AMANDA: How do you look at it?
JIM: There’s three types in the world.
AMANDA: Oh! Three? What are they?
JIM: One—the workhorses of the world.
AMANDA: —Oh.
JIM: They do what they’re told to do and at the end of each day they’re given some oats to feed on. Enough to provide the energy for tomorrow.
AMANDA: Mr. Delaney, you surprise me a little.
JIM: Yeah?— Why?
AMANDA: A statement like that—I mean, so—analyzing! But go on! What’s number two?
JIM: Type number two is the drivers! The managers of the workhorses, and owners of them. They portion out the oats and lock up the stable door when the work day is over—open it in the morning. [Grins.] I’ve got this all figured out. But then there is type number three.
AMANDA: Which type is that?
JIM: The Dreamy Type.
AMANDA: My children?
JIM: —Shakespeare—like him, for instance! He doesn’t fit into either classification. He can’t work and he wouldn’t drive.
AMANDA: Can’t work?
JIM: Speaking—figuratively.
AMANDA: —Oh. . .
JIM: There’s quite a number like him, won’t drive and can’t be driven, a monkey wrench in the works.
AMANDA: Oh, how awful!
JIM: But don’t you see, Mrs. Wingfield, if the works aren’t good, then a monkey wrench in them is!
AMANDA: No, I don’t see at all, I think it is awful, to fit into such a worthless classification!
TOM: So I’m a monkey wrench! [He grins.] I’m glad to know I’ve got a definition!
AMANDA [clapping a hand to her forehead]: Oh, my goodness, a monkey wrench for a son! Mr. Delaney, have some more potatoes.
JIM: No, thank you, Ma’am.
AMANDA: What does your father do, Jim?
JIM: He has a retail shoe store in Wyoming.
AMANDA: Shoes! A commodity always in demand! And some day you’ll take over, I suppose?
JIM: My heart is set on radio engineering. I feel there’s a great day coming for television. It will be a field where the dreamy types and the dissatisfied workhorses can flash to the world original pictures of things, and make great changes.
AMANDA: But won’t these “drivers” you speak of flash the pictures?
JIM: Not if we muscle in first, the dreamers and I.
AMANDA: According to what you say, you’re not the dreamy type nor exactly the ordinary workhorse either.
JIM: That’s right, Mrs. Wingfield.
AMANDA: Just what are you then?
JIM [grinning]: A combination, the beginning of an experiment—dreams plus action, which is the next generation!
AMANDA: —Oh! [She smiles uncertainly.] That sounds very exciting.
JIM: It is, I think. “All the world is waiting for the sunrise!”
[The chandelier flickers and dims out.]
AMANDA: Where was Moses when the lights went out! Do you know the answer to that one, Mr. Delaney?
JIM: No. What is the answer?
AMANDA: In the dark! [Jim laughs appreciatively.] [Amanda gets up.] How lucky we have these candles on the table.
JIM: Here’s a match. [Lights one of the candelabras.]
AMANDA: Everybody just sit still, I’ll take a look at the fuse-box. Can you tell a burnt-out fuse when you see one, Mr. Delaney?
JIM [following her]: Uh-huh.
AMANDA: Tom! Did you pay that light-bill?
TOM: Why, I—think so—I’m not sure.
AMANDA: Oh, there we have it! It’s no use even looking at the fuse-box! The dreamy type neglected to pay the light-bill!
JIM [laughing]: Shakespeare probably wrote a poem on it.
AMANDA: Mr. Delaney, it isn’t a joking matter. There’s such a high price for negligence in this world!
JIM: Maybe the poem will win a ten-dollar prize!
AMANDA: We’ll just have candlelight for the rest of the evening.
JIM: Well, what’s wrong about that?
AMANDA: Nothing except I’m a little out of patience with type number three! Come on, Dreamy Type, you and I’ll clear the dishes. Laura, you take Mr. Delaney into the living room. [She thrusts the candelabra into Laura’s hand. Laura looks helplessly at Jim. He grins.]
JIM: Come on, Laura. Let’s have a look at those records. I don’t suppose you got any Benny Goodman, or boogie-woogie numbers?
LAURA: I—I’m afraid not. They’re all old records that came with the Victrola.
[They pass into living room. Amanda draws the portieres behind them. She can be heard indistinctly upbraiding Tom in the kitchen.]
JIM: The machine’s a pretty old-timer.
LAURA: —Yes. [Still holding the candelabra.] Father bought it the day before he left. With all these records.
JIM [sorting through them]: “Whispering.” “Dardanella.” Where did he go?
LAURA: He was type number three. —Nobody knows.
JIM: Oh. Just disappeared?
LAURA: —Yes. He left the music—by way of apology for him. When he—fell in love with long distance! [She smiles slightly.] And so we—haven’t bought any new ones.
JIM: Don’t you like swing-music?
LAURA: It makes me think of the speed-drills we used to have at Rubicam’s Business College, we typed to—very fast music, which made me nervous. . . I had to quit after a while, it made me so—Where shall I put the candles?
JIM: On the floor! [She does.] This is nice. This is very nice, I like it. [He smiles at her gently.] I like this place. I like you people, Laura. [He laughs.] You’re—you’re—out of the world!
LAURA [looking shyly away]: Are we?
JIM: You’re shy, aren’t you? Don’t be shy with me, I’m nothing to be shy of. What do you do?
LAURA: —Do?
JIM: Yes.
LAURA: I—don’t know.
JIM: You went to business college, and didn’t like it—and now?
LAURA: I—stay home—mostly.
JIM: Here?
LAURA: —Yes.
JIM: —What goes on?
LAURA: —Why—nothing.
JIM: But—something must.
LAURA: —Why—nothing. Really—nothing.
JIM: Huh! [He looks at her across the candelabra.] You’re—you’re very pretty.
LAURA [startled]: What?
JIM: The dreamy type in a girl is—very attractive. What do you do?
LAURA: I told you—really nothing. Not since the business college—didn’t work out.
JIM: But something else will.
LAURA [sadly]: I—suppose.
JIM: Sure. —Sure! Why—not everybody is—delicate—like you! [He is sitting on the floor. Slides himself closer, leaning over the candles.]
JIM: What do you do? I mean—You have dates, don’t you?
LAURA: —I—
JIM: Go out with fellows?
LAURA: —No, I—
JIM: Don’t?
LAURA: I—don’t—get along very well—with people—strangers. I—don’t meet people—often. I— [Her voice dies out in confusion. She looks down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap.]
JIM [laughs very gently]: Don’t understand why not.
LAURA: The city is big and— Everybody is busy!
JIM: What do you do?
LAURA: You keep asking me that and—I don’t know. I sketch in the park, I—have my glass collection.
JIM: A collection? Of glass?
LAURA: —Yes. [She speaks a little more naturally.]
LAURA: Little objects made out of glass, you know.
JIM: I’ve never seen any.
LAURA: Of course you have. —In windows.
JIM: Little glass objects, huh? Like what!
LAURA: Animals—mostly. Little—miniatures of them.
JIM [grinning]: Animals mostly!
LAURA: —Yes. I’ve hundreds of them. All around my bedroom on little shelves, and all in very light and—delicate
colors. On sunny days—I live inside a—rainbow!
JIM [laughs softly]: Let me see them.
LAURA: I could—bring one out. Wait! I’ll bring some out!
[She rises quickly and gracefully and slips through the portieres. Jim laughs softly to himself. He kneels to wind the Victrola and put on a record. It is very worn and plays very faintly—“Whispering.” Laura comes back in with a piece of glass cupped in her palm. Something has happened to Laura. Something secret and lovely has opened up in her face like the long delayed opening of a flower. Jim sees it as she steps between the portieres and stands graceful and hesitant and incredibly delicate in the light of the candles. He rises slowly to his feet, and there is a pause in which they look at each other across the candelabra. Laura laughs a little—tenderly and shyly. She half extends her hand with the piece of glass. Jim’s face is grave—attentive.]
JIM [softly]: What is it—Laura?
LAURA: Only one to give you an idea of them.
JIM [slowly extending his hand]: What is it?
LAURA: This one’s a unicorn. Do you know what that is?
JIM: —No. —What?
LAURA: Something that doesn’t exist in the world anymore.
JIM: —Oh!
LAURA: It used to, though, when the world was in its childhood.
JIM: It looks like a horse.
LAURA: It is a horse. With a horn.
JIM: —Oh. —That doesn’t exist anymore.
LAURA: No. —All of this kind have—disappeared from the world. Gone like father—with only music behind them!
JIM: Yeah. I see what you mean.
LAURA: He’s all that’s left of the beautiful unicorn horses.
LAURA: He’s white. He’s not white, he’s—blue—Spilled over white! The way snow is when it’s—late in the afternoon. Now hold him up—You see how he catches the light? Oh, he loves it, loves it! He has a permanent place on the top shelf in the window, where the sun stays longest because he—loves it!—so.
JIM: But they’re all gone, the others of—his description?
LAURA: —Yes.
JIM: He must be—lonesome.
LAURA: He is! He’s very brave, though, and he doesn’t complain about it. He stays on the shelf with the ordinary horses that don’t have horns, and he seems to be getting along with them very nicely. I don’t hear arguments going on among them!
JIM [laughs, rather astonished]: —No?—Well, well—No arguments—going on. . . [He stares gravely at Laura, not at the ornament of glass. She draws it slowly back and closes her fingers gently around it.]
LAURA: You have to be careful, careful!— If you breathe—it breaks!
JIM: A fellow like me—couldn’t touch it?
LAURA: Oh, I think you could!
JIM: You don’t know very much about me yet.
LAURA: You told a good deal at the table.
JIM: I didn’t think you were listening!
LAURA: Oh, I was!
JIM: I can’t imagine what made me talk so much!
LAURA: I’m glad you did. Here! Hold him if you like!
JIM: I’d better not.
LAURA: Oh, please! [He takes it gingerly.]
LAURA: There now! You’re holding it very gently!
JIM: I am right now. But most of the time—you wouldn’t trust me with it?
LAURA: Most of the time—You’d hold it the same as I do!
JIM: The record’s stopped. I’d better change the record.
LAURA: Play “Dardanella.” That’s my favorite record.
JIM: Okay. Let’s—Let’s dance!
LAURA: I’ve never danced. I wish that I knew how.
JIM: Would you—like to try?
LAURA: Why, I—yes, I’d love to! [They bend simultaneously to change the record. They bump their heads together and both draw back with a slight laugh.]
LAURA: You—you do it.
JIM [staring at her]: Sure—I better do it. [He bows over the little machine and puts on “Dardanella.”]
LAURA [faintly]: Your hair is—pretty!
JIM: Don’t say “pretty.” That’s more for a—girl. Your hair is pretty.
LAURA: Oh, mine’s so fine, there’s nothing I can do with it but—let it go!
JIM: It’s— [Touches it gently.] awfully pretty.
LAURA: Well I still think yours is. Now shall we—start dancing?
JIM: Yes.
LAURA [laughs uncertainly and shyly]: How do I—?
JIM: Just leave all that to me. Don’t tighten up, just be relaxed and let me move you around.
LAURA: —Can you?
JIM: Sure I can!
LAURA: Why, yes, you—can!
[They start to move about the room in a dance that is a little constrained at first but rapidly takes on freedom and grace: Laura laughs breathlessly as he moves her faster about the little candle-lit room.]
JIM: Just, just—let yourself go!
LAURA: I’m stepping on you!
JIM: Don’t mind that!
LAURA: Don’t you?
JIM: I’m not made of glass!
LAURA: It feels so funny.
JIM: Is that why you’re laughing?
LAURA: No, I’m—out of breath! Please, let’s—stop for a minute! I—feel so—funny! [She laughs breathlessly and can’t stop, like water gone down the wrong way. He gradually lets her go. She retreats a step from him, still struggling to catch her breath. His arms extend uncertainly.]
JIM: You’re a awf’ly pretty—little—Girl!
LAURA: —What?
JIM: —Little—little—girl! Made out of glass! When it’s—sunny—living in a— [Takes her hands and draws her towards him.] —Rainbow! [He kisses her full and hungrily on the lips.]
[After a couple of moments in which the embrace endures with a curious, hesitant intensity only possible between two people who have never really kissed before—Amanda opens the portieres. She has a pitcher of lemonade in one hand. But she draws discreetly back and closes the curtains again.]
JIM: —Was that—?
LAURA [faintly]: Mother.
JIM: Gosh, I— [He crosses to portieres.]
JIM: Mrs. Wingfield?
AMANDA [delicately]: —Yes—Jim?
JIM: Laura and I would like to go out for a walk, if you don’t mind.
AMANDA: I? Mind? [She laughs delicately.] On such a lovely spring evening? What could be nicer! You children do just as you please. I want so much to see young people—happy!
JIM [still a little bewildered by what has occurred]: Well, I—would you like to? [Turning shyly to Laura.]
LAURA: Oh!—Why—what could be nicer?
AMANDA [appearing in the portieres, wisely and benevolently smiling and smiling]: The park is only a couple of blocks from here. Don’t go in far, but the moon will make it lovely!
JIM: Let’s do that then, why that’s a—swell idea! [He starts to the door. Returns to snatch up his coat.]
AMANDA: Oh, yes, your coat and— Don’t you think that Laura needs a wrap?
JIM: I don’t think so.
LAURA [still looking at Jim with wonder]: No, no! I won’t need any!
AMANDA [slyly, the eternal procuress emerging]: That light thin dress? That summer dress she’s wearing?
LAURA: I won’t need any! Honest, mother, I won’t!
JIM: She won’t need any! Honest Mrs. Wingfield! Let’s go, Laura.
AMANDA: All right, then. You children run along. I’ll leave the door open for you, but—don’t be later than—midnight! [They are into the outside hall. Amanda crosses softly to the door and closes it noiselessly behind them. She catches her breath and crosses to the window. Raises the blind and separates the curtains. Tom comes in.]
TOM: Where are they now?
AMANDA [her voice low and musical]: Gone for a walk.
TOM: Yeah?
AMANDA: The young man’s—already kissed her!
TOM: —Huh?
AMANDA: Yes! [Amanda breaks into delicate girlish laughter. It end
s on a high, triumphant note.]
TOM: I declare—you’re a witch!
AMANDA: But I was a girl. [Crossing slowly to the portieres.] Girls are a pretty trap! That’s what they’ve always been, and will always be, even when dreams plus action—take over the world! Now—now, dreamy type— Let’s finish the dishes!
THE CURTAIN FALLS. THE END.
INTERIOR: PANIC
(A ONE-ACT PLAY)
Interior: Panic was first performed at the Tennesssee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival on March 18, 2005, with four other Williams one-acts under the collective title Tennessee in the Quarter. It was directed by Perry Martin; set design was by Chad Talkington; the lighting design was by David Guidry; the costume design was by Trish McLain; and Elizabeth Barron was the Executive Producer. The cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:
BLANCHE SHANNON Susan Deily-Swearingen
GRACE KIEFABER Veronica Russell
JACK KIEFABER Dane Rhodes
BILL COLLECTOR Tony Molina
GEORGE Jonathan Padgett
The set is in the interior of a shotgun cottage in a poor section of New Orleans.
We are seeing it through the eyes of a person in a state of panic.
Two rooms are exposed, upstage and down, divided by portieres. It is somewhat the way it might have been painted by Van Gogh in his feverish interiors, with an abnormal emphasis of strident colors. Distortions and irregularities of design may be added to bring out the hysteria in this view. The white plaster walls of the interior are stained with lurid projections.
Sounds, too, are exaggerated. The cottage is near the railroad tracks and as the curtain rises a train is approaching and going by as loudly as if it were on the stage.
Blanche Shannon is seated at a dresser. She is a young woman, twenty-nine, a vividly dark southern type. It is through her senses that the play is projected.
In the upstage room, which serves as kitchen and dining room, Grace Kiefaber, Blanche’s married sister, is pouring red juice into a series of little jars set on an ironing board.
As the locomotive, still distant, approaches, its steady sound produces a mysterious voice.
VOICE: Unfit—for her position! Unfit—for her position! Unfit—for her position!
[Blanche has been brushing her hair. She drops the brush and rises, pressing fists to her temples.]