MOE: . . . get in and out quicker.
FANNY, innocently: Out of a grave?
ROSE: He’s kidding you, for God’s sake!
FANNY: Oh! To Rose: I think he’s afraid my house’ll be too small; you know, with Sidney and us and the one bathroom. And what is he going to do with himself in Brooklyn? He never liked the country.
ROSE: Fanny, dear, make up your mind—he’s going to love it with you.
MOE: Tell you, Fanny—maybe we should all move over to your house and he could live here with an eleven-room apartment for himself, and we’ll send the maid every day to do his laundry . . .
FANNY: He’s brushing his hair, Rose, but I know he’s not happy. I think what it is, he still misses Mama, you see.
MOE: Now that’s serious—a man his age still misses his mother . . .
FANNY: No, our mother—Mama. To Rose, almost laughing, pointing at Moe: He thought Papa misses his own mother!
ROSE: No, he didn’t, he’s kidding you!
FANNY: Oh, you . . . ! She swipes at Moe.
ROSE, walking her to the doorway: Go hurry him up. I don’t want to miss the first scene of this show; it’s Gershwin, it’s supposed to be wonderful.
FANNY: See, what it is, something is always happening here . . .
MOE, into phone: Trafalgar five, seven-seven-one-one.
FANNY: . . . I mean with the stock market and the business. . . . Papa just loves all this!
Grandpa appears, in a suit, with a cane; very neat, proper—and very sorry for himself. Comes to a halt, already hurt.
MOE, to Grandpa: See you again soon, Charley!
FANNY, deferentially: You ready, Papa?
MOE, on phone: Herb? . . . Maybe I ought to get rid of my Worthington Pump. Oh . . . thousand shares? And remind me to talk to you about gold, will you? Pause. Good. He hangs up.
FANNY, with Rose, getting Grandpa into his coat: Rose’ll come every few days, Papa . . .
ROSE: Sunday we’ll all come out and spend the day.
GRANDPA: Brooklyn is full of tomatoes.
FANNY: No, they’re starting to put up big apartment houses now; it’s practically not the country anymore. In a tone of happy reassurance: On some streets there’s hardly a tree! To Rose, of her diamond bracelet: I’m looking at that bracelet! Is it new?
ROSE: For my birthday.
FANNY: It’s gorgeous.
ROSE: He gave exactly the same one to his mother.
FANNY: She must be overjoyed.
ROSE, with a cutting smile, to Moe: Why not?
GRANDPA, making a sudden despairing announcement: Well? So I’m going! With a sharp tap of his cane on the floor, he starts off.
LEE: Bye-bye, Grandpa!
GRANDPA, goes to Lee, offers his cheek, gets his kiss, then pinches Lee’s cheek: You be a good boy. He strides past Rose, huffily snatches his hat out of her hand, and exits.
MOE: There goes the boarder. I lived to see it!
ROSE, to Lee: Want to come and ride with us?
LEE: I think I’ll stay and work on my radio.
ROSE: Good, and go to bed carly. I’ll bring home all the music from the show, and we’ll sing it tomorrow. She kisses Lee. Good night, darling. She swings out in her furs.
MOE, to Lee: Whyn’t you get a haircut?
LEE: I did, but it grew back, I think.
MOE, realizing Lee’s size: Should you talk to your mother about college or something?
LEE: Oh, no, not for a couple of years.
MOE: Oh. Okay, good. He laughs and goes out, perfectly at one with the world.
Robertson appears, walks over to the couch, and lies down. Dr. Rosman appears and sits in a chair behind Robertson’s head.
ROBERTSON: Where’d I leave off yesterday?
DR. ROSMAN: Your mother had scalded the cat.
Pause.
ROBERTSON: There’s something else, Doctor. I feel a conflict about saying it . . .
DR. ROSMAN: That’s what we’re here for.
ROBERTSON: I don’t mean in the usual sense. It has to do with money.
DR. ROSMAN: Yes?
ROBERTSON: Your money.
DR. ROSMAN, turns down to him, alarmed: What about it?
ROBERTSON, hesitates: I think you ought to get out of the market.
DR. ROSMAN: Out of the market!
ROBERTSON: Sell everything.
DR. ROSMAN, pauses, raises his head to think, then speaks carefully: Could you talk about the basis for this idea? When was the first time you had this thought?
ROBERTSON: About four months ago. Around the middle of May.
DR. ROSMAN: Can you recall what suggested it?
ROBERTSON: One of my companies manufactures kitchen utensils.
DR. ROSMAN: The one in Indiana?
ROBERTSON: Yes. In the middle of May all our orders stopped.
DR. ROSMAN: Completely?
ROBERTSON: Dead stop. It’s now the end of August, and they haven’t resumed.
DR. ROSMAN: How is that possible? The stock keeps going up.
ROBERTSON: Thirty points in less than two months. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you for a long time now, Doctor—the market represents nothing but a state of mind. He sits up. On the other hand, I must face the possibility that this is merely my personal fantasy . . .
DR. ROSMAN: Yes, your fear of approaching disaster.
ROBERTSON: But I’ve had meetings at the Morgan Bank all week, and it’s the same in almost every industry—it’s not just my companies. The warehouses are overflowing, we can’t move the goods, that’s an objective fact.
DR. ROSMAN: Have you told your thoughts to your colleagues?
ROBERTSON: They won’t listen. Maybe they can’t afford to—we’ve been tossing the whole country onto a crap table in a game where nobody is ever supposed to lose! . . . I sold off a lot two years ago, but when the market opens tomorrow I’m cashing in the rest. I feel guilty for it, but I can’t see any other way.
DR. ROSMAN: Why does selling make you feel guilty?
ROBERTSON: Dumping twelve million dollars in securities could start a slide. It could wipe out thousands of widows and old people. . . . I’ve even played with the idea of making a public announcement.
DR. ROSMAN: That you’re dumping twelve million dollars? That could start a slide all by itself, couldn’t it?
ROBERTSON: But it would warn the little people.
DR. ROSMAN: Yes, but selling out quietly might not disturb the market quite so much. You could be wrong, too.
ROBERTSON: I suppose so. Yes. . . . Maybe I’ll just sell and shut up. You’re right. I could be mistaken.
DR. ROSMAN, relieved: You probably are—but I think I’ll sell out anyway.
ROBERTSON: Fine, Doctor. He stands, straightens his jacket. And one more thing. This is going to sound absolutely nuts, but . . . when you get your cash, don’t keep it. Buy gold.
DR. ROSMAN: You can’t be serious.
ROBERTSON: Gold bars, Doctor. The dollar may disappear with the rest of it. He extends his hand. Well, good luck.
DR. ROSMAN: Your hand is shaking.
ROBERTSON: Why not? Ask any two great bankers in the United States and they’d say that Arthur A. Robertson had lost his mind. Pause. Gold bars, Doctor . . . and don’t put them in the bank. In the basement. Take care, now. He exits.
A bar. People in evening dress seated morosely at tables. An atmosphere of shock and even embarrassment.
LIVERMORE: About Randolph Morgan. Could you actually see him falling?
TONY: Oh, yeah. It was still that blue light, just before it gets dark? And I don’t know why, something made me look up. And there’s a man flyin’ spread-eagle, falling through the air. He was right on top of me, like a giant! He looks down. And I look. I couldn’t believe it. It’s R
andolph!
LIVERMORE: Poor, poor man.
DURANT: Damned fool.
LIVERMORE: I don’t know—I think there is a certain gallantry. . . . When you lose other people’s money as well as your own, there can be no other way out.
DURANT: There’s always a way out. The door.
TONY: Little more brandy, Mr. Durant?
LIVERMORE, raising his cup: To Randolph Morgan.
Durant raises his cup.
TONY: Amen here. And I want to say something else—everybody should get down on their knees and thank John D. Rockefeller.
LIVERMORE: Now you’re talking.
TONY: Honest to God, Mr. Livermore, didn’t that shoot a thrill in you? I mean, there’s a man—to come out like that with the whole market falling to pieces and say, “I and my sons are buying six million dollars in common stocks.” I mean, that’s a bullfighter.
LIVERMORE: He’ll turn it all around, too.
TONY: Sure he’ll turn it around, because the man’s a capitalist, he knows how to put up a battle. You wait, tomorrow morning it’ll all be shootin’ up again like Roman candles!
Enter Waiter, who whispers in Tony’s ear.
Sure, sure, bring her in.
Waiter hurries out. Tony turns to the two financiers.
My God, it’s Randolph’s sister. . . . She don’t know yet.
Enter Diana, a young woman of elegant ease.
How do you do, Miss Morgan, come in, come in. Here, I got a nice table for you.
DIANA, all bright Southern belle: Thank you!
TONY: Can I bring you nice steak? Little drink?
DIANA: I believe I’ll wait for Mr. Robertson.
TONY: Sure. Make yourself at home.
DIANA: Are you the . . . famous Tony?
TONY: That’s right, miss.
DIANA: I certainly am thrilled to meet you. I’ve read all about this marvelous place. She looks around avidly. Are all these people literary?
TONY: Well, not all, Miss Morgan.
DIANA: But this is the speakeasy F. Scott Fitzgerald frequents, isn’t it?
TONY: Oh, yeah, but tonight is very quiet with the stock market and all, people stayin’ home a lot the last couple days.
DIANA: Is that gentleman a writer?
TONY: No, miss, that’s Jake the Barber, he’s in the liquor business.
DIANA: And these?
She points to Durant and Livermore. Durant, having overheard, stands.
TONY: Mr. Durant, Miss Morgan. Mr. Livermore, Miss Morgan.
DIANA, in a Southern accent, to the audience: The name of Jesse Livermore was uttered in my family like the name of a genius! A Shakespeare, a Dante of corporate finance.
Clayton, at the bar, picks up a phone.
LEE, looking on from choral area: And William Durant . . . he had a car named after him, the Durant Six.
MOE, beside Lee: A car? Durant had control of General Motors, for God’s sake.
DIANA: Not the Jesse Livermore?
LIVERMORE: Afraid so, yes!
DIANA: Well, I declare! And sitting here just like two ordinary millionaires!
LEE: Ah, yes, the Great Men. The fabled High Priests of the neverending Boom.
DIANA: This is certainly a banner evening for me! . . . I suppose you know Durham quite well.
LIVERMORE: Durham? I don’t believe I’ve ever been there.
DIANA: But your big Philip Morris plant is there. You do still own Philip Morris, don’t you?
LIVERMORE: Oh, yes, but to bet on a horse there’s no need to ride him. I never mix in business. I am only interested in stocks.
DIANA: Well, that’s sort of miraculous, isn’t it, to own a place like that and never’ve seen it! My brother’s in brokerage—Randolph Morgan?
LIVERMORE: I dealt with Randolph when I bought the controlling shares in IBM. Fine fellow.
DIANA: But I don’t understand why he’d be spending the night in his office. The market’s closed at night, isn’t it?
Both men shift uneasily.
DURANT: Oh, yes, but there’s an avalanche of selling orders from all over the country, and they’re working round the clock to tally them up. The truth is, there’s not a price on anything at the moment. In fact, Mr. Clayton over there at the end of the bar is waiting for the latest estimates.
DIANA: I’m sure something will be done, won’t there? She laughs. They’ve cut off our telephone!
LIVERMORE: How’s that?
DIANA: It seems that Daddy’s lived on loans the last few months and his credit stopped. I had no idea! She laughs. I feel like a figure in a dream. I sat down in the dining car the other day, absolutely famished, and realized I had only forty cents! I am surviving on chocolate bars! Her charm barely hides her anxiety. Whatever has become of all the money?
LIVERMORE: You mustn’t worry, Miss Morgan, there’ll soon be plenty of money. Money is like a shy bird: the slightest rustle in the trees and it flies for cover. But money cannot bear solitude for long, it must come out and feed. And that is why we must all speak positively and show our confidence.
ROSE, from choral area: And they were nothing but pickpockets in a crowd of innocent pilgrims.
LIVERMORE: With Rockefeller’s announcement this morning the climb has probably begun already.
ROBERTSON, from choral area: Yes, but they also believed.
TAYLOR, from choral area: What did they believe?
IRENE> AND BANKS, from choral area, echoing Taylor: Yeah, what did they believe?
ROBERTSON: Why, the most important thing of all—that talk makes facts!
DURANT: If I were you, Miss Morgan, I would prepare myself for the worst.
LIVERMORE: Now, Bill, there is no good in that kind of talk.
ROBERTSON: And they ended up believing it themselves!
DURANT: It’s far more dreamlike than you imagine, Miss Morgan.
MOE: There they are, chatting away, while the gentleman at the end of the bar . . .
DURANT: . . . That gentleman . . . who has just put down the telephone is undoubtedly steeling himself to tell me that I have lost control of General Motors.
DIANA: What!
Clayton, at the bar, has indeed put down the phone, has straightened his vest, and is now crossing to their table.
DURANT, watching him approach: If I were you, I’d muster all the strength I have, Miss Morgan. Yes, Clayton?
CLAYTON: If we could talk privately, sir . . .
DURANT: Am I through?
CLAYTON: If you could borrow for two or three weeks . . .
DURANT: From whom?
CLAYTON: I don’t know, sir.
DURANT, standing: Good night, Miss Morgan.
She is looking up at him, astonished.
How old are you?
DIANA: Nineteen.
DURANT: I hope you will look things in the face, young lady. Shun paper. Paper is the plague. Good luck to you. He turns to go.
LIVERMORE: We have to talk, Bill . . .
DURANT: Nothing to say, Jesse. Go to bed, old boy. It’s long past midnight.
MOE, trying to recall: Say . . . didn’t Durant end up managing a bowling alley in Toledo, Ohio?
CLAYTON, nods: Dead broke.
LIVERMORE, turns to Clayton, adopting a tone of casual challenge: Clayton . . . what’s Philip Morris going to open at, can they tell?
CLAYTON: Below twenty. No higher. If we can find buyers at all.
LIVERMORE, his smile gone: But Rockefeller. Rockefeller . . .
CLAYTON: It doesn’t seem to have had any effect, sir.
Livermore stands. Pause.
I should get back to the office, sir, if I may.
Livermore is silent.
I’m very sorry, Mr. Livermore.
Clayton exits. Diana is moved by the excruciating look coming onto Livermore’s face.
DIANA: Mr. Livermore?. . .
ROBERTSON, entering: Sorry I’m late, Diana. How was the trip? Her expression turns him to Livermore. He goes to him. Bad, Jesse?
LIVERMORE: I am wiped out, Arthur.
ROBERTSON, trying for lightness: Come on, now, Jesse, a man like you has always got ten million put away somewhere.
LIVERMORE: No, no. I always felt that if you couldn’t have real money, might as well not have any. Is it true what I’ve heard, that you sold out in time?
ROBERTSON: Yes, Jesse. I told you I would.
LIVERMORE, slight pause: Arthur, can you lend me five thousand dollars?
ROBERTSON: Certainly. He sits, removes one shoe. To audience. Five weeks ago, on his yacht in Oyster Bay, he told me he had four hundred and eighty million dollars in common stocks.
LIVERMORE: What the hell are you doing?
Robertson removes a layer of five thousand-dollar bills from the shoe and hands Livermore one as he stands. Livermore stares down at Robertson’s shoes.
By God. Don’t you believe in anything?
ROBERTSON: Not much.
LIVERMORE: Well, I suppose I understand that. He folds the bill. But I can’t say that I admire it. He pockets the bill, looks down again at Robertson’s shoes, and shakes his head. Well, I guess it’s your country now. He turns like a blind man and goes out.
ROBERTSON: Not long after, Jesse Livermore sat down to a good breakfast in the Sherry-Netherland Hotel and, calling for an envelope, addressed it to Arthur Robertson, inserted a note for five thousand dollars, went into the washroom, and shot himself.
DIANA, staring after Livermore, then turning to Robertson: Is Randolph ruined too?
ROBERTSON, taking her hand: Diana . . . Randolph is dead. Pause. He . . . he fell from his window.
Diana stands, astonished. Irene sings “’Tain’t Nobody’s Bizness” from choral area. Fadeout.
ROSE, calling as she enters: Lee? Darling?
LEE, takes a bike from prop area and rides on, halting before her: How do you like it, Ma!
ROSE: What a beautiful bike!
LEE: It’s a Columbia Racer! I just bought it from Georgie Rosen for twelve dollars.
ROSE: Where’d you get twelve dollars?
LEE: I emptied my savings account. But it’s worth way more! . . .
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 96