He waves to the crowd, and his men follow him out. Judge Bradley, removing the noose, comes down off the platform and goes over to Taylor, who is staring down at the receipt.
JUDGE BRADLEY: Henry Taylor? You are nothing but a thief!
Taylor cringes under the accusation. The Judge points to the receipt.
That is a crime against every law of God and man! And this isn’t the end of it, either! He turns and stalks out.
HARRIET: Should we milk ’em, Papa?
MRS. TAYLOR: Of course we milk ’em—they’re ours. But she needs Taylor’s compliance. Henry?
TAYLOR, staring at the receipt: It’s like I stole my own place.
Near tears, humiliated, Taylor moves into darkness with his wife. The Farmers disperse.
ROBERTSON, from choral area: Nobody knows how many people are leaving their hometowns, their farms and cities, and hitting the road. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of internal refugees, Americans transformed into strangers.
Banks enters in army cap, uniform jacket, and jeans, carrying his little bundle of clothes and a cooking pot.
BANKS:
I still hear that train.
Still hear that long low whistle.
Still hear that train, yeah.
He imitates train whistle: Whoo-ooo! He sings the first verse of “How Long,” then speaks over music, which continues.
Nineteen twenty-nine was pretty hard. My family had a little old cotton farm, McGehee, Arkansas. But a man had to be on the road—leave his wife, his mother—just to try to get a little money to live on. But God help me, I couldn’t get anything, and I was too ashamed to send them a picture, all dirty and ragged and hadn’t shaved. Write a postcard: “Dear Mother, doin’ wonderful and hope you’re all fine.” And me sleepin’ on a Los Angeles sidewalk under a newspaper. And my ma’d say, “Oh, my son’s in Los Angeles, he’s doin’ pretty fair.” He grins. Yeah . . . “all the way on the Santa Fe.” So hungry and weak I begin to see snakes through the smoke, and a white hobo named Callahan got a scissors on me, wrapped me ’tween his legs—otherwise I’d have fell off into a cornfield there. But except for Callahan there was no friendships in the hobo jungle. Everybody else was worried and sad-lookin’, and they was evil to each other. I still hear that long low whistle . . . whoo-ooo!
Banks sings the second verse of “How Long.” Then the music changes into “The Joint is Jumpin’”: Marathon Dancers enter, half asleep, some about to drop. They dance. Fadeout.
Light comes up on Moe in an armchair. Lee enters with college catalogues.
MOE: When you say three hundred dollars tuition . . . Lee!
LEE: That’s for Columbia. Some of these others are cheaper.
MOE: That’s for the four years.
LEE: Well, no, that’s one year.
MOE: Ah. He lies back in the chair and closes his eyes.
LEE, flipping a page of a catalogue: Minnesota here is a hundred and fifty, for instance. And Ohio State is about the same, I think. He turns to Moe, awaiting his reaction. Pa?
Moe is asleep.
He always got drowsy when the news got bad. And now the mystery of the marked house began. Practically every day you’d see the stranger coming down the street, poor and ragged, and he’d go past house after house, but at our driveway he’d make a turn right up to the back porch and ask for something to eat. Why us?
Taylor appears at one side of the stage in mackinaw, farm shoes, and peaked hunter’s cap, a creased paper bag under his arm. Looking front, he seems gaunt, out of his element; now he rings the doorbell. Nothing happens. Then Lee goes to the “door.”
Yes?
TAYLOR, shyly, still an amateur at the routine: Ah . . . sorry to be botherin’ you on a Sunday and all.
ROSE, enters in housedress and apron, wiping her hands on a dish towel: Who is that, dear? She comes to the door.
LEE: This is my mother.
TAYLOR: How-de-do, ma’am, my name is Taylor, and I’m just passing by, wondering if you folks have any work around the place . . .
MOE, waking up suddenly: Hey! The bell rang! He sees the conclave. Oh . . .
ROSE, ironically: Another one looking for work!
TAYLOR: I could paint the place or fix the roof, electrical, plumbing, masonry, gardening . . . I always had my own farm, and we do all that, don’t you know. I’d work cheap . . .
ROSE: Well, we don’t need any kind of . . .
MOE: Where you from?
TAYLOR: State of Iowa.
LEE, as though it’s the moon: Iowa!
TAYLOR: I wouldn’t hardly charge if I could have my meals, don’t you know.
MOE, beginning to locate Taylor in space: Whereabouts in Iowa?
ROSE: My sister’s husband comes from Cleveland.
MOE: No, no, Cleveland is nowhere near. To Taylor: Whereabouts?
TAYLOR: You know Styles?
MOE: I only know the stores in the big towns.
TAYLOR, giving a grateful chuckle: Well! I never expected to meet a . . .
He suddenly gets dizzy, breaks off, and reaches for some support. Lee holds his arm, and he goes down like an elevator and sits there.
ROSE: What’s the matter?
MOE: Mister?
LEE: I’ll get water! He rushes out.
ROSE: Is it your heart?
TAYLOR: ’Scuse me . . . I’m awful sorry . . .
He gets on his hands and knees as Lee enters with a glass of water and hands it to him. He drinks half of it, returns the glass.
Thank you, sonny.
ROSE, looks to Moe, sees his agreement, gestures within: He better sit down.
MOE: You want to sit down?
Taylor looks at him helplessly.
Come, sit down.
Lee and Moe help him to a chair, and he sits.
ROSE, bending over to look into his face: You got some kind of heart?
TAYLOR, embarrassed, and afraid for himself now: Would you be able to give me something to eat?
The three stare at him; he looks up at their shocked astonishment and weeps.
ROSE: You’re hungry?
TAYLOR: Yes, ma’am.
Rose looks at Moe whether to believe this.
MOE, unnerved: Better get him something.
ROSE, hurrying out immediately: Oh, my God in heaven!
MOE, now with a suspicious, even accusatory edge: What’re you doing, just going around? . . .
TAYLOR: Well, no, I come east when I lost the farm. . . . They was supposed to be hiring in New Jersey, pickers for the celery? But I only got two days. . . . I been to the Salvation Army four, five times, but they only give me a bun and a cup of coffee yesterday . . .
LEE: You haven’t eaten since yesterday?
TAYLOR: Well, I generally don’t need too much . . .
ROSE, entering with a tray, bowl of soup, and bread: I was just making it, so I didn’t put in the potatoes yet . . .
TAYLOR: Oh, beets?
ROSE: That’s what you call borscht.
TAYLOR, obediently: Yes, ma’am.
He wastes no time, spoons it up. They all watch him: their first hungry man.
MOE, skeptically: How do you come to lose a farm?
TAYLOR: I suppose you read about the Farmers’ Uprisin’ in the state couple months ago?
LEE: I did.
MOE, to Lee: What uprising?
LEE: They nearly lynched a judge for auctioning off their farms. To Taylor, impressed: Were you in that?
TAYLOR: Well, it’s all over now, but I don’t believe they’ll be auctioning any more farms for a while, though. Been just terrible out there.
ROSE, shaking her head: And I thought they were all Republicans in Iowa.
TAYLOR: Well, I guess they all are.
LE
E: Is that what they mean by radical, though?
TAYLOR: Well . . . it’s like they say—people in Iowa are practical. They’ll even go radical if it seems like it’s practical. But as soon as it stops being practical they stop being radical.
MOE: Well, you probably all learned your lesson now.
LEE: Why! He was taking their homes away, that judge!
MOE: So you go in a court and lynch him?
LEE: But . . . but it’s all wrong, Pa!
ROSE: Shh! Don’t argue . . .
LEE, to Rose: But you think it’s wrong, don’t you? Suppose they came and threw us out of this house?
ROSE: I refuse to think about it. To Taylor: So where do you sleep?
MOE, instantly: Excuse me. We are not interested in where you sleep, Mr. . . . what’s your name?
TAYLOR: Taylor. I’d be satisfied with just my meals if I could live in the basement . . .
MOE, to Taylor, but half addressing Rose: There is no room for another human being in this house, y’understand? Including the basement. He takes out two or three bills.
TAYLOR: I wasn’t asking for charity . . .
MOE: I’m going to loan you a dollar, and I hope you’re going to start a whole new life. Here . . . He hands Taylor the bill, escorting him to the door. And pay me back, but don’t rush. He holds out his hand. Glad to have met you, and good luck.
TAYLOR: Thanks for the soup, Mrs. . . .
ROSE: Our name is Baum. You have children?
TAYLOR: One’s fifteen, one’s nine. He thoughtfully folds the dollar bill.
Grandpa enters, eating a plum.
ROSE: Take care of yourself, and write a letter to your wife.
TAYLOR: Yes, I will. To Moe: Goodbye, sir . . .
MOE, grinning, tipping his finger at Taylor: Stay away from rope.
TAYLOR: Oh, yeah, I will . . . He exits.
LEE, goes out on the periphery and calls to him as he walks away: Goodbye, Mr. Taylor!
TAYLOR, turns back, waves: Bye, sonny!
He leaves. Lee stares after him, absorbing it all.
GRANDPA: Who was that?
MOE: He’s a farmer from Iowa. He tried to lynch a judge, so she wanted him to live in the cellar.
GRANDPA: What is a farmer doing here?
ROSE: He went broke, he lost everything.
GRANDPA: Oh. Well, he should borrow.
MOE, snaps his fingers to Lee: I’ll run down the street and tell him! He got me hungry. To Rose: I’m going down the corner and get a chocolate soda. . . . What do you say, Lee?
LEE: I don’t feel like it.
MOE: Don’t be sad. Life is tough, what’re you going to do? Sometimes it’s not as tough as other times, that’s all. But it’s always tough. Come, have a soda.
LEE: Not now, Pa, thanks. He turns away.
MOE, straightens, silently refusing blame: Be back right away. He strolls across the stage, softly, tonelessly whistling, and exits.
Grandpa, chewing, the plum pit in his hand, looks around for a place to put it. Rose sees the inevitable and holds out her hand.
ROSE, disgusted: Oh, give it to me.
Grandpa drops the pit into her palm, and she goes out with it and the soup plate.
LEE, still trying to digest: That man was starving, Grandpa.
GRANDPA: No, no, he was hungry but not starving.
LEE: He was, he almost fainted.
GRANDPA: No, that’s not starving. In Europe they starve, but here not. Anyway, couple weeks they’re going to figure out what to do, and you can forget the whole thing. . . . God makes one person at a time, boy—worry about yourself.
Fadeout.
ROBERTSON: His name is Theodore K. Quinn.
Music begins—“My Baby Just Cares for Me”—and Quinn, with boater and cane, sings and dances through Robertson’s speech.
The greatest Irish soft-shoe dancer ever to serve on a board of directors. They know him at Lindy’s, they love him at Twenty-one. High up on top of the American heap sits Ted Quinn, hardly forty years of age in 1932 . . .
QUINN, continues singing, then breaks off and picks up the phone: Ted Quinn. Come over, Arthur, I’ve got to see you. But come to the twenty-ninth floor. . . . I’ve got a new office.
ROBERTSON, looking around, as at a striking office: All this yours?
QUINN: Yup. You are standing on the apex, the pinnacle of human evolution. From that window you can reach out and touch the moustache of Almighty God.
ROBERTSON, moved, gripping Quinn’s hand: Ted! Ted!!
QUINN: Jesus, don’t say it that way, will ya?
ROBERTSON: President of General Electric!
QUINN: I’m not sure I want it, Arthur.
Robertson laughs sarcastically.
I’m not, goddammit! I never expected Swope to pick me—never!
ROBERTSON: Oh, go on, you’ve been angling for the presidency the last five years.
QUINN: No! I swear not. I just didn’t want anybody else to get it . . .
Robertson laughs.
Well, that’s not the same thing! . . . Seriously, Arthur, I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. He looks around. Now that I’m standing here, now that they’re about to paint my name on the door . . . and the Times sending a reporter . . .
ROBERTSON, seriously: What the hell’s got into you?
QUINN, searching in himself: I don’t know. . . . It’s almost like shame.
ROBERTSON: For what? It’s that damned upbringing of yours, that anarchist father . . .
QUINN: The truth is, I’ve never been comfortable with some of the things we’ve done.
ROBERTSON: But why suddenly after all these years . . .
QUINN: It’s different taking orders and being the man who gives them.
ROBERTSON: I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.
Pause. For Quinn it is both a confession and something he must bring out into the open. But he sustains his humor.
QUINN: I had a very unsettling experience about eighteen months ago, Arthur. Got a call from my Philadelphia district manager that Frigidaire was dropping the price on their boxes. So I told him to cut ours. And in a matter of weeks they cut, we cut, they cut, we cut, till I finally went down there myself. Because I was damned if I was going to get beat in Philadelphia . . . and I finally cut our price right down to our cost of production. Well—ting-a-ling-a-ling, phone call from New York: “What the hell is going on down there?” Gotta get down to Wall Street and have a meeting with the money boys. . . . So there we are, about ten of us, and I look across the blinding glare of that teakwood table, and lo and behold, who is facing me but Georgy Fairchild, head of sales for Frigidaire. Old friends, Georgy and I, go way back together, but he is Frigidaire, y’know—what the hell is he doing in a GE meeting? . . . Well, turns out that both companies are owned by the same money. And the word is that Georgy and Quinn are going to cut this nonsense and get those prices up to where they belong. He laughs. Well, I tell you, I was absolutely flabbergasted. Here I’ve been fightin’ Georgy from Bangkok to the Bronx, layin’ awake nights thinkin’ how to outfox him—hell, we were like Grant and Lee with thousands of soldiers out to destroy each other, and it’s suddenly like all these years I’d been shellin’ my own men! He laughs. It was farcical.
ROBERTSON: It’s amazing. You’re probably the world’s greatest salesman, and you haven’t an ounce of objectivity . . .
QUINN: Objectivity! Arthur, if I’m that great a salesman—which I’m far from denying—it’s because I believe; I believe deeply in the creative force of competition.
ROBERTSON: Exactly, and GE is the fastest-growing company in the world because. . . .
QUINN, loves this point: . . . because we’ve had the capital to buy up one independent business after another. . . . It’s haunting me, Arthur—th
ousands of small businesses are going under every week now, and we’re getting bigger and bigger every day. What’s going to become of the independent person in this country once everybody’s sucking off the same tit? How can there be an America without Americans—people not beholden to some enormous enterprise that’ll run their souls?
ROBERTSON: Am I hearing what I think?
Quinn is silent.
Ted? You’d actually resign?
QUINN: If I did, would it make any point to you at all? If I made a statement that . . .
ROBERTSON: What statement can you possibly make that won’t call for a return to the horse and buggy? The America you love is cold stone dead in the parlor, Ted. This is a corporate country; you can’t go back to small personal enterprise again.
QUINN: A corporate country! . . . Jesus, Arthur, what a prospect!
Miss Fowler enters.
MISS FOWLER: The gentleman from the Times is waiting, Mr. Quinn . . . unless you’d like to make it tomorrow or . . .
QUINN, slight pause: No, no—it has to be now or never. Ask him in.
She exits.
Tell me the truth, Arthur, do I move your mind at all?
ROBERTSON: Of course I see your point. But you can’t buck the inevitable.
Graham enters with Miss Fowler.
MISS FOWLER: Mr. Graham.
QUINN, shakes hands, grinning: Glad to meet you. . . . My friend Mr. Robertson.
GRAHAM, recognizing the name: Oh, yes, how do you do?
ROBERTSON: Nice to meet you. To Quinn, escaping: I’ll see you later . . .
QUINN: No, stay . . . I’ll only be a few minutes . . .
ROBERTSON: I ought to get back to my office.
QUINN, laughs: I’m still the president, Arthur—stay! I want to feel the support of your opposition.
Robertson laughs with Quinn, glancing uneasily at Graham, who doesn’t know what’s going on.
I’ll have to be quick, Mr. Graham. Will you sit down?
GRAHAM: I have a few questions about your earlier life and background. I understand your father was one of the early labor organizers in Chicago.
QUINN: Mr. Graham, I am resigning.
GRAHAM: Beg your pardon?
QUINN: Resigning, I said.
GRAHAM: From the presidency? I don’t understand.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 98