Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (11 page)

Helplessly.

Nothing.

With a strange derisive smile.

You’re welcome to come up and watch me if you’re so suspicious.

As if that could do any good! You’d only postpone it. And I’m not your jailor. This isn’t a prison.

No. I know you can’t help thinking it’s a home.

She adds quickly with a detached contrition.

I’m sorry, dear. I don’t mean to be bitter. It’s not your fault.

She turns and disappears through the back parlor. The three in the room remain silent. It is as if they were waiting until she got upstairs before speaking.

Cynically brutal.

Another shot in the arm!

Angrily.

Cut out that kind of talk!

Yes! Hold your foul tongue and your rotten Broadway loafer’s lingo! Have you no pity or decency?

Losing his temper.

You ought to be kicked out in the gutter! But if I did it, you know damned well who’d weep and plead for you, and excuse you and complain till I let you come back.

A spasm of pain crosses his face.

Christ, don’t I know that? No pity? I have all the pity in the world for her. I understand what a hard game to beat she’s up against—which is more than you ever have! My lingo didn’t mean I had no feeling. I was merely putting bluntly what we all know, and have to live with now, again.

Bitterly.

The cures are no damned good except for a while. The truth is there is no cure and we’ve been saps to hope—

Cynically.

They never come back!

Scornfully parodying his brother’s cynicism.

They never come back! Everything is in the bag! It’s all a frame-up! We’re all fall guys and suckers and we can’t beat the game!

Disdainfully.

Christ, if I felt the way you do—!

Stung for a moment—then shrugging his shoulders, dryly.

I thought you did. Your poetry isn’t very cheery. Nor the stuff you read and claim you admire.

He indicates the small bookcase at rear.

Your pet with the unpronounceable name, for example.

Nietzsche. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t read him.

Enough to know it’s a lot of bunk!

Shut up, both of you! There’s little choice between the philosophy you learned from Broadway loafers, and the one Edmund got from his books. They’re both rotten to the core. You’ve both flouted the faith you were born and brought up in—the one true faith of the Catholic Church—and your denial has brought nothing but self-destruction!

His two sons stare at him contemptuously. They forget their quarrel and are as one against him on this issue.

That’s the bunk, Papa!

We don’t pretend, at any rate.

Caustically.

I don’t notice you’ve worn any holes in the knees of your pants going to Mass.

It’s true I’m a bad Catholic in the observance, God forgive me. But I believe!

Angrily.

And you’re a liar! I may not go to church but every night and morning of my life I get on my knees and pray!

Bitingly.

Did you pray for Mama?

I did. I’ve prayed to God these many years for her.

Then Nietzsche must be right.

He quotes from Thus Spake Zarathustra.

“God is dead: of His pity for man hath God died.”

Ignores this.

If your mother had prayed, too— She hasn’t denied her faith, but she’s forgotten it, until now there’s no strength of the spirit left in her to fight against her curse.

Then dully resigned.

But what’s the good of talk? We’ve lived with this before and now we must again. There’s no help for it.

Bitterly.

Only I wish she hadn’t led me to hope this time. By God, I never will again!

That’s a rotten thing to say, Papa!

Defiantly.

Well, I’ll hope! She’s just started. It can’t have got a hold on her yet. She can still stop. I’m going to talk to her.

Shrugs his shoulders.

You can’t talk to her now. She’ll listen but she won’t listen. She’ll be here but she won’t be here. You know the way she gets.

Yes, that’s the way the poison acts on her always. Every day from now on, there’ll be the same drifting away from us until by the end of each night—

Miserably.

Cut it out, Papa!

He jumps up from his chair.

I’m going to get dressed.

Bitterly, as he goes.

I’ll make so much noise she can’t suspect I’ve come to spy on her.

He disappears through the front parlor and can be heard stamping noisily upstairs.

After a pause.

What did Doc Hardy say about the Kid?

Dully.

It’s what you thought. He’s got consumption.

God damn it!

There is no possible doubt, he said.

He’ll have to go to a sanatorium.

Yes, and the sooner the better, Hardy said, for him and everyone around him. He claims that in six months to a year Edmund will be cured, if he obeys orders.

He sighs—gloomily and resentfully.

I never thought a child of mine— It doesn’t come from my side of the family. There wasn’t one of us that didn’t have lungs as strong as an ox.

Who gives a damn about that part of it! Where does Hardy want to send him?

That’s what I’m to see him about.

Well, for God’s sake, pick out a good place and not some cheap dump!

Stung.

I’ll send him wherever Hardy thinks best!

Well, don’t give Hardy your old over-the-hills-to-the-poorhouse song about taxes and mortgages.

I’m no millionaire who can throw money away! Why shouldn’t I tell Hardy the truth?

Because he’ll think you want him to pick a cheap dump, and because he’ll know it isn’t the truth—especially if he hears afterwards you’ve seen McGuire and let that flannel-mouth, gold-brick merchant sting you with another piece of bum property!

Furiously.

Keep your nose out of my business!

This is Edmund’s business. What I’m afraid of is, with your Irish bog-trotter idea that consumption is fatal, you’ll figure it would be a waste of money to spend any more than you can help.

You liar!

All right. Prove I’m a liar. That’s what I want. That’s why I brought it up.

His rage still smouldering.

I have every hope Edmund will be cured. And keep your dirty tongue off Ireland! You’re a fine one to sneer, with the map of it on your face!

Not after I wash my face.

Then before his father can react to this insult to the Old Sod, he adds dryly, shrugging his shoulders.

Well, I’ve said all I have to say. It’s up to you.

Abruptly.

What do you want me to do this afternoon, now you’re going uptown? I’ve done all I can do on the hedge until you cut more of it. You don’t want me to go ahead with your clipping, I know that.

No. You’d get it crooked, as you get everything else.

Then I’d better go uptown with Edmund. The bad news coming on top of what’s happened to Mama may hit him hard.

Forgetting his quarrel.

Yes, go with him, Jamie. Keep up his spirits, if you can.

He adds caustically.

If you can without making it an excuse to get drunk!

What would I use for money? The last I heard they were still selling booze, not giving it away.

He starts for the front-parlor doorway.

I’ll get dressed.

He stops in the doorway as he sees his mother approaching from the hall, and moves aside to let her come in. Her eyes look brighter, and her manner is more detached. This change becomes more marked as the scene goes on.

Vaguely.

You haven’t seen my glasses anywhere, have you, Jamie?

She doesn’t look at him. He glances away, ignoring her question but she doesn’t seem to expect an answer. She comes forward, addressing her husband without looking at him.

You haven’t seen them, have you, James?

Behind her Jamie disappears through the front parlor.

Turns to look out the screen door.

No, Mary.

What’s the matter with Jamie? Have you been nagging at him again? You shouldn’t treat him with such contempt all the time. He’s not to blame. If he’d been brought up in a real home, I’m sure he would have been different.

She comes to the windows at right
—
lightly.

You’re not much of a weather prophet, dear. See how hazy it’s getting. I can hardly see the other shore.

Trying to speak naturally.

Yes, I spoke too soon. We’re in for another night of fog, I’m afraid.

Oh, well, I won’t mind it tonight.

No, I don’t imagine you will, Mary.

Flashes a glance at him—after a pause.

I don’t see Jamie going down to the hedge. Where did he go?

He’s going with Edmund to the Doctor’s. He went up to change his clothes.

Then, glad of an excuse to leave her.

I’d better do the same or I’ll be late for my appointment at the Club.

He makes a move toward the font-parlor doorway, but with a swift impulsive movement she reaches out and clasps his arm.

A note of pleading in her voice.

Don’t go yet, dear. I don’t want to be alone.

Hastily.

I mean, you have plenty of time. You know you boast you can dress in one-tenth the time it takes the boys.

Vaguely.

There is something I wanted to say. What is it? I’ve forgotten. I’m glad Jamie is going uptown. You didn’t give him any money, I hope.

I did not.

He’d only spend it on drink and you know what a vile, poisonous tongue he has when he’s drunk. Not that I would mind anything he said tonight, but he always manages to drive you into a rage, especially if you’re drunk, too, as you will be.

Resentfully.

I won’t. I never get drunk.

Teasing indifferently.

Oh, I’m sure you’ll hold it well. You always have. It’s hard for a stranger to tell, but after thirty-five years of marriage—

I’ve never missed a performance in my life. That’s the proof!

Then bitterly.

If I did get drunk it is not you who should blame me. No man has ever had a better reason.

Reason? What reason? You always drink too much when you go to the Club, don’t you? Particularly when you meet McGuire. He sees to that. Don’t think I’m finding fault, dear. You must do as you please. I won’t mind.