The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  MOTHER: Joe, Joe, please . . . you’ll be all right, nothing is going to happen . . .

  KELLER, desperately, lost: For you, Kate, for both of you, that’s all I ever lived for . . .

  MOTHER: I know, darling, I know . . .

  Ann enters from house. They say nothing, waiting for her to speak.

  ANN: Why do you stay up? I’ll tell you when he comes.

  KELLER, rises, goes to her: You didn’t eat supper, did you? To Mother: Why don’t you make her something?

  MOTHER: Sure, I’ll . . .

  ANN: Never mind, Kate, I’m all right. They are unable to speak to each other. There’s something I want to tell you. She starts, then halts. I’m not going to do anything about it. . . .

  MOTHER: She’s a good girl! To Keller: You see? She’s a . . .

  ANN: I’ll do nothing about Joe, but you’re going to do something for me. Directly to Mother: You made Chris feel guilty with me. Whether you wanted to or not, you’ve crippled him in front of me. I’d like you to tell him that Larry is dead and that you know it. You understand me? I’m not going out of here alone. There’s no life for me that way. I want you to set him free. And then I promise you, everything will end, and we’ll go away, and that’s all.

  KELLER: You’ll do that. You’ll tell him.

  ANN: I know what I’m asking, Kate. You had two sons. But you’ve only got one now.

  KELLER: You’ll tell him . . .

  ANN: And you’ve got to say it to him so he knows you mean it.

  MOTHER: My dear, if the boy was dead, it wouldn’t depend on my words to make Chris know it. . . . The night he gets into your bed, his heart will dry up. Because he knows and you know. To his dying day he’ll wait for his brother! No, my dear, no such thing. You’re going in the morning, and you’re going alone. That’s your life, that’s your lonely life. She goes to porch, and starts in.

  ANN: Larry is dead, Kate.

  MOTHER—she stops: Don’t speak to me.

  ANN: I said he’s dead. I know! He crashed off the coast of China November twenty-fifth! His engine didn’t fail him. But he died. I know . . .

  MOTHER: How did he die? You’re lying to me. If you know, how did he die?

  ANN: I loved him. You know I loved him. Would I have looked at anyone else if I wasn’t sure? That’s enough for you.

  MOTHER, moving on her: What’s enough for me? What’re you talking about? She grasps Ann’s wrists.

  ANN: You’re hurting my wrists.

  MOTHER: What are you talking about! Pause. She stares at Ann a moment, then turns and goes to Keller.

  ANN: Joe, go in the house . . .

  KELLER: Why should I . . .

  ANN: Please go.

  KELLER: Lemme know when he comes. Keller goes into house.

  MOTHER—she sees Ann take a letter from her pocket: What’s that?

  ANN: Sit down . . . Mother moves left to chair, but does not sit. First you’ve got to understand. When I came, I didn’t have any idea that Joe . . . I had nothing against him or you. I came to get married. I hoped . . . So I didn’t bring this to hurt you. I thought I’d show it to you only if there was no other way to settle Larry in your mind.

  MOTHER: Larry? Snatches letter from Ann hand.

  ANN: He wrote it to me just before he— Mother opens and begins to read letter. I’m not trying to hurt you, Kate. You’re making me do this, now remember you’re— Remember. I’ve been so lonely, Kate . . . I can’t leave here alone again. A long, low moan comes from Mother’s throat as she reads. You made me show it to you. You wouldn’t believe me. I told you a hundred times, why wouldn’t you believe me!

  MOTHER: Oh, my God . . .

  ANN, with pity and fear: Kate, please, please . . .

  MOTHER: My God, my God . . .

  ANN: Kate, dear, I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry.

  Chris enters from driveway. He seems exhausted.

  CHRIS: What’s the matter . . . ?

  ANN: Where were you? . . . You’re all perspired. Mother doesn’t move. Where were you?

  CHRIS: Just drove around a little. I thought you’d be gone.

  ANN: Where do I go? I have nowhere to go.

  CHRIS, to Mother: Where’s Dad?

  ANN: Inside lying down.

  CHRIS: Sit down, both of you. I’ll say what there is to say.

  MOTHER: I didn’t hear the car . . .

  CHRIS: I left it in the garage.

  MOTHER: Jim is out looking for you.

  CHRIS: Mother . . . I’m going away. There are a couple of firms in Cleveland, I think I can get a place. I mean, I’m going away for good. To Ann alone: I know what you’re thinking, Annie. It’s true. I’m yellow. I was made yellow in this house because I suspected my father and I did nothing about it, but if I knew that night when I came home what I know now, he’d be in the district attorney’s office by this time, and I’d have brought him there. Now if I look at him, all I’m able to do is cry.

  MOTHER: What are you talking about? What else can you do?

  CHRIS: I could jail him! I could jail him, if I were human any more. But I’m like everybody else now. I’m practical now. You made me practical.

  MOTHER: But you have to be.

  CHRIS: The cats in that alley are practical, the bums who ran away when we were fighting were practical. Only the dead ones weren’t practical. But now I’m practical, and I spit on myself. I’m going away. I’m going now.

  ANN, goes up to stop him: I’m coming with you. . . .

  CHRIS: No, Ann.

  ANN: Chris, I don’t ask you to do anything about Joe.

  CHRIS: You do, you do . . .

  ANN: I swear I never will.

  CHRIS: In your heart you always will.

  ANN: Then do what you have to do!

  CHRIS: Do what? What is there to do? I’ve looked all night for a reason to make him suffer.

  ANN: There’s reason, there’s reason!

  CHRIS: What? Do I raise the dead when I put him behind bars? Then what’ll I do it for? We used to shoot a man who acted like a dog, but honor was real there, you were protecting something. But here? This is the land of the great big dogs, you don’t love a man here, you eat him! That’s the principle; the only one we live by—it just happened to kill a few people this time, that’s all. The world’s that way, how can I take it out on him? What sense does that make? This is a zoo, a zoo!

  ANN, to Mother: You know what he’s got to do! Tell him!

  MOTHER: Let him go.

  ANN: I won’t let him go. You’ll tell him what he’s got to do . . .

  MOTHER: Annie!

  ANN: Then I will!

  Keller enters from house. Chris sees him, goes down right near arbor.

  KELLER: What’s the matter with you? I want to talk to you.

  CHRIS: I’ve got nothing to say to you.

  KELLER, taking his arm: I want to talk to you!

  CHRIS, pulling violently away from him: Don’t do that, Dad. I’m going to hurt you if you do that. There’s nothing to say, so say it quick.

  KELLER: Exactly what’s the matter? What’s the matter? You got too much money? Is that what bothers you?

  CHRIS, with an edge of sarcasm: It bothers me.

  KELLER: If you can’t get used to it, then throw it away. You hear me? Take every cent and give it to charity, throw it in the sewer. Does that settle it? In the sewer, that’s all. You think I’m kidding? I’m tellin’ you what to do, if it’s dirty then burn it. It’s your money, that’s not my money. I’m a dead man, I’m an old dead man, nothing’s mine. Well, talk to me!—what do you want to do!

  CHRIS: It’s not what I want to do. It’s what you want to do.

  KELLER: What should I want to do? Chris is silent. Jail? You want me to go to jail? If you want me to go, say so! I
s that where I belong?—then tell me so! Slight pause. What’s the matter, why can’t you tell me? Furiously. You say everything else to me, say that! Slight pause. I’ll tell you why you can’t say it. Because you know I don’t belong there. Because you know! With growing emphasis and passion, and a persistent tone of desperation: Who worked for nothin’ in that war? When they work for nothin’, I’ll work for nothin’. Did they ship a gun or a truck outa Detroit before they got their price? Is that clean? It’s dollars and cents, nickels and dimes; war and peace, it’s nickels and dimes, what’s clean? Half the Goddam country is gotta go if I go! That’s why you can’t tell me.

  CHRIS: That’s exactly why.

  KELLER: Then . . . why am I bad?

  CHRIS: I know you’re no worse than most men but I thought you were better. I never saw you as a man. I saw you as my father. Almost breaking: I can’t look at you this way, I can’t look at myself! He turns away unable to face Keller. Ann goes quickly to Mother, takes letter from her and starts for Chris. Mother instantly rushes to intercept her.

  MOTHER: Give me that!

  ANN: He’s going to read it! She thrusts letter into Chris’s hand. Larry. He wrote it to me the day he died. . . .

  KELLER: Larry?!

  MOTHER: Chris, it’s not for you. He starts to read. Joe . . . go away . . .

  KELLER, mystified, frightened: Why’d she say, Larry, what . . . ?

  MOTHER—she desperately pushes him toward alley, glancing at Chris: Go to the street, Joe, go to the street! She comes down beside Keller. Don’t, Chris . . . Pleading from her whole soul: Don’t tell him . . .

  CHRIS, quietly: Three and one half years . . . talking, talking. Now you tell me what you must do. . . . This is how he died, now tell me where you belong.

  KELLER, pleading: Chris, a man can’t be a Jesus in this world!

  CHRIS: I know all about the world. I know the whole crap story. Now listen to this, and tell me what a man’s got to be! Reads: “My dear Ann . . . ” You listening? He wrote this the day he died. Listen, don’t cry . . . listen! “My dear Ann: It is impossible to put down the things I feel. But I’ve got to tell you something. Yesterday they flew in a load of papers from the States and I read about Dad and your father being convicted. I can’t express myself. I can’t tell you how I feel—I can’t bear to live any more. Last night I circled the base for twenty minutes before I could bring myself in. How could he have done that? Every day three or four men never come back and he sits back there doing business. . . . I don’t know how to tell you what I feel . . . I can’t face anybody . . . I’m going out on a mission in a few minutes. They’ll probably report me missing. If they do, I want you to know that you mustn’t wait for me. I tell you, Ann, if I had him here now I could kill him—” Keller grabs letter from Chris’s hand and reads it. After a long pause: Now blame the world. Do you understand that letter?

  KELLER—he speaks almost inaudibly: I think I do. Get the car, I’ll put on my jacket. He turns and starts slowly for the house. Mother rushes to intercept him.

  MOTHER: Why are you going? You’ll sleep, why are you going?

  KELLER: I can’t sleep here. I’ll feel better if I go.

  MOTHER: You’re so foolish. Larry was your son too, wasn’t he? You know he’d never tell you to do this.

  KELLER, looking at letter in his hand: Then what is this if it isn’t telling me? Sure, he was my son. But I think to him they were all my sons. And I guess they were, I guess they were. I’ll be right down. Exits into house.

  MOTHER, to Chris, with determination: You’re not going to take him!

  CHRIS: I’m taking him.

  MOTHER: It’s up to you, if you tell him to stay he’ll stay. Go and tell him!

  CHRIS: Nobody could stop him now.

  MOTHER: You’ll stop him! How long will he live in prison?—are you trying to kill him?

  CHRIS, holding out letter: I thought you read this!

  MOTHER, of Larry, the letter: The war is over! Didn’t you hear?—it’s over!

  CHRIS: Then what was Larry to you? A stone that fell into the water? It’s not enough for him to be sorry. Larry didn’t kill himself to make you and Dad sorry.

  MOTHER: What more can we be!

  CHRIS: You can be better! Once and for all you can know there’s a universe of people outside and you’re responsible to it, and unless you know that you threw away your son because that’s why he died.

  A shot is heard in the house. They stand frozen for a brief second. Chris starts for porch, pauses at step, turns to Ann.

  CHRIS: Find Jim! He goes on into the house and Ann runs up driveway. Mother stands alone, transfixed.

  MOTHER, softly, almost moaning: Joe . . . Joe . . . Joe . . . Joe . . .

  Chris comes out of house, down to Mother’s arms.

  CHRIS, almost crying: Mother, I didn’t mean to . . .

  MOTHER: Don’t, dear. Don’t take it on yourself. Forget now. Live. Chris stirs as if to answer. Shhh . . . She puts his arms down gently and moves towards porch. Shhh . . . As she reaches porch steps she begins sobbing, as:

  THE CURTAIN FALLS.

  DEATH OF A SALESMAN

  CERTAIN PRIVATE CONVERSATIONS IN TWO ACTS AND A REQUIEM

  1949

  Characters

  WILLY LOMAN

  LINDA

  BIFF

  HAPPY

  BERNARD

  THE WOMAN

  CHARLEY

  UNCLE BEN

  HOWARD WAGNER

  JENNY

  STANLEY

  MISS FORSYTHE

  LETTA

  The action takes place in Willy Loman’s house and yard and in various places he visits in the New York and Boston of today.

  ACT ONE

  A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine, telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain rises.

  Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of towering, angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only the blue light of the sky falls upon the house and forestage; the surrounding area shows an angry glow of orange. As more light appears, we see a solid vault of apartment houses around the small, fragile-seeming home. An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out of reality. The kitchen at center seems actual enough, for there is a kitchen table with three chairs, and a refrigerator. But no other fixtures are seen. At the back of the kitchen there is a draped entrance, which leads to the living-room. To the right of the kitchen, on a level raised two feet, is a bedroom furnished only with a brass bedstead and a straight chair. On a shelf over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands. A window opens on to the apartment house at the side.

  Behind the kitchen, on a level raised six and a half feet, is the boys’ bedroom, at present barely visible. Two beds are dimly seen, and at the back of the room a dormer window. (This bedroom is above the unseen living-room.) At the left a stairway curves up to it from the kitchen.

  The entire setting is wholly or, in some places, partially transparent. The roof-line of the house is one-dimensional; under and over it we see the apartment buildings. Before the house lies an apron, curving beyond the forestage into the orchestra. This forward area serves as the back yard as well as the locale of all Willy’s imaginings and of his city scenes. Whenever the action is in the present the actors observe the imaginary wall-lines, entering the house only through its door at the left. But in the scenes of the past these boundaries are broken, and characters enter or leave a room by stepping “through” a wall on to the forestage.

  From the right, Willy Loman, the Salesman, enters, carrying two large sample cases. The flute plays on. He hears but is not aware of it. He is past sixty years of age, dressed quietly. Even as he crosses the stage to the doorway of the house, his exhaustion is apparent. He unlocks the door, comes into the kitchen, and thankfully lets his burden down, fe
eling the soreness of his palms. A word-sigh escapes his lips—it might be “Oh, boy, oh, boy.” He closes the door, then carries his cases out into the living-room, through the draped kitchen doorway. Linda, his wife, has stirred in her bed at the right. She gets out and puts on a robe, listening. Most often jovial, she has developed an iron repression of her exceptions to Willy’s behavior—she more than loves him, she admires him, as though his mercurial nature, his temper, his massive dreams and little cruelties, served her only as sharp reminders of the turbulent longings within him, longings which she shares but lacks the temperament to utter and follow to their end.

  LINDA, hearing Willy outside the bedroom, calls with some trepidation: Willy!

  WILLY: It’s all right. I came back.

  LINDA: Why? What happened? Slight pause. Did something happen, Willy?

  WILLY: No, nothing happened.

  LINDA: You didn’t smash the car, did you?

  WILLY, with casual irritation: I said nothing happened. Didn’t you hear me?

  LINDA: Don’t you feel well?

  WILLY: I’m tired to the death. The flute has faded away. He sits on the bed beside her, a little numb. I couldn’t make it. I just couldn’t make it, Linda.

  LINDA, very carefully, delicately: Where were you all day? You look terrible.

  WILLY: I got as far as a little above Yonkers. I stopped for a cup of coffee. Maybe it was the coffee.

  LINDA: What?

  WILLY, after a pause: I suddenly couldn’t drive any more. The car kept going off on to the shoulder, y’know?

  LINDA, helpfully: Oh. Maybe it was the steering again. I don’t think Angelo knows the Studebaker.

  WILLY: No, it’s me, it’s me. Suddenly I realize I’m goin’ sixty miles an hour and I don’t remember the last five minutes. I’m—I can’t seem to—keep my mind to it.