27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays by Tennessee Williams Page B
Authors: Tennessee Williams
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disgust.
With fur on the tongue,
with mucous-inflamed eyeballs,
fever enlarging the horrible chamber at night!
T HE W OMEN:
Rojo — rojo
rojo de sangre es el sol!
R ANCHER:
Now do you wonder
that with no divining rod excepting my thirst
I looked for coolness of springs in the woman’s body?
That finding none,
or finding it being cut off—drained away
at the source—by the least suspected,
I struck?
And struck?
And tore the false rock open?
T HE W OMEN: Rojo — rojo.
R ANCHER:
I own my guilt.
I own it before you ranchers, before you women.
I say that I struck with an axe at the wife’s false body and would have struck him, too, but my strength went from me.
I found the two together and clove them apart with that—the axe.
No more,
there is no more.
T HE W OMEN:
Rojo de sangre es el sol!
Rojo — rojo.
Rojo de sangre es el sol!
( The Rancher sinks to the bench. The Son rises. A cloud again passes over the sky. There is a glimmer of lightning and the fretful murmur of wind. A dimness replaces the glare that was in the room. The women murmur and draw their shawls about them. )
S ON: ( facing The Rancher )
You shall not defame her,
nor shall you defile her,
this quicksilver girl,
this skyward diver,
this searcher after pearls,
terrestrial striver!
Blue—
Blue—
Immortally blue
is space at last . . .
I think she always knew that she would be lost in it.
Lost in it? Where!
In which if any direction!
Player, with music lead us!
Lead us—Where?
( The Guitar Player, with an assenting smile, rises by the door. )
S ON: ( with gestures of infinite longing )
O stallion lover the night is your raped white mare!
The meadow grasses continued entirely too far beyond where the gate—is broken in several places.
Cling to it, dark child, till it carries you further than ever.
O make it swing out to the wildest and openest places!
The most—indestructible places!
For nothing contains you now,
no, nothing contains you, lost little girl, my sister,
not even those—little—blue veins
that carried the light to your temples,
O springtime jets
so torrential they burst their vessels and spattered the sky!
( Bells toll softly once more and the girl reappears in the doorway. It is the first vision again — Elena of the Springs. The Son stumbles toward her. )
S ON: Elena.
( She shakes her head with a sorrowful smile. )
Elena!
( He whips a knife from his belt and holds it above him. )
Witness—in this thrust—our purification!
( He plunges the knife into his breast. Everyone rises with a soft intake of breath. The Guitar Player stands and sweeps back his crimson cape. He accompanies the speech and action with delicate chords. )
M OTHER: ( unbearably )My son!
S ON: Elena . . .
( The vision retreats smiling, transcendent. The Son drops the knife and leans in the open doorway. The sky darkens and there is a rumble of thunder. A voice in the distance cries “ Rain! ")
S ON: ( looking out with a smile )
Peeto, our pony, catches the scent in his nostrils of thunderstorms coming . . .
( A delicate chord on the guitar. )
When Peeto was born he stood on his four legs at once, and accepted the world.
He was wiser than I.
When Peeto was one year old, he was wiser than God!
A VOICE: ( nearer )The rain! The rain! The rain!
S ON: ( with a faint smile, glancing up )
Peeto! Peeto!
The Indian boys call after . . .
V OICE: ( still nearer )the rain!
S ON:
. . . trying to stop him, trying to stop—the wind . . .
( He lurches forward and falls to the floor. An Indian Youth in a wet blue shirt and sombrero bursts in the doorway, shouting. )
Y OUTH: The rain! The rain! The . . .
( He tears off his sombrero and flings the rain from the brim across the court-room. Then he suddenly observes the body on the floor. He falls respectfully silent and bows his head. Outside is heard the faint and haunting musk of guitars, accompanied by the wordless singing of women. Rain can be heard
With fur on the tongue,
with mucous-inflamed eyeballs,
fever enlarging the horrible chamber at night!
T HE W OMEN:
Rojo — rojo
rojo de sangre es el sol!
R ANCHER:
Now do you wonder
that with no divining rod excepting my thirst
I looked for coolness of springs in the woman’s body?
That finding none,
or finding it being cut off—drained away
at the source—by the least suspected,
I struck?
And struck?
And tore the false rock open?
T HE W OMEN: Rojo — rojo.
R ANCHER:
I own my guilt.
I own it before you ranchers, before you women.
I say that I struck with an axe at the wife’s false body and would have struck him, too, but my strength went from me.
I found the two together and clove them apart with that—the axe.
No more,
there is no more.
T HE W OMEN:
Rojo de sangre es el sol!
Rojo — rojo.
Rojo de sangre es el sol!
( The Rancher sinks to the bench. The Son rises. A cloud again passes over the sky. There is a glimmer of lightning and the fretful murmur of wind. A dimness replaces the glare that was in the room. The women murmur and draw their shawls about them. )
S ON: ( facing The Rancher )
You shall not defame her,
nor shall you defile her,
this quicksilver girl,
this skyward diver,
this searcher after pearls,
terrestrial striver!
Blue—
Blue—
Immortally blue
is space at last . . .
I think she always knew that she would be lost in it.
Lost in it? Where!
In which if any direction!
Player, with music lead us!
Lead us—Where?
( The Guitar Player, with an assenting smile, rises by the door. )
S ON: ( with gestures of infinite longing )
O stallion lover the night is your raped white mare!
The meadow grasses continued entirely too far beyond where the gate—is broken in several places.
Cling to it, dark child, till it carries you further than ever.
O make it swing out to the wildest and openest places!
The most—indestructible places!
For nothing contains you now,
no, nothing contains you, lost little girl, my sister,
not even those—little—blue veins
that carried the light to your temples,
O springtime jets
so torrential they burst their vessels and spattered the sky!
( Bells toll softly once more and the girl reappears in the doorway. It is the first vision again — Elena of the Springs. The Son stumbles toward her. )
S ON: Elena.
( She shakes her head with a sorrowful smile. )
Elena!
( He whips a knife from his belt and holds it above him. )
Witness—in this thrust—our purification!
( He plunges the knife into his breast. Everyone rises with a soft intake of breath. The Guitar Player stands and sweeps back his crimson cape. He accompanies the speech and action with delicate chords. )
M OTHER: ( unbearably )My son!
S ON: Elena . . .
( The vision retreats smiling, transcendent. The Son drops the knife and leans in the open doorway. The sky darkens and there is a rumble of thunder. A voice in the distance cries “ Rain! ")
S ON: ( looking out with a smile )
Peeto, our pony, catches the scent in his nostrils of thunderstorms coming . . .
( A delicate chord on the guitar. )
When Peeto was born he stood on his four legs at once, and accepted the world.
He was wiser than I.
When Peeto was one year old, he was wiser than God!
A VOICE: ( nearer )The rain! The rain! The rain!
S ON: ( with a faint smile, glancing up )
Peeto! Peeto!
The Indian boys call after . . .
V OICE: ( still nearer )the rain!
S ON:
. . . trying to stop him, trying to stop—the wind . . .
( He lurches forward and falls to the floor. An Indian Youth in a wet blue shirt and sombrero bursts in the doorway, shouting. )
Y OUTH: The rain! The rain! The . . .
( He tears off his sombrero and flings the rain from the brim across the court-room. Then he suddenly observes the body on the floor. He falls respectfully silent and bows his head. Outside is heard the faint and haunting musk of guitars, accompanied by the wordless singing of women. Rain can be heard
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