Stella’s going to have a baby. A baby girl...or a boy...a bonny beautiful baby boy...for my Stella...my Stella for Star
[A locomotive thunders outside, the sudden noise causes Blanche to groan and curl into a ball. She rises to her feet, hands still clasped to her head, looking wildly about-the Varsouviana plays loudly in the background]
I’ve got to get out of here...it’s a trap...a trap...I’ve got to get out of here....but where shall I go...who can I turn to....nobody’s wants me...who could want me....old...dirty...
[She closes her eyes and hangs her head. The polka music plays softer. She’s suddenly calmer; her head lulls back as she succumbs to the rhythm of the music. Eyes still closed she dances the Varsouviana. She appears to be weightless, with no control over her own body. For most part her arms hang limply by her side and she dances as if chords were attached to her limbs and she was being controlled by a puppeteer.]
[Still dancing]I-I can’t stay here anymore...Stella has the baby now...and her brute to look after. Her brute, bestial and ape-like, Stanley Kowalski, the missing link...somebody call Darwin...haha! [She laughs manically] Besides I was a fool to think she could care for me...My precious lamb is only interested in her own flock [shouting] she walked out on me...she walked out on Belle Reve...left when I needed her most...when Ma and Pa and all the others needed her most...left me to deal with all that death...Now breathless]
[Gunshot. She screams and drops to her knees. She clasps her hands around her head and rocks gently forwards and backwards.]
[Softly]
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
Oh! But where were my spirits Mr Poe? No spirits for me, only loneliness. Long hours of hateful loneliness and emptiness. The dead were dead...and pulling me with them-with Him...a half of my soul and very being had already died with my boy...was I just to succumb to Hades’s call?...I was always the beautiful one...I always excited so much admiration, from so many fine men in my youth...Stella was jealous for sure...I needed affection, attention...is it so wrong to want to feel wanted...sure on some occasions I had to...to debase myself...but...but...you see I-I couldn’t make him love me...I couldn’t cure him...and he despised me for it...I despised myself for it...he would cry and cry...and I was completely helpless....I ached with love for a boy that couldn’t love me...and I didn’t understand why...why something so natural, could be so hard for him. Then I found them...and I understood....only too well I understood.
What could I do but make my own magic. Deserted and lonely, what was I supposed to do?
Another deserter. Why...oh...why Mitch? I was lonely, you were lonely too. It thought it was destiny, like two missing pieces of a jigsaw, come together to make a whole...I thought... Well I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought. I guess I wasn’t thinking anyhow. I’m a DuBois, a cultivated, genteel woman; of rich ancestral history...I haven’t forgotten where I come from. It would never have worked, his shirts were always far too crumpled.
I’ve got to escape; I’ve got to get out of her. You know what I’ll do? I’ll call Shep...Shep Huntleigh... [Smiling] or Richard...Richard...hmmm now what was his last name...Hast...Hastings. Captain Richard Hastings. The quintessential English gentleman. My, does he know how to treat a lady. He will know what to do. I’ll wire him...hmm [she thinks]...Damsel in distress. Keep a Mojito on ice for me honey. Your little southern belle. Blanche DuBois.
[She throws her head back and laughs]
O those summers of dancing and cocktails. Long fragrant evenings, whiling away the hours...just talking, talking, talking of music...art...poetry...
He will be back of course...Mitch...with a dozen long stem, grand prix red roses. He’ll beg for my forgiveness...he will get down on his knees and implore me to take him back. He may very well ask me to marry him. Ha! But I won’t take him back, and I-I certainly won’t be marrying him. I am not sure he could have given me what I needed anyway. In being with Mitch there is a sense of stability, a mutual understanding of what it is to be lonely...but I need more than that, a cultivated woman of substance and rich ancestral heritage needs more than that.
[She rises and crosses to the dresser. She picks up the bottle of Southern Comfort; turning the bottle in her hand, she studies the label.]
O the irony...the south holds no comfort for the likes of me anymore...I guess I’m apart of the last remnants of the glorious yesteryear. [She pours herself a shot, then raises her glass] To the death of southern gentility...and to me a remnant of southern aristocracy...the last of the southern belles... [She drains the glass]
