The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  TOM: Yes?

  LEAH, shaking her head: God!—my gullibility!—I was curious to see what a decree looked like, so . . .

  Lyman enters, wearing a short-sleeved summer shirt and cowboy hat.

  No particular reason, but I’d never seen one . . .

  LYMAN: I threw it away.

  LEAH, with a surprised laugh: Why!

  LYMAN: I don’t want to look back, I feel twenty-five! Laughs. You look stunned!

  LEAH: I guess I never believed you’d marry me, darling.

  LYMAN—he draws her to him: Feeling is all I really believe in, Leah—you’re making me see that again. Feeling is chaos, but any decent thing I’ve ever done was out of feeling, and every lousy thing I’m ashamed of came from careful thinking. I simply can’t lose you, Leah, you’re precious to me. —You look scared . . . what is it?

  LEAH: I don’t want to say it.

  LYMAN: Go ahead. Please!

  LEAH: Every relationship I’ve known gets to where it needs a lie to keep it going.

  LYMAN: But does that always have to be!

  LEAH, hesitates: Can I say something? I wish we could make a different wedding vow; like “Dearly beloved, I promise everything good, but I might have to lie to you sometimes.” He is taken aback, but grins. —I wanted to say that, okay? You’re shocked, aren’t you.

  LYMAN: What balls you have to say that! —Come here. Takes her hand, closes his eyes. I’m going to learn to fly a plane.

  LEAH: What are you talking about?

  LYMAN: Because flying terrifies me. I’m going to wrestle down one fear at a time till I’ve dumped them all and I am a free man! Gripping her hands, nose to nose. I have a car and driver downstairs. Holds out his beckoning arm. Come to your wedding, Leah, my darling!

  Lyman exits without lowering his arm.

  LEAH: . . . And it was all lies! How is it possible! Why did he do it? What did he want?

  TOM: Actually, though . . . Tries to recall. Yes, I think it was about nine years ago, we did have a discussion about a divorce . . . although at the time I didn’t take it all that seriously. He suddenly popped in one day with this “research” he said he’d done . . .

  Lyman enters in a business suit. Tom has moved out of Leah’s area.

  LYMAN: . . . I’ve been looking into bigamy, Tom.

  TOM, laughs, surprised: Bigamy!—what are you talking about?

  LYMAN: You know there’s an enormous amount of it in the United States now.

  TOM: Really? But what’s the point . . . ?

  LYMAN: . . . And not just among blacks or the poor. I’ve been wondering about a desertion insurance policy. Might call it the Bigamy Protection Plan. Tom laughs. I’m serious. We could set the premiums really low. Be great, especially for minority women.

  TOM, admiringly: Say now! Where the hell do you get these ideas?

  LYMAN: Just put myself in other people’s places. —Incidentally, how frequently do they prosecute for bigamy anymore, you have any idea?

  TOM: None whatsoever. But it’s a victimless crime so it can’t be often.

  LYMAN: That’s my impression, too. Get somebody to research it, will you, I want to be sure.—I’ll be in Elmira till Friday. Lyman starts to leave but dawdles.

  TOM: Why do I think you’re depressed?

  LYMAN: . . . I guess I am—slightly. The grin. I’m turning fifty-four this July.

  TOM: Fifty’s much tougher, I think.

  LYMAN: My father died at fifty-three.

  TOM: Well, you’re over the hump. Anyway, you’re in better shape than anybody I know.

  LYMAN: Famous last words.

  TOM: Something wrong, Lyman?

  LYMAN: I don’t think I have the balls. A laugh. Moves into high tension; then, facing his challenge, turns rather abruptly to Tom. There’s no man I trust like you, Tom. A grin. —I guess you know I’ve cheated on Theodora.

  TOM: Well, I’ve had my suspicions, yes—ever since I walked in on you humping that Pakistani typist on your desk.

  LYMAN, laughs: “Humping!” —I love that Presbyterian jive of yours, haven’t heard that in years.

  TOM: Quaker.

  LYMAN, confessionally, quietly: There’ve been more than that one, Tommy.

  TOM, laughs: God, where do you get the time?

  LYMAN: Disgust you?

  TOM: Not catastrophically.

  LYMAN, pause; he composes himself, then . . . again with the grin: I think I’ve fallen in love.

  TOM: Oh Lyman . . . don’t tell me!

  LYMAN, pointing at him and laughing nervously: Look at you!—God, you really love Theodora, don’t you!

  TOM: Of course I do!—you’re not thinking of divorce, are you?

  LYMAN: I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to say it aloud to somebody.

  TOM: But how sure are you about your feelings for this woman?

  LYMAN: I’m sure. A new woman has always been an undiscovered shore, but I’d really like to go straight now, Tom. I want one woman for the rest of my life. And I can’t quite see it being Theodora.

  TOM: You know she loves you deeply, Lyman.

  LYMAN: Tom, I love her, too. But after thirty-two years we bore each other, we just do. And boredom is a form of deception, isn’t it. And deception has become like my Nazi, my worst horror—I want nothing now but to wear my own face on my face every day till the day I die. Or do you think that kind of honesty is possible?

  TOM: I don’t have to tell you, the problem is not honesty but how much you hurt others with it.

  LYMAN: Right. What about your religion? But there’s no solution there either, I guess.

  TOM: I somehow can’t imagine you praying, Lyman. Short pause.

  LYMAN: Is there an answer?

  TOM: I don’t know, maybe all one can do is hope to end up with the right regrets.

  LYMAN: You ever cheated, Tom?

  TOM: No.

  LYMAN: Honest to God?—I’ve seen you eye the girls around here.

  TOM: It’s the truth.

  LYMAN: Is that the regret you end up with?

  Tom laughs bashfully, then Lyman joins him. And suddenly, Lyman’s embarrassment and suffering are on his face.

  . . . Shit, that was cruel, Tom, forgive me, will you? Dammit, why do I let myself get depressed? It’s all pointless guilt, that’s all! Here I start from nothing, create forty-two hundred jobs for people and raise over sixty ghetto blacks to office positions when that was not easy to do—I should be proud of myself, son of a bitch! And I am! I am! He bangs on the desk, then subsides, looks front and downward. I love your view. That red river of taillights gliding down Park Avenue on a winter’s night—and all those silky white thighs crossing inside those heated limousines . . . Christ, can there be a sexier vision in the world? Turning back to Tom. I keep thinking of my father—how connected he was to his life; couldn’t wait to open the store every morning and happily count the pickles, rearrange the olive barrels. People like that knew the main thing. Which is what? What is the main thing, do you know?

  Tom is silent.

  —Look, don’t worry, I really can’t imagine myself without Theodora, she’s a great, great wife! . . . I love that woman! It’s always good talking to you, Tom. Starts to go, halts. Maybe it’s simply that if you try to live according to your real desires, you have to end up looking like a shit.

  Lyman exits. Leah covers her face and there is a pause as Tom observes her.

  TOM: I’m sorry.

  LEAH: He had it all carefully worked out from the very beginning.

  TOM: I’d say it was more like . . . a continuous improvisation.

  LEAH: It was the baby, you see—once I was pregnant he simply wouldn’t listen to reason . . .

  Lyman hurries on in a winter overcoat, claps a hand over her mouth.

  LYMA
N: Don’t tell me it’s too late. Kisses her. Did you do it?

  LEAH: I was just walking out the door for the hospital.

  LYMAN: Oh, thank God. Draws her to a seat, and pulls her down. Please, dear, give me one full minute and then you can do as you like.

  LEAH, with pain: Don’t, Lyme, it’s impossible.

  LYMAN: You know if you do this it’s going to change it between us.

  LEAH: Darling, it comes down to being a single parent and I just don’t want that.

  LYMAN: I’ve already named him.

  LEAH, amused, touching his face: How do you know it’s a him?

  LYMAN: I’m never wrong. I have a very intimate relationship with ladies’ bellies. His name is Benjamin after my father and Alexander after my mother’s mother, who I loved a lot. Grins at his own egoism. You can put in a middle name.

  LEAH, with an unhappy laugh: Well thanks so much! She tries to stand up but he holds her. He asked me not to be late.

  LYMAN: The Russians—this is an ancient custom—before an important parting, they sit for a moment in silence. Give Benjamin this moment.

  LEAH: He’s not Benjamin, now stop it!

  LYMAN: Believe in your feelings, Leah, the rest is nonsense. What do you really and truly want?

  Silence for a moment.

  I would drive him to school in the mornings and take him to ball games.

  LEAH: Twice a month?

  LYMAN: With the new office set up here, I could easily be with you more than half the time.

  LEAH: And Theodora?

  LYMAN: It’s difficult to talk about her.

  LEAH: With me, you mean?

  LYMAN: I can’t lie to myself, darling, she’s been a tremendous wife. It would be too unjust.

  LEAH: But keeping it a secret—where does that leave me? It’s hard enough to identify myself as it is. And I can’t believe she won’t find out sooner or later, and then what?

  LYMAN: If I actually have to choose it’ll be you. But she doesn’t know a soul in this whole area, it’d be a million-to-one shot for her to ever find out. I’m practically with you half the time now, and it’s been pretty good, hasn’t it?

  LEAH, touching her belly: . . . But what do we tell this? . . .

  LYMAN: . . . Benjamin.

  LEAH: Oh stop calling him Benjamin! It’s not even three weeks!

  LYMAN: That’s long enough to be Benjamin—he has a horoscope, stars and planets; he has a future!

  LEAH: . . . Why do I feel we’re circling around something? There’s something I don’t believe here—what is it?

  LYMAN: Maybe that I’m this desperate. Kisses her belly.

  LEAH: Are you? —I can’t express it . . . there’s just something about this baby that doesn’t seem . . . I don’t know—inevitable.

  LYMAN: Darling, I haven’t wanted anything this much since my twenties, when I was struggling to be a poet and make something of my own that would last.

  LEAH: Really.

  LYMAN: It’s the truth.

  LEAH: That’s touching, Lyman, I’m very moved.

  So it is up in the air for a moment.

  But I can’t, I won’t, it’s the story of my life, I always end up with all the responsibility; I’d have to be in total charge of your child and I know I’d resent it finally—and maybe even you as well. You’re putting me back to being twelve or thirteen and my parents asking me where to go on vacation, or what kind of car to buy or what color drapes. I hate that position! One of the most sensuous things about you was that I could lie back and let you drive, and now you’re putting me behind the wheel again. It’s just all wrong.

  LYMAN: I thought if we lived together let’s say ten years, you’d still be in the prime, and pretty rich, and I’d . . .

  LEAH: . . . Walk away into the sunset.

  LYMAN: I’m trying to be as cruelly realistic as life, darling. Have you ever loved a man the way you love me?

  LEAH: No.

  LYMAN: Well? That’s the only reality.

  LEAH: You can drive me to the hospital, if you like realism so much. She stands; he does. You look so sad! You poor man.

  She kisses him; a silent farewell is in the kiss; she gets her coat and turns to him.

  I won’t weaken on this, dear, so make up your mind.

  LYMAN: We’re going to lose each other if you do this. I feel it.

  LEAH: Well, there’s a very simple way not to lose me, dear, I guess that’s why they invented it. —Come, wait in the hospital if you want to. If not, I’ll be back tomorrow. She draws him on, but he halts.

  LYMAN: Will you give me a week to tell her? It’s still early for you, isn’t it?

  LEAH: Tell her what?

  LYMAN: . . . That I’m going to marry you.

  TOM: I see.

  Lyman moves into darkness.

  LEAH: I don’t understand it; he’d had dozens of women, why did he pick me to be irreplaceable? She looks down at her watch, stares in silence. God! How do I tell my boy?

  TOM: He’s nine now?

  LEAH: And worships Lyman. Worships him.

  TOM: I’d better get to the hospital. He moves to go, halts hesitantly. Don’t answer this if you’d rather not, but you think you could ever take him back?

  LEAH, thinks for a moment: How could you ask me that? It’s outrageous! —Would Theodora? She struck me as a rather judgmental sort of woman.

  TOM: Oh, she has a tender side, too. —I guess she hasn’t had time to think of the future, any more than you have.

  LEAH: All this reminds me of an idea I used to have about him that . . . well, it’ll sound mystical and silly . . .

  TOM: Please. I’d love to understand him.

  LEAH: Well, it’s just that he wants so much; like a kid at a fair; a jelly apple here, a cotton candy there, and then a ride on a loop-the-loop . . . and it never lets up in him; it’s what’s so attractive about him—to women, I mean—Lyman’s mind is up your skirt but it’s such a rare thing to be wanted like that—indifference is what most men feel now—I mean they have an appetite but not hunger—and here is such a splendidly hungry man and it’s simply . . . well . . . precious once you’re past twenty-five. I tell you the truth, somewhere deep down I think I sensed something about him wasn’t on the level, but . . . I guess I must have loved him so much that I . . . Breaks off. —But I mustn’t talk this way; he’s unforgivable! It’s the rottenest thing I’ve ever heard of! The answer is no, absolutely not!

  TOM, nods, thinks, then . . . : Well, I’ll be off. I hope it’s not too difficult for you with the little boy. He exits.

  BLACKOUT ON LEAH

  SCENE III

  Lyman is softly snoring; a deep troubled sleep, however; bad dreams, muttering, an arm raised in a gesture.

  Tom enters with Nurse. She raises Lyman’s eyelid.

  NURSE: He still goes in and out but you can try him.

  TOM: Lyman? Can you hear me? Lyman stops snoring but eyes remain shut. It’s Tom Wilson.

  NURSE: Keep going, he shouldn’t be staying under this much by now.

  TOM: Lyman, it’s Tom.

  LYMAN, opens his eyes: You in the store?

  TOM: It’s the hospital.

  LYMAN: Hospital? Oh right, right . . . Jesus, I was dreaming of my father’s store; every time he looked at me he’d shake his head and say, “Hopeless case.” Laughs tiredly, trying to focus. Give me a second; little mixed up. How’d you get here?

  TOM: Theodora called me.

  LYMAN: Theodora?

  TOM: Your car is registered in the city so the state police called her.

  LYMAN: I had some weird dream that she and Bessie . . . Breaks off. They’re not here, are they?

  NURSE: I told you your wife came . . .

  TOM, to Nurse: Excuse us, please?

  NURSE: But
I told him. She exits.

  TOM: They’ve met, Lyman.

  LYMAN, pause; he struggles to orient himself: Theo . . . didn’t collapse, did she?

  TOM: Yes, but she’s come around, she’ll be all right.

  LYMAN: I don’t understand it, I think I dreamed the whole thing . . .

  TOM: Well, that wouldn’t be too difficult, it’s all pretty inevitable.

  LYMAN: Why’re you being so brutal?

  TOM: There’s no time to fool around, you’ve got things to decide. It’s all over television . . .

  LYMAN: Oh. —Have you met her?—Leah? I’m finished.

  TOM: We’ve had a talk. She’s a considerable woman.

  LYMAN, gratefully: Isn’t she? —She’s furious, too, huh?

  TOM: Well, what do you expect?

  LYMAN: See . . . I thought I’d somehow divorce Theo later. —But it sort of settled in where I had both of them. And after a while it didn’t seem so godawful . . . What about Bessie?

  TOM: It’s hit her pretty bad, I guess.

  LYMAN: God, and poor little Benny! Jesus, if I could go through the ceiling and just disappear.

  TOM: The television is flogging it. I think you ought to issue a press statement to cut the whole thing short. As to your intentions.

  LYMAN: What intentions? Just give each of them whatever they want. I’ll probably go and live somewhere . . . maybe like Brazil or something . . .

  TOM: You won’t try to hold on to either of them.

  LYMAN: Are you mad? They wouldn’t have anything to do with me. My God . . . He turns away, tears in his eyes. How could I have destroyed everything like this!—my character! Higher intensity: Why did I drive into that storm?—I can’t understand it! I had the room in the Howard Johnson’s, I think I was even in bed . . . figured I’d wait out the storm there . . . Why’d I go out into it again?

  TOM: Can you give Theo a few minutes? She wants to say good-bye.

  LYMAN: How can I face her? Ask her to wait till tomorrow, maybe I’ll feel a little better and . . .

  Theo and Bessie enter; Lyman does not see them, as they are above him.

  TOM: They’re here, Lyman.

  Lyman closes his eyes, breathing fast. Bessie, holding Theo by the elbow, accompanies her to the beside.