Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (12 page)

I know you won’t.

He turns toward the front parlor, anxious to escape.

I’ve got to get dressed.

Again she reaches out and grasps his arm—pleadingly.

No, please wait a little while, dear. At least, until one of the boys comes down. You will all be leaving me so soon.

With bitter sadness.

It’s you who are leaving us, Mary.

I? That’s a silly thing to say, James. How could I leave? There is nowhere I could go. Who would I go to see? I have no friends.

It’s your own fault—

He stops and sighs helplessly—persuasively.

There’s surely one thing you can do this afternoon that will be good for you, Mary. Take a drive in the automobile. Get away from the house. Get a little sun and fresh air.

Injuredly.

I bought the automobile for you. You know I don’t like the damned things. I’d rather walk any day, or take a trolley.

With growing resentment.

I had it here waiting for you when you came back from the sanatorium. I hoped it would give you pleasure and distract your mind. You used to ride in it every day, but you’ve hardly used it at all lately. I paid a lot of money I couldn’t afford, and there’s the chauffeur I have to board and lodge and pay high wages whether he drives you or not.

Bitterly.

Waste! The same old waste that will land me in the poorhouse in my old age! What good did it do you? I might as well have thrown the money out the window.

With detached calm.

Yes, it was a waste of money, James. You shouldn’t have bought a secondhand automobile. You were swindled again as you always are, because you insist on secondhand bargains in everything.

It’s one of the best makes! Everyone says it’s better than any of the new ones!

Ignoring this.

It was another waste to hire Smythe, who was only a helper in a garage and had never been a chauffeur. Oh, I realize his wages are less than a real chauffeur’s, but he more than makes up for that, I’m sure, by the graft he gets from the garage on repair bills. Something is always wrong. Smythe sees to that, I’m afraid.

I don’t believe it! He may not be a fancy millionaire’s flunky but he’s honest! You’re as bad as Jamie, suspecting everyone!

You mustn’t be offended, dear. I wasn’t offended when you gave me the automobile. I knew you didn’t mean to humiliate me. I knew that was the way you had to do everything. I was grateful and touched. I knew buying the car was a hard thing for you to do, and it proved how much you loved me, in your way, especially when you couldn’t really believe it would do me any good.

Mary!

He suddenly hugs her to him—brokenly.

Dear Mary! For the love of God, for my sake and the boys’ sake and your own, won’t you stop now?

Stammers in guilty confusion for a second.

I—James! Please!

Her strange, stubborn defense comes back instantly.

Stop what? What are you talking about?

He lets his arm fall to his side brokenly. She impulsively puts her arm around him.

James! We’ve loved each other! We always will! Let’s remember only that, and not try to understand what we cannot understand, or help things that cannot be helped—the things life has done to us we cannot excuse or explain.

As if he hadn’t heard—bitterly.

You won’t even try?

Her arms drop hopelessly and she turns away—with detachment.

Try to go for a drive this afternoon, you mean? Why, yes, if you wish me to, although it makes me feel lonelier than if I stayed here. There is no one I can invite to drive with me, and I never know where to tell Smythe to go. If there was a friend’s house where I could drop in and laugh and gossip awhile. But, of course, there isn’t. There never has been.

Her manner becoming more and more remote.

At the Convent I had so many friends. Girls whose families lived in lovely homes. I used to visit them and they’d visit me in my father’s home. But, naturally, after I married an actor—you know how actors were considered in those days—a lot of them gave me the cold shoulder. And then, right after we were married, there was the scandal of that woman who had been your mistress, suing you. From then on, all my old friends either pitied me or cut me dead. I hated the ones who cut me much less than the pitiers.

With guilty resentment.

For God’s sake, don’t dig up what’s long forgotten. If you’re that far gone in the past already, when it’s only the beginning of the afternoon, what will you be tonight?

Stares at him defiantly now.

Come to think of it, I do have to drive uptown. There’s something I must get at the drugstore.

Bitterly scornful.

Leave it to you to have some of the stuff hidden, and prescriptions for more! I hope you’ll lay in a good stock ahead so we’ll never have another night like the one when you screamed for it, and ran out of the house in your nightdress half crazy, to try and throw yourself off the dock!

Tries to ignore this.

I have to get tooth powder and toilet soap and cold cream—

She breaks down pitiably.

James! You mustn’t remember! You mustn’t humiliate me so!

Ashamed.

I’m sorry. Forgive me, Mary!

Defensively detached again.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing like that ever happened. You must have dreamed it.

He stares at her hopelessly. Her voice seems to drift farther and farther away.

I was so healthy before Edmund was born. You remember, James. There wasn’t a nerve in my body. Even traveling with you season after season, with week after week of one-night stands, in trains without Pullmans, in dirty rooms of filthy hotels, eating bad food, bearing children in hotel rooms, I still kept healthy. But bearing Edmund was the last straw. I was so sick afterwards, and that ignorant quack of a cheap hotel doctor— All he knew was I was in pain. It was easy for him to stop the pain.

Mary! For God’s sake, forget the past!

With strange objective calm.

Why? How can I? The past is the present, isn’t it? It’s the future, too. We all try to lie out of that but life won’t let us.

Going on.

I blame only myself. I swore after Eugene died I would never have another baby. I was to blame for his death. If I hadn’t left him with my mother to join you on the road, because you wrote telling me you missed me and were so lonely, Jamie would never have been allowed, when he still had measles, to go in the baby’s room.

Her face hardening.

I’ve always believed Jamie did it on purpose. He was jealous of the baby. He hated him.

As Tyrone starts to protest.

Oh, I know Jamie was only seven, but he was never stupid. He’d been warned it might kill the baby. He knew. I’ve never been able to forgive him for that.

With bitter sadness.

Are you back with Eugene now? Can’t you let our dead baby rest in peace?

As if she hadn’t heard him.

It was my fault. I should have insisted on staying with Eugene and not have let you persuade me to join you, just because I loved you. Above all, I shouldn’t have let you insist I have another baby to take Eugene’s place, because you thought that would make me forget his death. I knew from experience by then that children should have homes to be born in, if they are to be good children, and women need homes, if they are to be good mothers. I was afraid all the time I carried Edmund. I knew something terrible would happen. I knew I’d proved by the way I’d left Eugene that I wasn’t worthy to have another baby, and that God would punish me if I did. I never should have borne Edmund.

With an uneasy glance through the front parlor.

Mary! Be careful with your talk. If he heard you he might think you never wanted him. He’s feeling bad enough already without—

Violently.

It’s a lie! I did want him! More than anything in the world! You don’t understand! I meant, for his sake. He has never been happy. He never will be. Nor healthy. He was born nervous and too sensitive, and that’s my fault. And now, ever since he’s been so sick I’ve kept remembering Eugene and my father and I’ve been so frightened and guilty—

Then, catching herself, with an instant change to stubborn denial.

Oh, I know it’s foolish to imagine dreadful things when there’s no reason for it. After all, everyone has colds and gets over them.

Tyrone stares at her and sighs helplessly. He turns away toward the front parlor and sees Edmund coming down the stairs in the hall.

Sharply, in a low voice.

Here’s Edmund. For God’s sake try and be yourself—at least until he goes! You can do that much for him!

He waits, forcing his face into a pleasantly paternal expression. She waits frightenedly, seized again by a nervous panic, her hands fluttering over the bosom of her dress, up to her throat and hair, with a distracted aimlessness. Then, as Edmund approaches the doorway, she cannot face him. She goes swiftly away to the windows at left and stares out with her back to the front parlor. Edmund enters. He has changed to a ready-made blue serge suit, high stiff collar and tie, black shoes.

With an actor’s heartiness.

Well! You look spic and span. I’m on my way up to change, too.

He starts to pass him.

Dryly.

Wait a minute, Papa. I hate to bring up disagreeable topics, but there’s the matter of carfare. I’m broke.

Starts automatically on a customary lecture.

You’ll always be broke until you learn the value—

Checks himself guiltily, looking at his son’s sick face with worried pity.

But you’ve been learning, lad. You worked hard before you took ill. You’ve done splendidly. I’m proud of you.

He pulls out a small roll of bills from his pants pocket and carefully selects one. Edmund takes it. He glances at it and his face expresses astonishment. His father again reacts customarily—sarcastically.

Thank you.

He quotes.

“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is—”

“To have a thankless child.” I know. Give me a chance, Papa. I’m knocked speechless. This isn’t a dollar. It’s a ten spot.

Embarrassed by his generosity.

Put it in your pocket. You’ll probably meet some of your friends uptown and you can’t hold your end up and be sociable with nothing in your jeans.

You meant it? Gosh, thank you, Papa.

He is genuinely pleased and grateful for a moment—then he stares at his father’s face with uneasy suspicion.

But why all of a sudden —?

Cynically.

Did Doc Hardy tell you I was going to die?

Then he sees his father is bitterly hurt.

No! That’s a rotten crack. I was only kidding, Papa.

He puts an arm around his father impulsively and gives him an affectionate hug.

I’m very grateful. Honest, Papa.

Touched, returns his hug.

You’re welcome, lad.

Suddenly turns to them in a confused panic of frightened anger.

I won’t have it!

She stamps her foot.

Do you hear, Edmund! Such morbid nonsense! Saying you’re going to die! It’s the books you read! Nothing but sadness and death! Your father shouldn’t allow you to have them. And some of the poems you’ve written yourself are even worse! You’d think you didn’t want to live! A boy of your age with everything before him! It’s just a pose you get out of books! You’re not really sick at all!

Mary! Hold your tongue!

Instantly changing to a detached tone.

But, James, it’s absurd of Edmund to be so gloomy and make such a great to-do about nothing.

Turning to Edmund but avoiding his eyes— teasingly affectionate.