Marilyn Monroe (40 page)

With recalcitrant witnesses, Richard Arens, the HUAC counsel, was known to rant and pound. Today, apparently, was going to be quite different. The fiery Paul Robeson had insisted on interrogating the interrogator, but Miller, from the first, was calm, decorous, and respectful. He did everything to be cooperative. He was neither showy nor provocative. He seemed willing to be led through Arens’s carefully prepared list of questions. He was ready to answer all questions frankly and forth-rightly—except one.

The polite, initially bland exchanges masked the sharply adversarial nature of the encounter. Arens’s plan was slowly and methodically to lead up to
The Crucible
, first laying out in painstaking detail Miller’s long record of association with Communist and Communist-front groups and causes. By the time Arens was ready to draw him into a discussion of his anti-HUAC drama, anything Miller might have to say about the Communist witch-hunts would be invalidated, the writer’s Marxist sympathies having been indisputably established. By then, no one could doubt that
The Crucible
, far from being a serious, objective political statement, had been Communist-inspired and served Communist ends; it would come as no surprise that
The Crucible
had been hailed in the Communist press. That’s when Arens would order the witness to name names.

For all the meticulous planning, Arens appeared to lose control early in the testimony as he questioned Miller about his passport troubles. To Arens’s dismay, Miller started to talk at length about
The Crucible
before, not after, his Communist credentials had been established. In recounting the incident in 1954, when he had been denied a passport to attend the Belgian premiere of
The Crucible
, Miller had a golden opportunity to talk about the play’s witch-hunt theme. He had an
opportunity to explain why the U.S. government hadn’t wanted him to go to Belgium; indeed, why HUAC was interrogating him right now. He had a chance to state, clearly and succinctly, why he was opposed to HUAC. The moment called for high drama. It called for a memorable phrase, such as Lillian Hellman’s, that, printed in tomorrow’s newspapers, would convey Miller’s message to the American public.

Instead, Miller began to talk in circles about airline schedules and other trivia. He droned on about his aborted trip. He missed his chance to seize control of the hearing before Arens had made a case against him. Arens wasted no time moving on to other matters. A succession of documents was produced, linking Miller to Communist or Communist-dominated causes. Miller pointed out that he had supported a number of things in the past which he would not do now. In the course of his testimony, Miller emphasized that his cooperation with various Communist-front organizations had been unfortunate and a mistake. He stressed his own patriotism and portrayed himself as a changed man who regretted his errors. Then he emulated the actor John Garfield, who, in his 1951 testimony, had depicted himself as a political innocent. “I know really very little about anything except my work and my field, and it seemed to me that the then prevalent, rather ceaseless, investigating of artists was creating a pall of apprehension and fear among all kinds of people.” It was an exceedingly odd position for a prominent intellectual such as Miller to take.

At length, Arens reached the topic of Miller’s passport application—presumably why they were all here in the first place. Miller confirmed that he wanted to travel to England.

“What is the objective?” Arens asked.

“The objective is double,” said Miller. “I have a production which is in the talking stage in England of
A View from the Bridge
, and I will be there to be with the woman who will then be my wife.”

That occasioned a good deal of scribbling in the reporters’ section. Miller would have more to say on the subject a little later.

Now came the inevitable moment when Miller would be asked to name names. This was the moment he had discussed with Rauh. This was the one point at which Miller would politely refuse to cooperate. He spoke of a Marxist study course he had taken in a Brooklyn storefront in 1939 or 1940. He spoke of the Communist writers’ meetings he had
attended in 1947. He detailed his life at the time and the circumstances that had led him to attend.

“Can you tell us who was there when you walked into the room?” Arens asked pointedly.

“Mr. Chairman,” Miller addressed Francis Walter. The witness was courteous and reasonable, his demeanor in marked contrast to Paul Robeson’s obstreperousness. “I understand the philosophy behind this question and I want you to understand mine. When I say this I want you to understand that I am not protecting the Communists or the Communist Party. I am trying to and I will protect my sense of myself.”

Miller’s next words echoed those of Lillian Hellman. “I could not use the name of another person and bring trouble on him. These were writers, poets, as far as I could see, and the life of a writer, despite what it sometimes seems, is pretty tough. I wouldn’t make it any tougher for anybody. I ask you not to ask me that question. I will tell you anything about myself, as I have.”

“These were Communist Party meetings, were they not?” asked Arens.

“I will be perfectly frank with you in anything relating to my activities,” said Miller. “I will take the responsibility for everything I have ever done, but I cannot take responsibility for another human being.”

After repeatedly declining to name names, he went on to lecture the committee on his belief in democracy and his rejection of Communism. “I think it would be a disaster and a calamity if the Communist Party ever took over this country,” said Miller. “That is an opinion that has come to me not out of the blue sky but out of long thought.”

Walter noted that it was “very unfortunate” that Miller, for all his concern about political injustice, had failed to speak up for the victims of Communist tyranny.

“I think it is not only unfortunate,” said Miller. “It was a great error.”

That last phrase struck a chord. How could a witness who made such a remark be characterized as unfriendly? Walter was clearly impressed by Miller’s willingness to admit the error of his ways. Miller had publicly abased himself. Wasn’t that in large part what these hearings were about? For a moment, the chairman seemed almost to forget Miller’s refusal to name names. Walter, who had lauded Kazan at the close of his testimony, now praised Miller. Joe Rauh was euphoric.

It was 12:30 p.m. Outside the caucus room, Miller, smoking a cigarette, announced that he would marry Marilyn Monroe “within a day or two.” The ceremony would occur either in New York or Connecticut, where “I have a hideaway cabin.” Having renounced past errors, he now hoped to be issued a passport so he could accompany Marilyn to England.

What if the application was denied?

“Whether I get a passport or not,” Miller confidently declared, “we will get married. When Marilyn goes to London, she’ll go as Mrs. Arthur Miller.”

Francis Walter, in a separate encounter with reporters, called Arthur Miller “a frustrated idealist.” As chairman of HUAC, he saw no need to hold Miller in contempt of Congress.

It was a sweltering day in New York. Reporters on Sutton Place South relied on an air-conditioner repairman who’d been working in Marilyn’s eighth-floor apartment to confirm that she was upstairs. Marilyn, in tight beige toreador pants, heard the news of Miller’s wedding announcement and later called Norman and Hedda Rosten in Brooklyn Heights.

“He announced it before the whole world!” Marilyn exulted. “He told the whole world he was marrying Marilyn Monroe. Me! Can you believe it?”

The Rostens, for their part, wondered whether Arthur wasn’t simply using Marilyn “to get off the hook.” But to voice their suspicions would have hurt Marilyn very much, and they certainly did not want to do that.

“You’ve got to come down right away, both of you,” Marilyn implored. “I need moral support. I mean, help! I’m surrounded here, locked in my apartment. There are newspapermen trying to get in, crawling all over the place, in the foyer, in the halls. I told the elevator men to let you through.”

Unknown to Marilyn, Norman Rosten’s name had come up at the hearing. Unlike Kazan, he had not renounced his Communist past, and their continuing friendship had been cited by Arens in his attempt to discredit Miller. She had no idea of the danger of parading him in front of reporters just now.

After the hearing, Miller called to say he was done and would tell
her everything when he returned. He planned to take a train to New York late Thursday night. When the phone rang soon afterward, Marilyn may have assumed it was Arthur again. Instead, to her horror, it was Hedda Hopper calling from Los Angeles.

Hopper was the first reporter to get through on Marilyn’s private line. Marilyn could not afford to alienate the powerful journalist, but she didn’t want to say anything that could hurt Miller either. Hopper was an aggressive interviewer who wouldn’t stop until she had what she needed. Marilyn, caught off guard, was desperate to collect her thoughts.

Hopper asked how Marilyn was.

“I … well … I am … you know … I’m very happy about my forthcoming marriage. I’m marrying between now and July 13. I don’t know where and I don’t know the exact date. We’ve been making plans. But nothing definite about the time or the place.”

“Will Arthur go to England with you?”

“Well, I hope he is able to.”

“He is in Washington today, isn’t he? Why didn’t you go with him?”

“He said he’d rather have me stay here.”

“Have you heard from him since he was on the stand? How did he say it went?”

“He said that he had finished for now and would tell me about it when he got back.”

“Is he en route to New York?”

“I’m not sure what time he’ll leave. I know he has other business to take care of in Washington.”

Marilyn feared saying the wrong thing about Miller and HUAC. Anything Marilyn said might find its way into Hedda’s next column. Hopper was out for a scoop. A fervent anti-Communist, she was known to castigate those who failed to cooperate with HUAC and laud those who did. Hopper was quite capable of devoting a column to a diatribe against Miller. Now was Marilyn’s chance to prevent that from happening; she didn’t want to botch the opportunity.

“I have to go now,” Marilyn lied. “I’ll call back. I have a call from London coming through. I promise I’ll call back.”

Marilyn hung up.

By the time Marilyn called back a few minutes later, she had an absolutely brilliant strategy.

“Sorry we were interrupted,” said Marilyn.

“Was it London calling?” Hopper demanded. “What did they want?”

“No, I was speaking to Mr. Spyros Skouras. He would like to know if we would like to be married in his home.”

Of course, it wasn’t true. Skouras had made his feelings perfectly clear the other night. But in saying that Skouras had called immediately after the hearing, Marilyn implied that she and Arthur had his support. It was as if Twentieth’s president wanted to shore Marilyn up on this most difficult of days; it was as if he wanted to show that the studio was behind Miller all the way. Why else would he have offered his home for the wedding? The Old Greek was a Hollywood power player, his every gesture carefully monitored, deciphered, and interpreted. At once, Marilyn had changed the subject from HUAC and subtly conveyed the position Hopper ought to take on Miller’s testimony. The message was clear: The studio is going to back Arthur; this is where the power lies; you’d better support him, too.

It was a nervy move. Marilyn had not said in so many words that Skouras approved of Miller, only that he had offered his home for the wedding. Knowing Skouras as she did, she could be confident he would not deny the story; to do so would make him look bad. Marilyn also would have known that this was a scoop Hopper couldn’t turn down; almost certainly the item would run immediately. Marilyn’s priority was to protect Arthur. On the other hand, she didn’t want Hopper to emerge with pie on her face when Marilyn failed to be married chez Skouras. Marilyn knew she’d need Hopper again. So she gave them both an out.

“He said he’d be happy to have us marry in his home,” Marilyn continued. “I think it is lovely of him. I’d have to talk it over with Art.”

“Art?”

“Yes, I always call him Art.”

So, when the wedding took place elsewhere, Hopper could always attribute it to Arthur Miller’s having turned down Skouras’s invitation—a possibility Marilyn had carefully set up.

“How long have you known him?” Hopper inquired.

“First met in 1951 briefly,” Marilyn replied. “It was on a set in Hollywood. I was making
As Young As You Feel.”

“Did you go out with him at that time?”

“No, not really. Not like on a date or anything,” Marilyn explained. Then perhaps the day’s events led her to think about the great friendship that had ended in the intervening years. For a moment, Marilyn sounded wistful. “He was Feldman’s house guest and so was Gadg Kazan at the time. They were staying at the house. So that was how it was.”

Friday, June 22, started badly. Arthur had arrived from Washington late the previous night. Marilyn, who had an appointment with her psychiatrist, avoided reporters by sneaking out a service entrance. She looked bedraggled. The usual black sunglasses concealed little. Her puffy face, devoid of makeup, suggested that she hadn’t slept well or at all. Her straw-yellow hair was tangled and unwashed. Clearly, she hadn’t bathed. The city was already uncomfortably hot.