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

all de dope. Gimme de stuff, de old butter⁠—and watch me do de rest! Watch de smoke and see it move! I don’t give a damn if dey nab me⁠—long as it’s done! I’ll soive life for it⁠—and give ’em de laugh! Half to himself. And I’ll write her a letter and tell her de hairy ape done it. Dat’ll square tings. Secretary Stepping away from Yank. Very interesting. He gives a signal. The men, huskies all, throw themselves on Yank and before he knows it they have his legs and arms pinioned. But he is too flabbergasted to make a struggle, anyway. They feel him over for weapons. Man No gat, no knife. Shall we give him what’s what and put the boots to him? Secretary No. He isn’t worth the trouble we’d get into. He’s too stupid. He comes closer and laughs mockingly in Yank’s face. Ho-ho! By God, this is the biggest joke they’ve put up on us yet. Hey, you Joke! Who sent you⁠—Burns or Pinkerton? No, by God, you’re such a bonehead I’ll bet you’re in the Secret Service! Well, you dirty spy, you rotten agent provocator, you can go back and tell whatever skunk is paying you blood-money for betraying your brothers that he’s wasting his coin. You couldn’t catch a cold. And tell him that all he’ll ever get on us, or ever has got, is just his own sneaking plots that he’s framed up to put us in jail. We are what our manifesto says we are, neither more or less⁠—and we’ll give him a copy of that any time he calls. And as for you⁠—He glares scornfully at Yank, who is sunk in an oblivious stupor. Oh, hell, what’s the use of talking? You’re a brainless ape. Yank Aroused by the word to fierce but futile struggles. What’s dat, yuh Sheeny bum, yuh! Secretary Throw him out, boys. In spite of his struggles, this is done with gusto and éclat. Propelled by several parting kicks, Yank lands sprawling in the middle of the narrow cobbled street. With a growl he starts to get up and storm the closed door, but stops bewildered by the confusion in his brain, pathetically impotent. He sits there, brooding, in as near to the attitude of Rodin’s Thinker as he can get in his position. Yank Bitterly. So dem boids don’t tink I belong, neider. Aw, to hell wit ’em! Dey’re in de wrong pew⁠—de same old bull⁠—soapboxes and Salvation Army⁠—no guts! Cut out an hour offen de job a day and make me happy! Gimme a dollar more a day and make me happy! Tree square a day, and cauliflowers in de front yard⁠—ekal rights⁠—a woman and kids⁠—a lousey vote⁠—and I’m all fixed for Jesus, huh? Aw, hell! What does dat get yuh? Dis ting’s in your inside, but it ain’t your belly. Feedin’ your face⁠—sinkers and coffee⁠—dat don’t touch it. It’s way down⁠—at de bottom. Yuh can’t grab it, and yuh can’t stop it. It moves, and everyting moves. It stops and de whole woild stops. Dat’s me now⁠—I don’t tick, see?⁠—I’m a busted Ingersoll, dat’s what. Steel was me, and I owned de woild. Now I ain’t steel, and de woild owns me. Aw, hell! I can’t see⁠—it’s all dark, get me? It’s all wrong! He turns a bitter mocking face up like an ape gibbering at the moon. Say, youse up dere, Man in de Moon, yuh look so wise, gimme de answer, huh? Slip me de inside dope, de information right from de stable⁠—where do I get off at, huh? Policeman Who has come up the street in time to hear this last⁠—with grim humor. You’ll get off at the station, you boob, if you don’t get up out of that and keep movin’. Yank Looking up at him⁠—with a hard, bitter laugh. Sure! Lock me up! Put me in a cage! Dat’s de on’y answer yuh know. G’wan, lock me up! Policeman What you been doin’? Yank Enuf to gimme life for! I was born, see? Sure, dat’s de charge. Write it in de blotter. I was born, get me! Policeman Jocosely. God pity your old woman! Then matter-of-fact. But I’ve no time for kidding. You’re soused. I’d run you in but it’s too long a walk to the station. Come on now, get up, or I’ll fan your ears with this club. Beat it now! He hauls Yank to his feet. Yank In a vague mocking tone. Say, where do I go from here? Policeman Giving him a push⁠—with a grin, indifferently. Go to hell. Curtain. Scene VIII

Twilight of the next day. The monkey house at the Zoo. One spot of clear gray light falls on the front of one cage so that the interior can be seen. The other cages are vague, shrouded in shadow from which chatterings pitched in a conversational tone can be heard. On the one cage a sign from which the word “gorilla” stands out. The gigantic animal himself is seen squatting on his haunches on a bench in much the same attitude as Rodin’s Thinker. Yank enters from the left. Immediately a chorus of angry chattering and screeching breaks out. The gorilla turns his eyes but makes no sound or move.

Yank With a hard, bitter laugh. Welcome to your city, huh? Hail, hail, de gang’s all here! At the sound of his voice the chattering dies away into an attentive silence. Yank walks up to the gorilla’s cage and, leaning over the railing, stares in at its occupant, who stares back at him, silent and motionless. There is a pause of dead stillness. Then Yank begins to talk in a friendly confidential tone, half-mockingly, but with a deep undercurrent of sympathy. Say, yuh’re some hard-lookin’ guy, ain’t yuh? I seen lots of tough nuts dat de gang called gorillas, but yuh’re