The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  MARGARET: At the Beverly they’ve got Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Jimmy Cagney’s at the Rialto but it’s another gangster story.

  HYMAN: I have a sour feeling about this thing. I barely know my way around psychiatry. I’m not completely sure I ought to get into it.

  MARGARET: Why not?—She’s a very beautiful woman.

  HYMAN, matching her wryness: Well, is that a reason to turn her away? He laughs, grasps her hand. Something about it fascinates me—no disease and she’s paralyzed. I’d really love to give it a try. I mean I don’t want to turn myself into a post office, shipping all the hard cases to specialists, the woman’s sick and I’d like to help.

  MARGARET: But if you’re not getting anywhere in a little while you’ll promise to send her to somebody.

  HYMAN: Absolutely. Committed now: full enthusiasm. I just feel there’s something about it that I understand.—Let’s see Cagney.

  MARGARET: Oh, no Fred Astaire.

  HYMAN: That’s what I meant. Come here.

  MARGARET, as he embraces her: We should leave now . . .

  HYMAN: You’re the best, Margaret.

  MARGARET: A lot of good it does me.

  HYMAN: If it really bothers you I’ll get someone else to take the case.

  MARGARET: You won’t, you know you won’t.

  He is lifting her skirt.

  Don’t, Harry. Come on.

  She frees her skirt, he kisses her breasts.

  HYMAN: Should I tell you what I’d like to do with you?

  MARGARET: Tell me, yes, tell me. And make it wonderful.

  HYMAN: We find an island and we strip and go riding on this white horse . . .

  MARGARET: Together.

  HYMAN: You in front.

  MARGARET: Naturally.

  HYMAN: And then we go swimming . . .

  MARGARET: Harry, that’s lovely.

  HYMAN: And I hire this shark to swim very close and we just manage to get out of the water, and we’re so grateful to be alive we fall down on the beach together and . . .

  MARGARET, pressing his lips shut: Sometimes you’re so good. She kisses him.

  BLACKOUT

  SCENE II

  The Lone Cellist plays. Then lights go down . . .

  Next evening. The Gellburg bedroom. Sylvia Gellburg is seated in a wheelchair reading a newspaper. She is in her mid-forties, a buxom, capable, and warm woman. Right now her hair is brushed down to her shoulders, and she is in a nightgown and robe.

  She reads the paper with an intense, almost haunted interest, looking up now and then to visualize.

  Her sister Harriet, a couple of years younger, is straightening up the bedcover.

  HARRIET: So what do you want, steak or chicken? Or maybe he’d like chops for a change.

  SYLVIA: Please, don’t put yourself out, Phillip doesn’t mind a little shopping.

  HARRIET: What’s the matter with you, I’m going anyway, he’s got enough on his mind.

  SYLVIA: Well all right, get a couple of chops.

  HARRIET: And what about you. You have to start eating!

  SYLVIA: I’m eating.

  HARRIET: What, a piece of cucumber? Look how pale you are. And what is this with newspapers night and day?

  SYLVIA: I like to see what’s happening.

  HARRIET: I don’t know about this doctor. Maybe you need a specialist.

  SYLVIA: He brought one two days ago, Doctor Sherman. From Mount Sinai.

  HARRIET: Really? And?

  SYLVIA: We’re waiting to hear. I like Doctor Hyman.

  HARRIET: Nobody in the family ever had anything like this. You feel something, though, don’t you?

  SYLVIA, pause, she lifts her face: Yes . . . but inside, not on the skin. Looks at her legs. I can harden the muscles but I can’t lift them. Strokes her thighs. I seem to have an ache. Not only here but . . . She runs her hands down her trunk. My whole body seems . . . I can’t describe it. It’s like I was just born and I . . . didn’t want to come out yet. Like a deep, terrible aching . . .

  HARRIET: Didn’t want to come out yet! What are you talking about?

  SYLVIA, sighs gently, knowing Harriet can never understand: Maybe if he has a nice duck. If not, get the chops. And thanks, Harriet, it’s sweet of you. —By the way, what did David decide?

  HARRIET: He’s not going to college.

  SYLVIA, shocked: I don’t believe it! With a scholarship and he’s not going?

  HARRIET: What can we do? Resignedly. He says college wouldn’t help him get a job anyway.

  SYLVIA: Harriet, that’s terrible! —Listen, tell him I have to talk to him.

  HARRIET: Would you! I was going to ask you but with this happening. Indicates her legs. I didn’t think you’d . . .

  SYLVIA: Never mind, tell him to come over. And you must tell Murray he’s got to put his foot down—you’ve got a brilliant boy! My God . . . Picks up the newspaper. If I’d had a chance to go to college I’d have had a whole different life, you can’t let this happen.

  HARRIET: I’ll tell David . . . I wish I knew what is suddenly so interesting in a newspaper. This is not normal, Sylvia, is it?

  SYLVIA, pause, she stares ahead: They are making old men crawl around and clean the sidewalks with toothbrushes.

  HARRIET: Who is?

  SYLVIA: In Germany. Old men with beards!

  HARRIET: So why are you so interested in that? What business of yours is that?

  SYLVIA, slight pause; searches within: I don’t really know. A slight pause. Remember Grandpa? His eyeglasses with the bent sidepiece? One of the old men in the paper was his spitting image, he had the same exact glasses with the wire frames. I can’t get it out of my mind. On their knees on the sidewalk, two old men. And there’s fifteen or twenty people standing in a circle laughing at them scrubbing with toothbrushes. There’s three women in the picture; they’re holding their coat collars closed, so it must have been cold . . .

  HARRIET: Why would they make them scrub with toothbrushes?

  SYLVIA, angered: To humiliate them, to make fools of them!

  HARRIET: Oh!

  SYLVIA: How can you be so . . . so . . . ? Breaks off before she goes too far. Harriet, please . . . leave me alone, will you?

  HARRIET: This is not normal. Murray says the same thing. I swear to God, he came home last night and says, “She’s got to stop thinking about those Germans.” And you know how he loves current events. Sylvia is staring ahead. I’ll see if the duck looks good, if not I’ll get chops. Can I get you something now?

  SYLVIA: No, I’m fine, thanks.

  HARRIET, moves upstage of Sylvia, turns: I’m going.

  SYLVIA: Yes.

  She returns to her paper. Harriet watches anxiously for a moment, out of Sylvia’s sight line, then exits. Sylvia turns a page, absorbed in the paper. Suddenly she turns in shock—Phillip is standing behind her. He holds a small paper bag.

  SYLVIA: Oh! I didn’t hear you come in.

  GELLBURG: I tiptoed, in case you were dozing off . . . His dour smile. I bought you some sour pickles.

  SYLVIA: Oh, that’s nice! Later, maybe. You have one.

  GELLBURG: I’ll wait. Awkwardly but determined: I was passing Greenberg’s on Flatbush Avenue and I suddenly remembered how you used to love them. Remember?

  SYLVIA: Thanks, that’s nice of you. What were you doing on Flatbush Avenue?

  GELLBURG: There’s a property across from A&S. I’m probably going to foreclose.

  SYLVIA: Oh that’s sad. Are they nice people?

  GELLBURG, shrugs: People are people—I gave them two extensions but they’ll never manage . . . nothing up here. Taps his temple.

  SYLVIA: Aren’t you early?

  GELLBURG: I got worried about you. Doctor come?

  SYLVIA: He called; he has th
e results of the tests but he wants to come tomorrow when he has more time to talk to me. He’s really very nice.

  GELLBURG: How was it today?

  SYLVIA: I’m so sorry about this.

  GELLBURG: You’ll get better, don’t worry about it. Oh!—there’s a letter from the captain. Takes it out of his jacket.

  SYLVIA: Jerome?

  GELLBURG, terrific personal pride: Read it.

  She reads; his purse-mouthed grin is intense.

  That’s your son. General MacArthur talked to him twice.

  SYLVIA: Fort Sill?

  GELLBURG: Oklahoma. He’s going to lecture them on artillery! In Fort Sill! That’s the field-artillery center.

  She looks up dumbly.

  That’s like being invited to the Vatican to lecture the Pope.

  SYLVIA: Imagine. She folds the letter and hands it back to him.

  GELLBURG, restraining greater resentment: I don’t understand this attitude.

  SYLVIA: Why? I’m happy for him.

  GELLBURG: You don’t seem happy to me.

  SYLVIA: I’ll never get used to it. Who goes in the army? Men who can’t do anything else.

  GELLBURG: I wanted people to see that a Jew doesn’t have to be a lawyer or a doctor or a businessman.

  SYLVIA: That’s fine, but why must it be Jerome?

  GELLBURG: For a Jewish boy, West Point is an honor! Without Mr. Case’s connections, he never would have gotten in. He could be the first Jewish general in the United States Army. Doesn’t it mean something to be his mother?

  SYLVIA, with an edge of resentment: Well, I said I’m glad.

  GELLBURG: Don’t be upset. Looks about impatiently. You know, when you get on your feet I’ll help you hang the new drapes.

  SYLVIA: I started to . . .

  GELLBURG: But they’ve been here over a month.

  SYLVIA: Well this happened, I’m sorry.

  GELLBURG: You have to occupy yourself is all I’m saying, Sylvia, you can’t give in to this.

  SYLVIA, near an outburst: Well I’m sorry—I’m sorry about everything!

  GELLBURG: Please, don’t get upset, I take it back!

  A moment; stalemate.

  SYLVIA: I wonder what my tests show.

  Gellburg is silent.

  That the specialist did.

  GELLBURG: I went to see Doctor Hyman last night.

  SYLVIA: You did? Why didn’t you mention it?

  GELLBURG: I wanted to think over what he said.

  SYLVIA: What did he say?

  With a certain deliberateness, Gellburg goes over to her and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

  SYLVIA, she is embarrassed and vaguely alarmed: Phillip! A little uncomprehending laugh.

  GELLBURG: I want to change some things. About the way I’ve been doing.

  He stands there for a moment perfectly still, then rolls her chair closer to the bed on which he now sits and takes her hand. She doesn’t quite know what to make of this, but doesn’t remove her hand.

  SYLVIA: Well what did he say?

  GELLBURG, he pats her hand: I’ll tell you in a minute. I’m thinking about a Dodge.

  SYLVIA: A Dodge?

  GELLBURG: I want to teach you to drive. So you can go where you like, visit your mother in the afternoon. —I want you to be happy, Sylvia.

  SYLVIA, surprised: Oh.

  GELLBURG: We have the money, we could do a lot of things. Maybe see Washington, D.C. . . . It’s supposed to be a very strong car, you know.

  SYLVIA: But aren’t they all black?—Dodges?

  GELLBURG: Not all. I’ve seen a couple of green ones.

  SYLVIA: You like green?

  GELLBURG: It’s only a color. You’ll get used to it. —Or Chicago. It’s really a big city, you know.

  SYLVIA: Tell me what Doctor Hyman said.

  GELLBURG, gets himself set: He thinks it could all be coming from your mind. Like a . . . a fear of some kind got into you. Psychological.

  She is still, listening.

  Are you afraid of something?

  SYLVIA, a slow shrug, a shake of her head: . . . I don’t know, I don’t think so. What kind of fear, what does he mean?

  GELLBURG: Well, he explains it better, but . . . like in a war, people get so afraid they go blind temporarily. What they call shell-shock. But once they feel safer it goes away.

  SYLVIA: What about the tests the Mount Sinai man did?

  GELLBURG: They can’t find anything wrong with your body.

  SYLVIA: But I’m numb!

  GELLBURG: He claims being very frightened could be doing it. —Are you?

  SYLVIA: I don’t know.

  GELLBURG: Personally. . . . Can I tell you what I think?

  SYLVIA: What.

  GELLBURG: I think it’s this whole Nazi business.

  SYLVIA: But it’s in the paper—they’re smashing up the Jewish stores . . . Should I not read the paper? The streets are covered with broken glass!

  GELLBURG: Yes, but you don’t have to be constantly . . .

  SYLVIA: It’s ridiculous. I can’t move my legs from reading a newspaper?

  GELLBURG: He didn’t say that; but I’m wondering if you’re too involved with . . .

  SYLVIA: It’s ridiculous.

  GELLBURG: Well you talk to him tomorrow. Pause. He comes back to her and takes her hand, his need open. You’ve got to get better, Sylvia.

  SYLVIA, she sees his tortured face and tries to laugh: What is this, am I dying or something?

  GELLBURG: How can you say that?

  SYLVIA: I’ve never seen such a look in your face.

  GELLBURG: Oh no-no-no . . . I’m just worried.

  SYLVIA: I don’t understand what’s happening . . . She turns away on the verge of tears.

  GELLBURG: . . . I never realized . . . Sudden sharpness . . . look at me, will you?

  She turns to him; he glances down at the floor.

  I wouldn’t know what to do without you, Sylvia, honest to God. I . . . Immense difficulty: I love you.

  SYLVIA, a dead, bewildered laugh: What is this?

  GELLBURG: You have to get better. If I’m ever doing something wrong I’ll change it. Let’s try to be different. All right? And you too, you’ve got to do what the doctors tell you.

  SYLVIA: What can I do? Here I sit and they say there’s nothing wrong with me.

  GELLBURG: Listen . . . I think Hyman is a very smart man . . . He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckle; embarrassed and smiling. When we were talking, something came to mind; that maybe if we could sit down with him, the three of us, and maybe talk about . . . you know . . . everything.

  Pause.

  SYLVIA: That doesn’t matter anymore, Phillip.

  GELLBURG, an embarrassed grin: How do you know? Maybe . . .

  SYLVIA: It’s too late for that.

  GELLBURG, once launched he is terrified: Why? Why is it too late?

  SYLVIA: I’m surprised you’re still worried about it.

  GELLBURG: I’m not worried, I just think about it now and then.

  SYLVIA: Well it’s too late, dear, it doesn’t matter anymore. She draws back her hand.

  Pause.

  GELLBURG: . . . Well all right. But if you wanted to I’d . . .

  SYLVIA: We did talk about it, I took you to Rabbi Steiner about it twice, what good did it do?

  GELLBURG: In those days I still thought it would change by itself. I was so young, I didn’t understand such things. It came out of nowhere and I thought it would go the same way.

  SYLVIA: I’m sorry, Phillip, it didn’t come out of nowhere.

  Silent, he evades her eyes.

  SYLVIA: You regretted you got married.

  GELLBURG: I didn’t “regret” it . . .

 
SYLVIA: You did, dear. You don’t have to be ashamed of it.

  A long silence.

  GELLBURG: I’m going to tell you the truth—in those days I thought that if we separated I wouldn’t die of it. I admit that.

  SYLVIA: I always knew that.

  GELLBURG: But I haven’t felt that way in years now.

  SYLVIA: Well I’m here. Spreads her arms out, a wildly ironical look in her eyes. Here I am, Phillip!

  GELLBURG, offended: The way you say that is not very . . .

  SYLVIA: Not very what? I’m here; I’ve been here a long time.

  GELLBURG, a helpless surge of anger: I’m trying to tell you something!

  SYLVIA, openly taunting him now: But I said I’m here!

  Gellburg moves about as she speaks, as though trying to find an escape or a way in.

  I’m here for my mother’s sake, and Jerome’s sake, and everybody’s sake except mine, but I’m here and here I am. And now finally you want to talk about it, now when I’m turning into an old woman? How do you want me to say it? Tell me, dear, I’ll say it the way you want me to. What should I say?

  GELLBURG, insulted and guilty: I want you to stand up.

  SYLVIA: I can’t stand up.

  He takes both her hands.

  GELLBURG: You can. Now come on. Stand up.

  SYLVIA: I can’t!

  GELLBURG: You can stand up, Sylvia. Now lean to me and get on your feet.

  He pulls her up; then steps aside, releasing her; she collapses on the floor. He stands over her.

  What are you trying to do? He goes to his knees to yell into her face: What are you trying to do, Sylvia!

  She looks at him in terror at the mystery before her.

  BLACKOUT

  SCENE III

  The Lone Cellist plays. Then lights go down . . .

  Dr. Hyman’s office. He is in riding boots and a sweater. Harriet is seated beside his desk.

  HARRIET: My poor sister. And they have everything! But how can it be in the mind if she’s so paralyzed?

  HYMAN: Her numbness is random, it doesn’t follow the nerve paths; only part of the thighs are affected, part of the calves, it makes no physiological sense. I have a few things I’d like to ask you, all right?

  HARRIET: You know, I’m glad it’s you taking care of her, my husband says the same thing.

  HYMAN: Thank you . . .