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

against the eagles of ancient Rome!” Voice Disgustedly. Aw hell! Tell him to salt de tail of dat eagle! Voice Reading: “I refer to that devil’s brew of rascals, jailbirds, murderers and cutthroats who libel all honest working men by calling themselves the Industrial Workers of the World; but in the light of their nefarious plots, I call them the Industrious Wreckers of the World!” Yank With vengeful satisfaction. Wreckers, dat’s de right dope! Dat belongs! Me for dem! Voice Ssshh! Reading. “This fiendish organization is a foul ulcer on the fair body of our Democracy⁠—” Voice Democracy, hell! Give him the boid, fellers⁠—the raspberry! They do. Voice Ssshh! Reading: “Like Cato I say to this senate, the I.W.W. must be destroyed! For they represent an ever-present dagger pointed at the heart of the greatest nation the world has ever known, where all men are born free and equal, with equal opportunities to all, where the Founding Fathers have guaranteed to each one happiness, where Truth, Honor, Liberty, Justice, and the Brotherhood of Man are a religion absorbed with one’s mother’s milk, taught at our father’s knee, sealed, signed, and stamped upon in the glorious Constitution of these United States!” A perfect storm of hisses, catcalls, boos, and hard laughter. Voices Scornfully. Hurrah for de Fort’ of July! Pass de hat! Liberty! Justice! Honor! Opportunity! Brotherhood! All With abysmal scorn. Aw, hell! Voice Give that Queen Senator guy the bark! All togedder now⁠—one⁠—two⁠—tree⁠—A terrific chorus of barking and yapping. Guard From a distance. Quiet there, youse⁠—or I’ll git the hose. The noise subsides. Yank With growling rage. I’d like to catch dat senator guy alone for a second. I’d loin him some trute! Voice Ssshh! Here’s where he gits down to cases on the Wobblies. Reads: “They plot with fire in one hand and dynamite in the other. They stop not before murder to gain their ends, nor at the outraging of defenceless womanhood. They would tear down society, put the lowest scum in the seats of the mighty, turn Almighty God’s revealed plan for the world topsy-turvy, and make of our sweet and lovely civilization a shambles, a desolation where man, God’s masterpiece, would soon degenerate back to the ape!” Voice To Yank. Hey, you guy. There’s your ape stuff again. Yank With a growl of fury. I got him. So dey blow up tings, do dey? Dey turn tings round, do dey? Hey, lend me dat paper, will yuh? Voice Sure. Give it to him. On’y keep it to yourself, see. We don’t wanter listen to no more of that slop. Voice Here you are. Hide it under your mattress. Yank Reaching out. Tanks. I can’t read much but I kin manage. He sits, the paper in the hand at his side, in the attitude of Rodin’s The Thinker. A pause. Several snores from down the corridor. Suddenly Yank jumps to his feet with a furious groan as if some appalling thought had crashed on him⁠—bewilderedly. Sure⁠—her old man⁠—president of de Steel Trust⁠—makes half de steel in de world⁠—steel⁠—where I tought I belonged⁠—drivin’ trou⁠—movin’⁠—in dat⁠—to make her⁠—and cage me in for her to spit on! Christ He shakes the bars of his cell door till the whole tier trembles. Irritated, protesting exclamations from those awakened or trying to get to sleep. He made dis⁠—dis cage! Steel! It don’t belong, dat’s what! Cages, cells, locks, bolts, bars⁠—dat’s what it means!⁠—holdin’ me down wit him at de top! But I’ll drive trou! Fire, dat melts it! I’ll be fire⁠—under de heap⁠—fire dat never goes out⁠—hot as hell⁠—breakin’ out in de night⁠—While he has been saying this last he has shaken his cell door to a clanging accompaniment. As he comes to the “breakin’ out” he seizes one bar with both hands and, putting his two feet up against the others so that his position is parallel to the floor like a monkey’s, he gives a great wrench backwards. The bar bends like a licorice stick under his tremendous strength. Just at this moment the Prison Guard rushes in, dragging a hose behind him. Guard Angrily. I’ll loin youse bums to wake me up! Sees Yank. Hello, it’s you, huh? Got the D.T.s, hey? Well, I’ll cure ’em. I’ll drown your snakes for yuh! Noticing the bar. Hell, look at dat bar bended! On’y a bug is strong enough for dat! Yank Glaring at him. Or a hairy ape, yuh big yellow bum! Look out! Here I come! He grabs another bar. Guard Scared now⁠—yelling off left. Toin de hoose on, Ben!⁠—full pressure! And call de others⁠—and a strait jacket! The curtain is falling. As it hides Yank from view, there is a splattering smash as the stream of water hits the steel of Yank’s cell. Curtain. Scene VII

Nearly a month later. An I.W.W. local near the waterfront, showing the interior of a front room on the ground floor, and the street outside. Moonlight on the narrow street, buildings massed in black shadow. The interior of the room, which is general assembly room, office, and reading room, resembles some dingy settlement boys club. A desk and high stool are in one corner. A table with papers, stacks of pamphlets, chairs about it, is at center. The whole is decidedly cheap, banal, commonplace and unmysterious as a room could well be. The secretary is perched on the stool making entries in a large ledger. An eye shade casts his face into shadows. Eight or ten men, longshoremen, iron workers, and the like, are grouped about the table. Two are playing checkers. One is writing a letter. Most of them are smoking pipes. A big signboard is on the wall at the rear, “Industrial Workers of the World⁠—Local No. 57.”

Yank Comes down the street outside. He is dressed as in Scene Five. He moves cautiously, mysteriously. He comes