The Hairy Ape, Eugene O’Neill [read a book txt] 📗

their bleedin’ private lane, as yer might say. Bitterly. We’re trespassers ’ere. Proletarians keep orf the grass! Yank Dully. I don’t see no grass, yuh boob. Staring at the sidewalk. Clean, ain’t it? Yuh could eat a fried egg offen it. The white wings got some job sweepin’ dis up. Looking up and down the avenue⁠—surlily. Where’s all de white-collar stiffs yuh said was here⁠—and de skoits⁠—her kind? Long In church, blarst ’em! Arskin’ Jesus to give ’em more money. Yank Choich, huh? I useter go to choich onct⁠—sure⁠—when I was a kid. Me old man and woman, dey made me. Dey never went demselves, dough. Always got too big a head on Sunday mornin’, dat was dem. With a grin. Dey was scrappers for fair, bot’ of dem. On Satiday nights when dey bot’ got a skinful dey could put up a bout oughter been staged at de Garden. When dey got trough dere wasn’t a chair or table wit a leg under it. Or else dey bot’ jumped on me for somep’n. Dat was where I loined to take punishment. With a grin and a swagger. I’m a chip offen de old block, get me? Long Did yer old man follow the sea? Yank Naw. Worked along shore. I runned away when me old lady croaked wit de tremens. I helped at truckin’ and in de market. Den I shipped in de stokehole. Sure. Dat belongs. De rest was nothin’. Looking around him. I ain’t never seen dis before. De Brooklyn waterfront, dat was where I was dragged up. Taking a deep breath. Dis ain’t so bad at dat, huh? Long Not bad? Well, we pays for it wiv our bloody sweat, if yer wants to know! Yank With sudden angry disgust. Aw, hell! I don’t see noone, see⁠—like her. All dis gives me a pain. It don’t belong. Say, ain’t dere a backroom around dis dump? Let’s go shoot a ball. All dis is too clean and quiet and dolled-up, get me! It gives me a pain. Long Wait and yer’ll bloody well see⁠— Yank I don’t wait for noone. I keep on de move. Say, what yuh drag me up here for, anyway? Tryin’ to kid me, yuh simp, yuh? Long Yer wants to get back at her, don’t yer? That’s what yer been saying’ every bloomin’ ’our since she hinsulted yer. Yank Vehemently. Sure ting I do! Didn’t I try to git even wit her in Southampton? Didn’t I sneak on de dock and wait for her by de gangplank? I was goin’ to spit in her pale mug, see! Sure, right in her pop-eyes! Dat woulda made me even, see? But no chanct. Dere was a whole army of plainclothes bulls around. Dey spotted me and gimme de bum’s rush. I never seen her. But I’ll git square wit her yet, you watch! Furiously. De lousey tart! She tinks she kin get away wit moider⁠—but not wit me! I’ll fix her! I’ll tink of a way! Long As disgusted as he dares to be. Ain’t that why I brought yer up ’ere⁠—to show yer? Yer been lookin’ at this ’ere ’ole affair wrong. Yer been actin’ an’ talkin’ ’s if it was all a bleedin’ personal matter between yer and that bloody cow. I wants to convince yer she was on’y a representative of ’er clarss. I wants to awaken yer bloody clarss consciousness. Then yer’ll see it’s ’er clarss yer’ve got to fight, not ’er alone. There’s a ’ole mob of ’em like ’er, Gawd blind ’em! Yank Spitting on his hands⁠—belligerently. De more de merrier when I gits started. Bring on de gang! Long Yer’ll see ’em in arf a mo’, when that church lets out. He turns and sees the window display in the two stores for the first time. Blimey! Look at that, will yer? They both walk back and stand looking in the jewelers. Long flies into a fury. Just look at this ’ere bloomin’ mess! Just look at it! Look at the bleedin’ prices on ’em⁠—more’n our ’old bloody stokehole makes in ten voyages sweatin’ in ’ell! And they⁠—her and her bloody clarss⁠—buys ’em for toys to dangle on ’em! One of these ’ere would buy scoff for a starvin’ family for a year! Yank Aw, cut de sob stuff! T’ hell wit de starvin’ family! Yuh’ll be passin’ de hat to me next. With naive admiration. Say, dem tings is pretty, huh? Bet yuh dey’d hock for a piece of change aw right. Then turning away, bored. But, aw hell, what good are dey? Let her have ’em. Dey don’t belong no more’n she does. With a gesture of sweeping the jewelers into oblivion. All dat don’t count, get me? Long Who has moved to the furriers⁠—indignantly. And I s’pose this ’ere don’t count neither⁠—skins of poor, ’armless animals slaughtered so as ’er and ’ers can keep their bleedin’ noses warm! Yank Who has been staring at something inside⁠—with queer excitement. Take a slant at dat! Give it de once-over! Monkey fur⁠—two t’ousand bucks! Bewilderedly. Is dat straight goods⁠—monkey fur? What de hell⁠—? Long Bitterly. It’s straight enuf. With grim humor. They wouldn’t bloody well pay that for a ’airy ape’s skin⁠—no, nor for the ’ole livin’ ape with all ’is ’ead, and body, and soul thrown in! Yank Clenching his fists, his face growing pale with rage as if the skin in the window were a personal insult. Trowin’ it up in my face! Christ! I’ll fix her! Long Excitedly. Church is out. ’Ere they come, the bleedin’ swine. After a glance at Yank’s lowering face⁠—uneasily. Easy goes, Comrade. Keep yer bloomin’ temper. Remember force defeats itself. It ain’t our weapon. We must impress our demands through peaceful means⁠—the votes of the on-marching proletarians of the bloody world! Yank With abysmal contempt. Votes, hell! Votes is a joke, see. Votes for women! Let dem do it! Long Still