Memoirs

by Tennessee Williams

  On its opening night in New York, I will fly to Italy and remain indefinitely among those lovely people; hopefully finding the little farm I’ve long dreamed of buying, on which to raise geese and goats, to employ an attractive young gardener-chauffeur, and swim and swim.

  Yesterday I was alarmed by a state of confusion at the New Theatre. Honest to God, I couldn’t tell the interval from the end of the first show. I mean I came out of the men’s dressing room when I heard the applause for the first act curtain. My “fluffs” were alarming, too. And if the back of the house had been filled—it wasn’t for either performance—I doubt that I would have been audible much of the time.

  The problem seems to be breath. I let the end of a sentence fall because the breath runs out.

  And yet I got good hands. I guess there is something about me that is recognizable as something about “Doc”—regardless of whether all that I say is heard.

  It is imperative that the show complete the summer. It must, it will. I think the production of Out Cry may hinge upon my demonstration to draw again and to keep a show that received “mixed reviews” running for five months, which is, I mean would be, quite a prestigious accomplishment and a help with the big one.

  8

  Late in the spring of 1947, after returning Grandfather to his usual residence in the Hotel Gayoso in Memphis, I proceeded by car toward New York, where preparations were underway for the production of Streetcar.

  In New York, again with Santo, and our stay at that point in New York was brief. I saw Elia Kazan’s production of Arthur Miller’s play, All My Sons, and was so impressed by his staging of that message drama, by the vitality which he managed to put into it, that I implored Audrey Wood and Irene Selznick to do everything possible to procure him as director for Streetcar. It was his wife, Molly Day Thacher Kazan, an old friend of mine, who first read the play. He resisted the idea of undertaking its production, but she won him over and a contract was signed.

  That important business accomplished, Santo and I went up to Cape Cod. We rented a shingled bungalow directly on the water somewhere between North Truro and Provincetown. (We named it Rancho Santo and set a board with that title in front of the dwelling.) Soon we had visitors; Margo Jones and her side-kick Joanna Albus came to share the rustic bungalow with us. There were double-decker bunks on either side of the main room: the ladies shared one, Santo and I the other; and there was considerable consumption of firewater. I was not much of a drinker in those days but Margo (“The Texas Tornado”) was as fond of the brew as was Santo. We had come to the Cape too early for ocean bathing, it was still icy cold. But I continued work on Streetcar and it was in that cabin that I thought of the exit line for Blanche, which later became somewhat historical: “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.”

  Actually it was true, I always had, and without being often disappointed. In fact, I would guess that chance acquaintances, or strangers, have usually been kinder to me than friends—which does not speak too well for me. To know me is not to love me. At best, it is to tolerate me, and of drama critics I would say that tolerance seems now to be just about worn out.

  For some reason the electricity and the plumbing went kaput simultaneously. Evenings were candle lit and for calls of nature the inhabitants of the cabin had to go out into the bushes.

  Well, just about this time I got a wire from Kazan, informing me that he was dispatching a young actor to the Cape who he thought was gifted; and he wanted him to read the part of Stanley for me. We waited two or three days, but the young actor, named Marlon Brando, didn’t show. I had stopped expecting him when he arrived one evening with a young girl, the kind you would call a chick nowadays.

  He asked why the lights weren’t on and we told him the electricity had failed. He immediately fixed that for us—I think he merely inserted a penny in the light fuse.

  Then he discovered our predicament with the plumbing and he fixed that, too.

  He was just about the best-looking young man I’ve ever seen, with one or two exceptions; but I have never played around with actors, it’s a point of morality with me and anyhow Brando was not the type to get a part that way.

  When he had gotten the Rancho into shape by repairing the lights and plumbing, he sat down in a corner and started to read the part of Stanley. I was cuing him. After less than ten minutes, Margo Jones jumped up and let out a “Texas Tornado” shout.

  “Get Kazan on the phone right away! This is the greatest reading I’ve ever heard—in or outside of Texas!”

  Brando maybe smiled a little but didn’t show any particular elation, such as the elation we all felt.

  The part of Kowalski was the first important part he has ever performed on the stage, all the rest have been on the screen. I think this is a pity, because Brando had a charisma on the stage that corresponded to the charisma of Laurette Taylor in its luminous power.

  That night we had dinner at home and we read poetry. I mean I read some poetry. Then we retired for the night. There was no bed for Brando so he curled up in a blanket in the center of the floor.

  Brando was always shy with me for some reason. The following morning he wanted me to walk up the beach with him, and so we did—in silence. And then we walked back—in silence …

  Once the part of Kowalski was cast, we then had to find a Blanche. I was summoned back to New York to hear Margaret Sullavan read for the part. She didn’t seem right to me, I kept picturing her with a tennis racket in one hand and I doubted that Blanche had ever played tennis. She read again. Margaret Sullavan was a lovely person, an actress without ego. When she was informed that the first reading had not been satisfactory, she asked to read again. We heard her once more, and the tennis racket, for some reason, was still invisibly but palpably present. Irene was delegated to tell her we were profoundly grateful but it was no show.

  Then we heard that an actress whose name was quite unknown to me, a lady named Jessica Tandy, was making a sensation on the Coast in a short play of mine, Portrait of a Madonna. It was decided that Irene, Audrey, Santo and I would take the Super Chief to the Coast and catch her performance.

  It was instantly apparent to me that Jessica was Blanche.

  The two most important roles cast, I told Kazan that he should cast the rest of the parts as he wished and I returned to Rancho Santo on the Cape. It was now warm enough to swim, and in those days the Cape was a lovely summer retreat. My friend’s behavior remained erratic and that is putting it mildly. Margo and Joanna were still there and it took all our concerted efforts to keep him halfway under control. I had gotten used to his fiery temperament and divided my time that summer between mornings at the typewriter and afternoons on the sunny dunes beyond Provincetown.

  Some interesting folk began to appear in Provincetown. The lyricist John LaTouche, who had written “Cabin in the Sky” and other songs, was among them, and he was accompanied by a youth who was to become my closest, most long-lasting companion, a youth of Sicilian extraction named Frank Merlo.

  Frank was an inch shorter than I but designed by Praxiteles. He had enormous brown eyes and a sort of equine face, which led a couple of years later to his nickname “The Little Horse.”

  LaTouche was going through some sort of nervous crisis involving his mother, I think, and he suddenly took off, leaving Frankie Merlo on the Cape.

  Our first encounter was a theatrical sort of event.

  Santo and I had gone to a night spot in Provincetown known as the Atlantic House. The entertainer there was Stella Brooks, who was one of the early, great jazzsingers, and I had a great fondness for her, which was not pleasing to Santo. He shouted some obscenities at her during her act and rushed off somewhere. Being alone in the bar when Stella’s bit was finished, I strayed out on the frame porch of the Atlantic House. After a few moments, Frank Merlo also came out, alone, and he leaned smoking against the porch rail and he was wearing Levis and I looked and looked at him. My continual and intense scrutiny must have burned through his shoulde
rs, for after a while he turned toward me and grinned.

  I don’t know what I said but in a couple of minutes we were in my Pontiac convertible and we were driving out to the dunes.

  I don’t want to overload this thing with homophile erotica, but let’s say that it was a fantastic hour in the dunes for me that evening even though I have never regarded sand as an ideal or even desirable surface on which to worship the little god. However the little god was given such devout service that he must still be smiling—

  After dropping off Frankie where he was staying, I parked the car and wandered dreamily about town. While I was wandering through the heavy night fog of Provincetown, Santo took my car. He first went to the home of Stella Brooks, who he thought had enticed me to her lair. Poor Stella, she knew me too well for that. Santo gave her a clout in the eye and he left her place a shambles.

  Having returned to the Atlantic House during this event and having found the Pontiac gone, I started walking home. I was proceeding, very tired, up a steep hill toward North Truro when a pair of headlights on a wildly careening car appeared at the top of the hill, racing down it. With that protective instinct of mine, I somehow surmised that the driver of this car was Santo. The car seemed headed straight at me so I stepped off the road. Santo drove the car into the field of marsh grass with what seemed the intention of running me down. I did not remain there to reflect paranoically upon that possibility but took to my heels, scooting across the marshes. After me, now on foot, raced Santo, screaming invectives in English and in Spanish.

  I reached the ocean without being overtaken—for it was a moonless night. I saw a wooden pier and I ran out onto it and suspended myself from its understructure, just above water level. I remained there till Santo, not being a bloodhound, had lost track of me, and had gone screaming off in some other direction. Then, quite cold and wet, I climbed onto the pier, crossed the salt marsh again—without being at all reminded of my collateral ancestor’s poem, “The Marshes of Glynn.”

  Ultimately I got back to the Atlantic House. They rented rooms above the bar and I took one and barred the door and pushed all the furniture except the bed against it.

  Then I slept.

  When I woke up, I phoned Margo and Joanna at the Rancho. They said it had been a night of horror for them, too. We all agreed that Santo must be persuaded to leave.

  Margo acted as go-between.

  Joanna saw him off on the bus.

  I returned to the little house which still had in front of it the sign “Rancho Santo.” Prophetically!

  The two Texas ladies and I were blithely on our way to dinner that evening when Santo rushed up to us. It seemed that he had hitchhiked back to Provincetown.

  He was in the most amiable of moods—as if nothing had gone awry in our three lives.

  How readily one accepts the inevitable, it would seem.

  We had lobster dinners and resumed our usual lives at the Rancho. This went on until it was time for me to return to New York for the early fall rehearsals of Streetcar.

  It took some doing to get Santo to leave. Probably this phenomenal accomplishment was handled by Irene Selznick, who has seldom found herself in a situation with which she couldn’t cope, not even the situation of releasing me from Santo. Then I was alone in New York, quite gratefully so, and I took a one-room apartment with kitchenette in the Chelsea district, the first floor front of a brownstone.

  Rehearsals progressed on the Amsterdam Roof. I thought the play was a certain failure and I was once again certain that I was a dying artist and not even the least bit sure that I was an artist.

  Kazan understood me quite amazingly for a man whose nature was so opposite to mine. He was one of those rare directors who wanted the playwright around at all rehearsals, even those at which he was blocking out the action. Once in a while he would call me up on stage to demonstrate how I felt a certain bit should be played. I suspect he did this only to flatter me for he never had the least uncertainty in his work, once he had started upon it.

  I remember his asking me to demonstrate my conception of the old Mexican woman who passed along the street selling brilliant tin flowers for graves, calling out and chanting, “Flores para los muertos, corones para los muertos.”

  I got up on the rehearsal stage and advanced to the door of the Kowalski abode bearing the tin flowers … Jessica opened the door and screamed at the sight of me.

  “Not yet, not yet!”

  “That’s it, do it just like that,” said Kazan.

  I was still living alone in the Chelsea flat, expecting death and failure. Then while I was working, one noon, there was a great pounding on the door, which luckily was locked.

  My God, Santo was back!

  Unable to break down the door, he jumped onto the cement sills of the gable windows. I got to them just in time to lock them. A big crowd had gathered outside the brownstone by this time. Santo was on the sill, hammering at the window, until the glass split. Then a policeman intervened. He did not arrest Santo but he ordered him away. He looked back at me. His face was covered with tears. I started crying, too, a thing I very seldom do.

  It was a sad occasion, and I hope that you understand my behavior.

  At the advice of Audrey and Irene, I moved out of the Chelsea flat temporarily, taking refuge in an old hotel where I’d stayed years before, a fleabag called the Hotel Windsor on the West Side. I stayed there until Santo had been persuaded that I could not be induced to resume residence with him or willingly to see him again.

  Streetcar opened in New Haven in early November of 1947, and nobody seemed to know what the notices were or to be greatly concerned. After the New Haven opening night we were invited to the quarters of Mr. Thornton Wilder, who was in residence there. It was like having a papal audience. We all sat about this academic gentleman while he put the play down as if delivering a papal bull. He said that it was based upon a fatally mistaken premise. No female who had ever been a lady (he was referring to Stella) could possibly marry a vulgarian such as Stanley.

  We sat there and listened to him politely. I thought, privately, This character has never had a good lay. I got back at him years later when a bunch of theatre people were invited, during the Kennedy administration, to a banquet at the White House. All of us theatre folk were told to line up in alphabetical order in a huge room walled with glittering mirrors. We were more or less lined up. The President and Jackie and their guest of honor, André Malraux, were about to appear. And here was Thornton Wilder bustling about like a self-appointed field marshal, seeing that we were arranged in our proper alphabetical order. I was engaged in conversation with Miss Shelley Winters—both of us came under “W.”

  Mr. Wilder rushed up to me with the radiant smile of a mortician and shrieked, “Mr. Williams, you’re a bit out of place, you come behind me.”

  Well, I was just stoned enough to say to him, “If I am behind you it’s the first and last time in my life.”

  When the long alphabetical line had nearly all shuffled past the President and First Lady and been presented to M. Malraux, it came my turn to meet him and I had actually never heard of him before. I said to him, “Enchanté, Monsieur Maurois”—and this made Jackie smile but did not seem to amuse M. Malraux.

  One late evening while Streetcar was in Boston I received one more surprise visit from dear Santo. I never locked my door at the Ritz-Carlton—who would?—and suddenly into my bedroom-living room bursts this ever-valiant ex-companion. There were words of contrition, and endearment, words which I accorded no sentimental ear. Then there was a bit of breakage, a mantel vase or two. However, my room was opposite Mrs. Selznick’s. She heard the disturbance and unwisely—imagine Irene doing anything unwise!—opened her door on the corridor. Santo took immediate advantage of this chance to turn his inebriate rage upon that guiltless lady. His assault upon her was entirely verbal and I believe she handled it with her usual skill and expedition.

  It was years before I saw Santo again, and always since then—his con
version to Alcoholics Anonymous and the beautifully religious turn of his spirit—our meetings have been serene and pleasant.…

  When Streetcar arrived in Boston we began to get good notices. Only one negative one appeared in the papers and business was excellent despite it. However, it was not until Philadelphia that it became apparent that the play would surely go.

  Kazan and I were standing in the lobby of the Philadelphia theatre before curtain time and the crowd was pressing like aficionados of the bull ring about to see the great Ordóñez. Kazan grinned at me and said, “This smells like a hit.”

  I remember buying myself a very expensive tweed overcoat in Philly on the strength of the favorable notices there. Brando invited me to dine with him one evening and he took me to an obscure Greek restaurant and it was impossible to engage him in conversation and almost impossible to eat the oily food.

  The New York opening was a smash.

  I was called onto the stage opening night for a bow, as I had been for Menagerie, and I was equally awkward about it. I believe that I bowed to the actors instead of the audience.

  I was still living alone in that one-room flat in the Chelsea brown-stone. It was late December and a blizzard hit town. It was such a heavy snow that traffic was practically immobilized for several days. The brownstone ran out of fuel and I had to depend on the fireplace for heat. I was able to purchase some logs on the corner. And then one night during this prolonged blizzard I happened to be passing by taxi along Times Square and I noticed a youth huddled in a doorway. He was a blond adolescent, inadequately clothed for the weather, a fact which touched my heart to the extent that I shouted to the cabdriver, “Stop.”

  I jumped out of the cab and ran up to the kid huddling in the doorway.

  “Hey, come along, you look cold.”

  It turned out that the kid was a young circus roustabout. I took him to the Chelsea one-room flat and we built a fire to warm things up a bit and the fire was just catching when there was a knock at the door.