Collected Stories

  Although Tennessee came to feel a degree of compassion for his persecutors, they never felt any for him. For thirty years he was regularly denounced as a sick, immoral, vicious fag. Time magazine, as usual, led the attack. From The Glass Menagerie up until The Night of the Iguana, each of his works was smeared in language that often bordered on madness. “Fetid swamp” was Time critic Louis Kronenberger’s preferred phrase for Tennessee’s mind and art. Then, in the fifties, the anti-fag brigade mounted a major offensive. Ironically, most of these brigadiers were Jews who used exactly the same language in denouncing the homosexual-ists that equally sick Christians use to denounce Jews. Tennessee turned to drink and pills, and then, worse, to witch doctors. One, a medical doctor, hooked him on amphetamines; another, a psychiatrist, tried to get him to give up writing and sex. Although the Bird survived witch doctors and envenomed press, they wore him out in the end.

  II

  “I cannot write any sort of story,” said Tennessee to me, “unless there is at least one character in it for whom I have physical desire.”

  In story after story there are handsome young men, some uncouth like Stanley Kowalski; some couth like the violinist in “The Resemblance Between a Violin Case and a Coffin.” Finally, when Tennessee wrote A Streetcar Named Desire, he inadvertently smashed one of our society’s most powerful taboos. He showed the male not only as sexually attractive in the flesh but as an object for something never before entirely acknowledged, the lust of women. In the age of Calvin Klein’s steaming hunks, it must be hard for those under forty to realize that there was ever a time when a man was nothing but a suit of clothes, a shirt and tie, shined leather shoes and a gray felt hat. If thought attractive, it was because he had a nice smile and a twinkle in his eye. Marlon Brando’s appearance on stage, as Stanley, in a torn sweaty T-shirt, was an earthquake; and the male as sex object is still at our culture’s center stage and will so remain until the likes of Boy George redress, as it were, the balance. Yet, ironically, Tennessee’s auctorial sympathies were not with Stanley but with his “victim” Blanche.

  Let us now clear up a misunderstanding about Tennessee and his work. Yes, he liked to have sex with men. No, he did not hate women, as the anti-fag brigade insists. Tennessee loved women, as any actress who has ever played one of his characters will testify. Certainly, he never ceased to love Rose and Rose. But that makes him even worse, the anti-fag brigade wail, as they move to their fall-back position. He thinks he is a woman. He puts himself, sick and vicious as he is, on the stage in drag; and then he travesties all good, normal, family-worshipping women and their supportive, mature men. But Tennessee never thought of himself as a woman. He was very much a man; he was also very much an artist. He could inhabit any gender; his sympathies, however, were almost always with those defeated by the squares or by time, once the sweet bird of youth is flown—or by death, “which has never been much in the way of completion.”

  Three relevant biographical details. Tennessee’s first love affair was with a young dancer named Kip, in 1940. Kip gave up Tennessee for marriage, died of a brain tumor in 1944. Tennessee was at the death bed. This is the stuff of high romanticism or, as Tennessee quotes Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Streetcar, “‘I shall but love thee better after death.’” He certainly carried if not a torch a showy flambeau for Kip to the end. Pancho was second; they met in New Orleans in 1946, the first year of Tennessee’s success. They quarrelled; they parted in 1947. Tennessee was guilty, as he shows us in “Rubio y Morena.” But, fearful of the ever-vigilant anti-fag brigade, he changed Pancho to a woman, something that he almost never did.

  The third and most lasting affair was with Frank Merlo, an Italo-American prole. They began to live together in 1948. During Tennessee’s great years, Frank was his anchor. But after drink and barbiturates altered Tennessee’s character, they parted. A year or two later, in 1963, Merlo died of cancer. “I shall but love thee…”

  The stories fall into four groups. First, those written up to 1941 when, at thirty, he became a professionally produced if unsuccessful playwright with Battle of Angels. The second period was from 1941 to 1945, when he became a hugely successful professional playwright with The Glass Menagerie. During this time he lived in Hollywood; worked for MGM; enjoyed “the wonderful rocking horse weather of California.” Third, the great period, 1945 to 1952, when all the ideas for the plays were either in his head as stories—or on the stage itself. Fourth, the rest of his life when he wrote few stories; and play-productions became more and more difficult. To this period belongs “The Knightly Quest,” one of his best stories. “I slept through the sixties. Gore,” he said to me, in an exchange much quoted. “You didn’t miss a thing,” I am quoted as saying, which is true; but then I added, “If you slept through the sixties, God help you in the seventies.” God did, to a point. He wrote a number of good stories; but then came the eighties—and death.

  Tennessee’s stories need no explication. So here they are. Some are marvelous—“Two On a Party,” “Desire and the Black Masseur”; some are wonderfully crazed—“The Killer Chicken,” “The Mysteries of the Joy Rio.” So what are they about? Well, there used to be two streetcars in New Orleans. One was named Desire and the other was called Cemeteries. To get where you were going, you changed from the first to the second. In these stories and in those plays, Tennessee validated with his genius our common ticket of transfer.

  Gore Vidal

  26 March 1985

  Rome

  The Vengeance of Nitocris

  I. OSIRIS IS AVENGED

  Hushed were the streets of many peopled Thebes. Those few who passed through them moved with the shadowy fleetness of bats near dawn, and bent their faces from the sky as if fearful of seeing what in their fancies might be hovering there. Weird, high-noted incantations of a wailing sound were audible through the barred doors. On corners groups of naked and bleeding priests cast themselves repeatedly and with loud cries upon the rough stones of the walks. Even dogs and cats and oxen seemed impressed by some strange menace and foreboding and cowered and slunk dejectedly. All Thebes was in dread. And indeed there was cause for their dread and for their wails of lamentation. A terrible sacrilege had been committed. In all the annals of Egypt none more monstrous was recorded.

  Five days had the altar fires of the god of gods, Osiris, been left unburning. Even for one moment to allow darkness upon the altars of the god was considered by the priests to be a great offense against him. Whole years of dearth and famine had been known to result from such an offense. But now the altar fires had been deliberately extinguished, and left extinguished for five days. It was an unspeakable sacrilege.

  Hourly there was expectancy of some great calamity to befall. Perhaps within the approaching night a mighty earthquake would shake the city to the ground, or a fire from heaven would sweep upon them, a hideous plague strike them or some monster from the desert, where wild and terrible monsters were said to dwell, would rush upon them and Osiris himself would rise up, as he had done before, and swallow all Egypt in his wrath. Surely some such dread catastrophe would befall them ere the week had passed. Unless—unless the sacrilege were avenged.

  But how might it be avenged? That was the question high lords and priests debated. Pharaoh alone had committed the sacrilege. It was he, angered because the bridge, which he had spent five years in constructing so that one day he might cross the Nile in his chariot as he had once boasted that he would do, had been swept away by the rising waters. Raging with anger, he had flogged the priests from the temple. He had barred the temple doors and with his own breath had blown out the sacred candles. He had defiled the hallowed altars with the carcasses of beasts. Even, it was said in low, shocked whispers, in a mock ceremony of worship he had burned the carrion of a hyena, most abhorrent of all beasts to Osiris, upon the holy altar of gold, which even the most high of priests forbore to lay naked hands upon!

  Surely, even though he be pharoah, ruler of all Egypt and holder of the golden eagle, he could
not be permitted to commit such violent sacrileges without punishment from man. The god Osiris was waiting for them to inflict that punishment, and if they failed to do it, upon them would come a scourge from heaven.

  Standing before the awed assembly of nobles, the high Kha Semblor made a gesture with his hands. A cry broke from those who watched. Sentence had been delivered. Death had been pronounced as doom for the pharaoh.

  The heavy, barred, doors were shoved open. The crowd came out, and within an hour a well-organized mob passed through the streets of Thebes, directed for the palace of the pharaoh. Mob justice was to be done.

  Within the resplendent portals of the palace the pharaoh, ruler of all Egypt, watched with tightened brow the orderly but menacing approach of the mob. He divined their intent. But was he not their pharaoh? He could contend with gods, so why should he fear mere dogs of men?

  A woman clung to his stiffened arm. She was tall and as majestically handsome as he. A garb of linen, as brilliantly golden as the sun, entwined her body closely, closely, and bands of jet were around her throat and forehead. She was the fair and well-loved Nitocris; sister of the pharaoh.

  “Brother, brother!” she cried; “light the fires! Pacify the dogs! They come to kill you.”

  Only more stern grew the look of the pharaoh. He thrust aside his pleading sister, and beckoned to the attendants.

  “Open the doors”

  Startled, trembling, the men obeyed.

  The haughty lord of Egypt drew his sword from its sheath. He slashed the air with a stroke that would have severed stone. Out on the steep steps leading between tall, colored pillars to the doors of the palace he stepped. The people saw him. A howl rose from their lips.

  “Light the fires!”

  The figure of the pharaoh stood inflexible as rock. Superbly tall and muscular, his bare arms and limbs glittering like burnished copper in the light of the brilliant sun, his body erect and tense in his attitude of defiance, he looked indeed a mortal fit almost to challenge gods.

  The mob, led by the black-robed priests and nobles who had arrived at the foot of the steps, now fell back before the stunning, magnificent defiance of their giant ruler. They felt like demons who had assailed the heavens and had been abashed and shamed by the mere sight of that which they had assailed. A hush fell over them. Their upraised arms faltered and sank down. A moment more and they would have fallen to their knees.

  What happened then seemed nothing less than a miracle. In his triumph and exultation, the pharaoh had been careless of the crumbling edges of the steps. Centuries old, there were sections of these steps which were falling apart. Upon such a section had the gold-sandaled foot of the pharaoh descended, and it was not strong enough to sustain his great weight. With a scuttling sound it broke loose. A gasp came from the mob—the pharaoh was about to fall. He was palpitating, wavering in the air, fighting to retain his balance. He looked as if he were grappling with some monstrous, invisible snake, coiled about his gleaming body. A hoarse cry burst from his lips; his sword fell; and then his body thudded down the steps in a series of wild somersaults, and landed at the foot, sprawled out before the gasping mob. For a moment there was breathless silence. And then came the shout of a priest.

  “A sign from the god!”

  That vibrant cry seemed to restore the mob to all of its wolflike rage. They surged forward. The struggling body of the pharaoh was lifted up and torn to pieces by their clawing hands and weapons. Thus was the god Osiris avenged.

  II. A PHARAOH IS AVENGED

  A week later another large assembly of persons confronted the brilliant-pillared palace. This time they were there to acknowledge a ruler, not to slay one. The week before they had rended the pharaoh and now they were proclaiming his sister empress. Priests had declared that it was the will of the gods that she should succeed her brother. She was famously beautiful, pious, and wise. The people were not reluctant to accept her.

  When she was borne down the steps of the palace in her rich litter after the elaborate ceremony of coronation had been concluded, she responded to the cheers of the multitude with a smile which could not have appeared more amicable and gracious. None might know from that smile upon her beautiful carmined lips that within her heart she was thinking, “These are the people who slew my brother. Ah, god Issus grant me power to avenge his death upon them!”

  Not long after the beauteous Nitocris mounted the golden throne of Egypt, rumors were whispered of some vast, mysterious enterprise being conducted in secret. A large number of slaves were observed each dawn to embark upon barges and to be carried down the river to some unknown point, where they labored throughout the day, returning after dark. The slaves were Ethiopians, neither able to speak nor to understand the Egyptian language, and therefore no information could be gotten from them by the curious as to the object of their mysterious daily excursions. The general opinion though, was that the pious queen was having a great temple constructed to the gods and that when it was finished, enormous public banquets would be held within it before its dedication. She meant it to be a surprise gift to the priests who were ever desirous of some new place of worship and were dissatisfied with their old altars, which they said were defiled.

  Throughout the winter the slaves repeated daily their excursions. Traffic of all kinds plying down the river was restricted for several miles to within forty yards of one shore. Any craft seen to disregard that restriction was set upon by a galley of armed men and pursued back into bounds. All that could be learned was that a prodigious temple or hall of some sort was in construction.

  It was late in the spring when the excursions of the workmen were finally discontinued. Restrictions upon river traffic were withdrawn. The men who went eagerly to investigate the mysterious construction returned with tales of a magnificent new temple, surrounded by rich green, tropical verdure, situated near the bank of the river. It was temple to the god Osiris. It had been built by the queen probably that she might partly atone for the sacrilege of her brother and deliver him from some of the torture which he undoubtedly suffered. It was to be dedicated within the month by a great banquet. All the nobles and the high priests of Osiris, of which there were a tremendous number, were to be invited.

  Never had the delighted priests been more extravagant in their praises of Queen Nitocris. When she passed through the streets in her open litter, bedazzling eyes by the glitter of her golden ornaments, the cries of the people were almost frantic in their exaltation of her.

  True to the predictions of the gossipers, before the month had passed the banquet had been formally announced and to all the nobility and the priests of Osiris had been issued invitations to attend.

  The day of the dedication, which was to be followed by the night of banqueting, was a gala holiday. At noon the guests of the empress formed a colorful assembly upon the bank of the river. Gayly draped barges floated at their moorings until preparations should be completed for the transportation of the guests to the temple. All anticipated a holiday of great merriment, and the lustful epicureans were warmed by visualizations of the delightful banquet of copious meats, fruits, luscious delicacies and other less innocent indulgences.

  When the queen arrived, clamorous shouts rang deafeningly in her ears. She responded with charming smiles and gracious bows. The most discerning observer could not have detected anything but the greatest cordiality and kindliness reflected in her bearing toward those around her. No action, no fleeting expression upon her lovely face could have caused anyone to suspect anything except entire amicability in her feelings or her intentions. The rats, as they followed the Pied Piper of Hamelin through the streets, entranced by the notes of his magical pipe, could not have been less apprehensive of any great danger impending them than were the guests of the empress as they followed her in gayly draped barges, singing and laughing down the sun-glowing waters of the Nile.

  The most vivid descriptions of those who had already seen the temple did not prepare the others for the spectacle of beauty a
nd grandeur which it presented. Gasps of delight came from the priests. What a place in which to conduct their ceremonies! They began to feel that the sacrilege of the dead pharaoh was not, after all, to be so greatly regretted, since it was responsible for the building of this glorious new temple.

  The columns were massive and painted with the greatest artistry. The temple itself was proportionately large. The center of it was unroofed. Above the entrance were carved the various symbols of the god Osiris, with splendid workmanship. The building was immensely big, and against the background of green foliage it presented a picture of almost breathtaking beauty. Ethiopian attendants stood on each side of the doorway, their shining black bodies ornamented with bands of brilliant gold. On the interior the guests were inspired to even greater wonderment. The walls were hung with magnificent painted tapestries.. The altars were more beautifully and elaborately carved than any seen before. Aromatic powders were burning upon them and sending up veils of scented smoke. The sacramental vessels were of the most exquisite and costly metals. Golden coffers and urns were piled high with perfect fruits of all kinds.

  Ah, yes—a splendid place for the making of sacrifices, gloated the staring priests.

  Ah, yes indeed, agreed the queen Nitocris, smiling with half-crossed eyes, it was a splendid place for sacrifices—especially for the human sacrifice that had been planned. But all who observed that guileful smile interpreted it as gratification over the pleasure which her creation in honor of their god had brought to the priests of Osiris. Not the slightest shadow of portent was upon the hearts of the joyous guests.

  The ceremony of dedication occupied the whole of the afternoon. And when it drew to its impressive conclusion, the large assembly, their nostrils quivering from the savory odor of the roasting meats, were fully ready and impatient for the banquet that awaited them. They gazed about them, observing that the whole building composed an unpartitioned amphitheater and wondering where might be the room of the banquet. However, when the concluding processional chant had been completed the queen summoned a number of burly slaves, and by several iron rings attached to its outer edge they lifted up a large slab of the flooring, disclosing to the astonished guests the fact that the scene of the banquet was to be an immense subterranean vault.