Three Plays (38 page)

STELLA
: Blanche and I took in a show. Blanche, this is Mr. Gonzales and Mr. Hubbell.

BLANCHE
: Please don't get up.

STANLEY
: Nobody's going to get up, so don't be worried.

STELLA
: How much longer is this game going to continue?

STANLEY
: Till we get ready to quit.

BLANCHE
: Poker is so fascinating. Could I kibitz?

STANLEY
: You could not. Why don't you women go up and sit with Eunice?

STELLA
: Because it is nearly two-thirty.

[Blanche crosses into the bedroom and partially closes the portieres]

Couldn't you call it quits after one more hand?

[A chair scrapes. Stanley gives a loud whack of his hand on her thigh.]

STELLA
[sharply]
: That's not fun, Stanley.

[The men laugh. Stella goes into the bedroom.]

STELLA
: It makes me so mad when he does that in front of people.

BLANCHE
: I think I will bathe.

STELLA
: Again?

BLANCHE
: My nerves are in knots. Is the bathroom occupied?

STELLA
: I don't know.

[Blanche knocks. Mitch opens the door and comes out, still wiping his hands on a towel.]

BLANCHE
: Oh!—good evening.

MITCH:
Hello.

[He stares at her.]

STELLA
: Blanche, this is Harold Mitchell. My sister, Blanche DuBois.

MITCH
[with awkward courtesy]
: How do you do, Miss DuBois?

STELLA
: How is your mother now, Mitch?

MITCH:
About the same, thanks. She appreciated your sending over that custard.—Excuse me, please.

[He crosses slowly back into the kitchen, glancing back at Blanche and coughing a little shyly. He realizes he still has the towel in his hands and with an embarrassed laugh hands it to Stella. Blanche looks after him with a certain interest.]

BLANCHE
: That one seems superior to the others.

STELLA
: Yes, he is.

BLANCHE
: I thought he had a sort of sensitive look.

STELLA
: His mother is sick.

BLANCHE
: Is he married?

STELLA
: No.

BLANCHE
: Is he a wolf?

STELLA
: Why, Blanche!

[Blanche laughs.]

I don't think he would be.

BLANCHE
: What does—what does he do?

[She is unbuttoning her blouse.]

STELLA
: He's on the precision bench in the spare parts department at the plant Stanley travels for.

BLANCHE
: Is that something much?

STELLA
: No. Stanley's the only one of his crowd that's likely to get anywhere.

BLANCHE
: What makes you think Stanley will?

STELLA
: Look at him.

BLANCHE
: I've looked at him.

STELLA
: Then you should know.

BLANCHE
: I'm sorry, but I haven't noticed the stamp of genius even on Stanley's forehead.

[She takes off the blouse and stands in her pink silk brassiere and white skirt in the light through the portieres. The game has continued in undertones.]

STELLA
: It isn't on his forehead and it isn't genius.

BLANCHE
: Oh. Well, what is it, and where? I would like to know.

STELLA
: It's a drive that he has. You're standing in the light, Blanche!

BLANCHE
: Oh, am I!

[She moves out of the yellow streak of light. Stella has removed her dress and put on a tight blue satin kimono.]

STELLA
[with girlish laughter]
: You ought to see their wives.

BLANCHE
[laughingly]
: I can imagine. Big, beefy things, I suppose.

STELLA
: You know that one upstairs?

[More laughter]

One time
[laughing]
the plaster—
[laughing]
cracked—

STANLEY
: You hens cut out that conversation in there!

STELLA
: You can't hear us.

STANLEY
: Well, you can hear me and I said to hush up!

STELLA
: This is my house and I'll talk as much as I want to!

BLANCHE
: Stella, don't start a row.

STELLA
: He's half drunk!—I'll be out in a minute.

[She goes into the bathroom. Blanche rises and crosses leisurely to a small white radio and turns it on.]

STANLEY
: Awright, Mitch, you in?

MITCH:
What? Oh!—No, I'm out!

[Blanche moves back into the streak of light. She raises her arms and stretches, as she moves indolently back to the chair. Rhumba music comes over the radio. Mitch rises at the table.]

STANLEY
: Who turned that on in there?

BLANCHE
: I did. Do you mind?

STANLEY
: Turn it off!

STEVE:
Aw, let the girls have their music.

PABLO:
Sure, that's good, leave it on!

STEVE:
Sounds like Xavier Cugat!

[Stanley jumps up and, crossing to the radio, turns it off. He stops short at the sight of Blanche in the chair. She returns his look without flinching. Then he sits again at the poker table. Two of the men have started arguing hotly.]

STEVE:
I didn't hear you name it.

PABLO:
Didn't I name it, Mitch?

MITCH:
I wasn't listenin'.

PABLO:
What were you doing, then?

STANLEY
: He was looking through them drapes.

[He jumps up and jerks roughly at curtains to close them.]

Now deal the hand over again and let's play cards or quit. Some people get ants when they win.

[Mitch rises as Stanley returns to his seat.]

STANLEY
[yelling]
: Sit down!

MITCH:
I'm going to the "head". Deal me out.

PABLO:
Sure he's got ants now. Seven five-dollar bills in his pants pocket folded as tight as spitballs.

STEVE:
Tomorrow you'll see him at the cashier's window getting them changed into quarters.

STANLEY
: And when he goes home he'll deposit them one by one in a piggy bank his mother give him for Christmas.

[Dealing.]

This game is Spit in the Ocean.

[Mitch laughs uncomfortably and continues through the portieres. He stops just inside.]

BLANCHE
[softly]
: Hello! The Little Boys' Room is busy right now.

MITCH:
We've—been drinking beer.

BLANCHE
: I hate beer.

MITCH:
It's—a hot weather drink.

BLANCHE
: Oh, I don't think so; it always makes me warmer. Have you got any cigs?

[She has slipped on the dark red satin wrapper.]

MITCH:
Sure.

BLANCHE
: What kind are they?

MITCH:
Luckies.

BLANCHE
: Oh, good. What a pretty case. Silver?

MITCH:
Yes. Yes; read the inscription.

BLANCHE
: Oh, is there an inscription? I can't make it out.

[He strikes a match and moves closer]

Oh!

[reading with feigned difficulty]:

"And if God choose, I shall but love thee better—after—death!" Why, that's from my favorite sonnet by Mrs. Browning!

MITCH:
You know it?

BLANCHE
: Certainly I do!

MITCH:
There's a story connected with that inscription.

BLANCHE
: It sounds like a romance.

MITCH:
A pretty sad one.

BLANCHE
: Oh?

MITCH:
The girl's dead now.

BLANCHE
[in a tone of deep sympathy]
:
Oh!

MITCH:
She knew she was dying when she give me this. A very strange girl, very sweet—very!

BLANCHE
: She must have been fond of you. Sick people have such deep, sincere attachments.

MITCH:
That's right, they certainly do.

BLANCHE
: Sorrow makes for sincerity, I think.

MITCH:
It sure brings it out in people.

BLANCHE
: The little there is belongs to people who have experienced some sorrow.

MITCH:
I believe you are right about that.

BLANCHE
: I'm positive that I am. Show me a person who hasn't known any sorrow and I'll show you a superficial—Listen to me! My tongue is a little-thick! You boys are responsible for it. The show let out at eleven and we couldn't come home on account of the poker game so we had to go somewhere and drink. I'm not accustomed to having more than one drink. Two is the limit—and
three!

[She laughs]

Tonight I had three.

STANLEY
: Mitch!

MITCH:
Deal me out I'm talking to Miss—

BLANCHE
: DuBois.

MITCH:
Miss DuBois?

BLANCHE
: It's a French name. It means woods and Blanche means white, so the two together mean white woods. Like an orchard in spring! You can remember it by that.

MITCH:
You're French?

BLANCHE
: We are French by extraction. Our first American ancestors were French Huguenots.

MITCH:
You are Stella's sister, are you not?

BLANCHE
: Yes, Stella is my precious little sister. I call her little in spite of the fact she's somewhat older than I. Just slightly. Less than a year. Will you do something for me?

MITCH:
Sure. What?

BLANCHE
: I bought this adorable little colored paper lantern at a Chinese shop on Bourbon. Put it over the light bulb! Will you, please?

MITCH:
Be glad to.

BLANCHE
: I can't stand a naked light bulb, any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action.

MITCH
[adjusting the lantern]
: I guess we strike you as being a pretty rough bunch.

BLANCHE
: I'm very adaptable—to circumstances.

MITCH:
Well, that's a good thing to be. You are visiting Stanley and Stella?

BLANCHE
: Stella hasn't been so well lately, and I came down to help her for a while. She's very run down.

MITCH:
You're not—?

BLANCHE
: Married? No, no. I'm an old maid schoolteacher!

MITCH:
You may teach school but you're certainly not an old maid.

BLANCHE
: Thank you, sir! I appreciate your gallantry!

MITCH:
So you are in the teaching profession?

BLANCHE
: Yes. Ah, yes...

MITCH:
Grade school or high school or—

STANLEY
[bellowing]
:
Mitch!

MITCH:
Coming!

BLANCHE
: Gracious, what lung-power!... I teach high school. In Laurel.

MITCH:
What do you teach? What subject?

BLANCHE
: Guess!

MITCH:
I bet you teach art or music?

[Blanche laughs delicately]

Of course I could be wrong. You might teach arithmetic.

BLANCHE
: Never arithmetic, sir, never arithmetic!

[with a laugh]

I don't even know my multiplication tables! No, I have the misfortune of being an English instructor. I attempt to instill a bunch of bobby-soxers and drug-store Romeos with reverence for Hawthorne and Whitman and Poe!