27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays (17 page)

O
LD
M
LAN:
(
nodding
)
Ohhh, so the cat is present! That’s what made the air in the room so soft and full of sweetness! Nitchevo—where are you?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
She’s having her supper.

O
LD
M
LAN:
Well, I won’t disturb her until she’s finished. You are devoted to animals?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
To Nitchevo.

O
LD
M
LAN:
Be careful.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Of what?

O
LD
M
LAN:
You may
lose
her. That’s the trouble with love, the chance of loss.

L
ITTLE
M
AN
: Nitchevo wouldn’t leave me.

O
LD
M
LAN:
Not on purpose, maybe. But life is full of accidents, chances, possibilities—not all of which are always very good ones. Do you know that?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Yes.

O
LD
M
LAN:
A truck might run her down.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Nitchevo was brought up on the street.

O
LD
M
LAN:
The luxuries of her present existence may have dulled her faculties a little.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
You don’t understand Nitchevo. She hasn’t forgotten how dangerous life can be for a lonely person.

O
LD
M
LAN:
But she hasn’t control of the universe in her hands!

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
No
.
Why should she?

O
LD
M
LAN:
Other things might happen. You work at the plant?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Yes.

O
LD
M
LAN:
(
a fanatical light coming into his clouded eyes
)
Uh-huh! I know those fellows that operate the plant, I know the bosses. They
know
I know them, too. They know I know their tricks. That’s why they hate me. Look. Suppose the demand for what they make slacked off. There’s two things they could do. They could cut down on the price and so put the product within the purchasing power of more consumers. Listen! I’ve read books on the subject! But, no! There’s another thing they could do. They could cut down on the number of things they make—create a scarcity! See? And boost the price still higher! And so maintain the rich man’s margin
of profit! Which do you think they’d do? Why, God Almighty—
Nitchevo
knows the answer! They’d do what they’ve always done. (
He chuckles and rises and begins to sing in a hoarse cracked voice.
)

Hold up, hold up the Profit,

Ye Minions of the Boss!

Lift high the Royal Profit,

It must not suffer loss!

(
There is a pounding on the wall and vocal objection outside.
)

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Mrs. O’Fallon—disturbed.

O
LD
M
LAN:
Yes, yes! What they’ll cut down is production. Less and less men will be needed to run the machines. Fewer and fewer will stand at the belt conveyor. More and more workers will fall into the hands of the social agencies. Independence goes—then pride—then hope. Finally even the ability of the heart to feel shame or despair or anything at all—goes, too. What’s left? A creature like me. Whose need of companionship has become a nuisance to people. Well, somewhere along the line of misadventures—is the cat!

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Nitchevo?

O
LD
M
LAN:
(
nodding sagaciously
)
You are not able to buy the cream any more.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Well?

O
LD
M
LAN:
Well, cats are
capricious!

L
ITTLE
M
AN
: She isn’t a fair-weather friend.

O
LD
M
LAN:
You think she’d be faithful to you? In adversity, even?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
She’d be faithful to me.

O
LD
M
LAN:
(
beaming slowly
)
Good! Good! (
He touches his eyelids.
)
A beautiful trust. A rare and beautiful trust. It makes me cry a little. That’s all that life has to give in the way of perfection.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
What?

O
LD
M
LAN:
The warm and complete understanding of two or
three in a close-walled room with the windows blind to the world.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
(
nodding
)
Yes.

O
LD
M
LAN:
(
alternatingly tender and vociferous
)
The roof is thin. Above it, the huge and glittering wheel of heaven which spells a mystery to us. Fine—invisible—cords of wonder—attach us to it. And so we are saved and purified and exalted. We three! You and me and—Nitchevo, the cat! (
He lifts her against his ear.
)
Listen! She purrs! Mmm, such a soft and sweet and powerful sound it is. It’s the soul of the universe—throbbing in her! (
He hands her back to the Little Man.
)
Take her and hold her close! Close! Never let her be separated from you. For while you’re together—none of the evil powers on earth can destroy you. Not even the imbecile child which is chance—nor the mad, insatiable wolves in the hearts of men! (
The sound of exterior protest gathers volume. A window bangs open and a woman shouts for an officer. The Old Man crosses to the window that faces the plant. He raises the blind and the flickering red glare of the pulsing forges shines on his bearded face.
)
There she is!

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
The plant?

O
LD
M
LAN:
Uh-huh. (
in a quiet, conversational tone
)
The day before yesterday I went down to the plant. I asked the Superintendent about a job. “Oliver Woodson,” I said, “this corporation’s too big for me to fight with. I’ve come with the olive branch. I want a job.” “You’re too old,” he told me. “Never mind,” I said, “take down my name!” “But, Pop,” he said to me, “you’re nearly blind!” “Never mind,” I said, “take down my name!” “Okay, Pop,” said Mr. Oliver Woodson. “What’s your name?” “My name is Man,” I said. “My name is Man. Man is my name,” I said, “spelt M-A-N.” “Okay,” said Oliver Woodson. “Where do you live?” “I live on a cross,” I said. “On what?” “On a cross! I live on a cross, on a cross! (
His voice rising louder and louder.
)
Cupidity
and Stupidity, that is the two-armed cross on which you have nailed me! Stupidity and cupidity, that is the two-armed cross on which you have nailed me!”

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
What did he say, then? The Superintendent?

O
LD
M
LAN:
The Superintendent? Said, “Hush up, be still! I’ll send for the wagon!”

W
OMAN
R
OOMER:
(
shouting in the hall outside
)
I ain’t gonna live in no house with a lunatic! I called the police, he’s gonna send for th’ wagon!

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
(
sadly
)
She’s going to send for the wagon.

O
LD
M
LAN:
There! You see? I speak for the people. For me, they send for the wagon! Never mind. Take down my name. It’s Man! (
He leans out the window and shakes his fist at the plant. The forges blaze higher and their steady pulse seems to quicken with the Old Man’s frenzy.
)
I see you and I hear you! Boom-boom-boom! The pulse of a diseased heart!

L
ANDLADY:
(
in the hall
)
Be still, you drunken old fool, you’ve woke up the house!

W
OMAN
R
OOMER:
(
outside
)
Terrible, terrible, terrible! Lunatics in the house!

O
LD
M
LAN:
A fire-breathing monster you are! But listen to me! Because I’m going to speak The Malediction! Go on, go on, you niggardly pimps of the world! You entrepreneurs of deception, you traders of lies! We stand at bay but we are not defeated. The passion of our resistance is gathering force. We can Boom-Boom, too, we’re going to Boom! It’s only a little while we give you license! We say, Feed on, Feed on! You race of gluttons! Devour the flesh of thy brother, drink his blood! Glut your monstrous bellies on corruption! And when you’re too fat to move—that fist will clench, which is the fist of God—to strike! Strike!
STRIKE!
(
He smashes a pane of the window. At this moment the door is burst open. Light spills in from the hall.
)

W
OMAN
R
OOMER:
(
outside the dorway
)
Watch out! He’ll kill somebody!

L
ANDLADY:
Mrs. O’Fallon, be still, get out of the way! Officer, go on in! (
A police officer enters, followed by the Landlady in a wrapper. A group of frightened roomers, gray and bloodless-looking, huddle behind her in the doorway. The Little Man stands clutching the cat against his chest. The Old Man’s rage is spent. He stands with head hanging in the banal glow of the electric bulb which the Landlady switches on.
)

L
ANDLADY:
(
to the Old Man
)
Ahh, you drunken old fool, my patience is gone. Officer, take him away. Lock him up till he comes to his senses. (
The officer grasps the Old Man’s arm.
)

O
FFICER:
Come along, old man.

W
OMAN
R
OOMER:
(
in the crowd at the door
)
A dangerous, criminal character!

L
ANDLADY:
(
to the group
)
Go on, go on back to your beds. The excitement is over. (
The Old Man seems barely conscious as he is pushed out the door. The others retreat behind him. The Little Man makes a dumb, protesting gesture, still clutching Nitchevo against his chest with one arm. The Landlady slams the door on the others. She turns angrily to face the Little Man.
)
You! You’re responsible for it! Haven’t I told you not to encourage him in his drunken ravings? Well! . . . Why don’t you say something? (
She jerks the window down.
)
Christ. You’re not a man at all, you’re a poor excuse. Put down that cat! Throw that animal down! (
She snatches Nitchevo from him and casts her to the floor.
)
She hates me.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
She doesn’t like unkindness. (
He stares at her.
)

L
ANDLADY:
(
uneasily
)
Why that-look? What’s the meaning of it?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at all the evil in the world. Turn out the light. I’ve lived too long in a room that was nothing but windows and always at noon and with no curtains to draw. Turn out the light. (
She reaches slowly
above her and switches it off. He suddenly goes to her and plunges his head against her chest.
)
O beautiful, cruel Zigeuner! Sing to me, sing to me! Comfort me in the dark! (
At first she stands stiff and hostile. Then she relents and embraces his crouching body, and begins to sing, softly.
)

CURTAIN

S
CENE
IV

A morning in spring. The branches outside the windows of the furnished room bear delicate new leaves which cast their trembling shadows through the panes. On the white iron bed is seated the Boxer in his undershirt paring his corns with a pen-knife. With a faint creaking, the door is pushed open. The Little Man comes in. His manner is dazed, he looks as though he had had a long illness.

LITTLE MAN:
(
faintly
)
Ni
-tchevo?

B
OXER:
(
grinning
)
Sorry, you’ve got the wrong party—my name is Bill! (
He points to a space on the wall where his signature is scrawled in great letters. A great X mark has been drawn through the portraits of the Russian, the Cat, and the Little Man.
)

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
This was—my old room.

B
OXER
: Well, it ain’t any more. Unless the landlady rooked me.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
You’ve—moved in here?

B
OXER:
Yep. I’ve hung my boxing gloves on the wall. And there’s my silver trophies. (
He points to gloves suspended from a nail and several silver cups on the bureau.
)

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
There was—a cat.

B
OXER:
A cat?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Yes.

B
OXER:
Yours?

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
Yes. She was mine—by adoption. I thought I might—hoped—find her here.

B
OXER:
(
looking at him with humorous curiosity
)
I can’t help you out.

L
ITTLE
M
AN:
You haven’t seen one? A gray one? (
He touches his chest.
)
White-spotted?

B
OXER:
Why, I’ve seen dozens of cats of every description—(
Away in the house somewhere the Landlady commences to sing one of her haunting Zigeuner songs. As he speaks the Boxer returns to paring his corns with an amiable expression.
)—I’ve seen gray ones, black ones, white ones, spitted, spotted, and sputted! My relations with cats is strictly—
laissez faire!
Know what that means, buddy? Live and let live—a motto. I’ve never gone
out
of my way—(
looking up reflectively
)—to
injure
a cat. But when one gets
in
my way, I usually
kick
it! (
The Little Man stares at him speechlessly.
)
Any more information I can give you?