The Books: “The Lady of Larkspur Lotion” (Tennessee Williams)

Next on the script shelf:

27WagonsFullOfCotton.jpgNext Tennessee Williams play on the shelf is The Lady of Larkspur Lotion, included in 27 Wagons Full of Cotton And Other One-Act Plays. Yes, Williams was prolific – it is kind of amazing. There has to be about 20 plays left (at least in my collection – I’m sure I’ve missed some). The Lady of Larkspur Lotion is another pretty famous of his one-acts. He’s really working at the top of his game here, I think.

It takes place in a cockroach-infested boarding house in the French Quarter. There are three characters:

Mrs. Hardwicke-Moore – one of the tenants. She is a woman in her 40s, with dyed blonde hair. She has sex with men for money, but denies that she does. She has made up a fantasy first of all – she is one of the Hapsburgs – and second of all – that she owns a rubber plantation in Brazil – and that her money comes from the periodic checks she receives. She rhapsodizes about her time on the rubber plantation. It is the one thing that keeps her going, as she sits in her room full of cockroaches. Meanwhile: every night she “entertains” men in her room. A bleak existence. She can barely make her rent.

Mrs. Wire is the landlady. An abrasive sort of woman who knows that Mrs. Hardwick-Moore is lying about the Brazilian rubber plantation – but humors her (in a very snarky way) – until she can’t make her rent. Then the gloves come off. She also wants her to stop using the boarding house as a house of prostitution. So the play begins with her coming into Mrs. Hardwick-Moore’s room and confronting her about this. Mrs. Hardwick-Moore, who can’t even admit to herself that she is a whore, keeps talking about the cockroaches, and how she refuses to live under such conditions … Mrs. Wire demands the rent she is owed. Mrs. Hardwick-Moore says she is waiting for a check from the rubber plantation. Mrs. Wire pushes her even further. Mrs. Hardwick-Moore continues to insist, with growing frenzy, that there IS a rubber plantation, and she is waiting for a check from them.

Oh, yes, and the Larkspur Lotion of the title? It was, apparently, a remedy used for lice and body vermin. Ewwwww. There’s a bottle on the dresser, and Mrs. Wire asks about it and Mrs. Hardwick-Moore says she uses it to take polish off her nails. Mrs. Wire, again, knows better.

In the middle of Mrs. Wire badgering Mrs. Hardwick-Moore, the door bursts open and in comes the third and final character: The Writer. He also stays at the rooming house. He is a raging alcoholic. Supposedly he has a 780 page manuscript in his drawer – a novel he has been working on for 20 years. So anyway, the Writer bursts in and starts shouting at Mrs. Wire to stop harassing poor Mrs. Hardwick-Moore.

The Writer, as we shall see, is on the side of the dreamers. Even if it means they’re a bit loony.

Mrs. Hardwick-Moore has made up a fantasy about a rubber plantation so that she is able to survive the bleakness of her everyday life. Who is Mrs. Wire, who is ANYONE, to take that away from her?

Tennessee Williams was always on the side of those who had a hard time navigating – because of their own shattered hearts, or broken dreams, or sensitivity. He was that way himself. His sister Rose was that way – and she ended up lobotomized. I always think of the following quote when I read certain plays of his like Lady of Larkspur Lotion: A reporter asked Williams, during an interview, “What’s your definition of happiness?” Tennessee thought a bit and said, “Insensitivity, I guess.”

I could think about that one forever.

So I am going to excerpt the end of this beautiful and sad little play. It’s in the middle of the argument – but I really want to get The Writer’s big speech in – because I think it pretty much states one of Tennessee Williams’ most enduring philosophies.

The fight between the two ladies is escalating. The Writer bursts into the room … and I’ll excerpt the rest of the scene that goes to the very end of this play.


From The Lady of Larkspur Lotion, by Tennessee Williams

WRITER. Stop!

MRS. WIRE. Oh! It’s you!

WRITER. Stop persecuting this woman!

MRS. WIRE. The second Mr. Shakespeare enters the scene!

WRITER. I heard your demon howling in my sleep!

MRS. WIRE. Sleep? Ho-ho! I think that what you mean is your drunken stupor!

WRITER. I rest because of my illness! Have I no right —

MRS. WIRE. [interrupting] Illness — alcoholic! Don’t try to pull that beautiful wool over my eyes. I’m glad you come in now. Now I repeat for your benefit what I just said to this woman. I’m done with dead beats! Now is that plain to yah? Completely fed-up with all you Quarter rats, half-breeds, drunkards, degenerates, who try to get by on promises, lies, delusions!

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. [covering her ears] Oh, please, please, please stop shrieking! It’s not necessary!

MRS. WIRE. [turning to Mrs. Hardwick-Moore] You with your Brazilian rubber plantation. That coat-of-arms on the wall that you got from the junk shop — the woman who sold it told me! One of the Hapsburgs! Yes! A titled lady! The Lady of Larkspur Lotion! There’s your title! [Mrs. Hardwick-Moore cries out wildly and flings herself face down on the sagging bed]

WRITER. [with a pitying gesture] Stop badgering this unfortunate little woman! Is there no mercy left in the world anymore? What has become of compassion and understanding? Where have they all gone to? Where’s God? Where’s Christ? [He leans trembling against the armoire] What if there is no Brazilian rubber plantation?

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. [sitting passionately erect] I tell you there is, there is! [Her throat is taut with conviction, her head thrown back]

WRITER. What if there is no rubber king in her life? There ought to be rubber kings in her life! Is she to be blamed because it is necessary for her to compensate for the cruel deficiencies of reality by the exercise of a little — what shall I say? — God-given — imagination?

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. [throwing herself face down on the bed once more] No, no, no, no, it isn’t — imagination!

MRS. WIRE. I’ll ask you to please stop spittin gme in the face those high-flown speeches! You with your 780-page masterpiece — right on a part with the Lady of Larkspur Lotion as far as the use of imagination’s concerned!

WRITER. [in a tired voice] Ah, well, now, what if I am? Suppose there is no 780-page masterpece in existence. [He closes his eyes and touches his forehead] Supposing there is in existence no masterpiece whatsoever! What of that, Mrs. Wire? But only a few, a very few — vain scribblings — in my old trunk-bottom … Suppose I wanted to be a great artist but lacked the force and the power! Suppose my books fell short of the final chapter, even my verses languished uncompleted. Suppose the curtains of my exalted fancy rose on magnificent dramas — but the house-lights darkened before the curtain fell! Suppose all of these unfortuante things are true! And suppose that I — stumbling from bar to bar, from drink to drink, till I sprawl at last on the lice-infested mattress of this brothel — suppose that I, to make this nightmare bearable for as long as I must continue to be the helpless protagonist of it — suppose that I ornament, illuminate — glorify it! With dreams and fictions and fancies! Such as the existence of a 780-page masterpiece — impending Broadway 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 of 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]

MRS. WIRE. [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]

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. [turning to avoid his look] Roaches! Everywhere Walls, ceiling, floor! The place is infested with them.

WRITER. [gently] I know. I suppose there weren’t any roaches on the Brazilian rubber plantation.

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. [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!

WRITER. I know. And the windows — I suppose they commanded a very lovely view!

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. Indescribably lovely!

WRITER. How far was it from the Mediterranean?

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. [dimly] The Mediterranean? Only a mile or two!

WRITER. On a very clear morning I daresay it was possible to distinguish the white chalk cliffs of Dover! … Across the channel?

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. Yes — in very clear weather it was. [The Writer silently passes her a pint bottle of whiskey.] Thank you, Mr. —?

WRITER. Chekhov! Anton Pavlovitch Chekhov!

MRS. HARDWICK-MOORE. [smiling wiht the remnants of coquetry] Thank you, Mr. — Chekhov.

CURTAIN

This entry was posted in Books, Theatre and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.