27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays Read online

  PORTER: No, ma’am. Catholic, Miss Collins.

  MISS COLLINS: Oh. Well, I suppose you know in England we’re known as the English Catholic church. We have direct Apostolic succession through St. Paul who christened the Early Angles—which is what the original English people were called—and established the English branch of the Catholic church over there. So when you hear ignorant people claim that our church was founded by—by Henry the Eighth—that horrible, lecherous old man who had so many wives—as many as Blue-beard they say! —you can see how ridiculous it is and how thoroughly obnox-ious to anybody who really knows and understands Church History!

  PORTER: (comfortingly) Sure, Miss Collins. Everybody knows that.

  MISS COLLINS: I wish they did, but they need to be instructed) Before he died, my father was Rector at the Church of St. Michael and St. George at Glorious Hill, Mississippi. . . . I’ve literally grown up right in the very shadow of the Episcopal church. At Pass Christian and Natchez, Biloxi, Gulfport, Port Gibson, Columbus and Glorious Hill! (with gentle, bewildered sadness) But you know I sometimes suspect that there has been some kind of spiritual schism in the modern church. These northern dioceses have completely departed from the good old church traditions. For instance our Rector at the Church of the Holy Communion has never darkened my door. It’s a fashionable church and he’s terribly busy, but even so you’d think he might have time to make a stranger in the congregation feel at home. But he doesn’t though! Nobody seems to have the time any more. . . . (She grows more excited as her mind sinks back into illusion.) I ought not to mention this, but do you know they actually take a malicious de-light over there at the Holy Communion—where I’ve recently transferred my letter—in what’s been going on here at night in this apartment? Yes!! (She laughs wildly and throws up her hands.) They take a malicious deLIGHT in it! ! (She catches her breath and gropes vaguely about her wrapper.)

  PORTER: You lookin’ for somethin’, Miss Collins?

  MISS COLLINS: My—handkerchief . . . (She is blinking her eyes against tears.)

  PORTER: (removing a rag from his pocket) Here. Use this, Miss Collins. It’s just a rag but it’s clean, except along that edge where I wiped off the phonograph handle.

  MISS COLLINS: Thanks. You gentlemen are very kind. Mother will bring in something cool after while. . . .

  ELEVATOR BOY: (placing a record on machine) This one is got some kind of foreign title. (The record begins to play Tschaikowsky’s “None But the Lonely Heart.”)

  MISS COLLINS: (stuffing the rag daintily in her bosom) Excuse me, please. Is the weather nice outside?

  PORTER: (huskily) Yes, it’s nice, Miss Collins.

  MISS COLLINS: (dreamily) So wa’m for this time of year. I wore my little astrakhan cape to service but had to carry it home, as the weight of it actually seemed oppressive to me. (Her eyes fall shut.) The sidewalks seem so dreadfully long in summer. . . .

  ELEVATOR BOY: This ain’t summer, Miss Collins.

  MISS COLLINS: (dreamily) I used to think I’d never get to the end of that last block. And that’s the block where all the trees went down in the big tornado. The walk is simply glit-tering with sunlight. (pressing her eyelids) Impossible to shade your face and I do perspire so freely! (She touches her forehead daintily with the rag.) Not a branch, not a leaf to give you a little protection! You simply have to en-dure it. Turn your hideous red face away from all the front-porches and walk as fast as you decently can till you get by them! Oh, dear, dear Savior, sometimes you’re not so lucky and you meet people and have to smile! You can’t avoid them unless you cut across and that’s so ob-vious, you know. . . . People would say you’re peculiar. . . . His house is right in the middle of that awful leafless block, their house, his and hers, and they have an automobile and always get home early and sit on the porch and watch me walking by—Oh, Father in Heaven—with a malicious delight! (She averts her face in remembered torture.) She has such penetrating eyes, they look straight through me. She sees that terrible choking thing in my throat and the pain I have in here—(touching her chest)—and she points it out and laughs and whispers to him, “There she goes with her shiny big red nose, the poor old maid—that loves you!” (She chokes and hides her face in the rag.)

  PORTER: Maybe you better forget all that, Miss Collins.

  MISS COLLINS: Never, never forget it! Never, never! I left my parasol once—the one with long white fringe that belonged to Mother—I left it behind in the cloak-room at the church so I didn’t have anything to cover my face with when I walked by, and I couldn’t turn back either, with all those people behind me—giggling back of me, poking fun at my clothes! Oh, dear, dear! I had to walk straight forward—past the last elm tree and into that merciless sunlight. Oh! It beat down on me, scorching me! Whips! . . . Oh, Jesus! . . . Over my face and my body! . . . I tried to walk on fast but was dizzy and they kept closer behind me—! I stumbled, I nearly fell, and all of them burst out laughing! My face turned so horribly red, it got so red and wet, I knew how ugly it was in all that merciless glare—not a single shadow to hide in! And then—(Her face contorts with fear.)—their automobile drove up in front of their house, right where I had to pass by it, and she stepped out, in white, so fresh and easy, her stomach round with a baby, the first of the six. Oh, God! . . . And he stood smiling behind her, white and easy and cool, and they stood there waiting for me. Waiting! I had to keep on. What else could I do? I couldn’t turn back, could I? No! I said dear God, strike me dead! He didn’t, though. I put my head way down like I couldn’t see them! You know what she did? She stretched out her hand to stop me! And he—he stepped up straight in front of me, smiling, blocking the walk with his terrible big white body! “Lucretia,” he said, “Lucretia Collins!” I—I tried to speak but I couldn’t, the breath went out of my body! I covered my face and—ran! . . . Ran! . . . Ran! (beating the arm of the sofa) Till I reached the end of the block—and the elm trees—started again. . . . Oh, Merciful Christ in Heaven, how kind they were! (She leans back exhaustedly, her hand relaxed on sofa. She pauses and the music ends.) I said to Mother, “Mother, we’ve got to leave town!” We did after that. And now after all these years he’s finally remembered and come back! Moved away from that house and the woman and come here—I saw him in the back of the church one day. I wasn’t sure—but it was. The night after that was the night that he first broke in—and indulged his senses with me. . . . He doesn’t realize that I’ve changed, that I can’t feel again the way that I used to feel, now that he’s got six children by that Cincinnati girl—three in high-school already! Six! Think of that? Six children! I don’t know what he’ll say when he knows another one’s coming!

  He’ll probably blame me for it because a man always does! In spite of the fact that he forced me!

  ELEVATOR BOY: (grinning) Did you say—a baby, Miss Collins?

  MISS COLLINS: (lowering her eyes but speaking with tenderness and pride) Yes—I’m expecting a child.

  ELEVATOR BOY: Jeez! (He claps his hand over his mouth and turns away quickly.)

  MISS COLLINS: Even if it’s not legitimate, I think it has a perfect right to its father’s name—don’t you?

  PORTER: Yes. Sure, Miss Collins.

  MISS COLLINS: A child is innocent and pure. No matter how it’s conceived. And it must not be made to suffer! So I intend to dispose of the little property Cousin Ethel left me and give the child a private education where it won’t come under the evil influence of the Christian church! I want to make sure that it doesn’t grow up in the shadow of the cross and then have to walk along blocks that scorch you with terrible sunlight! (The elevator buzzer sounds from the hall.)

  PORTER: Frank! Somebody wants to come up. (The Elevator Boy goes out. The elevator door bangs shut. The Porter clears his throat.) Yes, it’d be better—to go off some place else.

  MISS COLLINS: If only I had the courage—but I don’t. I’ve grown so used to it here, and people outside—it’s always so hard to face them!

  PORTER: Maybe
you won’t—have to face nobody, Miss Collins. (The elevator door clangs open.)

  MISS COLLINS: (rising fearfully) Is someone coming—here?

  PORTER: You just take it easy, Miss Collins.

  MISS COLLINS: If that’s the officers coming for Richard, tell them to go away. I’ve decided not to prosecute Mr. Martin. (Mr. Abrams enters with the Doctor and the Nurse. The Elevator Boy gawks from the doorway. The Doctor is the weary, professional type, the Nurse hard and efficient. Mr. Abrams is a small, kindly person, sincerely troubled by the situation.)

  MISS COLLINS: (shrinking back, her voice faltering) I’ve decided not to—prosecute Mr. Martin . . .

  DOCTOR: Miss Collins?

  MR. ABRAMS: (with attempted heartiness) Yes, this is the lady you wanted to meet, Dr. White.

  DOCTOR: Hmmm. (briskly to the Nurse) Go in her bedroom and get a few things together.

  NURSE: Yes, sir. (She goes quickly across to the bedroom.)

  MISS COLLINS: (fearfully shrinking) Things?

  DOCTOR: Yes, Miss Tyler will help you pack up an overnight bag. (smiling mechanically) A strange place always seems more homelike the first few days when we have a few of our little personal articles around us.

  MISS COLLINS: A strange—place?

  DOCTOR: (carelessly, making a memorandum) Don’t be disturbed, Miss Collins.

  MISS COLLINS: I know! (excitedly) You’ve come from the Holy Communion to place me under arrest! On moral charges!

  MR. ABRAMS: Oh, no, Miss Collins, you got the wrong idea. This is a doctor who—

  DOCTOR: (impatiently) Now, now, you’re just going away for a while till things get straightened out. (He glances at his watch.) Two-twenty-five! Miss Tyler?

  NURSE: Coming!

  MISS COLLINS: (with slow and sad comprehension) Oh. . . . I’m going away. . . .

  MR. ABRAMS: She was always a lady, Doctor, such a perfect lady.

  DOCTOR: Yes. No doubt.

  MR. ABRAMS: It seems too bad!

  MISS COLLINS: Let me—write him a note. A pencil? Please?

  MR. ABRAMS: Here, Miss Collins. (She takes the pencil and crouches over the table. The Nurse comes out with a hard, forced smile, carrying a suitcase.)

  DOCTOR: Ready, Miss Tyler?

  NURSE: All ready, Dr. White. (She goes up to Miss Collins.) Come along, dear, we can tend to that later!

  MR. ABRAMS: (sharply) Let her finish the note!

  MISS COLLINS: (straightening with a frightened smile) It’s—finished.

  NURSE: All right, dear, come along. (She propels her firmly toward the door.)

  MISS COLLINS: (turning suddenly back) Oh, Mr. Abrams!

  MR. ABRAMS: Yes, Miss Collins?

  MISS COLLINS: If he should come again—and find me gone—I’d rather you didn’t tell him—about the baby. . . . I think its better for me to tell him that, (gently smiling) You know how men are, don’t you?

  MR. ABRAMS: Yes, Miss Collins.

  PORTER: Goodbye, Miss Collins. (The Nurse pulls firmly at her arm. She smiles over her shoulder with a slight apologetic gesture.)

  MISS COLLINS: Mother will bring in—something cool—after while . . . (She disappears down the hall with the Nurse. The elevator door clangs shut with the metallic sound of a locked cage. The wires hum.)

  MR. ABRAMS: She wrote him a note.

  PORTER: What did she write, Mr. Abrams?

  MR. ABRAMS: “Dear—Richard. I’m going away for a while. But don’t worry, I’ll be back. I have a secret to tell you. Love—Lucretia.” (He coughs.) We got to clear out this stuff an’ pile it down in the basement till I find out where it goes.

  PORTER: (dully) Tonight, Mr. Abrams?

  MR. ABRAMS: (roughly to hide his feeling) No, no, not tonight, you old fool. Enough has happened tonight! (then gently)

  We can do it tomorrow. Turn out that bedroom light—and close the window. (Music playing softly becomes audible as the men go out slowly, closing the door, and the light fades out.)

  CURTAIN

  Auto-Da-Fé

  A Tragedy in One Act

  CHARACTERS

  MME. DUVENET

  ELOI,* her son.

  * Pronounced Ell-wah. The part is created for Mr. John Abbott.

  Auto-Da-Fé

  SCENE: The front porch of an old frame cottage in the Vieux Carré of New Orleans. There are palm or banana trees, one on either side of the porch steps: pots of geraniums and other vivid flowers along the low balustrade. There is an effect of sinister antiquity in the setting, even the flowers suggesting the richness of decay. Not far off on Bourbon Street the lurid procession of bars and hot-spots throws out distance-muted strains of the juke-organs and occasional shouts of laughter. Mme. Duvenet, a frail woman of sixty-seven, is rocking on the porch in the faint, sad glow of an August sunset. Eloi, her son, comes out the screen-door. He is a frail man in his late thirties, a gaunt, ascetic type with feverish dark eyes.

  Mother and son are both fanatics and their speech has something of the quality of poetic or religious incantation.

  MME: DUVENET: Why did you speak so crossly to Miss Bordelon?

  ELOI: (standing against the column) She gets on my nerves.

  MME. DUVENET: You take a dislike to every boarder we get.

  ELOI: She’s not to be trusted. I think she goes in my room.

  MME. DUVENET: What makes you think that?

  ELOI: I’ve found some evidence of it.

  MME. DUVENET: Well, I can assure you she doesn’t go in your room.

  ELOI: Somebody goes in my room and roots through my things.

  MME. DUVENET: Nobody ever touches a thing in your room.

  ELOI: My room is my own. I don’t want anyone in it.

  MME. DUVENET: You know very well that I have to go in to clean it.

  ELOI: I don’t want it cleaned.

  MME. DUVENET: You want the room to be filthy?

  ELOI: Just don’t go in it to clean it or anything else.

  MME. DUVENET: How could you live in a room that was never cleaned?

  ELOI: I’ll clean it myself when cleaning is necessary.

  MME. DUVENET: A person would think that you were concealing something.

  ELOI: What would I have to conceal?

  MME. DUVENET: Nothing that I can imagine. That’s why it’s so strange that you have such a strong objection to even your mother going into your room.

  ELOI: Everyone wants a little privacy, Mother.

  MME. DUVENET: (stiffly) Your privacy, Eloi, shall be regarded as sacred.

  ELOI: Huh.

  MME. DUVENET: I’ll just allow the filth to accumulate there.

  ELOI: (sharply) What do you mean by “the filth"?

  MME. DUVENET: (sadly) The dust and disorder that you would rather live in than have your mother come in to clean it up.

  ELOI: Your broom and your dust-pan wouldn’t accomplish much. Even the air in this neighborhood is unclean.

  MME. DUVENET: It is not as clean as it might be. I love clean window-curtains, I love white linen, I want immaculate, spotless things in a house.

  ELOI: Then why don’t we move to the new part of town where it’s cleaner?

  MME. DUVENET: The property in this block has lost all value. We couldn’t sell our place for what it would cost us to put new paint on the walls.

  ELOI: I don’t understand you, Mother. You harp on purity, purity all the time, and yet you’re willing to stay in the midst of corruption.

  MME. DUVENET: I harp on nothing. I stay here because I have to. And as for corruption, I’ve never allowed it to touch me.

  ELOI: It does, it does. We can’t help breathing it here. It gets in our nostrils and even goes in our blood.

  MME. DUVENET: I think you’re the one that harps on things around here. You won’t talk quietly. You always fly off on some tangent and raise your voice and get us all stirred up for no good reason.

  ELOI: I’ve had about all that I can put up with, Mother.

  MME. DUVENET: Then what do you want to do?<
br />
  ELOI: Move, move. This asthma of mine, in a pure atmosphere uptown where the air is fresher, I know that I wouldn’t have it nearly so often.

  MME. DUVENET: I leave it entirely to you. If you can find someone to make an acceptable offer, I’m willing to move.

  ELOI: You don’t have the power to move or the will to break from anything that you’re used to. You don’t know how much we’ve been affected already!

  MME. DUVENET: By what, Eloi?

  ELOI: This fetid old swamp we live in, the Vieux Carré! Every imaginable kind of degeneracy springs up here, not at arm’s length, even, but right in our presence!

  MME. DUVENET: Now I think you’re exaggerating a little.

  ELOI: You read the papers, you hear people talk, you walk past open windows. You can’t be entirely unconscious of what goes on! A woman was horribly mutilated last night. A man smashed a bottle and twisted the jagged end of it in her face.

  MME. DUVENET: They bring such things on themselves by their loose behavior.

  ELOI: Night after night there are crimes taking place in the parks.

  MME. DUVENET: The parks aren’t all in the Quarter.

  ELOI: The parks aren’t all in the Quarter but decadence is. This is the primary lesion, the—focal infection, the—chancre! In medical language, it spreads by—metastasis! It creeps through the capillaries and into the main blood vessels. From there it is spread all through the surrounding tissue! Finally nothing is left outside the decay!

  MME. DUVENET: Eloi, you are being unnecessarily violent in your speech.

  ELOI: I feel that strongly about it.

  MME. DUVENET: You mustn’t allow yourself to sound like a fanatic.

  ELOI: You take no stand against it?

  MME. DUVENET: You know the stand that I take.

  ELOI: I know what ought to be done.

  MME. DUVENET: There ought to be legislation to make for reforms.

  ELOI: Not only reforms but action really drastic!