Tennessee Williams The Rose Tattoo Copyright, 1950, 1951, by Tennessee Williams. O slinger! crack the nut of my eye! my heart twittered with joy under the splendor of the quicklime, the bird sings O Senectus! . . . the streams are in their beds like the cries of women and this world has more beauty than a ram's skin painted red! St.-John Pese: Anabasis T.S. Eliot Translation To Frank in return for Sicily The Timeless World of a Play Carson McCullers concludes one of her lyric poems with the line: "Time, the endless idiot, runs screaming 'round the world." It is this continual rush of time, so violent that it appears to be screaming, that deprives our actual lives of so much dignity and meaning, and it is, perhaps more than anything else, the arrest of time which has taken place in a completed work of art that gives to certain plays their feeling of depth and significance. In the London notices of Death of a Salesman a certain notoriously skeptical critic made the remark that Willy Loman was the sort of man that almost any member of the audience would have kicked out of an office had he applied for a job or detained one for conversation about his troubles. The remark itself possibly holds some truth. But the implication that Willy Loman is consequently a character with whom we have no reason to concern ourselves in drama, reveals a strikingly false conception of what plays are. Contemplation is something that exists outside of time, and so is the tragic sense. Even in the actual world of commerce, there exists in some persons a sensibility to the unfortunate situations of others, a capacity for concern and compassion, surviving from a more tender period of life outside the present whirling wire-cage of business activity. Facing Willy Loman across an office desk, meeting his nervous glance and hearing his querulous voice, we would be very likely to glance at our wrist watch and our schedule of other appointments. We would not kick him out of the office, no, but we would certainly ease him out with more expedition than Willy had feebly hoped for. But suppose there had been no wrist watch or office clock and suppose there had not been the schedule of pressing appointments, and suppose that we were not actually facing Willy across a desk--and facing a person is not the best way to see him!--suppose, in other words, that the meeting with Willy Loman had somehow occurred in a world outside of time. Then I think we would receive him with concern and kindness and even with respect. If the world of a play did not offer us this occasion to view its characters under that special condition of a world without time, then, indeed, the characters and occurrenceso f drama would become equally pointless, equally trivial, as corresponding meetings and happenings in life. The classic tragedies of Greece had tremendous nobility. The actors wore great masks, movements were formal, dance-like, and the speeches had an epic quality which doubtless were as removed from the normal conversation of their contemporary society as they seem today. Yet they did not seem false to the Greek audiences: the magnitude of the events and the passions aroused by them did not seem ridiculously out of proportion to common experience. And I wonder if this was not because the Greek audiences knew, instinctively or by training, that the created world of a play is removed from that element which makes people little and their emotions fairly inconsequential. Great sculpture often follows the lines of the human body: yet the repose of great sculpture suddenly transmutes those human lines to something that has an absoluteness, a purity, a beauty, which would not be possible in a living mobile form. A play may be violent, full of motion: yet it has that special kind of repose which allows contemplation and produces the climate in which tragic importance is a possible thing,' provided that certain modern conditions are met. In actual existence the moments of love are succeeded by the moments of satiety and sleep. The sincere remark is followed by a cynical distrust. Truth is fragmentary, at best: we love and betray each other not in quite the same breath but in two breaths that occur in fairly close sequence. But the fact that passion occurred in passing, that it then declined into a more familiar sense of indifference, should not be regarded as proof of its inconsequence. And this is the very truth that drama wishes to bring us . . . Whether or not we admit it to ourselves, we are all haunted by a truly awful sense of impermanence. I have always had a particularly keen sense of this at New York cocktail parties, and perhaps that is why I drink the martinis almost as fast as I can snatch them from the tray. This sense is the febrile thing that hangs in the air. Horror of insincerity, of not meaning, overhangs these affairs like the cloud of cigarette smoke and the hectic chatter. This horror is the only thing, almost, that is left unsaid at such functions. All social functions involving a group of people not intimately known to each other are always under this shadow. They are almost always (in an unconscious way) like that last dinner of the condemned: where steak or turkey, whatever the doomed man wants, is served in his cell as a mockingly cruel reminder of what the great-big-little-transitory world had to offer. In a play, time is arrested in the sense of being confined. By a sort of legerdemain, events are made to remain events, rather than being reduced so quickly to mere occurrences. The audience can sit back in a comforting dusk to watch a world which is flooded with light and in which emotion and action have a dimension and dignity that they would likewise have in real existence, if only the shattering intrusion of time could be locked out. About their lives people ought to remember that when they are finished, everything in them will be contained in a marvelous state of repose which is the same as that which they unconsciously admired in drama. The rush is temporary. The great and only possible dignity of man lies in his power deliberately to choose certain moral values by which to live as steadfastly as if he, too, like a character in a play, were immured against the corrupting rush of time. Snatching the eternal out of the desperately fleeting is the great magic trick of human existence. As far as we know, as far as there exists any kind of empiric evidence, there is no way to beat the game of being against nonbeing, in which nonbeing is the predestined victor on realistic levels. Yet plays in the tragic tradition offer us a view of certain moral values in violent juxtaposition. Because we do not participate, except as spectators, we can view them clearly, within the limits of our emotional equipment. These people on the stage do not return our looks. We do not have to answer their questions nor make any sign of being in company with them, nor do we have to compete with their virtues nor resist their offenses. All at once, for this reason, we are able to see them! Our hearts are wrung by recognition and pity, so that the dusky shell of the auditorium where we are gathered anonymously together is flooded with an almost liquid warmth of unchecked human sympathies, relieved of self-consciousness, allowed to function . . . Men pity and love each other more deeply than they permit themselves to know. The moment after the phone has been hung up, the hand reaches for a scratch pad and scrawls a notation: "Funeral Tuesday at five, Church of the Holy Redeemer, don't forget flowers." And the same hand is only a little shakier than usual as it reaches, some minutes later, for a highball glass that will pour a stupefaction over the kindled nerves. Fear and evasion are the two little beasts that chase each other's tails in the revolving wire-cage of our nervous world. They distract us from feeling too much about things. Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation . . . So successfully have we disguised from ourselves the intensity of our own feelings, the sensibility of our own hearts, that plays in the tragic tradition have begun to seem untrue. For a couple of hours we may surrender ourselves to a world of fiercely illuminated values in conflict, but when the stage is covered and the auditorium lighted, almost immediately there is a recoil of disbelief. "Well, well!" we say as we shuffle back up the aisle, while the play dwindles behind us with the sudden perspective of an early Chirico painting. By the time we have arrived at Sardi's, if not as soon as we pass beneath the marquee, we have convinced ourselves once more that life has as little resemblance to the curiously stirring and meaningful occurrences on the stage as a jingle has to an elegy of Rilke. This modern condition of his theater audience is something that an author must know in advance. The diminishing influence of life's destroyer, time, must be, somehow worked into the context of his play. Perhaps it is a certain foolery, a certain distortion toward the grotesque, which will solve the problem for him. Perhaps it is only restraint, putting a mute on the strings that would like to break all bounds. But almost surely, unless he contrives in some way to relate the dimensions of his tragedy to the dimensions of a world in which time is included--he will be left among his magnificent debris on a dark stage, muttering to himself: "Those fools . . ." And if they could hear him above the clatter of tongues, glasses, chinaware and silver, they would give him this answer: "But you have shown us a world not ravaged by time. We admire your innocence. But we have seen our photographs, past and present. Yesterday evening we passed our first wife on the street. We smiled as we spoke but we didn't really see her! It's too bad, but we know what is true and not true, and at 3 A.M. your disgrace will be in print!" --Tennessee Williams First produced by Cheryl Crawford at the Erlanger Theater in Chicago on December 29, 1950. Broadway opening at the Martin Beck Theatre in New York, on February 3, 1951, with Daniel Mann as director, setting by Boris Aronson and music by David Diamond. Cast of the New York Production: SALVATORE ~~ Salvatore Mineo VIVI ~~ Judy Ratner BRUNO ~~ Salvatore Taormina ASSUNTA ~~ Ludmilla Toretzka ROSA DELLE ROSE ~~ Phyllis Love SERAFINA DELLE ROSE ~~ Maureen Stapleton ESTELLE HOHENGARTEN ~~ Sonia Sorel THE STREGA ~~ Daisy Belmore GIUSEPPINA ~~ Rossana San Marco PEPPINA ~~ Augusta Merighi VIOLETTA ~~ Vivian Nathan MARIELLA ~~ Penny Santon TERESA ~~ Nancy Franklin FATHER DE LEO ~~ Robert Carricart A DOCTOR ~~ Andrew Duggan MISS YORKE ~~ Dorrit Kelton FLORA ~~ Jane Hoffman BESSIE ~~ Florence Sundstrom JACK HUNTER ~~ Don Murray THE SALESMAN ~~ Eddie Hyans ALVARO MANGIACAVALLO ~~ Eli Wallach A MAN ~~ David Stewart ANOTHER MAN ~~ Martin Balsam ACT ONE. SCENE 1: Evening. SCENE 2: Almost morning, the next day. SCENE 3: Noon of that day. SCENE 4: A late spring morning, three years later. SCENE 5: Immediately following. SCENE 6: Two hours later that day. ACT TWO. SCENE 1 : Two hours later that day. ACT THREE. SCENE 1: Evening of the same day. SCENE 2: Just before dawn of the next day. SCENE 3: Morning. AUTHOR'S PRODUCTION NOTES The locale of the play is a village populated mostly by Sicilians somewhere along the Gulf Coast between New Orleans and Mobile. The time is the present (1950). As the curtain rises we hear a Sicilian folksinger with a guitar. He is singing. At each major division of the play this song is resumed and it is completed at the final curtain. The first lighting is extremely romantic. We see a frame cottage, in a rather poor state of repair, with a palm tree leaning dreamily over one end of it and a flimsy little entrance porch, with spindling pillars, sagging steps and broken rails, at the other end. The setting seems almost tropical, for, in addition to the palm trees, there are tall canes with feathery fronds and a fairly thick growth of pampas grass. These are growing on the slope of an embankment along which runs a highway, which is not visible, but the cars passing on it can occasionally be heard. The house has a rear door which cannot be seen. The facing wall of the cottage is either a transparency that lifts for the interior scenes, or is cut away to reveal the interior. The romantic first lighting is that of late, the sky a delicate blue with an opalescent shimmer more like water than air. Delicate points of light appear and disappear like lights reflected in a twilight harbor. The curtain rises well above the low tin roof of the cottage. We see an interior that is as colorful as a booth at a carnival. There are many religious articles and pictures of ruby and gilt, the brass cage of a gaudy parrot, a large bowl of goldfish, cut glass decanters and vases, rose-patterned wallpaper and a rose-colored carpet; everything is exclamatory in its brightness like the projection of a woman's heart passionately in love. There is a small shrine against the wall between the rooms, consisting of a prie-dieu and a little statue of the Madonna in a starry blue robe and gold crown. Before this burns always a vigil light in its ruby glass cup. Our purpose is to show these gaudy, childlike mysteries with sentiment and humor in equal measure, without ridicule and with respect for the religious yearnings they symbolize. An outdoor sign indicates that SERAFINA, whose home the cottage is, does "SEWING." The interior furnishings give evidence of this vocation. The most salient feature is a collection of dressmaker's dummies. There are at least seven of these life-size mannequins, in various shapes and attitudes. (They will have to be made especially for the play as their purpose is not realistic. They have pliable joints so that their positions can be changed. Their arms terminate at the wrist. In all their attitudes there is an air of drama, somewhat like the poses of declamatory actresses of the old school.) Principal among them are a widow and a bride who face each other in violent attitudes, as though having a shrill argument, in the parlor. The widow's costume is complete from black-veiled hat to black slippers. The bride's featureless head wears a chaplet of orange blossoms from which is depended a flowing veil of white marquisette, and her net gown is trimmed in white satin lustrous, immaculate. Most of the dummies and sewing equipment are confined to the dining room which is also SERAFINA'S work room. In that room there is a tall cupboard on top of which are several dusty bottles of imported Sicilian spumanti. ACT ONE It is the hour that the Italians call "prima sera," the beginning of dusk. Between the house and the palm tree burns the female star with an almost emerald luster. The mothers of the neighborhood are beginning to call their children home to supper, in voices near and distant, urgent and tender, like the variable notes of wind and water. There are three children, Bruno, Salvatore, and Vivi, ranged in front of the house, one with a red paper kite, one with a hoop, and the little girl with a doll dressed as a clown. They are it attitudes of momentary repose, all looking up at something--a bird or a plane passing over--as the mothers' voices call them. BRUNO: The white flags are flying at the Coast Guard station. SALVATORE: That means fair weather. VIVI: I love fair weather. GIUSEPPINA: Vivi! Vieni mangiare! PEPPINA: Salvatore! Come home! VIOLETTA: Bruno! Come home to supper! (The calls are repeated tenderly, musically.) (The interior of the house begins to be visible. SERAFINA DELLE ROSE is seen on the parlor sofa, waiting for her husband ROSARIO'S return. Between the curtains is a table set lovingly for supper; there is wine in a silver ice-bucket and a great bowl of roses.) (SERAFINA looks like a plump little Italian opera singer in the role of Madame Butterfly. Her black hair is done in a high pompadour that glitters like wet coal. A rose is held in place by glittering jet hairpins. Her voluptuous figure is sheathed in pale rose silk. On her feet are dainty slippers with glittering buckles and French heels. It is apparent from the way she sits, with such plump dignity, that she is wearing a tight girdle. She sits very erect, in an attitude of forced composure, her ankles daintily crossed and her plump little hands holding a yellow paper fan on which is painted a rose. Jewels gleam on her fingers, her wrists and her ears and about her throat. Expectancy shines in her eyes. For a few moments she seems to be posing for a picture.) (ROSA DELLE ROSE appears at the side of the house, near the palm tree. ROSA, the daughter of the house, is a young girl of twelve. She is pretty and vivacious, and has about her a particular intensity in every gesture.) SERAFINA: Rosa, where are you? ROSA: Here, Mama. SERAFINA: What are you doing, cara? ROSA: I've caught twelve lightning bugs. (The cracked voice of ASSUNTA is heard approaching.) SERAFINA: I hear Assunta! Assunta! (ASSUNTA appears and goes into the house, ROSA following her in. ASSUNTA is an old woman in a gray shawl, bearing a basket of herbs, for she is a fattuchiere, a woman who practices a simple sort of medicine. As she enters the children scatter.) ASSUNTA: Vengo, vengo. Buona sera. Buona sera. There is something wild in the air, no wind but everything's moving. SERAFINA: I don't see nothing moving and neither do you. ASSUNTA: Nothing is moving so you can see it moving, but everything is moving, and I can hear the star-noises. Hear them? Hear the star-noises? SERAFINA: Naw, them ain't the star-noises. They're termites, eating the house up. What are you peddling, old woman, in those little white bags? ASSUNTA: Powder, wonderful powder. You drop a pinch of it in your husband's coffee. SERAFINA: What is it good for? ASSUNTA: What is a husband good for! I make it out of the dry blood of a goat. SERAFINA: Davero! ASSUNTA: Wonderful stuff! But be sure you put it in his coffee at supper, not in his breakfast coffee. SERAFINA: My husband don't need no powder! ASSUNTA: Excuse me, Baronessa. Maybe he needs the opposite kind of a powder, I got that, too. SERAFINA: Naw, naw, no kind of powder at all, old woman. (She lifts her head with a proud smile.)