27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays by Tennessee Williams Read Free Book Online

makes delicate gestures with her hands which are ringed with rubies and sapphires. )
    My son is the victim of an innocent rapture.
    His ways are derived of me.
    I also rode on horseback through the mountains in August as well as in March—
    I also shouted and made ridiculous gestures before I grew older and learned the uselessness of it . . .
    If this imputes some dark guilt on the doer,

    Then I, his mother, must share in this public censure.
    Sangre mala —call it.
    C HORUS: ( whispering ) Sangre mala! Sangre mala!
    M OTHER:
    Our people—were Indian-fighters . . .
    The Indians now are subdued—
    So what can we do but contend with our own queer shadows?
    T HE J UDGE: Señora—
    M OTHER:
    Bear with me a while, for I must explain things to you.
    F ATHER:
    Callate, Maria!
    Rosalio, stand and speak!
    ( The Son looks at The Judge. )
    T HE J UDGE: Yes, Rosalio, speak.
    ( The Son rises slowly , twisting the length of white rope between his hands. )
    S ON: What do you want me to tell you?
    T HE J UDGE: ( smiling )Simply the truth.
    S ON:
    The truth?
    Why ask me for that?
    Ask it of him, the player—for truth is sometimes alluded to in music.
    But words are too loosely woven to catch it in . . .
    A bird can be snared as it rises or torn to earth by the falcon.
    His song, which is truth, is not to be captured ever.
    It is an image, a dream, it is the link to the mother, the belly’s rope that dropped our bodies from God a longer time ago than we remember!

    I—forget.
    ( The Chorus murmur. )
    L UISA: The tainted spring—is bubbling.
    S ON: Player! Prompt me with music.
    ( The Guitar Player sweeps the strings. )
    S ON: ( with a sudden smile )
    How shall I describe the effect that a song had on us?
    On nights of fiesta the ranch-boys, eager with May, surrounded our fences with little drum-gourds, with guitars.
    ( facing The Mother )
    You, Mother, would wash the delicate white lace curtains, sweep down the long stairs and scent the alcoves with lemon.
    ( Chord on the guitar. )
    How shall I describe the effect that a song had on us?
    Our genitals were too eager!
    M OTHER: ( involuntarily )No!
    L UISA: Listen!
    S ON:
    Player, prompt me with music For I have lost the thread.
    Weave back my sister’s image.
    ( Music )
    No. She’s lost,
    Snared as she rose,
    or torn to earth by the falcon!
    No, she’s lost,
    Irretrievably lost,
    Gone out among Spanish-named ranges.

    ( He smiles vaguely. )
    Too far to pursue except on the back of that lizard . . .
    L UISA: Bubbling! Bubbling!
    M OTHER: Rosalio!
    ( The Father touches her shoulder. )
    S ON:
    . . . Whose green phosphorescence,
    scimitar-like,
    disturbs midnight
    with hissing, metallic sky-prowling . . .
    J UDGE:
    Is this the chimera you,
    you moon-crazed youth,
    pursued through the mountains?
    S ON: No . . .
    ( Luisa laughs harshly. )
    L UISA:
    How shall he describe the effect that a song had on him!
    S ON: I washed my body in snow.
    L UISA: Because it was shameful!
    S ON:
    Yes!
    And now you may know
    How well indeed I succeeded in putting out fires.
    My sister is free.
    ( To The Rancher )
    His hand gave liberty to her.
    But mine—a less generous agent—
    Only gave her—longings . . .
    ( The Mother cries out. The Father rises. The Chorus murmur. )

    L UISA: Sangre mala!
    ( A peal of thunder outside. )
    J UDGE:
    A house that breeds in itself will breed destruction.
    L UISA: Sangre mala!
    F ATHER: ( passionately )
    In our blood was the force that carved this country!
    Sangre mala, you call it?
    T HE J UDGE:
    Your pride turned inward too far, excluded the world and lost itself in a mirror.
    M OTHER:
    No, we admitted too much of the world, I think.
    We should have put up more fences.
    The Conquistadors must not neglect their fences.
    F ATHER: Ours were neglected.
    M OTHER: We poured our blood in the desert to make it flower.
    F ATHER: The flowers were not good flowers.
    ( The sky through the doorway darkens. Wind moans. )
    M OTHER: They were neglected.
    S ON: ( tormented )Mother!
    M