Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (15 page)

Bitterly.

You’re a sentimental fool. What is so wonderful about that first meeting between a silly romantic schoolgirl and a matinee idol? You were much happier before you knew he existed, in the Convent when you used to pray to the Blessed Virgin.

Longingly.

If I could only find the faith I lost, so I could pray again!

She pauses—then begins to recite the Hail Mary in a flat, empty tone.

“Hail, Mary, full of grace! The Lord is with Thee; blessed art Thou among women.”

Sneeringly.

You expect the Blessed Virgin to be fooled by a lying dope fiend reciting words! You can’t hide from her!

She springs to her feet. Her hands fly up to pat her hair distractedly.

I must go upstairs. I haven’t taken enough. When you start again you never know exactly how much you need.

She goes toward the front parlor—then stops in the doorway as she hears the sound of voices from the front path. She starts guiltily.

That must be them—

She hurries back to sit down. Her face sets in stubborn defensiveness—resentfully.

Why are they coming back? They don’t want to. And I’d much rather be alone.

Suddenly her whole manner changes. She becomes pathetically relieved and eager.

Oh, I’m so glad they’ve come! I’ve been so horribly lonely!

The front door is heard closing and Tyrone calls uneasily from the hall.

Are you there, Mary?

The light in the hall is turned on and shines through the front parlor to fall on Mary.

Rises from her chair, her face lighting up lovingly—with excited eagerness.

I’m here, dear. In the living room. I’ve been waiting for you.

Tyrone comes in through the front parlor. Edmund is behind him. Tyrone has had a lot to drink but beyond a slightly glazed look in his eyes and a trace of blur in his speech, he does not show it. Edmund has also had more than a few drinks without much apparent effect, except that his sunken cheeks are flushed and his eyes look bright and feverish. They stop in the doorway to stare appraisingly at her. What they see fulfills their worst expectations. But for the moment Mary is unconscious of their condemning eyes. She kisses her husband and then Edmund. Her manner is unnaturally effusive. They submit shrinkingly. She talks excitedly.

I’m so happy you’ve come. I had given up hope. I was afraid you wouldn’t come home. It’s such a dismal, foggy evening. It must be much more cheerful in the barrooms uptown, where there are people you can talk and joke with. No, don’t deny it. I know how you feel. I don’t blame you a bit. I’m all the more grateful to you for coming home. I was sitting here so lonely and blue. Come and sit down.

She sits at left rear of table, Edmund at left of table, and Tyrone in the rocker at right of it.

Dinner won’t be ready for a minute. You’re actually a little early. Will wonders never cease. Here’s the whiskey, dear. Shall I pour a drink for you?

Without waiting for a reply she does so.

And you, Edmund? I don’t want to encourage you, but one before dinner, as an appetizer, can’t do any harm.

She pours a drink for him. They make no move to take the drinks. She talks on as if unaware of their silence.

Where’s Jamie? But, of course, he’ll never come home so long as he has the price of a drink left.

She reaches out and clasps her husband’s hand—sadly.

I’m afraid Jamie has been lost to us for a long time, dear.

Her face hardens.

But we mustn’t allow him to drag Edmund down with him, as he’d like to do. He’s jealous because Edmund has always been the baby—just as he used to be of Eugene. He’ll never be content until he makes Edmund as hopeless a failure as he is.

Miserably.

Stop talking, Mama.

Dully.

Yes, Mary, the less you say now—

Then to Edmund, a bit tipsily.

All the same there’s truth in your mother’s warning. Beware of that brother of yours, or he’ll poison life for you with his damned sneering serpent’s tongue!

As before.

Oh, cut it out, Papa.

Goes on as if nothing had been said.

It’s hard to believe, seeing Jamie as he is now, that he was ever my baby. Do you remember what a healthy, happy baby he was, James? The one-night stands and filthy trains and cheap hotels and bad food never made him cross or sick. He was always smiling or laughing. He hardly ever cried. Eugene was the same, too, happy and healthy, during the two years he lived before I let him die through my neglect.

Oh, for the love of God! I’m a fool for coming home!

Papa! Shut up!

Smiles with detached tenderness at Edmund.

It was Edmund who was the crosspatch when he was little, always getting upset and frightened about nothing at all.

She pats his hand—teasingly.

Everyone used to say, dear, you’d cry at the drop of a hat.

Cannot control his bitterness.

Maybe I guessed there was a good reason not to laugh.

Reproving and pitying.

Now, now, lad. You know better than to pay attention—

As if she hadn’t heard—sadly again.

Who would have thought Jamie would grow up to disgrace us. You remember, James, for years after he went to boarding school, we received such glowing reports. Everyone liked him. All his teachers told us what a fine brain he had, and how easily he learned his lessons. Even after he began to drink and they had to expel him, they wrote us how sorry they were, because he was so likable and such a brilliant student. They predicted a wonderful future for him if he would only learn to take life seriously.

She pauses—then adds with a strange, sad detachment.

It’s such a pity. Poor Jamie! It’s hard to understand—

Abruptly a change comes over her. Her face hardens and she stares at her husband with accusing hostility.

No, it isn’t at all. You brought him up to be a boozer. Since he first opened his eyes, he’s seen you drinking. Always a bottle on the bureau in the cheap hotel rooms! And if he had a nightmare when he was little, or a stomach-ache, your remedy was to give him a tea-spoonful of whiskey to quiet him.

Stung.

So I’m to blame because that lazy hulk has made a drunken loafer of himself? Is that what I came home to listen to? I might have known! When you have the poison in you, you want to blame everyone but yourself!

Papa! You told me not to pay attention.

Then, resentfully.

Anyway it’s true. You did the same thing with me. I can remember that teaspoonful of booze every time I woke up with a nightmare.

In a detached reminiscent tone.

Yes, you were continually having nightmares as a child. You were born afraid. Because I was so afraid to bring you into the world.

She pauses—then goes on with the same detachment.

Please don’t think I blame your father, Edmund. He didn’t know any better. He never went to school after he was ten. His people were the most ignorant kind of poverty-stricken Irish. I’m sure they honestly believed whiskey is the healthiest medicine for a child who is sick or frightened.

Tyrone is about to burst out in angry defense of his family but Edmund intervenes.

Sharply.

Papa!

Changing the subject.

Are we going to have this drink, or aren’t we?

Controlling himself—dully.

You’re right. I’m a fool to take notice.

He picks up his glass listlessly.

Drink hearty, lad.

Edmund drinks but Tyrone remains staring at the glass in his hand. Edmund at once realizes how much the whiskey has been watered. He frowns, glancing from the bottle to his mother—starts to say something but stops.

In a changed tone—repentently.

I’m sorry if I sounded bitter, James. I’m not. It’s all so far away. But I did feel a little hurt when you wished you hadn’t come home. I was so relieved and happy when you came, and grateful to you. It’s very dreary and sad to be here alone in the fog with night falling.

Moved.

I’m glad I came, Mary, when you act like your real self.

I was so lonesome I kept Cathleen with me just to have someone to talk to.

Her manner and quality drift back to the shy convent girl again.

Do you know what I was telling her, dear? About the night my father took me to your dressing room and I first fell in love with you. Do you remember?

Deeply moved—his voice husky.

Can you think I’d ever forget, Mary?

Edmund looks away from them, sad and embarrassed.

Tenderly.

No. I know you still love me, James, in spite of everything.

His face works and he blinks back tears—with quiet intensity.

Yes! As God is my judge! Always and forever, Mary!

And I love you, dear, in spite of everything.

There is a pause in which Edmund moves embarrassedly. The strange detachment comes over her manner again as if she were speaking impersonally of people seen from a distance.

But I must confess, James, although I couldn’t help loving you, I would never have married you if I’d known you drank so much. I remember the first night your barroom friends had to help you up to the door of our hotel room, and knocked and then ran away before I came to the door. We were still on our honeymoon, do you remember?

With guilty vehemence.

I don’t remember! It wasn’t on our honeymoon! And I never in my life had to be helped to bed, or missed a performance!

As though he hadn’t spoken.

I had waited in that ugly hotel room hour after hour. I kept making excuses for you. I told myself it must be some business connected with the theater. I knew so little about the theater. Then I became terrified. I imagined all sorts of horrible accidents. I got on my knees and prayed that nothing had happened to you—and then they brought you up and left you outside the door.

She gives a little, sad sigh.

I didn’t know how often that was to happen in the years to come, how many times I was to wait in ugly hotel rooms. I became quite used to it.

Bursts out with a look of accusing hate at his father.

Christ! No wonder— !

He controls himself—gruffly.

When is dinner, Mama? It must be time.

Overwhelmed by shame which he tries to hide, fumbles with his watch.

Yes. It must be. Let’s see.

He stares at his watch without seeing it. Pleadingly.

Mary! Can’t you forget—?

With detached pity.

No, dear. But I forgive. I always forgive you. So don’t look so guilty. I’m sorry I remembered out loud. I don’t want to be sad, or to make you sad. I want to remember only the happy part of the past.

Her manner drifts back to the shy, gay convent girl.

Do you remember our wedding, dear? I’m sure you’ve completely forgotten what my wedding gown looked like. Men don’t notice such things. They don’t think they’re important. But it was important to me, I can tell you! How I fussed and worried! I was so excited and happy! My father told me to buy anything I wanted and never mind what it cost. The best is none too good, he said. I’m afraid he spoiled me dreadfully. My mother didn’t. She was very pious and strict. I think she was a little jealous. She didn’t approve of my marrying—especially an actor. I think she hoped I would become a nun. She used to scold my father. She’d grumble, “You never tell me, never mind what it costs, when I buy anything! You’ve spoiled that girl so, I pity her husband if she ever marries. She’ll expect him to give her the moon. She’ll never make a good wife.”

She laughs affectionately.

Poor mother!

She smiles at Tyrone with a strange, incongruous coquetry.

But she was mistaken, wasn’t she, James? I haven’t been such a bad wife, have I?

Huskily, trying to force a smile.

I’m not complaining, Mary.