The Traveling Companion & Other Plays

by Tennessee Williams

  MINT: Almost immediately after Mommy’s commitment.

  HALL: Did I understand you to say it’s connected with a commitment?

  MINT [in a choked voice]: Yes, Mommy’s.

  HALL: [munching a biscuit]: Commitment to what?

  MINT: Asylum.

  HALL: Mental?

  MINT [with a sob]: Yes.

  HALL: Events of this nature frequently occur. When the genes are a fuck-up.

  MINT: No further allowance incoming—cut off completely since dear mother’s commitment. However I don’t wish to depress you with the misfortunes that have taken place in my life since Scrotum-on-Swansea.

  HALL: This tea is restorative, a strong brew, but it’s getting a little tepid.

  MINT: I’d hoped you would arrive sooner.

  HALL: Arrived punctually, but was detained downstairs. [He pours himself another cup of tea and munches a second biscuit.] The biscuits are a bit moldy, if you’ll forgive my candor on the subject.

  MINT: Sorry about that, Hall. The weather’s been damp all week.

  HALL: Mmm. That’s a pretty accurate observation . . .

  MINT [approaching Hall gradually by swinging from hook to hook]: My arms seem weaker today.

  HALL: Don’t over-exert yourself, Mint. No hurry, y’know.

  MINT: You are drinking the tea so fast that, pardon me for this concern which may seem to be selfish, I—I fear that the pot will be empty before I am able to join you.

  HALL: That amiable landlady of yours, Mme. Le Monde, will surely provide us with more. Perhaps another platter of biscuits as well, being the last of the present lot.

  MINT: Could you, would you?

  HALL: The usual request? Sorry. Having just done my bit of in-out with the Madam—would not be inclined to repeat the performance with you, certainly not in your somewhat off-putting state of disrepair, Mint.

  MINT: Oh, I assure you, you misunderstood me. I meant could you reduce somewhat the speed with which you are—I mean not quite so rapid, the—consumption of biscuits and tea, since—

  HALL: Not a chance, old boy. You see, I’ve had such an active day in the sale of shares in Amalgamated that this is actually my first chance to ingest a bit of restorative brew and—mmm, yes, there was a bit of misunderstanding, Mint. You see, I haven’t forgotten how you were after me continually for sexual gratification at Scrotum-on-Swansea.

  MINT: Coming, coming.

  HALL: An orgasm at the mere recollection of it, well, well, hmmm, that’s flattering. However—the pot is practically empty. How do you call Mme. Le Monde, vocally or by a buzzer or a bell or a hard knock on the woodwork? [Mint falls from a hook to the floor.] Took another spill, hah?

  MINT: Was making fairly good progress, oh, this is—distressing.

  HALL: Remember the fighting spirit of Scrotum-on-Swansea, hip, hip, hurrah, jolly good show and all that. Hmmm. How did the second verse go?

  Scrotum-on-Swansea,

  Long may ye thrive!

  Da-da-da-da-daaa,

  May fellowship survive.

  MINT: Yes, yes, yes, but please put me back on a hook—by the tea!

  HALL: All in good time. I am as you see engaged in brushing some crumbs off my trow. [He eats the crumbs.] Now, then, back on the hook with you, Mint. [He goes to Mint and moves him back toward the doorway.]

  MINT: No, no, Hall, wrong direction.

  HALL: Everlasting complaints, sour element of your nature. Now call the Madame and tell her we need some repletions.

  [Mint lets go of a hook by the door and starts crawling toward the box. Hall intercepts him and returns him to the hook.]

  MINT: Tea, biscuits! Biscuits, tea! Finished! Have pity on a broken and desperate soul, subsisting on diminishing bits of—charities—reluctance . . .

  HALL [shouting into stair-well]: Madame Le Monde, Madame Le Monde!

  MME. LE MONDE [cheerily from below]: What, ducks?

  HALL: We could do with a fresh pot of tea and a few more biscuits up here.

  MME. LE MONDE [from below]: Could ya now, whadaya know!

  HALL: Rather ambiguous answer. Well—I do feel a bit restored. [Big Ben tolls in the distance.] Six or seven by my count. What by yours? [Mint sobs quietly.] Seems to me I have a later appointment, and not much later. Name? Rosie O’Toole. Address? Closer to Soho than Knightsbridge. Nevertheless it was an interesting encounter, as such things come and go. I mean after midnight in a torrent of rain just off Trafalgar Square. Ah, yes, the details of it remain quite fresh in my mind. [The mechanical piano resumes; an old sentimental tune.] Heard a screech of tires and this cabbie draws up beside me. The passenger was a youngish female of a predictable species. She leans her head out the window and enquires of me if she can give me a lift. “Why, yes,” I reply, “that would be a Godsend in this type of weather.” She swings the door open wide and a nearby lamp permits me to observe her more clearly. Her apparel was startling, even to me. Transparent summer frock, pale green with floral embroidery on it. —Not a stitch underneath. [He has taken the box downstage and is seated on it as he delivers this account of his previous night’s encounter.] Well, it so happened I’d just been taking a leak. No impropriety about it since it was two A.M. or after and the streets deserted. So. I had not stopped pissing, the whang was still out. You remember its size? From experience, Mint? In the old days at Scrotum when you hounded me for it relentlessly in the dorm? Frankly, I think that’s what gave Abbey and Sessions the notion that you were a bit of a fag, to put it politely. Well, she saw it and so the encounter with Miss O’Toole was not so coincidental as you might imagine at first. I get in the cab and start to zip up but she says, “Oh, no don’t bother. I am a nurse’s aide and am accustomed to male anatomy but rarely a member of that size has come my way.” Distinguishing characteristics? Of Miss O’Toole? The expression is to deep throat. Well, she was a deep-throater, took it all the way in. However. She said, “Don’t come in the oral preliminary. I want you to fuck me.” I told her frankly that I was not so inclined as her general deportment had given rise to the speculation that she might be diseased. Not wishing to contract the clap or syph from her, I politely declined. She became somewhat annoyed. “Then remove your cock from my mouth, please.” I did not comply with this bad-tempered request. On the contrary, I shot my load immediately down her esophagus. “Officer,” she screamed to a bobby on a corner. The cab stopped. “This man has tried to force himself on me.” “Aw, git along witcha, Rosie,” said the copper. Apparently he had met the lady before and was acquainted with her character and her habits.

  MINT: Hall, do please save me some tea. I haven’t eaten a bit for days.

  HALL: I guessed as much. Wouldn’t you say it might be a gentlemanly gesture to pay Miss O’Toole a call? Sure I could placate her anger at the disappointment she suffered at that first encounter. Also her circumstances, from what I could surmise from the superficial observations possible at that time, were better than, maybe considerably better than those of your usual trollop. Could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Get her to invest in Amalgamated, Inc. after indulging once more in her exceptional talent. Oh, she might cry out rape again. Not the first time I have heard that cry, which is water off the back of a feathered fowl. Hmmm. Address . . . [He flips through some tattered cards in his pocket.] What’s this? Ah. An amazing item culled from the tabloid press. [He reads.] “Before the unprovoked slaughter of his devoted parents, ‘Slasher’ Slymm, of Hampstead, performed ghastly experiments on dozens of chickens that ran through the house, their terrified squawks disturbing the slumber of neighbors.” Yes, credible, very. “Tools of his trade included instruments of destruction and torture that ranged from hacksaw to meat grinder.” Hmmm. No frolicsome child with a slingshot was he, what Mint?

  [Mint falls to the floor, totally immobilized with panic.]

  HALL: Hold it there, will hook you up la
ter. Continues to say that Slymm was trying to breed a super-chicken. Excellent idea, haven’t had much produce or poultry lately. “So he took the brains out of live chickens and transplanted them into eggs.” Ingenious, huh? Yes, very. “Abandoned this relatively pleasant practice to turn his attention to aforesaid devoted Mom and Pop.” Mmm. “While a domestic sat reading this very same tabloid.” Previous issue of it, presumably, “Slymm dismembered his Pop with a hacksaw.” [Looks up.] Who’s to say this male parent did not have it coming to him? Goes on to say, “Mom was due.” Probably long overdue, I’d suspect. “On her arrival the so-called sicko experimentist chopped her to mincemeat.” Well, what of it? Obviously suffered child abuse in his youth: finally evened it out. Ahh, here’s Rosie’s address. [Produces another card.] “Number 15 Straw in Shoreditch Mews.” What Mews is this here, Mint? [Slurps dregs of tea.]

  MINT: Sh-sh Shoreditch.

  HALL: Ah. Makes it convenient.

  MINT: My dear Hall, do hear me. Mme. Le Monde has so cut down on my rations that this is the first tea she’s brought me up in I forget how many days, oh, and when she brought it up, she said she’d deliver no more to such a loser; intends to have me transferred to home for destitute crips.

  HALL: Final indignity, Mint, last straw.

  MINT: For the sake of our blessed Saviour, save me one biscuit!

  HALL: None left of this batch, old boy, must hope for seconds. Now tell me. Has there been, as I suspect, a recent decline in your relations with the lady of the land?

  MINT: Regrettably, yes. She has the impression that I have engaged in sexual improprieties with her strapping young son.

  HALL: Quite unjustly, dear Mint?

  MINT: You know that I was never blessed with a particularly strong nature to resist the lustful advances.

  HALL: Cannot recall an occasion on which you retreated from it, Mint. So much for the matter of that. [He rises. A subtle spot of light, stronger than the somewhat crepuscular attic, falls upon him as he preens himself in his oddly-fashioned outfit: plaid jacket flaring at the waist and the pants adhering tightly to his long legs.] I was paid a pretty compliment by a lady somewhat advanced in years whom I encountered in Shepherd’s Market. Said I reminded her of a famous gentleman of the theatre whom she’d admired in her youth. Harrison, Mex, Tex? Something like that. Quite sincere she was, and why not? [He turns about, raising the flair of his jacket to expose his hips. A patch is conspicuous over one buttock.] My circumstances should be inspiring to you, Mint, if you don’t have too jealous a nature.

  MINT: Not a— [Gasps.] —jealous bone in my—body.

  HALL: Not a bone in your body, more like it. Your attention appears to be concentrated on the frontal equatorial zone, so to speak. [He pats his “basket.”] Tch, tch. Available at a price beyond your reach, old boy. Now as for other assets, if I may distract you from that which you can’t afford—health is Numero Uno, including dental prophylaxis, even while serving a short term at Wormwood-Scrubs—a partner in a certain enterprise involving bonds of highly fluctuant value had the audacity to—we needn’t dwell on that subject. As for my apparel. Have a distinct preference for the Roman cut, obtainable at the finest tailoring establishment on Bond Street, shirt accessories, well, you can see. I would show you my monogrammed silk underthings if you hadn’t groped me when I hooked you back up there. Can’t risk repetition of that. —Inspired? Yes? No room for desperation, dear boy, this side of the last gasp. So what do you do to get replenishments out of Mme. Le Monde?

  MINT: You [Gasps.] don’t.

  HALL: Maybe you don’t but I do. [He stamps the floor repeatedly.] Obstinate old bitch; will have to confront her downstairs. Might offer an opportunity to interest the lady in some remaining share of Amalgamated, Inc. Back in a flash. Will send her son up to comfort you during my absence . . . [He exits, singing a lively music hall tune.] Carry on, carry on, carry on, while you can!

  [Mint sprawls on the floor with piteous bleating cries until the strapping lad, Mme. Le Monde’s resident son, enters the attic, grinning as he unscrews the cap of a jar.]

  MINT: Oh, no, no, no! Well, maybe, since you’ve come with—lubricant, is it?

  BOY: Astringent.

  [Mint cries out in terror as the boy removes him from the floor and carries him into the curtained alcove.]

  MINT: Oh, no! Please, different position, wow, wow, wowww! [Loud footsteps are heard on the stairs to the attic.] Oh, dear, put me into my panties. Mme. Le Monde is approaching! Doesn’t approve of the old public school practice.

  [Mme. Le Monde and Hall enter.]

  BOY: Hold still a mo! Willya?

  [Mme. Le Monde is a large and rather globular woman with a fiery red mop of hair that suggests a nuclear explosion, as does her voice.]

  MME. LE MONDE: What’s going on? Boy, are you back of the curtains with that morphodite gimp?

  MINT [crawls gasping out of the alcove]: I was pointing out to your son—various glories of London . . .

  HALL: While you were at it, Mint, Mme. Le Monde and I have negotiated a deal the likes of which the queen herself would scarcely equal if the whole British empire at its old height of grandeur fell back into her lap. Guess what! She has just acquired a controlling interest in Amalgamated, Inc. Well, she deserves it, wouldn’t you say.

  MME. LE MONDE: Oh, I don’t know about that, that might involve a wee bit of overstatement, Mr. Hall.

  HALL: Wait’ll the news of its hits the Exchange tomorrow!

  MME. LE MONDE: Soon as that, eh?

  HALL: You should feel totally secure about the value as soon as possible, dear. —This, uh, stack of greens, I hope you won’t be offended if I go through it.

  MME. LE MONDE: They’re good as gold, if not better. I know a value. I respect the prudent negotiation.

  HALL: You’re a business lady after my heart and you’ve no idea how wisely you’ve invested your nest-egg, at what a spectacular bargain.

  MME. LE MONDE: I am nobody’s fool, Mr. Hall.

  HALL: Neither am I. We’re a good match for each other. Oh, you’re not a married lady?

  MME. LE MONDE: Oh, no. A widow for years.

  HALL: My sympathy if desired. Do you realize what a fortune you have acquired, Ma’am?

  MME. LE MONDE: I have an idea.

  HALL: Well—wheels must be set in motion.

  MME. LE MONDE: Unquestionably their purpose, Mr. Hall.

  [Her son emerges from the alcove, zipping his pants.]

  MINT: Hall, did you remind Mme. Le Monde of the, uh, depletion of the, uh, tea?

  HALL: An empty teapot was scarcely a suitable topic on an occasion such as this.

  [Mme. Le Monde abruptly floors her son with a lethal karate chop. This action is startling even to Hall. He lifts the youth’s wrist, which is pulseless.]

  HALL: Was this your only offspring, Mme. Le Monde?

  MME. LE MONDE: Mr. Hall, my fecundity is equal to the queen bee’s. I am constantly reproducing drones such as that one.

  HALL: Ah, yes, I see, and being the only mobile witness, you may rest assured that should my testimony be required, I will describe the incident as purely accidental. So let us dismiss it as such. And may I say that you strike me as a lady of highly judicious as well as precipitate action. Wouldn’t you say so, Mint? [ Mme. Le Monde seizes Mint and throws him onto his cot which flattens to the floor. Mint evidences no sign of survival.] Hmmm, yes. This sort of thing is what we need in the world now. Removal of the redundant. So—congratulations once more and my most obedient respects in all matters. Adieu, ta ta, à demain. There will be banner headlines in every financial center of the world when the staggering word is given.

  [He exits jauntily. Mme. Le Monde pulls a lever by the door. This act is followed by sounds mechanical and human as the stairs flatten out, becoming a long deep slide to the pits. Silence. Then the mechanical piano picks up again its
sentimental and nostalgic refrain. Mme. Le Monde crosses in a grand but leisurely fashion downstage center.]

  MME. LE MONDE [to audience]: The world is accident prone, no use attempting correction. After all, the loss of one fool makes room for another. A superabundance of them must be somehow avoided if at all possible now. —Well. He threw me a good one before he descended to set the wheels in motion, as he quaintly put it. [She turns majestically to pull the lever again. Mechanical sound of stairs resuming natural position.] That’s how it goes in a rectangle with hooks, Galileo be damned. Now evening descends. The moon is out, serenely. It goes, it goes. There’s nothing more to be asked for that will ever be given.

  SLOW CURTAIN

  KIRCHE, KÜCHE, KINDER

  (AN OUTRAGE FOR THE STAGE)

  Kirche, Küche, Kinder was first performed by The Jean Cocteau Repertory Company as a work in progress under the title Kirche, Kutchen, und Kinder, in September 1979 at the Bouwerie Lane Theatre in New York City where it ran in repertory until January, 1980. It was directed by Eve Adamson; the set, lights and costumes were designed by Douglas McKeown; original music was composed by Robert Skilling; and the stage manager was John T. Bower. The cast, in order of appearance, was as follows:

  THE MAN: Craig Smith

  MISS ROSE: Karla Barker*

  THE WIFE: Phylllis Deitschel

  THE LUTHERAN MINISTER: Coral S. Potter

  FRAÜLEIN HAUSSMITZENSCHLOGGER: Harris Berlinksy

  THE KINDER: John T. Bowe, Christina Sluberski

  *later played by Amy K. Posner

  ACT ONE

  At rise: a suspiciously healthy, handsome, and powerful-looking man is seated in a wheelchair, stage center. The room, which he will describe in an opening monologue, contains certain elements suggestive of “High Church.” The man is blond Irish, a self-proclaimed descendant of “the old kings of Ireland.” His costume is the kind commonly worn by young male hustlers. His eyes are closed in light slumber, which is interrupted by the entrance of an elegant lady organist. I see her wearing a tall hat resembling a lady’s riding hat of Victorian vintage, and a dress of dark purple silk of the same period. Her name is Miss Rose.