Death of A Salesman-SCRIPT

DEATH OF A SALESMAN( (1949) Arthur Miller (1915- ) Arthur Miller was born in the Harlem district of New York. His father was a Jewish clothing manufacturer who was to lose all his business in 1929 during the Depression. In the same year the family moved to a small house in Brooklyn. After leaving high school, Miller started a series of jobs—as a truck driver, a crewman on a tanker, as a waiter and in an auto-parts warehouse at a wage of 15 dollars a week, from which he saved money for college. In 1938 he graduated from the University of Michigan as a journalism major. He won several prizes for drama when he was a student in the University. Six years later he had his first Broadway production The Man Who Had All the Luck, but closed after four days. By the time his first commercial success, All My Sons (1947) was produced, he had already written eight or nine plays. In 1949 he won a Pulitzer prize with Death of a Salesman and achieved an international reputation. Among his further works are an adaptation of Ibsen’s Enemy of the People and The Crucible, both containing political implications, the latter of which is actually a thinly veiled in​dictment of the fanatic McCarthyism in the US in the early 1950’s, After the Fall, Incident at Vichy, and The Price. He has also published a number of books of non-fiction accompanied by his wife Inge Morath’s photographs: In Russia, In the Country, Chinese Encounters and Salesman in Beijing, the last of which was based on his experience in rehearsing Death of a Salesman with Beijing People’s Art Theater in 1983. Of the American dramatists emergent since the end of the World War II, only Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller have been awarded respectful attention through​out the world. Critics early linked Miller with the Ibsenite “problem play,” just like they did Williams with the Chekhovian “mood play,” but each of the two playwrights has subsequently achieved a versatility which calls such generalization into question. Steeped in the masterworks of world drama and working in a thea​ter that accommodates both realism and expressionism, each knows he must find for himself the organic fusion of form and content effective for getting across his own responses to American life. Arthur Miller’s latest works include: The Last Yankee (1991), The Ride Down Mt. Morgan (1991) The American Clock (1993) and Broken Glass (1994). CHARACTERS Willy Loman Linda Biff　　　　　　 Happy　　　　　 Bernard　　　　　 The Woman Letta Charley Uncle Ben Howard Wagner Jenny Stanley Miss Forsythe Waiter Scene 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 be​hind 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 centre seems actual enough, for there is a kitchen table with three chairs and a refrigerator. But no other fix​tures 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 pre​sent barely visible. Two beds are dimly seen, and at the back of the room a dormer win​dow. (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 ca​ses . 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, feeling 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 deve​loped an iron repression of her exceptions to WILLY’S behaviour —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. Linda : Maybe it’s your glasses. You never went for your new glasses. Willy: No, I see everything. I came back ten miles an hour. It took me nearly four hours from Yonkers. Linda [resigned]: Well, you’ll just have to take a rest, Willy, you can’t continue this way. Willy: I just got back from Florida . Linda : But you didn’t rest your mind. Your mind is overactive, and the mind is what counts, dear. Willy: I’ll start out in the morning. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. [She is taking off his shoes.] These goddam arch supports are killing me. Linda : Take an aspirin. Should I get you an aspirin? It’ll soothe you. Willy [with wonder]: I was driving along, you understand? And I was fine. I was even observing the scenery. You can imagine, me looking at scenery, on the road every week of my life. But it’s so beautiful up there, Linda, the trees are so thick, and the sun is warm. I opened the windshield and just let the warm air bathe over me. And then all of a sudden I’m going’ off the road! I’m tellin’ ya, I absolutely forgot I was driving. If I’d’ve gone the other way over the white line I might’ve killed somebody. So I went on again — and five minutes later I’m dreamin’ again, and I nearly — [He presses two fingers against his eyes.] I have such thoughts, I have such strange thoughts. Linda : Willy, dear. Talk to them again. There’s no reason why you can’t work in New York. Willy: They don’t need me in New York. I’m the New England man. I’m vital in New England. Linda : But you’re sixty years old. They can’t expect you to keep travelling every week. Willy: I’ll have to send a wire to Portland. I’m supposed to see Brown and Morrison tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to show the line . Goddammit , I could sell them! [He starts putting on his jacket.] Linda [taking the jacket from him]: Why don’t you go down to the place tomorrow and tell Howard you’ve simply got to work in New York? You’re too accommodating, dear. Willy: If old man Wagner was alive I’da been in charge of New York now! That man was a prince, he was a masterful man. But that boy of his, that Howard, he don’t appreciate. When I went north the first time, the Wagner Company didn’t know where New England was! Linda : Why don’t you tell those things to Howard, dear? Willy [encouraged]: I will, I definitely will. Is there any cheese? Linda : I’ll make you a sandwich. Willy: No, go to sleep. I’ll take some milk. I’ll be up right away. The boys in? Linda : They’re sleeping. Happy took Biff on a date tonight. Willy [interested]: That so? Linda : It was so nice to see them shaving together, one behind the other, in the bathroom. And going out together. You notice? The whole house smells of shaving lotion. Willy: Figure it out. Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You finally own it, and there’s nobody to live in it. Linda : Well, dear, life is a casting off. It’s always that way. Willy: No, no, some people — some people accomplish something. Did Biff say anything after I went this morning? Linda : You shouldn’t have criticized him, Willy, especially after he just got off the train. You mustn’t lose your temper with him. Willy: When the hell did I lose my temper? I simply asked him if he was making any money. Is that a criticism? Linda : But, dear, how could he make any money? Willy [worried and angered]: There’s such an undercurrent in him. He became a moody man. Did he apologize when I left this morning? Linda : He was crestfallen, Willy. You know how he admires you. I think if he finds him​self, then you'll both be happier and not fight any more. Willy: How can he find himself on a farm? Is that a life? A farmhand? In the beginning, when he was young, I thought, well, a young man, it’s good for him to tramp around, take a lot of different jobs. But it’s more than ten years now and he has yet to make thirty-five dollars a week! Linda : He’s finding himself, Willy. Willy: Not finding yourself at the age of thirty-four is a disgrace! Linda : Shh! Willy: The trouble is he’s lazy, goddammit! Linda : Willy, please! Willy: Biff is a lazy bum! Linda : They’re sleeping. Get something to eat. Go on down. Willy: Why did he come home? I would like to know what brought him home. Linda : I don’t know. I think he’s still lost, Willy. I think he’s very lost. Willy: Biff Loman is lost. In the greatest country in the world a young man with such —personal attractiveness, gets lost. And such a hard worker. There’s one thing about Biff — he’s not lazy. Linda : Never. Willy [with pity and resolve]: I’ll see him in the morning; I’ll have a nice talk with him. I’ll get him a job selling. He could be big in no time. My God! Remember how they used to follow him around in high school? When he smiled at one of them their faces lit up. When he walked down the street... [He loses himself in reminiscences.] Linda [trying to bring him out of it]: Willy, dear, I got a new kind of American-type cheese today. It’s whipped. Willy: Why do you get American when I like Swiss? Linda : I just thought you’d like a change — Willy: I don’t want a change! I want Swiss cheese. Why am I always being contradicted? Linda : [with a covering laugh]: I thought it would be a surprise. Willy: Why don’t you open a window in here, for God’s sake? Linda [with infinite patience]: They’re all open, dear. Willy: The way they boxed us in here. Bricks and windows, windows and bricks. Linda : We should’ve bought the land next door. Willy: The street is lined with cars. There’s not a breath of fresh air in the neighbourhood. The grass don’t grow any more, you can’t raise a carrot in the backyard. They should’ve had a law against apartment houses. Remember those two beautiful elm trees out there? When I and Biff hung the swing between them? Linda : Yeah, like being a million miles from the city. Willy: They should’ve arrested the builder for cutting those down. They massacred the neighbourhood. [Lost] More and more I think of those days, Linda. This time of year it was lilac and wistaria. And then the peonies would come out, and the daffodils. What a frag​rance in this room! Linda : Well, after all, people had to move somewhere. Willy: No, there’s more people now. Linda : I don’t think there’s more people, I think — Willy: There’s more people! That’s what’s ruining this country! Population is getting out of control. The competition is maddening! Smell the stink from that apartment house! And another one on the other side... How can they whip cheese? [On WILLY’S last line, BIFF and HAPPY raise themselves up in their beds, listen​ing.] Linda : Go down, try it. And be quiet. Willy [turning to LINDA, guiltily]: You’re not worried about me, are you, sweetheart? Biff: What’s the matter? Happy: Listen! Linda : You’ve got too much on the ball to worry about. Willy: You’re my foundation and my support, Linda. Linda : Just try to relax, dear. You make mountains out of molehills. Willy: I won’t fight with him any more. If he wants to go back to Texas, let him go. Linda : He’ll find his way. Willy: Sure. Certain men just don’t get started till later in life. Like Thomas Edison, I think. Or B. F. Goodrich. One of them was deaf. [He starts for the bedroom doorway.] I’ll put my money on Biff. Linda : And Willy — if it’s warm Sunday we’ll drive in the country. And we’ll open the windshield, and take lunch. Willy: No, the windshields don’t open on the new cars. Linda : But you opened it today. Willy: Me? I didn’t. [He stops.] Now isn’t that peculiar! Isn’t that a remarkable — [He breaks off in amazement and fright as the flute is heard distantly.] Linda : What, darling? Willy: That is the most remarkable thing. Linda : What, dear? Willy: I was thinking of the Chevvy. [Slight pause.] Nineteen twenty-eight … when I had that red Chevvy — [Breaks off.] That funny? I coulda sworn I was driving that Chevvy today. Linda : Well, that’s nothing. Something must’ve reminded you. Willy: Remarkable. Ts. Remember those days? The way Biff used to simonize that car? The dealer refused to believe there was eighty thousand miles on it. [He shakes his head.] Heh! [To LINDA] Close your eyes, I’ll be right up. [He walks out of the bedroom.] Happy [to BIFF]: Jesus, maybe he smashed up the car again! Linda [calling after WILLY]: Be careful on the stairs, dear! The cheese is on the middle shelf! [She turns, goes over to the bed, takes his jacket, and goes out of the bedroom.] [Light has risen on the boys’ room. Unseen, WILLY is heard talking to himself, ‘Eighty thousand miles,’ and a little laugh. BIFF gets out of bed, comes downstage a bit, and stands attentively. BIFF is two years older than his brother HAPPY, well built, but in these days bears a worn air and seems less self-assured. He has succeeded less, and his dreams are stronger and less acceptable than HAPPY’S. HAPPY is tall, powerfully made. Sexuality is like a visible colour on him, or a scent that many women have discovered. He, like his brother, is lost, but in a different way, for he has never allowed himself to turn his face toward defeat and is thus more confused and hard-skin​ned, although seemingly more content.] Happy [getting out of bed]: He’s going to get his licence taken away if he keeps that up. I’m getting nervous about him, y’know, Biff? Biff: His eyes are going. Happy: No, I’ve driven with him. He sees all right. He just doesn’t keep his mind on it. I drove into the city with him last week. He stops at a green light and then it turns red and he goes. [He laughs.] Biff: Maybe he’s colour-blind. Happy: Pop? Why, he’s got the finest eye for colour in the business. You know that. Biff [sitting down on his bed]: I’m going to sleep. Happy: You’re not still sour on Dad, are you, Biff? Biff: He’s all right, I guess. Willy [underneath them, in the living-room]: Yes, sir, eighty thousand miles—eighty-two thousand! Biff: You smoking? Happy [holding out a pack of cigarettes]: Want one? Biff [taking a cigarette]: I can never sleep when I smell it. Willy: What a simonizing job, heh! Happy [with deep sentiment]: Funny, Biff, y’know? Us sleeping in here again? The old beds. [He pats his bed affectionately.] All the talk that went across those two beds, huh? Our whole lives. Biff: Yeah. Lotta dreams and plans. Happy [with a deep and masculine laugh]: About five hundred women would like to know what was said in this room. [They share a soft laugh.] Biff: Remember that big Betsy something—what the hell was her name—over on Bushwick Avenue? Happy [combing his hair]: With the collie dog! Biff: That’s the one. I got you in there, remember? Happy: Yeah, that was my first time—I think. Boy, there was a pig! [They laugh, almost crudely.] You taught me everything I know about women. Don’t forget that. Biff: I bet you forgot how bashful you used to be. Especially with girls. Happy: Oh, I still am, Biff. Biff: Oh, go on. Happy: I just control it, that’s all. I think I got less bashful and you got more so. What happened, Biff? Where’s the old humour, the old confidence? [He shakes BIFF’s knee. BIFF gets up and moves restlessly about the room.] What’s the matter? Biff: Why does Dad mock me all the time? Happy: He’s not mocking you, he— Biff: Everything I say there’s a twist of mockery on his face. I can’t get near him. Happy: He just wants you to make good, that’s all. I wanted to talk to you about Dad for a long time, Biff. Something’s—happening to him. He—talks to himself. Biff: I noticed that this morning. But he always mumbled. Happy: But not so noticeable. It got so embarrassing I sent him to Florida. And you know something? Most of the time he’s talking to you. Biff: What’s he say about me? Happy: I can’t make it out. Biff: What’s he say about me? Happy: I think the fact that you’re not settled, that you’re still kind of up in the air... Biff: There’s one or two other things depressing him, Happy. Happy: What do you mean? Biff: Never mind. Just don’t lay it all to me. Happy: But I think if you got started — I mean — is there any future for you out there? Biff: I tell ya, Hap, I don’t know what the future is. I don’t know —what I’m supposed to want. Happy: What do you mean? Biff: Well, I spent six or seven years after high school trying to work myself up. Shipping clerk, salesman, business of one kind or another. And it’s a measly manner of existence. To get on that subway on the hot mornings in summer. To devote your whole life to keeping stock, or making phone calls, or selling or buying. To suffer fifty weeks of the year for the sake of a two-week vacation, when all you really desire is to be outdoors, with your shirt off. And always to have to get ahead of the next fella. And still—that’s how you build a future. Happy: Well, you really enjoy it on a farm? Are you content out there? Biff [with rising agitation]: Hap, I’ve had twenty or thirty different kinds of job since I left home before the war, and it always turns out the same. I just realized it lately. In Nebraska when I herded cattle, and the Dakotas, and Arizona, and now in Texas. It’s why I came home now, I guess, because I realized it. This farm I wor