Maybe that’s why she sticks in my mind. He walks around her, peering. Well, that’s power, isn’t it? To influence a girl to change her nose, her life? . . . It does, yes, it frightens me, and I wish to God—Felice raises her arm—she’d stop blessing me! Mother exits on upper platform. He laughs uneasily, surprised at the force of his fear. Well, I suppose because there is a fraud involved; I have no such power.
Maggie suddenly appears in man’s pajamas, talking into a phone, coming down to the bed, center.
MAGGIE, with timid idolatry: Hello? Is— How’d you know it’s me? Laughs as she lies down. You really remember me? Maggie? From that park that day? Well, ’cause it’s almost four years so I . . .
He comes away from her as she continues talking, unheard.
QUENTIN, to the Listener, glancing from Maggie to Felice: I do, yes, I see the similarity.
Laughter is heard as Holga appears at a café table, an empty chair beside her, the music of a café fiddle in the air.
HOLGA, to an empty seat beside her: I love the way you eat! You eat like a Pasha, a grand duke!
QUENTIN, to Listener, looking toward her: Yes, adored again! But . . . there is something different here. As he moves toward Holga, he says to Listener: Now keep me to my theme, I spoke of power.
He sits beside her. As he speaks now, Holga’s aspect changes; she becomes moody, doesn’t face him, seems hurt. And, sitting beside her, he speaks to the Listener.
We were in a café one afternoon in Salzburg, and quite suddenly, I don’t know why—it all seemed to be dying between us. And I saw it all happening again. You know that moment, when you begin desperately to talk about architecture?
HOLGA: Fifteen thirty-five. The Archbishop designed it himself.
QUENTIN: Beautiful.
HOLGA, distantly: Yes.
QUENTIN, as though drawing on his courage, suddenly turning to her: Holga. I thought I noticed your pillow was wet this morning.
HOLGA: It really isn’t anything important.
QUENTIN: There are no unimportant tears.
HOLGA: I feel sometimes— Breaks off, then: —that I’m boring you.
LOUISE, entering upstage: I am not all this uninteresting, Quentin!
He stares at her, trying to join this with his lost vision, and in that mood he turns out to the Listener.
QUENTIN: The question is power, but I’ve lost the . . . Yes! He springs up and circles Louise. I tell you there were times when she looked into the mirror and I saw she didn’t like her face, and I wanted to step between her and her suffering.
HOLGA: I may not be all that interesting.
QUENTIN, of Louise: I felt guilty even for her face! But . . . with her—He returns to the café table—there was some new permission . . . not to blind her to her own unhappiness. I saw that it belonged to her as mine belonged to me. And suddenly there was only good will and a mystery.
HOLGA: I wish you’d believe me, Quentin; you have no duty here.
QUENTIN: Holga, I would go. But I know I’d be looking for you tomorrow.
Mother enters, taking Holga’s place on the seat beside him. He continues speaking without pause.
But there’s truth in what you feel. The time does come when I feel I must go. Not toward anything, or away from you. . . . But there is some freedom in the going.
MOTHER: Darling, there is never a depression for great people! The first time I felt you move, I was standing on the beach at Rockaway. . . .
Quentin has gotten up.
QUENTIN, to Listener: But power. Where is the . . .
MOTHER: And I saw a star, and it got bright, and brighter, and brighter! And suddenly it fell, like some great man had died, and you were being pulled out of me to take his place, and be a light, a light in the world!
QUENTIN, to Listener: Why is there some . . . air of treachery in that?
FATHER, suddenly appearing with Dan behind him, to Mother: What the hell are you talking about? We’re just getting started again. I need him!
Quentin avidly turns from one to the other as they argue.
MOTHER: You’ve got Dan, you don’t need him! He wants to try to get a job, go to college maybe.
FATHER: He’s got a job!
MOTHER: He means with pay! I don’t want his young years going by. He wants a life!
FATHER, indicating Dan; they have surrounded Quentin: Why don’t he “want a life”?
MOTHER: Because he’s different!
FATHER: Because he knows what’s right! Indicating Mother and Quentin together: You’re two of a kind—what you “want”! Chrissake, when I was his age I was supporting six people! He comes up to Quentin. What are you, stranger? What are you!
QUENTIN, peering into the revulsion on his father’s face: Yes, I felt a power, in the going . . . and treason in it. Because there’s failure, and you turn your back on failure . . .
Father exits with Mother.
FATHER: I need him!
DAN, putting an arm around Quentin: No, kid, don’t feel that way. I just want to see him big again, but you go. I’ll go back to school if things pick up.
QUENTIN, peering at Dan, who has walked on past him and is talking to an invisible Quentin: Yes, good men stay . . . although they die there . . .
DAN, indicating a book in his hand, addressing an invisible Quentin: It’s my Byron, I’ll put it in your valise, and I’ve put in my new Argyles, just don’t wash them in hot water. And remember, kid, wherever you are . . . A train whistle is heard far off. Dan rushes onto second platform, calling: Wherever you are, this family’s behind you! So buckle down, now, I’ll send you a list of books to read.
Mother, Father, and Dan disappear, waving farewell. Felice is gone.
MAGGIE, suddenly sitting up on her bed, addressing an empty space at the foot: But could I read them?
QUENTIN, spinning about in quick surprise: Huh!
All the others have gone dark but him and Maggie.
MAGGIE: I mean what kind of books? ’Cause, see—I never really graduated high school. Although I always liked poetry.
QUENTIN—breaks his stare at her and quickly comes down to the Listener: It’s that I can’t find myself in this vanity any more.
MAGGIE, enthralled, on bed: I can’t hardly believe you came! Can you stay five minutes? I’m a singer now, see? In fact—With a laugh at herself—I’m in the top three. And for a long time I been wanting to tell you that . . . none of it would have happened to me if I hadn’t met you that day.
QUENTIN: Why do you speak of love? All I can see now is the power she offered me. All right. Turns to her in conflict, and unwillingly. I’ll try. He approaches her.
MAGGIE: I’m sorry if I sounded frightened on the phone but I didn’t think you’d be in the office after midnight. Laughs at herself nervously. See, I only pretended to call you. Can you stay like five minutes?
QUENTIN, backing into the chair: Sure. Don’t rush.
MAGGIE: That’s what I mean, you know I’m rushing! Would you like a drink? Or a steak? They have two freezers here. My agent went to Jamaica so I’m just staying here this week till I go to London Friday. It’s the Palladium, like a big vaudeville house, and it’s kind of an honor but I’m a little scared to go.
QUENTIN: Why? I’ve heard you; you’re marvelous. Especially . . . He can’t remember a title.
MAGGIE: No, I’m just flapping my wings yet. But did you read what that News fellow wrote? He keeps my records in the ’frigerator, case they melt!
QUENTIN—laughs with her, then recalls: “Little Girl Blue”! It’s very moving, the way you do that.
MAGGIE: Really? ’Cause, see, it’s not I say to myself, “I’m going to sound sexy,” I just try to come through—like in love or . . . Laughs. I really can’t believe you’re here!
QUENTIN: Why? I’m glad you called; I’ve often tho
ught about you the last couple of years. All the great things happening to you gave me a secret satisfaction for some reason.
MAGGIE: Maybe ’cause you did it.
QUENTIN: Why do you say that?
MAGGIE: I don’t know, just the way you looked at me. I didn’t even have the nerve to go see an agent before that day.
QUENTIN: How did I look at you?
MAGGIE, squinching up her shoulders, a mystery: Like . . . out of your self. Most people, they . . . just look at you. I can’t explain it. And the way you talked to me . . .
LOUISE, who has been sitting right, playing solitaire: You think reading your brief is talking to me?
MAGGIE: What did you mean—it gave you a secret satisfaction?
QUENTIN: Just that—like in the office, I’d hear people laughing that Maggie had the world at her feet—
MAGGIE, hurt, mystified: They laughed!
QUENTIN: In a way.
MAGGIE, in pain: That’s what I mean; I’m a joke to most people.
QUENTIN: No, it’s that you say what you mean, Maggie. You don’t seem to be upholding anything, you’re not—ashamed of what you are.
MAGGIE: W—what do you mean, of what I am?
Louise looks up. She is playing solitaire.
QUENTIN, suddenly aware he has touched a nerve: Well . . . that you love life, and . . . It’s hard to define, I . . .
LOUISE: The word is “tart.” But what did it matter as long as she praised you?
QUENTIN, to Listener, standing, and moving within Maggie’s area: There’s truth in it—I hadn’t had a woman’s praise, even a girl I’d laughed at with the others—
MAGGIE: But you didn’t, did you?
He turns to her in agony.
Laugh at me?
QUENTIN: No. He suddenly stands and cries out to Listener. Fraud! From the first five minutes! . . . Because! I should have agreed she was a joke, a beautiful piece, trying to take herself seriously! Why did I lie to her, play this cheap benefactor, this— Listens, and now unwillingly he turns back to her.
MAGGIE: Like when you told me to fix where my dress was torn? You wanted me to be—proud of myself. Didn’t you?
QUENTIN, surprised: I guess I did, yes. To Listener: By God I did!
MAGGIE, feeling she has budged him: Would you like a drink?
QUENTIN, relaxing: I wouldn’t mind. Glancing around: What’s all the flowers?
MAGGIE, pouring: Oh, that’s that dopey prince or a king or whatever he is. He keeps sending me a contract—whereas I get a hundred thousand dollars if we ever divorce. I’d be like a queen or something, but I only met him in El Morocco once! She laughs, handing him his drink. I’m supposed to be his girl friend too! I don’t know why they print those things.
QUENTIN: Well, I guess everybody wants to touch you now.
MAGGIE: Cheers! They drink; she makes a face. I hate the taste but I love the effect! Would you like to take off your shoes? I mean just to rest.
QUENTIN: I’m okay. I thought you sounded on the phone like something frightened you.
MAGGIE: Do you have to go home right away?
QUENTIN: Are you all alone here?
MAGGIE: It’s okay. Oh hey! I cut your picture out of the paper last month. When you were defending that Reverend Harley Barnes in Washington? Taking a small framed photo from under her pillow: See? I framed it!
QUENTIN: Is something frightening you, Maggie?
MAGGIE: No, it’s just you’re here! It’s odd how I found this—I went up to see my father—
QUENTIN: He must be very proud of you now.
MAGGIE, laughing: Oh, no—he left when I was eighteen months, see—’cause he said I wasn’t from him, although my mother always said I was. And they keep interviewing me now and I never know what to answer, when they ask where you were born, and all. So I thought if he would just see me, and you know, just—look at me . . . I can’t explain it.
QUENTIN: Maybe so you’ll know who you are.
MAGGIE: Yes! But he wouldn’t even talk to me on the phone—just said, “See my lawyer,” and hung up. But on the train back there was your picture, right on the seat looking up at me. And I said, “I know who I am! I’m Quentin’s friend!” But don’t worry about it—I mean you could just be somebody’s friend, couldn’t you?
QUENTIN, after a slight pause: Yes, Maggie, I can be somebody’s friend. It’s just that you’re so beautiful—and I don’t only mean your body and your face.
MAGGIE: You wouldn’t even have to see me again. I would do anything for you, Quentin—you’re like a god!
QUENTIN: But anybody would have told you to mend your dress.
MAGGIE: No, they’d have laughed or tried for a quick one. You know.
QUENTIN, to Listener: Yes! It’s all so clear—the honor! The first honor was that I hadn’t tried to go to bed with her! She took it for a tribute to her “value,” and I was only afraid! God, the hypocrisy! . . . But why do you speak of love?
MAGGIE: Oh hey! You know what I did because of you? He turns back to her. I was christening a submarine in the Groton shipyard; ’cause I was voted the favorite of all the workers! And I made them bring about ten workers up on the platform, whereas they’re the ones built it, right? And you know what the admiral said? I better watch out or I’ll be a Communist. And suddenly I thought of you and I said, “I don’t know what’s so terrible; they’re for the poor people.” Isn’t that what you believe?
QUENTIN: I did, but it’s a lot more complicated, honey.
MAGGIE: Oh! I wish I knew something.
QUENTIN: You know how to see it all with your own eyes, Maggie, that’s more important than all the books.
MAGGIE: But you know if it’s true. What you see.
QUENTIN, puzzled: You frightened now? . . . You are, aren’t you? Maggie stares at him in tension; a long moment passes. What is it, dear? You afraid to be alone here? Pause. Why don’t you call somebody to stay with you?
MAGGIE: I don’t know anybody . . . like that.
QUENTIN, after a slight pause: Can I do anything? . . . Don’t be afraid to ask me.
MAGGIE, in a struggle, finally: Would you . . . open that closet door?
QUENTIN—looks off, then back to her: Just open it?
MAGGIE: Yes.
He walks into the dark periphery; she sits up warily, watching. He opens a “door.” He returns. And she lies back.
QUENTIN: Do you want to tell me something? I’m not going to laugh. Sits. What is it?
MAGGIE, with great difficulty: When I start to go to sleep before. And suddenly I saw smoke coming out of that closet under the door. Kept coming and coming. It start to fill the whole room!
She breaks off, near weeping. He reaches and takes her hand.
QUENTIN: Oh, kid—you’ve often dreamed such things, haven’t you?
MAGGIE: But I was awake!
QUENTIN: Well it was a waking dream. It just couldn’t stay down till you went to sleep. These things can be explained if you trace them back.
MAGGIE: I know. I go to an analyst.
QUENTIN: Then tell him about it, you’ll figure it out.
MAGGIE: It’s when I start to call you before. She is now absorbed in her own connections. See, my mother—she used to get dressed in the closet. She was very—like moral, you know? But sometimes she’d smoke in there. And she’d come out—you know? with a whole cloud of smoke around her.
QUENTIN: Well—possibly you felt she didn’t want you to call me.
MAGGIE, astounded: How’d you know that?
QUENTIN: You said she was so moral. And here you’re calling a married man.
MAGGIE: Yes! She tried to kill me once with a pillow on my face ’cause I would turn out bad because of—like her sin. And I have her hair, and the same back. She turns half to him, showing a naked back. ’C
ause I have a good back, see? Every masseur says.
QUENTIN: Yes, it is. It’s beautiful. But it’s no sin to call me.
MAGGIE, shaking her head like a child with a relieved laugh at herself: Doesn’t make me bad. Right?
QUENTIN: You’re a very moral girl, Maggie.
MAGGIE, delicately and afraid: W-what’s moral?
QUENTIN: You tell the truth, even against yourself. You’re not pretending to be—turns out to the Listener, with a dread joy—innocent! Yes, that suddenly there was someone who—could not club you to death with their innocence! And now it’s all laughable!
Mother appears, raising her arm. Louise exits.
MOTHER: I saw a star . . .
MAGGIE: I bless you, Quentin! Mother vanishes as he turns back to Maggie, who takes up his photo again. Lots of nights, I take your picture, and I bless you. You mind? She has pressed the picture against her cheek.
QUENTIN: I hope you sleep.
MAGGIE: I will now! Lies back. Honestly! I feel . . . all clear!
QUENTIN, with a wave of his hand: Good luck in London.
MAGGIE: And—what’s moral, again?
QUENTIN: To live the truth.
MAGGIE: That’s you!
QUENTIN: Not yet, dear; but I intend to try. Don’t be afraid to call me if you need any help. She is suddenly gone. Alone, he continues the thought. Any time—Dan appears in crew-necked sweater with his book—you need anything, you call, y’hear?
DAN: This family’s behind you, Quentin. Backing into darkness, with a wave of farewell as train whistle sounds: Any time you need anything . . .
QUENTIN—surprised, he has turned quickly to Dan, who disappears; and to the Listener, as he still stares at the empty space Dan has left: You know? It isn’t fraud, but some . . . disguise. I came to her like Dan—his goodness! No wonder I can’t find myself!
Felice appears as Maggie exits. She is about to remove the bandage, and he grasps for the concept.
And that girl the other night. When she left. It’s still not clear, but suddenly those two fixtures on my wall. He walks toward a “wall,” looking up. I didn’t do it, but I wanted to. Like—he turns and spreads his arms in crucifixion—this! In disgust, he lowers his arms. I don’t know! Because she . . . gave me something! The power to change her! As though I—cries out—felt something for her! He almost laughs. What the hell am I trying to do, love everybody?
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 62
