Page 59 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe

“The record reflects that this witness has identified these meetings as the meetings of the Communist writers,” Arens says. “In the jurisdiction of this committee he has been requested to tell this committee who were in attendance at these meetings.”

Doing so, Miller knows, can mean careers ended and livelihoods lost. Blinking behind his glasses, Miller does what Elia Kazan would not. He defies Congress.

“I could not use the name of another person and bring trouble on him. These were writers, poets, as far as I could see, andthe 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.”

Miller confers with his lawyer before continuing, “I will tell you anything about myself, as I have.”

During a break in the testimony, reporters cajole Miller into revealing more information about his personal life than he intended.

“Mr. Miller, why did you file an application for a passport?” he’s asked.

“I wanted to go to England.”

“For what reason?”

“I want to be with the woman who is going to be my wife.”

“Marilyn Monroe?”

“That’s correct.”

He’s been busy, the playwright says, far too busy to set a wedding date with Marilyn, who’s leaving in three weeks on July 13 to shootThe Prince and the Showgirl.

“I hope to settle it all right soon,” he says, adding, “When she goes to London, she will go as Mrs. Miller.”

“Have you heard?” an emotional Marilyn telephones poet Norman Rosten. “He told the whole world he was marrying Marilyn Monroe. Me!”

The press immediately descend upon Marilyn’s apartment building in New York following Miller’s slip, dozens of reporters crowding in her face.

Marilyn is delighted but flustered, and not entirely preparedfor a press conference. She smiles widely and touches her face as the questions come thick and fast.

“How long ago did you decide to get married? Was there talk about it before the formal engagement?”

Marilyn dips her head and smiles. “Well, um … a little, maybe.”

“Miss Monroe, do you think your marriage plans are going to change your career any?”

She lifts up both hands. “Well, ah, I don’t think so, I mean, Mr. Miller is a playwright and I think he would like me to be a good actress too, as much as I would like to be.”

“When are you planning to have some children?” one of the female reporters asks.

Marilyn pauses a moment, then says, “Well, I’m not married yet, dear!” The crowd laughs appreciatively.

“Miss Monroe, this is rather a personal question, but is there anything in particular about Mr. Miller that attracted you?”

“Have you seen him?”

The crowd laughs again, unsure what to make of her answer. He’s the intellectual;she’smeant to be the beauty.

Marilyn couldn’t be more serious.I am so concerned about protecting Arthur,she writes in her journal.I love him—and he is the only person—human being I have ever known that I could love not only as a man to which I am attracted to practically out of my senses—but he is the only person—as another human being that I trust as much as myself.

Miller is granted his passport. Overnight the playwright is transformed from a leftie Communist Red to the harried lover of Hollywood’s most glamorous star.

It’s the last week of June and the press demand details about the upcoming wedding. They continue to surround Marilyn’s New York apartment, effectively imprisoning her until Miller collects her in his ancient station wagon and drives her at speed to his colonial house on Tophet Road in Roxbury, Connecticut.

Almost a decade earlier, in 1947, Miller purchased forty-four acres in Litchfield County. An accomplished carpenter, he built a writing studio on the hillock behind the house, crafted a desk from an old door, and began to write. The first act ofDeath of a Salesmanemerged during a single day, and Miller finished the play in the days and weeks that followed—later creatingThe Cruciblein this same space.

This quiet, contemplative location suits the solitary work of a writer. Or a person contemplating faith.

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