s mother

  MOE BAUM, Lee’s father

  ARTHUR A. ROBERTSON

  CLARENCE, a shoeshine man

  FRANK, the Baums’ chauffeur

  FANNY MARGOLIES, Rose’s sister

  GRANDPA, Rose’s father

  DR. ROSMAN

  JESSE LIVERMORE, WILLIAM DURANT, ARTHUR CLAYTON, Financiers

  TONY, a speakeasy owner

  DIANA MORGAN

  HENRY TAYLOR, a farmer

  IRENE, a middle-aged black woman

  BANKS, a black veteran

  JOE, a boyhood friend of Lee’s

  MRS. TAYLOR, Henry’s wife

  HARRIET TAYLOR, their daughter

  BREWSTER, CHARLEY, Farmers

  JUDGE BRADLEY

  FRANK HOWARD, an auctioneer

  MISS FOWLER, Quinn’s secretary

  GRAHAM, a New York Times reporter

  SIDNEY MARGOLIES, Fanny’s son

  DORIS GROSS, the landlady’s daughter

  RALPH, RUDY, Students

  ISABEL, a prostitute

  ISAAC, a black café proprietor

  RYAN, a federal relief supervisor

  MATTHEW R. BUSH, GRACE, KAPUSH, DUGAN, TOLAND, LUCY, People at the relief office

  EDIE, a comic-strip artist

  LUCILLE, Rose’s niece

  STANISLAUS, a seaman

  BASEBALL PLAYER

  WAITER

  THIEF

  FARMERS

  BIDDERS

  SHERIFF

  DEPUTIES

  MARATHON DANCERS

  WELFARE WORKER

  SOLDIERS

  ACT ONE

  The set is a flexible area for actors. The actors are seated in a choral area onstage and return to it when their scenes are over. The few pieces of furniture required should be openly carried on by the actors. An impression of a surrounding vastness should be given, as though the whole country were really the setting, even as the intimacy of certain scenes is provided for. The background can be sky, clouds, space itself, or an impression of the geography of the United States.

  A small jazz band onstage plays “Million-Dollar Baby” as a baseball pitcher enters, tossing a ball from hand to glove. Quinn begins to whistle “Million-Dollar Baby” from the balcony. Now he sings, and the rest of the company joins in, gradually coming onstage. All are singing by the end of the verse. All form in positions onstage. The band remains onstage throughout the play.

  ROSE: By the summer of 1929 . . .

  LEE: I think it’s fair to say that nearly every American . . .

  MOE: Firmly believed that he was going to get . . .

  COMPANY: Richer and richer . . .

  MOE: Every year.

  ROBERTSON: The country knelt to a golden calf in a blanket of red, white, and blue. He walks to Clarence’s shoeshine box. How you making out, Clarence?

  CLARENCE: Mr. Robertson, I like you to lay another ten dollars on that General Electric. You do that for me?

  ROBERTSON: How much stock you own, Clarence?

  CLARENCE: Well, this ten ought to buy me a thousand dollars’ worth, so altogether I guess I got me about hundred thousand dollars in stock.

  ROBERTSON: And how much cash you got home?

  CLARENCE: Oh, I guess about forty, forty-five dollars.

  ROBERTSON, slight pause: All right, Clarence, let me tell you something. But I want you to promise me not to repeat it to anyone.

  CLARENCE: I never repeat a tip you give me, Mr. Robertson.

  ROBERTSON: This isn’t quite a tip, this is what you might call an untip. Take all your stock, and sell it.

  CLARENCE: Sell! Why, just this morning in the paper Mr. Andrew Mellon say the market’s got to keep goin’ up. Got to!

  ROBERTSON: I have great respect for Andrew Mellon, Clarence, know him well, but he’s up to his eyebrows in this game—he’s got to say that. You sell, Clarence, believe me.

  CLARENCE, drawing himself up: I never like to criticize a customer, Mr. Robertson, but I don’t think a man in your position ought to be carryin’ on that kind of talk! Now you take this ten, sir, put it on General Electric for Clarence.

  ROBERTSON: I tell you something funny, Clarence.

  CLARENCE: What’s that, sir?

  ROBERTSON: You sound like every banker in the United States.

  CLARENCE: Well, I should hope so!

  ROBERTSON: Yeah, well . . . bye-bye.

  He exits. Clarence exits with his shoeshine box. The company exits singing and humming “Million-Dollar Baby”; Quinn sings the final line.

  Light rises on Rose at the piano, dressed for an evening out. Two valises stand center stage.

  ROSE, playing piano under speech: Now sing, darling, but don’t forget to breathe—and then you’ll do your homework.

  LEE, starts singing “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love,” then speaks over music: Up to ’29 it was the age of belief. How could Lindbergh fly the Atlantic in that tiny little plane? He believed. How could Babe Ruth keep smashing those homers? He believed. Charley Paddock, “The World’s Fastest Human,” raced a racehorse . . . and won! Because he believed. What I believed at fourteen was that my mother’s hair was supposed to flow down over her shoulders. And one afternoon she came into the apartment . . .

  Rose, at piano, sings a line of “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.”

  . . . and it was short!

  Rose and Lee sing the last line together.

  ROSE, continuing to play, speaking over music: I personally think with all the problems there was never such a glorious time for anybody who loved to play or sing or listen or dance to music. It seems to me every week there was another marvelous song. Wha
t’s the matter with you?

  Lee can only shake his head—“nothing.”

  Oh, for God’s sake! Nobody going to bother with long hair anymore. All I was doing was winding it up and winding it down . . .

  LEE: It’s okay! I just didn’t think it would ever . . . happen.

  ROSE: But why can’t there be something new!

  LEE: But why didn’t you tell me!

  ROSE: Because you would do exactly what you’re doing now—carrying on like I was some kind of I-don’t-know-what! Now stop being an idiot and sing!

  Lee starts singing “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”

  You’re not breathing, dear.

  Moe enters carrying a telephone, joins in song. Lee continues singing under dialogue.

  ROSE: Rudy Vallee is turning green.

  Frank enters in a chauffeur’s uniform.

  MOE, into phone: Trafalgar five, seven-seven-one-one. Pause. Herb? I’m just thinking, maybe I ought to pick up another five hundred shares of General Electric. Pause. Good. He hangs up.

  FRANK: Car’s ready, Mr. Baum.

  Frank chimes in with Lee on the last line of “Sunny Side of the Street.” Then Lee sits on the floor, working on his crystal set.

  ROSE, to Frank: You’ll drop us at the theatre and then take my father and sister to Brooklyn and come back for us after the show. And don’t get lost, please.

  FRANK: No, I know Brooklyn.

  He exits with the baggage. Fanny enters—Rose’s sister.

  FANNY, apprehensively: Rose . . . listen . . . Papa really doesn’t want to move in with us.

  A slow turn with rising eyebrows from Moe; Rose is likewise alarmed.

  ROSE, to Fanny: Don’t be silly, he’s been with us six months.

  FANNY, fearfully, voice lowered: I’m telling you . . . he is not happy about it.

  MOE, resoundingly understating the irony: He’s not happy.

  FANNY, to Moe: Well, you know how he loves space, and this apartment is so roomy.

  MOE, to Lee: He bought himself a grave, you know. It’s going to be in the cemetery on the aisle. So he’ll have a little more room to move around, . . .

  ROSE: Oh, stop it.