The Traveling Companion & Other Plays

by Tennessee Williams

  DOMINIQUE [dreamily]: Were you ever as young and fair as I?

  QUEEN: Courtiers told me so but mirrors exposed their deceit. Still. —I had young lovers which is a considerable compensation . . . No? dear final boy . . . —my doom. May of England known as Mad Queen May declined to play the game demanded of her. Chose her own rejection of politically advantageous marriages to princes who repelled me, for—gifted young courtiers, lovely of face and figure, excellent dance partners, some of whom could sing sweetly into my ear in bed at night. It didn’t matter to me that I had to apply my fingers and tongue to their privates to make them rise to the intimate occasion. I was young, once, and fair. [She returns to throne steps.] Kiss me, Dominique.

  DOMINIQUE: Caress me. Play with my body.

  QUEEN: Adorable little narcissus . . .

  DOMINIQUE: Have you read my new poems?

  QUEEN: Of course I did, as soon as you gave them to me.

  DOMINIQUE: You haven’t commented on them.

  QUEEN: By commented, don’t you mean praised?

  DOMINIQUE: Naturally. Why not?

  QUEEN: I thought them pretty as you. However—I have a suggestion to offer. —Delete from them all sentences that begin with the pronoun “I”.

  [He shrugs. His eyes close again. Dominique snores softly. The Queen now addresses the intruder behind the tapestry.]

  QUEEN: He’s fallen asleep, the subject of discussion not being himself. —Do you hear me? I mustn’t raise my voice, it might wake him up, and I’d soon be obliged to comment on his latest dalliance with the art of verse. Pretty boys, pretty boys, if I didn’t have them I would have to invent them but preferably none of the literary persuasion. —Come out from behind that arras, this isn’t the chamber scene from Hamlet and you’re much too young for the part of Polonius, Sir.

  [The Young Revolutionary, dagger held behind him, emerges from behind the wall-hanging.]

  QUEEN: —We offer you our compliments on your youth and beauty. We know your purpose, although the weapon’s concealed behind your back, but we’re not alarmed, somehow. It’s our ancient sovereignty, I suppose, a thing that runs in our blood. A certain chill, almost a thrill, is aroused in us by the abrupt and still not spoken-out meaning of your presence. —Are you speechless because you confront a crowned witch on a throne?

  DOMINIQUE [rousing slightly]: What?

  QUEEN: Nothing concerning you is nothing and so go back to sleep. [Queen May removes her slippers and descends from the raised level of the throne.] Voluntarily we approach our possible assassin, old veins inflamed by the fearless approach to— [She crosses to the Young Revolutionary with a candelabra.] —challenge of insurrection. . . . [Slowly she lifts the candelabra.] Ravishing, your appearance . . . Look! Here’s Fair Queen May. [She removes the mask from her face.] —Well? What say you, Sir?

  YOUNG REVOLUTIONARY: I came to assassinate a demented old hag—not you. . . .

  QUEEN: Then drop the weapon you’re holding behind your back.

  [He stares at her a moment. The weapon falls to the floor.]

  DOMINIQUE [dreaming]: I.

  QUEEN [to the Young Revolutionary]: Meanwhile I’ll find a way to get rid of that pretty little obstruction. —A critical comment on his verse should do it.

  DOMINIQUE [eyes shut]: You’ve made no comment on my latest poems.

  [The Queen points to her bedchamber entrance. With a slight nod, the Young Revolutionary picks up the weapon he dropped and enters the bedchamber, leaving the arched doorway uncurtained.]

  DOMINIQUE [drowsily, eyes shut]: Where are—why are—

  QUEEN [to the Young Revolutionary]: Since the boy never looks at my face why should I bother with this uncomfortable mask. —The charade, the bal masque is nearly over now . . . Now I offer you the secret of my young body . . . [She opens her padded robe.] If your preference is for boys, well, there’s Dominique, all but the genitalia exposed. A lovely-looking boy and his limitless narcissism—sadly amusing. —Victim, yes. We all are. —Victims . . . Our defects are not things chosen but things imposed. My defect—the eroticism that runs riot in my veins, an hereditary thing as common to my House as, say, the arrogance of the Hapsburgs and their pride . . . —collateral relatives. Name them, the Houses, I’ve got a bit of them all. But something entirely my own. [She leans forward.] I am very, very clever! —in that respect at least, allow me to say that I crown the lot of them. You’ll see! —Centuries from now this thing I have in my fingertips, this sensual stroking compulsion—would classify me as a—“skin-freak”? —So what? [She runs her fingertips over the body of her boy-beloved.] Music! Dance—celebration of the flesh! [She throws off her padded robe and whirls about the room in an ecstatically sensual dance.] —While obscene drawings of one I’m supposed to be are carried about the streets and effigies burned—of one gone long ago.

  DOMINIQUE: My new poems! Are you ready to discuss them?

  QUEEN: I’ve advised you not to begin so many with the pronoun “I”. [She toys with his curls.] Of course I realize that that would reduce their number quite drastically, yes, to a fraction of—

  DOMINIQUE: All of my poems begin with the pronoun “I”.

  QUEEN: Oh, dear, I suspected as much, since I’ve yet to come across one not begun with a great gilded assertion of the first person singular, the largest and most brilliantly illuminated letter on the page, appearing not just at the beginning but scattered throughout with a truly staggering succession of the same without variation. Change the pronoun, change it at least to “we”.

  DOMINIQUE: Meaning include you in it?

  QUEEN: No, no, I wish no part of it, dear boy. Collaboration between us? In a literary form? Disastrous, in view of the unpopularity that we both suffer equally at this time. The pronoun “we” could concern a common human condition, a confession of sharing the general human fate. This might disarm certain critics who find you unduly infatuated with the—what do they call it? Enormity of personal concern, disregard of all others on earth.

  DOMINIQUE: Detractors are dishonest. —Life commences with the pronoun “I” and probably ends with it, too.

  QUEEN: A passable aphorism, dear boy, but not an impregnable defense against your detractors who charge you with total self-concern, complete narcissism.

  DOMINIQUE: My narcissism is true.

  QUEEN: Unquestionably, sweet plaything, pretty toy of mine.

  [A trembling courtier enters. The Young Revolutionary retreats from view.]

  COURTIER: Madam, the enemy has entered the palace grounds.

  QUEEN: Overcome my guards?

  COURTIER: They’ve all deserted you, Madam.

  QUEEN: So. That’s how it is, that’s how it goes. Well, if our defenders do nothing, what are we to do? What action would you advise, Sir?

  COURTIER: Take flight at once.

  QUEEN: Once there were secret stairs and passageways through which one could take flight, but the stairs have collapsed and where do the passageways go?

  DOMINIQUE: What will happen to me?

  QUEEN: —That’s something best not considered. [She rises.] Why am I seated on this—mockery of what I now am? [She stumbles down three steps from her throne, staggers to the casement windows—throws them open.] Smoke blowing in. The capital’s on fire. Gates battered, stormed. —I’ve no defenders. Have you? Poor shivering boy, you haven’t even a voice to answer. Title and position meant little when I had them and mean even less when lost. —I’m going to retire to my bedchamber now. Hadn’t you better come with me? —The relation between us is known. —We’re condemned together.

  DOMINIQUE: You made the mistake of—

  QUEEN: What mistake did I make? [To the Courtier.] You’re excused, Sir.

  DOMINIQUE [as the Courtier rapidly exits]: —Using your ridiculously inappropriate position to indulge your lunacy.

  QUEEN: As grave an error as beginnin
g too many sentences with the pronoun “I”?

  DOMINIQUE: The consequences appear to have been more fatal in your case.

  QUEEN: Only mine, Dominique?

  DOMINIQUE: I’m still young. I can escape in disguise. Throw on a monk’s cloak and cowl—there are vestments in the chapel.

  QUEEN: Which is across the courtyard.

  DOMINIQUE: It’s not yet daybreak. [He runs to the opposite door.] I’ll race quickly across through the wall shadows.

  QUEEN: Yes, do that, go quickly, quickly, quickly!

  [He dashes out. She seizes a candelabra and rushes to the windows and throws them open.]

  QUEEN [crying out]: THERE GOES MY LOVER! THERE GOES MY BELOVED DOMINIQUE!

  [She holds the candelabra out the windows. The mob howls wildly below and there is a shrill, despairing cry from the fugitive boy. She closes the windows and crosses slowly to her bedchamber.]

  QUEEN: —Poor treacherous young fool. He’s done with the pronoun “I”. —not just with me.

  [She enters bedchamber. The Young Revolutionary springs forward—tears her regal clothes off, strips her naked.]

  QUEEN: Now when they enter, they will ask “Where is she?” To that, what shall we say?

  YOUNG REVOLUTIONARY: Say that she is dead.

  QUEEN: Several times over.

  YOUNG REVOLUTIONARY [embracing her]: How was that accomplished? By what magic?

  QUEEN: Perhaps she had her own secret assassin in her heart.

  [A mob of revolutionaries burst into the thrown room.]

  LEADER OF THE MOB: Where is she?

  YOUNG REVOLUTIONARY [to Queen]: Turn.

  LEADER OF THE MOB: —Where is she?

  QUEEN: Down secret stairs, to underground passageways, hurry, let’s pursue her!

  [The candles blow out in the windy rush as the mob about them runs from the room. They are alone and resume their embrace.]

  YOUNG REVOLUTIONARY: You.

  QUEEN: You . . .

  CURTAIN

  THE REMARKABLE ROOMING-

  HOUSE OF MME. LE MONDE

  The Remarkable Rooming-House of Mme. Le Monde was first performed by the Beau Jest Moving Theater at the Provincetown Tennessee Williams Theater Festival on September 25, 2009. It was directed by Davis Robinson; the set design was by Deb Puhl and David Howe; the lighting designs was by Megan Tracey; the costume design was by Rafael Jaen; the sound design was by Rew Tippen; and the production stage manager was Colin Dieck. The cast was as follows:

  MINT: Jordan Harrison

  THE SON: Nick Ronan

  HALL: Larry Coen

  MME. LE MONDE: Lisa Tucker

  A delicate little man with a childlike face, Mint, is spotted near the door to the “rectangle with hooks,” which is actually the attic of Mme. Le Monde’s residence in London. He is partially dressed in his old public school uniform, that is, he has on the short pants but the middy-jacket lies at his feet. The whole attic is equipped with curved metal hooks which provide the little man with a means of locomotion, as his legs are mysteriously paralyzed and his hands swing him from hook to hook. Stage left, there is an alcove with semi-transparent curtains to provide a retreat for certain occasions that require privacy. At rise a muscular, tow-headed young street-boy, son of Mme. Le Monde, appears in the doorless entrance, grinning lasciviously.

  MINT: Oh, no, no, not now. I am expecting a visitor.

  BOY: [advancing toward Mint]: We got time. He’s downstairs in bed with Mom.

  MINT: But he might surprise us!

  BOY [removing Mint from hook]: Don’t worry, it takes Mom a long time to come.

  MINT: Oh, but can’t we—

  BOY: Shuddup!

  [The boy carries Mint into the alcove. A perverse sexual act occurs behind the semi-transparent curtains. Moans of masochistic pain-pleasure are heard from Mint. The act is quickly completed and the boy emerges, fastening his fly.]

  MINT [off-stage]: Put me back on a hook, please, please, put me back on a hook before my guest arrives for tea.

  BOY: Aw, him, let him hook you back up if he ever hauls himself out of that ole buffalo waterin’ hole of Mom’s.

  [The boy exits. Pause. There is a rumble of thunder and sounds of gusty rain sweeping the attic roof. Mint’s arm snakes out of the curtained alcove to haul into it an old chamber pot decorated with faded roses, and also some crumpled newspaper sheets. Sound of footsteps rapidly ascending the attic stairs are heard. Hall enters. He is a tall, sharp-featured young man in a flashy, tight-fitting plaid suit, obviously subjected to long wear.]

  HALL: Well, where are you, Mint? —Was told you occupied this untenable-looking attic.

  MINT [in a thin voice from the alcove]:

  Scrotum-on-Swansea,

  Ever do or die!

  May the heavens bless thee

  Through eternity!

  HALL [glumly]: Yes. If my recollection serves me correctly, the composer of that dear old school song was accidentally dropped off the chapel belfry soon after its composition. Now did you or didn’t you ask me up here for tea?

  MINT: Did, did, oh yes, certainly did, repeatedly—repeatedly, dear Hall . . . Care of your last known address, P.O. Box Sixty-six, was it? [Mint crawls out of the alcove.] What a happy reunion this is!

  HALL [dubiously]: Hmmm. —What’re you crawling for, Mint?

  MINT: To extend greetings.

  HALL: In that horizontal position, half in and half out of your pants?

  MINT: Will explain later. Soon as I’ve fetched my box of old snapshots, mementos of our glorious days at Scrotum-on-Swansea.

  HALL: No, no, no, no, no. I am gasping for a good hot cup of tea.

  [A mechanical piano fades in faintly with the old tune, “Tea for Two.”]

  MINT: I may require of bit of assistance from you to conduct you to the tea table.

  HALL: Seeing you in this condition, I must congratulate myself that I’ve never suffered an affliction.

  MINT: None at all?

  HALL: No, none ever.

  MINT: Accidents?

  HALL: Not since a bee stung me in Hyde Park at the age of eleven. No allergy, no ill effect.

  MINT [gasping]: What—amazing—luck! Do hope—will continue.

  HALL: Confident of it. My theory about afflictions and accidents is that they’re self-induced.

  MINT: By— [He swings to another hook.] —what?

  HALL: Tendency. Susceptibility. As for you, Mint, there was never much question among us acquainted with you at Scrotum, really no question.

  MINT: About?

  HALL: Your inclination toward accident and affliction. In fact, I find it surprising that you’ve survived even to hang on a hook. No offense intended.

  MINT: Oh, none taken— [He swings to the next hook, and another.] —none whatsoever, dear Hall. [He loses his grasp of a hook and falls to the floor.] Ow.

  HALL: Took a bit of spill?

  MINT: Would you please hook me back up?

  HALL: Now how could I do that?

  MINT: Just, just— [Gasps.] —lift me, please, I’m—not heavy.

  HALL: Not at all sure I wish to take the risk.

  MINT: Risk? Risk of?

  HALL: Placing myself within range of your itchy fingers, Mint. You know what I mean, that old impulse of yours to take unsolicited liberties with the lower appendage of a schoolmate after lights out in the dorm. Must confess to you that I only accepted that flirtatiously phrased invitation to tea because I found myself in the vicinity of Mme. Le Monde’s rooming-house, it was starting to rain and my expensive new bumbershoot was turned inside out by a fearful gust of wind that swept Piccadilly Circus about an hour ago. By the way, may have to borrow yours or Mme. Le Monde’s when I brave the elements again after tea. Meanwhile let us remain at a respectful distance, you over th
ere and me here.

  MINT: Please be assured, dear Hall, that I, that I, that I—

  HALL: Out with it, man, you what?

  MINT: Entertain no such impulses, I swear by the blood of Our Blessed Saviour.

  HALL: Remain unconvinced.

  MINT: Also I’ve just experienced a sexual assault by one of the Madame’s innumerable— [Gasps.] —children, a male one, hung like a dray horse, kept on the place for— [Gasps.] —incestuous relations with the lady.

  HALL: All right, all right, I’ll run the risk of hooking you back up if you’ll quit this unappetizingly sordid chattering blather. [He lifts Mint from the floor with pretense of terrible effort and holds him under the hook farthest removed from the tea.] Grab hold before I drop you, you bloody sod! [The intimidated Mint seizes a hook beside the entrance.] There now, stay there, lemme get on with my tea.

  MINT: Oh, dear, you’ve hooked me up hopelessly far away from—

  HALL: Sorry. Too many hooks to distinguish one from another. Curious situation here, Mint, did you grope me when I picked you off the floor?

  MINT: No, no, no— [Gasps.] —I assure you— [Gasps.] —I didn’t.

  HALL: I assure you you did. Perhaps the unconscious impulse overcame propriety for a second. Nevertheless however be that as it may. [Pours himself more tea, slurps noisily.] Need restoration after that strenuous workout with your landlady down there.

  MINT: Do please wait till I— [Gasps.] —join you. I’m not complaining but I did, you did, well, give me a bit of a set-back to that hook by the door.

  HALL: Yes, curious, very. [He munches a biscuit.] At Scrotum-on-Swansea you were a notorious fag and bed-wetter but reasonably mobile. Now you get about only by swinging from hook to hook, like that historical ape-man swinging from branch to branch in the jungle. [He puts on broken spectacles to look about.] Twilight descending with intemperate weather. [He picks a crumb or two off the floor and pops them into his mouth.] Haven’t had time to stop by my bank today. Can you spare me a couple of quid?

  MINT: Oh, dear, no. Haven’t a shilling, not even a copper since— [Gasps.] —remittances stopped and lower paralysis— [Gasps.] —started.

  HALL: Well, then. We won’t pursue the financial subject further. When did this dependence on hooks begin, Mint?