ACT ONE
A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine, tell-
ing of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain rises.
Before us is the Salesman’s house. We are aware of towering,
angular shapes behind it, surrounding it on all sides. Only the
blue light of the sky falls upon the house and forestage; the sur-
rounding area shows an angry glow of orange. As more light ap-
pears, we see a solid vault of apartment houses around the small,
fragile-seeming home. An air of the dream dings to the place, a
dream rising out of reality. The kitchen at center seems actual
enough, for there is a kitchen table with three chairs, and a refrig-
erator. But no other fixtures 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 fur-
nished only with a brass bedstead and a straight chair. On a shelf
over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands. A window opens onto
the apartment house at the side.
Behind the kitchen, on a level raised six and a half feet, is the
boys’ bedroom, at present barely visible. Two beds are dimly seen,
and at the back of the room a dormer window. (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 trans-
parent. 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 for-
ward 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 onto the forestage.
From the right, Willy Loman, the Salesman, enters, carrying
two large sample cases. 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 thank-
fully lets his burden down, feeling the soreness of his palms. A
word-sigh escapes his lips — it might be »Oh, boy, oh, boy.« He