The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  He reaches in carefully and tries to snatch the bottle; she grips it.

  QUENTIN: It isn’t my love you want any more. It’s my destruction! But you’re not going to kill me, Maggie. I want those pills. I don’t want to fight you, Maggie. Now put them in my hand.

  She looks at him, then quickly tries to swallow her handful, but he knocks some of them out—although she swallows many. He grabs for the bottle, but she holds and he pulls, yanks. She goes with the force, and he drags her onto the floor, trying to pry her hands open as she flails at him and hits his face—her strength is wild and no longer her own. He grabs her wrist and squeezes it with both his fists.

  Drop them, you bitch! You won’t kill me!

  She holds on, and suddenly, clearly, he lunges for her throat and lifts her with his grip.

  You won’t kill me! You won’t kill me!

  She drops the bottle as from the farthest distance Mother rushes to the “bathroom door,” crying out—the toy sailboat in her hand.

  MOTHER: Darling, open this door! I didn’t trick you!

  Quentin springs away from Maggie, who falls back to the floor, his hands open and in air.

  Mother continues without halt.

  Quentin, why are you running water in there! She backs away in horror from the “door.” I’ll die if you do that! I saw a star when you were born—a light, a light in the world.

  He stands transfixed as Mother backs into his hand, which of its own volition begins to squeeze her throat. She sinks to the floor, gasping for breath. And he falls back in horror.

  QUENTIN: Murder?

  Maggie gets to her hands and knees, gasping. He rushes to help her, terrified by his realization. She flails out at him, and on one elbow looks up at him in a caricature of laughter, her eyes victorious and wild with fear.

  MAGGIE: Now we both know. You tried to kill me, mister. I been killed by a lot of people, some couldn’t hardly spell, but it’s the same, mister. You’re on the end of a long, long line, Frank.

  As though to ward off the accusation, he reaches again to help her up, and in absolute terror she springs away across the floor.

  Stay ’way! . . . No! No—no, Frank. Don’t you do that. Cautiously, as though facing a wild, ravening beast: Don’t you do that. . . . I’ll call Quentin if you do that. She glances off and calls quietly, but never leaving him out of her sight. Quentin! Qu—

  She falls asleep, crumpled on the floor. Now deep, strange breathing. He quickly goes to her, throws her over onto her stomach for artificial respiration, but just as he is about to start, he stands. He calls upstage.

  QUENTIN: Carrie? Carrie! Carrie enters. As though it were a final farewell: Quick! Call the ambulance! Stop wasting time! Call the ambulance!

  Carrie exits. He looks down at Maggie, addressing Listener.

  No-no, we saved her. It was just in time. Her doctor tells me she had a few good months; he even thought for a while she was making it. Unless, God knows, he fell in love with her too. He almost smiles; it is gone. He moves out on the dock. Look, I’ll say it. It’s really all I came to say. Barbiturates kill by suffocation. And the signal is a kind of sighing—the diaphragm is paralyzed. And I stood out on that dock. He looks up. And all those stars, still so fixed, so fortunate! And her precious seconds squirming in my hand, alive as bugs; and I heard. Those deep, unnatural breaths, like the footfalls of my coming peace—and knew . . . I wanted them. How is that possible? I loved that girl!

  Enter Lou, Mickey, Father, Dan, Carrie, and Felice at various points. Louise appears.

  And the name—yes, the name! In whose name do you ever turn your back—he looks out at the audience—but in your own? In Quentin’s name. Always in your own blood-covered name you turn your back!

  Holga appears on the highest level.

  HOLGA: But no one is innocent they did not kill!

  QUENTIN: But love, is love enough? What love, what wave of pity will ever reach this knowledge—I know how to kill? . . . I know, I know—she was doomed in any case, but will that cure? Or is it possible—he turns toward the tower, moves toward it as toward a terrible God—that this is not bizarre . . . to anyone? And I am not alone, and no man lives who would not rather be the sole survivor of this place than all its finest victims! What is the cure? Who can be innocent again on this mountain of skulls? I tell you what I know! My brothers died here—he looks from the tower down at the fallen Maggie—but my brothers built this place; our hearts have cut these stones! And what’s the cure? . . . No, not love; I loved them all, all! And gave them willing to failure and to death that I might live, as they gave me and gave each other, with a word, a look, a trick, a truth, a lie—and all in love!

  HOLGA: Hello!

  QUENTIN: But what will defend her? He cries up to Holga: That woman hopes!

  She stands unperturbed, resolute, aware of his pain and her own.

  Or is that—struck, to the Listener—exactly why she hopes, because she knows? What burning cities taught her and the death of love taught me: that we are very dangerous! Staring, seeing his vision: And that, that’s why I wake each morning like a boy—even now, even now! I swear to you, I could love the world again! Is the knowing all? To know, and even happily, that we meet unblessed; not in some garden of wax fruit and painted trees, that lie of Eden, but after, after the Fall, after many, many deaths. Is the knowing all? And the wish to kill is never killed, but with some gift of courage one may look into its face when it appears, and with a stroke of love—as to an idiot in the house—forgive it; again and again . . . forever?

  He is evidently interrupted by the Listener.

  No, it’s not certainty, I don’t feel that. But it does seem feasible . . . not to be afraid. Perhaps it’s all one has. I’ll tell her that. . . . Yes, she will, she’ll know what I mean.

  He turns upstage. He hesitates; all his people face him. He walks toward Louise, pausing; but she turns her face away. He goes on and pauses beside Mother, who stands in uncomprehending sorrow; he gestures as though he touched her, and she looks up at him and dares a smile, and he smiles back. He pauses at his dejected Father and Dan, and with a slight gesture magically makes them stand. Felice is about to raise her hand in blessing—he shakes her hand, aborting her enslavement. He passes Mickey and Lou and turns back to Maggie; she rises from the floor, webbed in with her demons, trying to awake. And with his life following him he climbs toward Holga, who raises her arm as though seeing him, and with great love . . .

  HOLGA: Hello!

  He comes to a halt a few yards from her and walks toward her, holding out his hand.

  QUENTIN: Hello.

  He moves away with her as a loud whispering comes up from all his people, who follow behind, endlessly alive. Darkness takes them all.

  INCIDENT AT VICHY

  A PLAY

  1964

  Characters

  LEBEAU, a painter

  BAYARD, an electrician

  MARCHAND, a businessman

  POLICE GUARD

  MONCEAU, an actor

  GYPSY

  WAITER

  BOY

  MAJOR

  FIRST DETECTIVE

  OLD JEW

  SECOND DETECTIVE

  LEDUC, a doctor

  POLICE CAPTAIN

  VON BERG, a prince

  PROFESSOR HOFFMAN

  FERRAND, a café proprietor

  FOUR PRISONERS

  Vichy, France, 1942. A place of detention.

  At the right a corridor leads to a turning and an unseen door to the street. Across the back is a structure with two grimy window panes in it—perhaps an office, in any case a private room with a door opening from it at the left.

  A long bench stands in front of this room, facing a large empty area whose former use is unclear but which suggests a warehouse, perhaps, an armory, or part of a railroad st
ation not used by the public. Two small boxes stand apart on either side of the bench.

  When light begins to rise, six men and a boy of fifteen are discovered on the bench in attitudes expressive of their personalities and functions, frozen there like members of a small orchestra at the moment before they begin to play.

  As normal light comes on, their positions flow out of the frieze. It appears that they do not know one another and are sitting like people thrown together in a public place, mutually curious but self-occupied. However, they are anxious and frightened and tend to make themselves small and unobtrusive. Only one, Marchand, a fairly well-dressed businessman, keeps glancing at his watch and bits of paper and calling cards he keeps in his pockets, and seems normally impatient.

  Now, out of hunger and great anxiety, Lebeau, a bearded, unkempt man of twenty-five, lets out a dramatized blow of air and leans forward to rest his head on his hands. Others glance at him, then away. He is charged with the energy of fear, and it makes him seem aggressive.

  LEBEAU: Cup of coffee would be nice. Even a sip.

  No one responds. He turns to Bayard beside him; Bayard is his age, poorly but cleanly dressed, with a certain muscular austerity in his manner. Lebeau speaks in a private undertone.

  You wouldn’t have any idea what’s going on, would you?

  BAYARD, shaking his head: I was walking down the street.

  LEBEAU: Me too. Something told me—Don’t go outside today. So I went out. Weeks go by and I don’t open my door. Today I go out. And I had no reason, I wasn’t even going anywhere. Looks left and right to the others. To Bayard: They get picked up the same way?

  BAYARD—shrugs: I’ve only been here a couple of minutes myself—just before they brought you in.

  LEBEAU—looks to the others: Does anybody know anything?

  They shrug and shake their heads. Lebeau looks at the walls, the room; then he speaks to Bayard.

  This isn’t a police station, is it?

  BAYARD: Doesn’t seem so. There’s always a desk. It’s just some building they’re using, I guess.

  LEBEAU, glancing about uneasily, curiously: It’s painted like a police station, though. There must be an international police paint, they’re always the same color everywhere. Like dead clams, and a little yellow mixed in.

  Pause. He glances at the other silent men, and tries to silence himself, like them. But it’s impossible, and he speaks to Bayard with a nervous smile.

  You begin wishing you’d committed a crime, you know? Something definite.

  BAYARD—he is not amused, but not unsympathetic: Try to take it easy. It’s no good getting excited. We’ll find out soon.

  LEBEAU: It’s just that I haven’t eaten since three o’clock yesterday afternoon. Everything gets more vivid when you’re hungry—you ever notice that?

  BAYARD: I’d give you something, but I forgot my lunch this morning. Matter of fact, I was just turning back to get it when they came up alongside me. Whyn’t you try to sit back and relax?

  LEBEAU: I’m nervous. . . . I mean I’m nervous anyway. With a faint, frightened laugh: I was even nervous before the war.

  His little smile vanishes. He shifts in his seat. The others wait with subdued anxiety. He notices the good clothes and secure manner of Marchand, who is at the head of the line, nearest the door. He leans forward to attract him.

  Excuse me.

  Marchand does not turn to him. He gives a short, sharp, low whistle. Marchand, already offended, turns slowly to him.

  Is that the way they picked you up? On the street?

  Marchand turns forward again without answering.

  Sir?

  Marchand still does not turn back to him.

  Well, Jesus, pardon me for living.

  MARCHAND: It’s perfectly obvious they’re making a routine identity check.

  LEBEAU: Oh.

  MARCHAND: With so many strangers pouring into Vichy this past year there’re probably a lot of spies and God knows what. It’s just a document check, that’s all.

  LEBEAU—turns to Bayard, hopefully: You think so?

  BAYARD—shrugs; obviously he feels there is something more to it: I don’t know.

  MARCHAND, to Bayard: Why? There are thousands of people running around with false papers, we all know that. You can’t permit such things in wartime.

  The others glance uneasily at Marchand, whose sense of security is thereby confined to him alone.

  Especially now with the Germans starting to take over down here you have to expect things to be more strict, it’s inevitable.

  A pause. Lebeau once again turns to him.

  LEBEAU: You don’t get any . . . special flavor, huh?

  MARCHAND: What flavor?

  LEBEAU, glancing at the others: Well like . . . some racial . . . implication?

  MARCHAND: I don’t see anything to fear if your papers are all right. He turns front, concluding the conversation.

  Again silence. But Lebeau can’t contain his anxiety. He studies Bayard’s profile, then turns to the man on his other side and studies his. Then, turning back to Bayard, he speaks quietly.

  LEBEAU: Listen, you are . . . Peruvian, aren’t you?

  BAYARD: What’s the matter with you, asking questions like that in here? He turns forward.

  LEBEAU: What am I supposed to do, sit here like a dumb beast?

  BAYARD, laying a calming hand on his knee: Friend, it’s no good getting hysterical.

  LEBEAU: I think we’ve had it. I think all the Peruvians have had it in Vichy. Suppressing a shout: In 1939 I had an American visa. Before the invasion. I actually had it in my hand. . . .

  BAYARD: Calm down—this may all be routine.

  Slight pause. Then . . .

  LEBEAU: Listen . . .

  He leans in and whispers into Bayard’s ear. Bayard glances toward Marchand, then shrugs to Lebeau.

  BAYARD: I don’t know, maybe; maybe he’s not.

  LEBEAU, desperately attempting familiarity: What about you?

  BAYARD: Will you stop asking idiotic questions? You’re making yourself ridiculous.

  LEBEAU: But I am ridiculous, aren’t you? In 1939 we were packed for America. Suddenly my mother wouldn’t leave the furniture. I’m here because of a brass bed and some fourth-rate crockery. And a stubborn, ignorant woman.

  BAYARD: Yes, but it’s not all that simple. You should try to think of why things happen. It helps to know the meaning of one’s suffering.

  LEBEAU: What meaning? If my mother—

  BAYARD: It’s not your mother. The monopolies got control of Germany. Big business is out to make slaves of everyone, that’s why you’re here.

  LEBEAU: Well I’m not a philosopher, but I know my mother, and that’s why I’m here. You’re like people who look at my paintings—“What does this mean, what does that mean?” Look at it, don’t ask what it means; you’re not God, you can’t tell what anything means. I’m walking down the street before, a car pulls up beside me, a man gets out and measures my nose, my ears, my mouth, the next thing I’m sitting in a police station—or whatever the hell this is here—and in the middle of Europe, the highest peak of civilization! And you know what it means? After the Romans and the Greeks and the Renaissance, and you know what this means?

  BAYARD: You’re talking utter confusion.

  LEBEAU, in terror: Because I’m utterly confused! He suddenly springs up and shouts: Goddammit, I want some coffee!

  The Police Guard appears at the end of the corridor, a revolver on his hip; he strolls down the corridor and meets Lebeau, who has come halfway up. Lebeau halts, returns to his place on the bench, and sits. The Guard starts to turn to go up the corridor when Marchand raises his hand.

  MARCHAND: Excuse me, officer, is there a telephone one can use? I have an appointment at eleven o’clock and it’s quite . . .
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br />   The Guard simply walks up the corridor, turns the corner, and disappears. Lebeau looks toward Marchand and shakes his head, laughing silently.

  LEBEAU, to Bayard, sotto: Isn’t it wonderful? The man is probably on his way to work in a German coal mine and he’s worried about breaking an appointment. And people want realistic painting, you see what I mean? Slight pause. Did they measure your nose? Could you at least tell me that?

  BAYARD: No, they just stopped me and asked for my papers. I showed them and they took me in.

  MONCEAU, leaning forward to address Marchand: I agree with you, sir.

  Marchand turns to him. Monceau is a bright-eyed, cheerful man of twenty-eight. His clothes were elegant, now frayed. He holds a gray felt hat on his knee, his posture rather elegant.

  Vichy must be full of counterfeit papers. I think as soon as they start, it shouldn’t take long. To Lebeau: Try to settle down.

  LEBEAU, to Monceau: Did they measure your nose?

  MONCEAU, disapprovingly: I think it’d be best if we all kept quiet.

  LEBEAU: What is it, my clothes? How do you know, I might be the greatest painter in France.

  MONCEAU: For your sake, I hope you are.

  LEBEAU: What a crew! I mean the animosity!

  Pause.

  MARCHAND, leaning forward to see Monceau: You would think, though, that with the manpower shortage they’d economize on personnel. In the car that stopped me there was a driver, two French detectives, and a German official of some kind. They could easily have put a notice in the paper—everyone would have come here to present his documents. This way it’s a whole morning wasted. Aside from the embarrassment.

  LEBEAU: I’m not embarrassed, I’m scared to death. To Bayard: You embarrassed?

  BAYARD: Look, if you can’t be serious just leave me alone.

  Pause. Lebeau leans forward to see the man sitting on the far side of Marchand. He points.