SKIP: If you’re telling me this guy doesn’t exist, I’m . . .
HENRI: That depends on what you mean by “exist”; he certainly exists in the mind of the desperately poor peasant—he is the liberator; for the General his crucifixion will powerfully reinforce good order, so he must exist . . . and I know a suicidal young woman of high intelligence who insists that he has restored her will to live, so for her he certainly exists. And needless to say, for you, of course . . . his execution will sell some very expensive advertising, so you are committed to his existing.
SKIP: But he can’t be imaginary, the General spoke with him.
HENRI: Not quite. According to the General the fellow never said a single word. Not one. The General spoke at him.
SKIP: But didn’t I hear of this . . . apostle of his they’ve just jailed? He’s certainly spoken with him.
HENRI: A fellow named Stanley, yes. I understand he is a drug addict. I needn’t say more; he could be put away for the rest of his life unless he cooperates. Drug-taking is a felony in this country.
SKIP: Really. But they export tons of it.
HENRI: They do indeed. The logic is as implacable as it is beyond anyone’s comprehension.
SKIP: Then what are you telling me? —Because you’ve gotta believe it, the money we paid the General is not a poem.
HENRI: But it may turn into one as so many other important things have done. The Vietnam War, for example, began . . .
SKIP: The Vietnam War!
HENRI: . . . Which was set off, mind you, by a night attack upon a United States warship by a Vietnamese gunboat in the Gulf of Tonkin. It’s now quite certain the attack never happened. This was a fiction, a poem; but fifty-six thousand Americans and two million Vietnamese had to die before the two sides got fed up reciting it.
SKIP: But what is this light . . . not that I’m sure I believe it . . . but he emits a light, I’m told.
HENRI: Yes. I saw it.
SKIP: You saw it!
HENRI: At the time I thought I did, yes. But I was primed beforehand by my two days in the upper villages where everyone is absolutely convinced he is god—so as I approached that cell door my brain demanded an astonishment and I believe I proceeded to create one.
SKIP: Meaning what?
HENRI: Mr. Cheeseboro, I have spent a lifetime trying to free myself from the boredom of reality. —Needless to say, I have badly hurt some people dear to me—as those who flee reality usually do. So what I am about to tell you has cost me. —I am convinced now apart from getting fed, most human activity—sports, opera, TV, movies, dressing up, dressing down—or just going for a walk—has no other purpose than to deliver us into the realm of the imagination. The imagination is a great hall where death, for example, turns into a painting, and a scream of pain becomes a song. The hall of the imagination is really where we usually live; and this is all right except for one thing—to enter that hall one must leave one’s real sorrow at the door and in its stead surround oneself with images and words and music that mimic anguish but are really drained of it—no one has ever lost a leg from reading about a battle, or died of hearing the saddest song. Close to tears. And this is why . . .
SKIP: I don’t see why . . .
HENRI, overriding: . . . This is why this man must be hunted down and crucified; because—he still really feels everything. Imagine, Mr. Cheeseboro, if that kind of reverence for life should spread! Governments would collapse, armies disband, marriages disintegrate! Wherever we turned, our dead unfeeling shallowness would stare us in the face until we shriveled up with shame! No!—better to hunt him down and kill him and leave us in peace.
SKIP: . . . You’re addressing me, aren’t you.
HENRI: Oh, and myself, I assure you a thousand, thousand times myself.
SKIP: On the other hand, shallow as I am I have twins registered at Andover; maybe some need to be shallow so that some can be deep.
He starts to rise.
HENRI: Please! Go home!
SKIP: I can’t go home until this job is done!
HENRI: You could tell your company there was nothing here to photograph! It was all imaginary, a poem!
SKIP: It’s impossible, I can’t pull out of this.
Starts off.
HENRI: I hope you won’t take offense!
Skip halts, turns, curious.
Our generals are outraged, a cageful of tigers roaring for meat! Somebody may get himself crucified—and not necessarily a man who has done anything. Do you want the responsibility for helping create that injustice!
SKIP: I’ve been trying hard not to resent you, Mr. Schultz, but this I resent. —I am not “creating” anything! I am no more responsible for this situation than Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were for Jesus’ torture!
HENRI: But Jesus was already long dead when they wrote about him, he was beyond harm!
SKIP: Well, I can’t see the difference.
HENRI: But Mr. Cheeseboro, this man is still alive!
SKIP: We are recording a preexisting fact, Mr. Schultz, not creating it—I create nothing!
HENRI: But the fortune you’ve paid the General has locked him into this monstrous thing! Your money is critical in his decision!
SKIP, exploding: You have utterly wasted my time!
He exits.
HENRI: And so the poem continues, written in someone’s blood, and my country sinks one more inch into the grass, into the jungle, into the everlasting sea.
BLACKOUT
SCENE V
Darkness. A moon. A palm tree. Light rises, gradually revealing a candelabra on a café table, with Felix and Emily eating lobsters and drinking wine.
At all the dim edges of the stage, riflemen sit crouched, weapons at the ready, backs to the couple.
Music; very distant strains of a guitar and singers serenading.
EMILY: I’ve never in my life eaten three lobsters.
FELIX: But they’re very small, no?
EMILY: Even so.
FELIX: Of course, small things can be better than big sometimes.
EMILY: Oh? Catches on. Oh, of course, yes!
FELIX: I beg you to forgive my forwardness.
EMILY: Not at all—I like it.
FELIX: I can’t help myself, I am desperate for you not to slip away.
They eat in silence, sucking the lobster legs.
EMILY: You’re a contradictory person, aren’t you?
FELIX: I have never thought so; why am I contradictory?
EMILY: Well, you seem so tough, but you’re also very sentimental.
FELIX: Perhaps, yes. But with very few people. This is a hard country to govern.
EMILY: —I must say, your face seems softer than when we met.
FELIX: Possibly because something grips my imagination as we converse.
EMILY: Grips your imagination?
FELIX: Your body. —I beg you to forgive my frankness, it’s because I am sure, Emily, that I could . . . how shall I say . . . function with you.
EMILY, equivocally: Well now . . .
FELIX: How fantastic—you are blushing! She laughs nervously. My god, how your spirit speaks to me! There is something sacred in you, Emily— for me it’s as though you descended from the air. —I must sound like I have lost my mind, but could you stay on some weeks? Or months? I have everything here for you . . .
EMILY: I’m afraid I have too many obligations at home. And I’m going to have to get busy saving my career. Pointedly. . . . Unless you’d decide to do what I asked.
FELIX: I beg you, my dear, you can’t ask me to call off the search. The General Staff would never stand for it . . .
EMILY: But if you insisted . . .
FELIX: It’s impossible; the honor of the Armed Forces is at stake. This man is trying to make fools of us.
EMILY, rea
ches out and touches his cheek. Surprised, he instantly grasps her hand and kisses her palm: Why do I think you don’t want to catch him, Felix . . . you personally?
FELIX, cradles his face in her palm: . . . To tell you the truth I’m not sure anymore what I want.
EMILY: . . . Just out of curiosity, you really think my haircut started it?
FELIX: Oh yes, absolutely, it went straight to my heart.
EMILY: Imagine. And here I was thinking it was too short.
FELIX: No—no, it’s perfect! I had one look and it was as though I . . . I was rising from the dead.
EMILY: . . . Could we talk about that?
FELIX: About what, my dear?
EMILY: The . . . ah . . . difficulty you have that you’ve been . . . alluding to.
FELIX, fear and eager curiosity: What about it?
EMILY: . . . Unless you don’t feel . . .
FELIX, steeling himself; deeply curious: . . . No—no, of course not, I have no fear!
EMILY: Well, what I think, is that you have to seem invulnerable to the world, and so you suppress your feelings.
FELIX: I am running a country, Emily, I cannot expose my feelings to . . .
EMILY: I know, but that suppression has spread down and down and down . . . Running her finger up his arm and down his chest: until it’s finally clobbered . . . your willy. Quickly. You’re simply going to have to let your feelings out, Felix, is all I’m saying.
FELIX, aroused and confused: I am . . . I am . . . I . . . I . . . Disarming himself. . . . must talk to you . . . I can come to New York, I have money there and an apartment . . .
EMILY: Why wait? Like if you feel you really don’t wish to pursue this fellow, just don’t do it and see what happens.
FELIX: Darling, the General Staff would tear me apart, they are hungry lions . . .
EMILY, reaches for his hand: Felix dear . . . I don’t know where this is going between us, but I must tell you now—if you go through with this outrage you’ll have to find yourself another girl. —Not that I’m promising anything in any case.
FELIX: But what are your feelings toward me? You never speak of them.
EMILY: I like a man to be a man, Felix—which you are. And I have enormous curiosity.
FELIX: About men.
EMILY: Yes. Powerful men, especially . . . to tell the truth.
FELIX: About what in particular?
EMILY: Well, frankly, for one thing—how they are making love.
FELIX: I have never known a woman with such courage to speak her mind.
EMILY: One needs it when one is not marvelous to look at.
FELIX, kisses her hand: You are more marvelous to look at than . . . than six mountains and a waterfall!
EMILY: That’s very sweet of you, Felix. —I’d love to walk along the beach. Could we, without all these guards?
FELIX: I’m afraid not. But come, we can take a few steps through the garden.
They walk together.
EMILY: Who exactly would want to kill you, Communists?
FELIX: The Party is split on this question. One side thinks somebody worse would replace me if I am eliminated.
EMILY: And I suppose the Right Wing people love you . . .
FELIX: Not all—some of them think I am not hard enough on the Communists . . . those might take a shot at me too. Then there are the narco-guerillas; with some we have an arrangement, it’s no secret, but there are others who are not happy for various reasons.
EMILY: It all seems so utterly, utterly futile. Or do you mind?
He halts, holds her hand.
FELIX: I mind very much, in these hours since I know you. Very much. You have made me wish that I could live differently.
EMILY: Really!
FELIX: Emily, I will confess to you—when I imagine myself making love to you, entering into you, I . . . I almost hear a choir.
EMILY: A choir! Really, Felix, that is beautiful!
Felix suddenly turns away, covering his eyes.
EMILY: What is it? You all right? Felix?
Felix straightens up, grasps her hand, kisses it, holds it to his cheek.
EMILY: What is it?
FELIX: I will divorce.
EMILY, blurting: Oh no, you mustn’t do that! . . . I mean you’re a Catholic, aren’t you?
FELIX: I am ready to go to hell! I cannot lose you!
EMILY: But my dear, I’m not prepared for . . . I assume you’re talking commitment?
FELIX, striking his chest: You have exploded in my mind like a grenade! I have never had such a feeling . . . it is like all my windows have blown out and a fresh breeze is passing through me . . . I must not let you go, Emily—what can I give you! Anything! Tell me!
EMILY: Ralph!
FELIX: Ralph?
EMILY: Let him go!
FELIX, at the height of tension—dives: That is what you truly wish?
EMILY: Oh yes, Felix—yes! It would solve everything for me! And he sounds like such a dear person!
FELIX: And you will surely see me in New York.
EMILY: Of course, I’ll be happy to!—I mean not necessarily on a permanent basis . . . I mean I travel a lot, but . . . yes, of course!
FELIX: All right, then—it is done!
EMILY: Done! Oh, Felix, I’m overwhelmed!
FELIX: I have fallen in love with you, Emily! Come—let me take you to my best house.
EMILY: Your best?
FELIX, solemnly: It was my mother’s. I have never brought anyone there before. It is sacred to me. I haven’t been there since I was seven.
EMILY: That’s very touching. But first could we go into the mountains? I would like to see one of those high villages where they love this Ralph fellow so. It’s just an experience I’ve never had, have you?—to walk in a place full of love? Up close to him, face raised. Take me there, Felix?
FELIX, sensing her distant surrender: My god, woman—yes, anything! Come . . . come to the mountains!
He grips her hand and they hurry off with all the guards following, their heads revolving in all directions in the search for killers.
BLACKOUT
SCENE VI
Jeanine rises from her wheelchair with help of a cane, and walks with a limp to a point. Henri enters, stands, astonished.
HENRI: Jeanine!
She turns to him.
JEANINE: I don’t understand it. I woke up, and I was standing.
HENRI: And the pain?
JEANINE: It seems much less. For the moment anyway.
HENRI: This is absolutely astonishing, Jeanine. This is marvelous! How did this happen?
JEANINE: The lightning this morning shot a lot of electricity into the air—
HENRI: —Could that have affected you?
JEANINE, cryptically: I . . . don’t know, really.
Pause. Henri settles in.
HENRI: I’m sorry, dear, but we have to talk about Felix.
JEANINE: Oh god, why?
HENRI: He called me this morning—woke me at dawn. He’s convinced you can lead him to this god-fellow.
Jeanine is silent.
He’ll be here to see you this morning. He insisted. Coming to his point. . . . Do you know a fellow named Stanley?
JEANINE, hedging: Stanley.
HENRI: They have him.
She stiffens.
He has apparently told Felix you and this . . . god-fellow are lovers.
She is silent.
Felix is convinced you would know where to find him.
JEANINE: Papa, I have no way of contacting this man, so let’s just forget it, will you?
HENRI, a moment; swallows resentment: According to Felix this Stanley fellow has hinted that your friend may actually welcome crucifixion. In order to accomplish his . . . what
ever it is . . . his mission.
Jeanine is silent.
In any case, I’m not sure I can keep you from being arrested for harboring him and failing to turn him in.
JEANINE: But how can I turn him in! I don’t know how to contact him!
HENRI: . . . For one thing, darling—how shall I put it?—he clearly had to have been here last night . . .
JEANINE: Why!
HENRI, patience gone: Well look at you! Felix is not stupid, Jeanine—he knows your spine was crushed, it could only have been this man’s hand on you that has brought you to life like this!
JEANINE: . . . You believe then!?
HENRI: . . . I don’t know what I believe! I only know that Felix intends to kill this man and that can’t be allowed to happen!
JEANINE: Oh Papa, why do you go on caring so much when you know you will never act! You’ll never stand up to these murderers!
HENRI: Act how! Who do I join! How can you go on repeating that political nonsense? There is no politics anymore, Jeanine—if you weren’t so tough-minded you’d admit it! There is nothing, my dear, nothing but one’s family, if one can call that a faith.
JEANINE: Late one night you came into my room and sat down on my bed. There was a storm. Tremendous! The wind broke limbs off the oak behind the house. It groaned, like pieces of the sky breaking off! And you said you had decided to go into the mountains and join the guerillas to fight against Felix! Lightning seemed to flash around your head, Papa. You were like a mountain, sitting there. At last you would do something, at last you would answer the idiots and fight against Felix! And I knew I would follow you . . . and high up in the mountains I found you in your tent with a rifle on your lap, reading Spinoza.
HENRI: The world will never again be changed by heroes; if I misled you I apologize to the depths of my heart. One must learn to live in the garden of one’s self.
JEANINE: Even if one has seen god?
HENRI: . . . Then you really do believe?
JEANINE: I think so, yes.
HENRI: Very well. I’m glad.
JEANINE: You are!
HENRI: I’m happy for the love I see in you, my dear, your hair flowing so gently around your face, and the softness that I haven’t seen in so many years in the corners of your eyes. I love you, Jeanine, and if it’s he who brought you back to life . . . —Why not? I think now it is no more impossible than the rest of this dream we live in. Glances at watch. —Felix will be here soon. I’ll wait with you, is that all right?
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 138