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

productions—marvelous volumes of verse in the hands of publishers only waiting for signatures to release them! Suppose that I live in this world of pitiful fiction! What satisfaction can it give you,good woman, to tear it to pieces, to crush it—call it a lie? I tell you this—now listen! There are no lies but the lies that are stuffed in the mouth by the hard-knuckled hand of need, the cold iron fist of necessity, Mrs. Wire! So I am a liar, yes! But your world is built on a lie, your world is a hideous fabrication of lies! Lies! Lies! . . . Now I’m tired and I’ve said my say and I have no money to give you so get away and leave this woman in peace! Leave her alone. Go on, get out, get away! ( He shoves her firmly out the door. )
    M RS. W IRE: ( shouting from the other side )Tomorrow morning! Money or out you go! Both of you. Both together! 780-page masterpiece and Brazilian rubber plantation! BALONEY! ( Slowly the derelict Writer and the derelict woman turn to face each other. The daylight is waning grayly through the skylight. The Writer slowly and stiffly extends his arms in a gesture of helplessness. )
    M RS. H ARDWICKE -M OORE: ( turning to avoid his look )Roaches! Everywhere! Walls, ceiling, floor! The place is infested with them.
    W RITER: ( gently )I know. I suppose there weren’t any roaches on the Brazilian rubber plantation.
    M RS. H ARDWICKE -M OORE: ( warming )No, of course there weren’t. Everything was immaculate always—always. Immaculate! The floors were so bright and clean they used to shine like—mirrors!
    W RITER: I know. And the windows—I suppose they commanded a very lovely view!
    M RS. H ARDWICKE -M OORE: Indescribably lovely!
    W RITER: How far was it from the Mediterranean?
    M RS. H ARDWICKE -M OORE: ( dimly )The Mediterranean? Only a mile or two!
    W RITER: On a very clear morning I daresay it was possible to distinguish the white chalk cliffs of Dover? . . . Across the channel?

    M RS. H ARDWICKE -M OORE: Yes—in very clear weather it was. ( The Writer silently passes her a pint bottle of whisky. )Thank you, Mr.—?
    W RITER: Chekhov! Anton Pavlovitch Chekhov!
    M RS. H ARDWICKE -M OORE: ( smiling with the remnants of coquetry )Thank you, Mr.—Chekhov.
    CURTAIN

The Last of My Solid Gold-Watches
    This play is inscribed to Mr. Sidney Greenstreet, for whom the principal character was hopefully conceived.
    Ce ne peut être que la fin du monde, en avonçant.
    R IMBAUD

CHARACTERS
    M R. C HARLIE C OLTON.
    A N EGRO, a porter in the hotel.
    H ARPER, a traveling salesman.

The Last of My Solid Gold Watches
    S CENE: A hotel room in a Mississippi Delta town. The room has looked the same, with some deterioration, for thirty or forty years. The walls are mustard-colored. There are two windows with dull green blinds, torn slightly, a ceiling-fan, a white iron bed with a pink counterpane, a washstand with rose-buds painted on the pitcher and bowl, and on the wall a colored lithograph of blind-folded Hope with her broken lyre.
    The door opens and Mr. Charlie Colton comes in. He is a legendary character, seventy-eight years old but still “going strong.” He is lavish of flesh, superbly massive and with a kingly dignity of bearing. Once he moved with a tidal ease and power. Now he puffs and rumbles; when no one is looking he clasps his hand to his chest and cocks his head to the warning heart inside him. His huge expanse of chest and belly is criss-crossed by multiple gold chains with various little fobs and trinkets suspended from them. On the back of his head is a derby and in his mouth a cigar. This is “Mistuh Charlie" — who sadly but proudly refers to himself as “the last of the Delta drummers.” He is followed into the room by a Negro porter, as old as he is — thin and toothless and grizzled. He totes the long orange leather sample cases containing the shoes which Mr. Charlie is selling. He sets them down at the foot of the bed as Mr. Charlie fishes in his pocket for a quarter.

    M R. C