Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (10 page)

Then nothing would ever have happened.

They stare at her. Tyrone knows now. He suddenly looks a tired, bitterly sad old man. Edmund glances at his father and sees that he knows, but he still cannot help trying to warn his mother.

Mama! Stop talking. Why don’t we go in to lunch.

Starts and at once the quality of unnatural detachment settles on her face again. She even smiles with an ironical amusement to herself.

Yes, it is inconsiderate of me to dig up the past, when I know your father and Jamie must be hungry.

Putting her arm around Edmund’s shoulder—with a fond solicitude which is at the same time remote.

I do hope you have an appetite, dear. You really must eat more.

Her eyes become fixed on the whiskey glass on the table beside him
—
sharply.

Why is that glass there? Did you take a drink? Oh, how can you be such a fool? Don’t you know it’s the worst thing?

She turns on Tyrone.

You’re to blame, James. How could you let him? Do you want to kill him? Don’t you remember my father? He wouldn’t stop after he was stricken. He said doctors were fools! He thought, like you, that whiskey is a good tonic!

A look of terror comes into her eyes and she stammers.

But, of course, there’s no comparison at all. I don’t know why I—Forgive me for scolding you, James. One small drink won’t hurt Edmund. It might be good for him, if it gives him an appetite.

She pats Edmund’s cheek playfully, the strange detachment again in her manner. He jerks his head away. She seems not to notice, but she moves instinctively away.

Roughly, to hide his tense nerves.

For God’s sake, let’s eat. I’ve been working in the damned dirt under the hedge all morning. I’ve earned my grub.

He comes around in back of his father, not looking at his mother, and grabs Edmund’s shoulder.

Come on, Kid. Let’s put on the feed bag.

Edmund gets up, keeping his eyes averted from his mother. They pass her, heading for the back parlor.

Dully.

Yes, you go in with your mother, lads. I’ll join you in a second.

But they keep on without waiting for her. She looks at their backs with a helpless hurt and, as they enter the back parlor, starts to follow them. Tyrone’s eyes are on her, sad and condemning. She feels them and turns sharply without meeting his stare.

Why do you look at me like that?

Her hands flutter up to pat her hair.

Is it my hair coming down? I was so worn out from last night. I thought I’d better lie down this morning. I drowsed off and had a nice refreshing nap. But I’m sure I fixed my hair again when I woke up.

Forcing a laugh.

Although, as usual, I couldn’t find my glasses.

Sharply.

Please stop staring! One would think you were accusing me—

Then pleadingly.

James! You don’t understand!

With dull anger.

I understand that I’ve been a God-damned fool to believe in you!

He walks away from her to pour himself a big drink.

Her face again sets in stubborn defiance.

I don’t know what you mean by “believing in me.” All I’ve felt was distrust and spying and suspicion.

Then accusingly.

Why are you having another drink? You never have more than one before lunch.

Bitterly.

I know what to expect. You will be drunk tonight. Well, it won’t be the first time, will it—or the thousandth?

Again she bursts out pleadingly.

Oh, James, please! You don’t understand! I’m so worried about Edmund! I’m so afraid he—

I don’t want to listen to your excuses, Mary.

Strickenly.

Excuses? You mean—? Oh, you can’t believe that of me! You mustn’t believe that, James!

Then slipping away into her strange detachment—quite casually.

Shall we not go into lunch, dear? I don’t want anything but I know you’re hungry.

He walks slowly to where she stands in the doorway. He walks like an old man. As he reaches her she bursts out piteously.

James! I tried so hard! I tried so hard! Please believe—!

Moved in spite of himself—helplessly.

I suppose you did, Mary.

Then grief-strickenly.

For the love of God, why couldn’t you have the strength to keep on?

Her face setting into that stubborn denial again.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have the strength to keep on what?

Hopelessly.

Never mind. It’s no use now.

He moves on and she keeps beside him as they disappear in the back parlor.

SCENE

The same, about a half hour later. The tray with the bottle of whiskey has been removed from the table. The family are returning from lunch as the curtain rises. Mary is the first to enter from the back parlor. Her husband follows. He is not with her as he was in the similar entrance after breakfast at the opening of
Act One
. He avoids touching her or looking at her. There is condemnation in his face, mingled now with the beginning of an old weary, helpless resignation. Jamie and Edmund follow their father. Jamie’s face is hard with defensive cynicism. Edmund tries to copy this defense but without success. He plainly shows he is heartsick as well as physically ill.

Mary is terribly nervous again, as if the strain of sitting through lunch with them had been too much for her. Yet at the same time, in contrast to this, her expression shows more of that strange aloofness which seems to stand apart from her nerves and the anxieties which harry them.

She is talking as she enters—a stream of words that issues casually, in a routine of family conversation, from her mouth. She appears indifferent to the fact that their thoughts are not on what she is saying any more than her own are. As she talks, she comes to the left of the table and stands, facing front, one hand fumbling with the bosom of her dress, the other playing over the table top. Tyrone lights a cigar and goes to the screen door, staring out. Jamie fills a pipe from a jar on top of the bookcase at rear. He lights it as he goes to look out the window at right. Edmund sits in a chair by the table, turned half away from his mother so he does not have to watch her.

It’s no use finding fault with Bridget. She doesn’t listen. I can’t threaten her, or she’d threaten she’d leave. And she does do her best at times. It’s too bad they seem to be just the times you’re sure to be late, James. Well, there’s this consolation: it’s difficult to tell from her cooking whether she’s doing her best or her worst.

She gives a little laugh of detached amusement—indifferently.

Never mind. The summer will soon be over, thank goodness. Your season will open again and we can go back to second-rate hotels and trains. I hate them, too, but at least I don’t expect them to be like a home, and there’s no housekeeping to worry about. It’s unreasonable to expect Bridget or Cathleen to act as if this was a home. They know it isn’t as well as we know it. It never has been and it never will be.

Bitterly without turning around.

No, it never can be now. But it was once, before you—

Her face instantly set in blank denial.

Before I what?

There is a dead silance. She goes on with a return of her detached air.

No, no. Whatever you mean, it isn’t true, dear. It was never a home. You’ve always preferred the Club or a barroom. And for me it’s always been as lonely as a dirty room in a one-night stand hotel. In a real home one is never lonely. You forget I know from experience what a home is like. I gave up one to marry you—my father’s home.

At once, through an association of ideas she turns to Edmund. Her manner becomes tenderly solicitous, but there is the strange quality of detachment in it.

I’m worried about you, Edmund. You hardly touched a thing at lunch. That’s no way to take care of yourself. It’s all right for me not to have an appetite. I’ve been growing too fat. But you must eat.

Coaxingly maternal.

Promise me you will, dear, for my sake.

Dully.

Yes, Mama.

Pats his cheek as he tries not to shrink away.

That’s a good boy.

There is another pause of dead silence. Then the telephone in the front hall rings and all of them stiffen startledly.

Hastily.

I’ll answer. McGuire said he’d call me.

He goes out through the front parlor.

Indifferently.

McGuire. He must have another piece of property on his list that no one would think of buying except your father. It doesn’t matter any more, but it’s always seemed to me your father could afford to keep on buying property but never to give me a home.

She stops to listen as Tyrone’s voice is heard from the hall.

Hello.

With forced heartiness.

Oh, how are you, Doctor?

Jamie turns from the window. Mary’s fingers play more rapidly on the table top. Tyrone’s voice, trying to conceal, reveals that he is hearing bad news.

I see—

Hurriedly.

Well, you’ll explain all about it when you see him this afternoon. Yes, he’ll be in without fail. Four o’clock. I’ll drop in myself and have a talk with you before that. I have to go uptown on business, anyway. Goodbye, Doctor.

Dully.

That didn’t sound like glad tidings.

Jamie gives him a pitying glance—then looks out the window again. Mary’s face is terrified and her hands flutter distractedly. Tyrone comes in. The strain is obvious in his casualness as he addresses Edmund.

It was Doctor Hardy. He wants you to be sure and see him at four.

Dully.

What did he say? Not that I give a damn now.

Bursts out excitedly.

I wouldn’t believe him if he swore on a stack of Bibles. You mustn’t pay attention to a word he says, Edmund.

Sharply.

Mary!

More excitedly.

Oh, we all realize why you like him, James! Because he’s cheap! But please don’t try to tell me! I know all about Doctor Hardy. Heaven knows I ought to after all these years. He’s an ignorant fool! There should be a law to keep men like him from practicing. He hasn’t the slightest idea— When you’re in agony and half insane, he sits and holds your hand and delivers sermons on will power!

Her face is drawn in an expression of intense suffering by the memory. For the moment she loses all caution. With bitter hatred.

He deliberately humiliates you! He makes you beg and plead! He treats you like a criminal! He understands nothing! And yet it was exactly the same type of cheap quack who first gave you the medicine—and you never knew what it was until too late!

Passionately.

I hate doctors! They’ll do anything—anything to keep you coming to them. They’ll sell their souls! What’s worse, they’ll sell yours, and you never know it till one day you find yourself in hell!

Mama! For God’s sake, stop talking.

Shakenly.

Yes, Mary, it’s no time—

Suddenly is overcome by guilty confusion—stammers.

I— Forgive me, dear. You’re right. It’s useless to be angry now.

There is again a pause of dead silence. When she speaks again, her face has cleared and is calm, and the quality of uncanny detachment is in her voice and manner.

I’m going upstairs for a moment, if you’ll excuse me. I have to fix my hair.

She adds smilingly.

That is if I can find my glasses. I’ll be right down.

As she starts through the doorway—pleading and rebuking.

Mary!

Turns to stare at him calmly.

Yes, dear? What is it?