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

she was a ghost, see? She was all in white like dey wrap around stiffs. You seen her. Kin yuh blame me? She didn’t belong, dat’s what. And den when I come to and seen it was a real skoit and seen de way she was lookin’ at me⁠—like Paddy said⁠—Christ, I was sore, get me? I don’t stand for dat stuff from nobody. And I flung de shovel⁠—on’y she’d beat it. Furiously. I wished it’d banged her! I wished it’d knocked her block off! Long And be ’anged for murder or ’lectrocuted? She ain’t bleedin’ well worth it. Yank I don’t give a damn what! I’d be square wit her, wouldn’t I? Tink I wanter let her put somep’n over on me? Tink I’m goin’ to let her git away wit dat stuff? Yuh don’t know me! Noone ain’t never put nothin’ over on me and got away wit it, see!⁠—not dat kind of stuff⁠—no guy and no skoit neither! I’ll fix her! Maybe she’ll come down again⁠— Voice No chance, Yank. You scared her out of a year’s growth. Yank I scared her? Why de hell should I scare her? Who de hell is she? Ain’t she de same as me? Hairy ape, huh? With his old confident bravado. I’ll show her I’m better’n her, if she on’y knew it. I belong and she don’t, see! I move and she’s dead! Twenty-five knots a hour, dats me! Dat carries her but I make dat. She’s on’y baggage. Sure! Again bewilderedly. But, Christ, she was funny lookin’! Did yuh pipe her hands? White and skinny. Yuh could see de bones trough ’em. And her mush, dat was dead white, too. And her eyes, dey was like dey’d seen a ghost. Me, dat was! Sure! Hairy ape! Ghost, huh? Look at dat arm! He extends his right arm, swelling out the great muscles. I coulda took her wit dat, wit’ just my little finger even, and broke her in two. Again bewilderedly. Say, who is dat skoit, huh? What is she? What’s she come from? Who made her? Who give her de noive to look at me like dat? Dis ting’s got my goat right. I don’t get her. She’s new to me. What does a skoit like her mean, huh? She don’t belong, get me! I can’t see her. With growing anger. But one ting I’m wise to, aw right, aw right! Youse all kin bet your shoits I’ll git even wit her. I’ll show her if she tinks she⁠—She grinds de organ and I’m on de string, huh? I’ll fix her! Let her come down again and I’ll fling her in de furnace! She’ll move den! She won’t shiver at nothin’, den! Speed, dat’ll be her! She’ll belong den! He grins horribly. Paddy She’ll never come. She’s had her belly-full, I’m telling you. She’ll be in bed now, I’m thinking, wid ten doctors and nurses feedin’ her salts to clean the fear out of her. Yank Enraged. Yuh tink I made her sick, too, do yuh? Just lookin’ at me, huh? Hairy ape, huh? In a frenzy of rage. I’ll fix her! I’ll tell her where to git off! She’ll git down on her knees and take it back or I’ll bust de face offen her! Shaking one fist upward and beating on his chest with the other. I’ll find yuh! I’m comin’, d’yuh hear? I’ll fix yuh, God damn yuh! He makes a rush for the door. Voices Stop him! He’ll get shot! He’ll murder her! Trip him up! Hold him! He’s gone crazy! Gott, he’s strong! Hold him down! Look out for a kick! Pin his arms! They have all piled on him and, after a fierce struggle, by sheer weight of numbers have borne him to the floor just inside the door. Paddy Who has remained detached. Kape him down till he’s cooled off. Scornfully. Yerra, Yank, you’re a great fool. Is it payin’ attention at all you are to the like of that skinny sow widout one drop of rale blood in her? Yank Frenziedly, from the bottom of the heap. She done me doit! She done me doit, didn’t she? I’ll git square wit her! I’ll get her some way! Git offen me, youse guys! Lemme up! I’ll show her who’s a ape! Curtain. Scene V

Three weeks later. A corner of Fifth Avenue in the Fifties on a fine, Sunday morning. A general atmosphere of clean, well-tidied, wide street; a flood of mellow, tempered sunshine; gentle, genteel breezes. In the rear, the show windows of two shops, a jewelry establishment on the corner, a furrier’s next to it. Here the adornments of extreme wealth are tantalizingly displayed. The jeweler’s window is gaudy with glittering diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls, etc., fashioned in ornate tiaras, crowns, necklaces, collars, etc. From each piece hangs an enormous tag from which a dollar sign and numerals in intermittent electric lights wink out the incredible prices. The same in the furrier’s. Rich furs of all varieties hang there bathed in a downpour of artificial light. The general effect is of a background of magnificence cheapened and made grotesque by commercialism, a background in tawdry disharmony with the clear light and sunshine on the street itself.

Up the side street Yank and Long come swaggering. Long is dressed in shore clothes, wears a black Windsor tie, cloth cap. Yank is in his dirty dungarees. A fireman’s cap with black peak is cocked defiantly on the side of his head. He has not shaved for days and around his fierce, resentful eyes⁠—as around those of Long to a lesser degree⁠—the black smudge of coal dust still sticks like makeup. They hesitate and stand together at the corner, swaggering, looking about them with a forced, defiant contempt. Long Indicating it all with an oratorical gesture. Well, ’ere we are. Fif’ Avenoo. This ’ere’s