The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  ROSE: Was this before vacuum cleaners?

  PETERS, frowning, disturbed, he pants: Oh, God, imagine dying in the midst of a conversation about vacuum cleaners!

  LEONARD, passionately: But would it be any better talking about differential calculus? The thing is not to be afraid . . .

  ROSE, covers his hand: That’s right, dear.

  PETERS: But you’re so young—how can you know!

  LEONARD: We’re afraid.

  PETERS: Oh, good, then we can talk without my risking your disdain—yes, we did have a vacuum cleaner; but it screamed like a coal truck and it frightened the Polish girls. Actually, though, I think it was virtue that made people go lugging those carpets up to the roof. Discomfort was righteous in America; when Teddy Roosevelt went sweating through the jungle hunting tigers he wore a tie; Woodrow Wilson, Warren Harding, Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover—those men went fishing in the same itchy dark suits they wore at their inaugurations; they waded into wild rivers wearing cuff links, stiff collars, and black high-topped shoes. The President of the United States was above all morally righteous, you see, rather than just entertaining. Even after President Harding was exposed as the father of an illegitimate daughter he continued to take precisely the same virtuous photographs. And Grover Cleveland likewise. And for that matter, George Washington was in and out of so many beds they finally called him the father of his country. But no one ever questioned his dignity, you see. Or his virtue. And he was never exhausted. I can’t remember my point.

  ROSE: I definitely think something very tiring is in the air now.

  LEONARD: It’s lead. All turn to him. It’s a proven fact, there’s more lead than ever in the air.

  PETERS: But we seem to be living longer than ever.

  LEONARD: But in a poisoned condition.

  ROSE: Like you being so sleepy. You might live to a hundred, but half asleep.

  LEONARD: You know?—I just realized—I’ve been getting up later and later in the mornings.

  ROSE: Maybe you’re just a teeny bit depressed, Leonard. She kisses his cheek lightly.

  ADELE: Depression’ll do it every time.

  LEONARD: Like do you find you’re a little more slow-witted than you used to be?

  ADELE: You can count me in there.

  PETERS: Definitely, yes. But couldn’t it be this constant changing of the subject that’s wearing out our brains?

  LEONARD, to Rose, indicating Peters: Sounds like lead. You know the Romans used lead pipes in their water systems and also wine storage, and one emperor after another was nutty as a fruitcake.

  ROSE: And lots of subnormal children.

  LEONARD: The Teutonic tribes, on the other hand . . .

  PETERS, gripping his forehead: Would you mind not talking about the Teutonic tribes?

  LEONARD: It’s just that they drank out of lakes and clear streams . . .

  PETERS: Yes, I know, but I am much older than I look and there is just so much irrelevant information that I am able to . . .

  LEONARD: But everything is relevant! If you don’t mind my saying it, that’s what you don’t seem to understand and what is making you rather pessimistic. You are trying to pick and choose what is important, sir, like a batter waiting for a ball he can hit. But what if you have to happily swing at everything they throw at you? The fact is—those Germanic tribes were drinking fresh water and came down and just wiped out the Roman Empire! Which was drinking wine loaded with lead! I think that’s kind of relevant, isn’t it? Incidentally, we never picked up the laundry. Or maybe wait till tomorrow?

  ROSE: There’s still time. Where’d he say that powder room was?

  PETERS: That way, I believe, in the back.

  Rose exits.

  LEONARD, calling after her: Maybe I should try to pick it up now? To Peters. I just hate leaving laundry overnight. On the other hand, I’ve never lost any. Although I did get a wrong shirt once. Getting up to leave. Maybe tell her I left, would you? —Well, never mind, I’ll wait. Sits again. Except one of those shirts belongs to my brother, it’s very expensive. I’d better go. Stands. . . . Well, I’ll wait, to hell with it, he’s got fifty shirts. Sits. Pause.

  PETERS: You may have read the Babylonian myth explaining why there are so many different languages in the world?

  LEONARD: No.

  PETERS: God was extremely annoyed by the racket in the streets, so he invented all the different languages to keep people from talking to each other so much.

  LEONARD: That’s pretty funny.

  PETERS: Are you in business?

  LEONARD: No, I’m a composer. And investor.

  ADELE: You may as well ask why I started drinking.

  PETERS, a bare glance at Adele: Then what are you doing here?

  LEONARD: My friend had to urinate.

  PETERS: Of course! —My God, I think I’m just swinging at random from limb to limb.

  LEONARD: Are you in business?

  PETERS: No, I flew for Pan Am for many years, then some lecturing at Princeton till I retired.

  LEONARD: May I ask your subject?

  PETERS: Oh, mysterious things—like the suicidal impulse in large corporations. Are you a college man?

  LEONARD: Harvard, yes.

  PETERS: Well, that’s not a bad school. Incidentally, are you asleep? I only ask because it just occurs to me that I may be awake. Chuckles. . . . Horrible as that would be. But that’s impossible, isn’t it—a person awake can’t talk to one who’s asleep. You are, aren’t you—asleep? . . . But that’s not right either, is it; two sleeping people can’t converse can they. Chuckles. You can’t share sleep, can you. Any more than death, right? So . . . I’m asleep. But you—what’s your . . . you know . . . situation? What bothers me is that—look at these shoes; they’re obviously brand-new, right? Leonard looks at them. So all this must be happening, right? I didn’t produce these shoes out of thin air, correct? Look at the soles . . . not even soiled. Leonard looks at soles, but almost de-animatedly, totally uninterested. And I couldn’t have bought them in my sleep, could I. You walk into a store with your eyes closed they’re not going to let you walk out with a new pair of shoes. . . . What’s begun to haunt me is that next to nothing I have believed has turned out to be true. Breaks off in a surge of fear. IF SHE DOESN’T COME, DOES IT MEAN I CAN’T LEAVE?! WHERE IS MY POOR GOD-DAMNED WIFE!

  He is on the verge of weeping. The piano plays loud and fast, for a moment, “If You Knew Suzie” and stops.

  LEONARD: Is she ill?

  PETERS: We are both ill; we are sick of each other. Shouts: Her imagination is destroying me! Moment. We’re happy. Takes a few deep breaths. —I’m much obliged to you for listening. Are you Jewish?

  LEONARD: Yes.

  PETERS: I thought so; Jews and Italians are happy to allow a person to mourn.

  ADELE: Yes, we cry them into the grave.

  PETERS: Tell me . . . this Calvin guy here . . . the owner or manager or whatever he is . . . Did you notice anything odd about his eyes?

  LEONARD: His eyes? A moment; thinks. Say now . . . yes. It’s almost like . . . I can’t describe it, almost like there’s nothing in his eye sockets. No!—it’s that his eyes . . . can it be they have no color? Peters stares, silent. Is that what you mean? Peters says nothing. What is it, some disease?

  PETERS, motionless: He’s my brother.

  LEONARD: Your brother! Did you know he was here?

  PETERS: Oh no, no, it just came to me. Pause. He’s dead. Leonard astonished. Drowned almost twenty years ago.

  LEONARD: You mean he’s like your brother.

  PETERS, shakes his head: No. Leonard is silent, terrified. His eyes . . . they’re almost translucent, like jellyfish; the sea in winter; the insides of oyster shells . . .

  LEONARD: Well, I . . . I don’t know what to say . . . Does he know you’re his brothe
r?

  PETERS: I’m not sure. It’s hard to know how much the dead remember, isn’t it . . . But that’s not quite right . . . Stares in silence, smiles now.

  LEONARD: I understand.

  PETERS: . . . You see, he was always a great kidder and practical joker. Once he was driving us down the Rocky Mountains and pretended the brakes had failed. Darn near a hundred miles an hour and heading straight for the rail when he pretended the brakes came back. A cruel streak, but full of life.

  LEONARD: You mean he pretended to drown, as a joke?

  PETERS: I’m wondering that. He was capable of anything. But that can’t be right, we were all at his funeral. —I’m wondering if my wife got lost. Could you be a good fellow and take a look outside? She’s very short . . . although you might not agree . . .

  LEONARD, gets up: What’s her name?

  PETERS: Her name? Touches his head. I’m so embarrassed.

  LEONARD: Well it doesn’t matter . . .

  PETERS: Oh it does, it does! —What I do in these circumstances is start with A and go down the alphabet. Anna, Annabella, Augusta, Bernice, Beatrice . . .

  LEONARD: Well what’s your name . . . just so I can approach her. Peters stares in deepening anxiety. It’s all right, I’ll just look for a short woman . . .

  PETERS: It’s not all right! Suddenly. Charlotte! Charlotte Peters! —My God this is terrible.

  LEONARD: No-no, maybe I shouldn’t have asked . . .

  PETERS: This is the worst I’ve had. It’s not Alzheimer’s, I’ve been examined . . . I wonder if it’s just a case of not wanting to be around anymore.

  LEONARD: I’d look into lead.

  PETERS: Oh, my boy, I wish it were lead, but in the end I’m afraid one arrives at a sort of terminal indifference, and there is more suspense in the bowel movement than a presidential election.

  LEONARD: But I often forget things . . . In fact, as a child I used to wonder why we needed to remember at all. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we got up in the morning and everyone was a complete stranger?

  PETERS: Are your parents divorced?

  LEONARD: Yes, that’s where I got the idea. Do you think things are worse than years ago? —Although I’m glad there’s penicillin.

  PETERS: Penicillin is definitely better, yes, but things have been getting worse since Eden; it’s not lead, however.

  LEONARD: What then?

  PETERS: Washington, Jefferson . . . most of the founding fathers were all Deists, you know; they believed that God had wound up the world like a clock and then disappeared. We are unwinding now, the ticks are further and further apart. So instead of tick-tick-tick-tick-tick we’ve got tick—pause—tick—pause—tick. And we get bored between ticks, and boredom is a form of dying, and dying, needless to say, takes an awful lot out of a person.

  LEONARD: But so many things are happening.

  PETERS: But not the main thing. The main thing is emphatically not happening at all and probably never will again.

  LEONARD: And what is that?

  PETERS: Redemption.

  LEONARD: I’ve never really understood that word.

  PETERS: That’s all right, no one understands love either, but look how we long for it.

  LEONARD: Then you believe in God?

  PETERS: I’m quite sure I do, yes.

  LEONARD: What would you say God is? Or is that too definite?

  PETERS: Not at all—God is precisely what is not there when you need him. And what work of beauty have you created this week?

  LEONARD: I haven’t done much this week.

  PETERS: Well, I suppose that can happen in the creative life.

  LEONARD: I’m not having much of a creative life these days.

  PETERS: Lover trouble?

  LEONARD: As a matter of fact, I recently split up with somebody.

  PETERS: Too bad. Boy or girl?

  LEONARD: Girl.

  PETERS: Well, cheer up and pray that you run into a girl who makes you imagine you’ve forgotten the other fifty million single American women walking around loose. —Charlotte! Here I am!

  He has spotted his wife. She enters, looking all around.

  CHARLOTTE: For Christ’s sake.

  PETERS: Yes, it’s pretty awful.

  CHARLOTTE: Awful!—it’s marvelous! Look at those moldings, look at that ceiling, look at these floors. Gimme a break, this is heaven! Rose enters. And who is this lovely young pregnant woman?

  Rose looks at Charlotte and laughs.

  LEONARD: She’s not so short.

  CHARLOTTE, to Peters: What is this again?

  PETERS, covering his eyes: I’m terribly sorry, I had a vision of you as being quite . . .

  CHARLOTTE: He said I was short?

  LEONARD, to Peters: I’m awfully sorry! To Charlotte: He asked me to go out and look for you and he couldn’t think of your name, so he . . .

  CHARLOTTE, laughing angrily, to Peters: Couldn’t think of my name!

  LEONARD, tortured: Only for a minute!

  CHARLOTTE: In my opinion it’s his flying for three solid years in World War II; the Essex Class Carrier had a very short flight deck and it blew his nerves. To Peters: I’ll bet something here reminded you of the war, didn’t it.

  PETERS: . . . as a matter of fact . . . Looking around. . . . I think I said this place could use a small bomb.

  CHARLOTTE: There you go. —Where’s this Mister Calvin?

  PETERS: He said he’d be in his office if you were interested. He said you should see the powder room.

  CHARLOTTE: Gimme a break—the powder room?

  ROSE: It’s glorious. I was just in there—I’ve never been like . . . kissed by a room, or felt such good-hearted safety, or like a room was hugging me. It’s like you suddenly didn’t have to . . . like defend yourself. It’s a sort of courteous room, you know? I mean the energy I use up just keeping people from . . . bothering me, you know what I mean?

  CHARLOTTE: I know exactly what you mean, I’m a decorator.

  LEONARD: Really!—we were just thinking of calling a decorator for her apartment.

  ROSE: But it’s so tiny . . . practically a closet.

  PETERS: It doesn’t matter, if it’s vertical she’ll happily decorate it.

  CHARLOTTE: You’re not the father?

  PETERS: They’re only friends. He just brought her in here to pee.

  CHARLOTTE: He did? Well, that is one of the most encouraging things I’ve heard in I don’t know how long. —I must have a look at this powder room.

  ROSE: It’s straight that way. Watch out for the lumber on the floor.

  CHARLOTTE: I know how you feel, we have four daughters. All four are flight attendants on major airlines.

  PETERS, to Leonard: I truly wonder whether the country could be saved if people could stay on the same subject for more than twenty seconds.

  CHARLOTTE: So if you’re planning on flying anywhere let us know and one of the girls might be able to look after you. Now let’s see this famous powder room. She exits.

  ROSE: Actually, I was thinking of flying to Oregon to see a friend; maybe I could have one of your daughters’ phone numbers.

  PETERS, chuckling: I’m afraid the girls are not connected to the airlines.

  LEONARD: But didn’t she say . . . ?

  PETERS: Sometimes she is simply overwhelmed by a burst of comprehensive enthusiasm. A little like heels and skirts—one year high, next year low. Women have visions. Now, she has a vision of our four young women in those snug uniforms and cute little hats, feeding the multitudes. She’s a very emotional woman, as you know by now, and she means no harm, but she has powerful longings.

  LEONARD, to Rose: That’s really weird.

  ROSE: I don’t know. I mean here I’m carrying around this, I assume, baby which could end up not even liking me .
. .

  LEONARD: Rose, how can you say a thing like that?

  ROSE: But how many of our friends really like their parents?

  LEONARD: Parents!

  ROSE: Yes! I’m going to be a parent, Leonard.

  LEONARD: Oh, right. Stares, shaking his head in amazement. This is turning out to be a really strange day. Charlotte enters, inspired, amazed.

  CHARLOTTE: Wow. Did you see it?

  PETERS: I don’t normally go into powder rooms.

  CHARLOTTE, pointing off imperiously: Go. GO!

  PETERS: I absolutely refuse! I have no conceivable interest in . . .

  CHARLOTTE: Gimme a break, Harry, I insist you see that powder room! Now will you or won’t you!

  PETERS, rising: But I have no viewpoint toward powder rooms!

  CHARLOTTE: Well how about participating for once without a viewpoint! I mean gimme a break, Harry, be human, this place is fantastic!

  PETERS, peering into air: I simply don’t understand anything anymore. When I woke up this morning, I did not plan to shop for shoes, and I certainly did not expect to end the day inspecting a ladies’ bathroom. To Leonard: Would you mind? —I’d like another man with me.

  CHARLOTTE: Oh, Harry darling, aren’t you feeling well?

  PETERS: Let me put it this way . . . He begins to weep. Are you feeling well, Charlotte?

  CHARLOTTE: I’m feeling wonderful.

  PETERS: I’m so glad for you. To Rose. She’s everybody’s mother . . . as I’m sure you realize, and her happiness—sighs—is inexhaustible. Peters turns and goes, taking out a handkerchief as he exits.

  LEONARD, as he goes: I’m worried about my brother’s shirt.

  ROSE: Leonard please, try to have some faith, it’s only away in the laundry for the afternoon. Maybe think of it like a vacation it’s on. Leonard exits following Peters.

  CHARLOTTE: How far along?

  ROSE: Six weeks, I think.

  CHARLOTTE: Did you want it or . . . ?

  ROSE, shrugs: It wants me, I know that much.

  CHARLOTTE: You sound alone.

  ROSE: I am, I guess. He can’t quite make up his mind.

  CHARLOTTE: Men! If they were in charge of the sun it would go up and down every ten minutes. What happened!—a good man is so hard to find anymore.