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The four story high “Louisiana Hospital for the Insane of Louisiana”, situated on a site optimistically named “Flowery Hill”. The state asylum boasts a Greek revival styled central building, grand and white, and far from prison-like. White stairs, flanked by whiter railings, ascend to the entrance. In front, six pretty pillars grasp for six ionic capitals, emanating the same poised charm as Belle Reve once did. But too different, in its overcrowded nature and subtle deterioration, to truly be Belle Reve. All too different, but still similar enough, for the flowery lens of perspective to be upheld.
Room 14 of the Women’s Ward, the exterior walls are painted over with white lilies. Each paint stroke that aided in the creation of each lily is visible, the art-style fleeting in the same, blurry way that impressionist paintings are. The only light permitted in the dusty confines of Room 14 is that of candles. Every window is blocked by newspapers and cabinets, hastily glued and shoved into place.
Born from flame, warmth spills out onto the worrisome face of Blanche Dubois. She is sat on a wooden chair, holding a cigarette daintily up to her lips. A white dress adorns her figure, with a white fox fur wrapped around her neck to match. And, declaring themselves upon the tiara that crowns her head, and the heeled shoes that encompass her feet, are pops of bold purple. She looks as if she is the ghost of a royal. Perhaps that is exactly the impression she means to give. Or perhaps she is costuming as true greatness, instead of the mere whisper of it.
[A woman enters the room, known by Blanche as The Matron. She looks to be about forty, a mournfully old age for a woman to be. Her hair is tied up in a neat bun and she wears a plain, medical outfit. The Matron stops at the door, Blanche shields her eyes from the uninvited light streaming into her room.]
MATRON: Somebody wishes to see you, Miss Dubois.
BLANCHE: Well, now.. You’re not a very good maid. I think it would do you some good to knock before entering.. Who is it that wishes to see me?
MATRON: A “Harold Mitchell”. I’m not a maid.
BLANCHE: Harold Mitchell? Ohh– Mitch! Blessings upon me, that’s my Mitch!
[Blanche stands bolt upright, her chair scraping backwards with the hasty action. She picks up her parasol.]
BLANCHE: Take me to him! And of course you’re a maid. What else would you be?
MATRON: I’m your nurse. You need to get these delusions out of your head.
BLANCHE: Watch who you call delusional. Delusion is just the mind’s way of making sense of the world.. Now hurry up! Take me to Mitch.
MATRON: Alright.
[The two women leave Room 14. Blanche’s visage is shadowed over by her ghostly, white parasol.]
MATRON [with barely concealed judgement]: We’re indoors. Not the kind of environment that requires a parasol..
BLANCHE: You’re not allowed to decide what is required! Only I, as a noble lady of Belle Reve, am allowed to dictate that.
MATRON: Hm. The Doctor will be made aware of this habit of yours.
BLANCHE: The Doctor! Oh, my Doctor.. I can’t wait to tell Mitch all about him. You don’t think he’d be offended, right?
MATRON: Uh huh.
BLANCHE: To find me head over heels for another- well. I imagine it’d hurt him dearly.
MATRON: Sure.
[Blanche shakes her head disapprovingly.]
BLANCHE: How you managed to hold your job at Belle Reve is a mystery to me.. You’re awful with paying attention, even more so with your manners.
[They finally arrive at the visiting room. the Matron opens the door for Blanche and they both step inside. The room is institutional, the presence of comforting decorations made scarce. Mitch stands behind a screen, dressed in a white suit. A red tie vanishes into his suit collar. Something about his furrowed brow and the way he tucks his hands into his pockets suggests a hint of nervousness.]
BLANCHE: You’re here!
MITCH: Apologies for not visiting sooner, Blanche.
BLANCHE: It’s of no concern to me that you visited late. What matters is that you visited at all. You look different!
MITCH: So do you. This is the fanciest— getup I’ve seen you in.
BLANCHE: Getup? Never a “getup”, dear.. Forget it. I forgive your poor word choice. I’m awfully glad you noticed my eye for fashion! Is there anything else you notice, Mitch?
MITCH: Well, I’ll admit I’m not much good with fashion..
BLANCHE: Haha— Enough about me, then. How’s Stella? And her baby! How old would the little boy be, by now? Six? And you! How have these past years transformed you?
MITCH: My mother died eight months ago.
BLANCHE [with a sympathetic tone]: Oh my!
MITCH: But I came here to talk about you. Not my mother, not Stella or her baby. Is this place treating you well?
BLANCHE: You want to talk about me? Of course, you’ve always been the thoughtful kind.. I’m being treated wonderfully! I’ve met many a sympathetic woman here, the architecture is simply beautiful, and— Oh! Oh Mitch, I mean this in no offensive manner, but.. [she gives a wistful laugh] I believe I have finally found the one!
MITCH: You have?
BLANCHE: Yes, indeed! My lovely doctor, with his gentle, gentlemanly touch.
MITCH: He’s the one who came to drag you away, then. I looked into him. Because I worry for you. Isn’t his name—
BLANCHE: No need to phrase it so cruelly [She laughs nervously]. You make it seem like he— grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and tossed me here! So silly..
MITCH: I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. The Doctor has a criminal history. If you’ve ever wondered why Stanley called him specifically, thats why. Because The Doctor and Stanley are the same kind of men.
BLANCHE: Stanley? He’s nothing like that— brute!! Yes— Stanley. Brutish in every sense of the accursed word! Brutish like an ape, like a hound, like canines slick with the crimson of the innocent. Why, I’m sure the Doctor would lend Stanley to a vet, to be treated with the same damn medication as beasts receive. The Doctor will never even compare to Stanley! And you’d never compare to the Doctor! Never, in any of our encounters, have you ever compared to him. If you had been my cleft to hide in, then maybe you would, Mitch! If you had seen Stanley for what he is, if you had sheltered me from the cold hail of the world. If you hadn’t— consorted with him, believed in him, and torn me down for it all! But no. You’re too much like Stanley Kowalski, and you have his brutish behaviours to match. Leave this place. Leave Belle Reve now you— you fraud!
MITCH: Belle Reve? You lost Belle Reve! Open your eyes, Blanche. This isn’t home.
BLANCHE: You’re insane! An insane, blaspheming, lying fraud! Leave before I call the men on you!
MITCH: I’m sorry about what they’ve done to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t have arrived sooner.
BLANCHE: They’ll beat you— make you sorry! Fraud! You’re nothing but a fraud!
[Mitch backs away from the screen, the barrier between him and Blanche. The Matron walks up to Blanche and begins pawing at her, coercing her away from the screen. Blanche fights futilely back against the Matron.]
MATRON: Enough of that racket.
BLANCHE [adopting the same, tinny voice as a mouse]: Don’t— Don’t touch me. Stay back, you feral maid!!
MATRON: And stop calling me a maid, for Christ’s sake.
BLANCHE: They’ll beat you too, you know—
MATRON: Those side effects of your medicine’ll kick in real soon if you don’t calm down.
BLANCHE: —Beat you and worse if you don’t.. stop your clawing! Stop!
MATRON: You look faint. Sit down.
BLANCHE: No! No no! I’m— I refuse. Let go!
MATRON: Blanche. Blanche I’m warning you—
BLANCHE: You’re a maid and— nothing more! You’re.. you…
[Blanche’s thrashing stills. And with the same, delicate rhythm as a falling leaf, she faints, collapses into the Matron’s arms. The Matron shakes her head.]
MATRON: Tsk. Every time. They ignore my advice every time.