The Magic Tower and Other One-Act Plays by Tennessee Williams Page A

I once composed on the subject of petunias—and similar flora. Would you like to hear it?
    DOROTHY : I suppose I should, if it’s relevant to the case.
    YOUNG MAN : Extremely relevant. It goes like this:
    [
Light music is heard
.]
    How grimly do petunias look
    on things not listed in the book
    For these dear creatures never move
    outside the academic groove.
    They mark with sharp and moral eye
    phenomena that pass them by
    And classify as good or evil
    mammoth whale or tiny weevil.
    They note with consummate disdain
    all that is masculine or plain
    They blush down to their tender roots
    when men pass by in working boots
    All honest language shocks them so
    they cringe to hear a rooster crow
    Of course they say that good clean fun’s
    permissible for
every
one
    But find that even Blindman’s Bluff
    is noisy and extremely rough
    AND—
    [
In a stage whisper
.] —Not quite innocent enough!
    What do you think of it?
    DOROTHY : Unfair! Completely unfair!
    YOUNG MAN [
laughing
]: To organized petunias?
    DOROTHY : Yes, and besides, I don’t think anyone has the right to impose his opinions in the form of footprints on other people’s petunias!
    YOUNG MAN [
removing small package from pocket
]: I’m prepared to make complete restitution.
    DOROTHY : What with?
    YOUNG MAN : With these.
    DOROTHY : What are they?
    YOUNG MAN : Seeds.
    DOROTHY : Seeds of what? Sedition?
    YOUNG MAN : No. Wild roses.
    DOROTHY : Wild? I couldn’t use them!
    YOUNG MAN : Why not, Miss Simple?
    DOROTHY : Flowers are like human beings. They can’t be allowed to grow wild. They have to be—
    YOUNG MAN : Regimented? Ahhh. I see. You’re a horticultural fascist!
    DOROTHY [
with an indignant gasp
]: I ought to call the policeman about those petunias!
    YOUNG MAN : Why don’t you, then?
    DOROTHY : Only because you made an honest confession.
    YOUNG MAN : That’s not why, Miss Simple.
    DOROTHY : No?
    YOUNG MAN : The actual reason is that you are fascinated.
    DOROTHY :
AM
I? Indeed!
    YOUNG MAN : Indeed you are, Miss Simple. In spite of your late unlamented petunias, you’re charmed, you’re intrigued—you’re frightened!
    DOROTHY : You’re very conceited!
    YOUNG MAN : Now, if you please, I’d like to ask you a question.
    DOROTHY : You may. But I may not answer.
    YOUNG MAN : You will if you can. But you probably won’t be able. The question is this: What do you make of it all?
    DOROTHY : I don’t understand—All
what?
    YOUNG MAN : The world? The universe? And your position in it? This miraculous accident of being alive! [
Soft music in the background
.] Has it ever occurred to you how much the living are outnumbered by the dead? Their numerical superiority, Miss Simple, is so tremendous that you couldn’t possibly find a ratio with figures vast enough
above
the line, and small enough
below
to represent it.
    DOROTHY : You sound like you were trying to sell me something.
    YOUNG MAN : I am, I am, just wait!
    DOROTHY : I’m not in the market for—
    YOUNG MAN : Please! One minute of your infinitely valuable time!
    DOROTHY : All right. One minute.
    YOUNG MAN :
Look!
    DOROTHY : At what?
    YOUNG MAN : Those little particles of dust in the shaft of April sunlight through that window.
    DOROTHY : What about them?
    YOUNG MAN : Just think. You might have been one of those instead of what you are. You might have been any one of those infinitesimal particles of dust. Or any one of millions and billions and trillions of other particles of mute, unconscious matter. Never capable of asking any questions. Never capable of giving any answers. Never capable of doing, thinking, feeling anything at all! But instead, dear lady, by the rarest and most improbable of accidents, you happened to be what you are. Miss Dorothy Simple from Boston! Beautiful. Human. Alive. Capable of thought and feeling and action. Now here comes the vital part of my question. What are you going to
do
about it, Miss Simple?
    DOROTHY [
who is somewhat moved, in spite of her crushed petunias
]: