Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (22 page)

He stops, his head nodding drunkenly, his eyes closing—then suddenly he looks up, his face hard, and quotes jeeringly.

“If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!
I know whose love would follow me still…”

Violently.

Shut up!

In a cruel, sneering tone with hatred in it.

Where’s the hophead? Gone to sleep?

Edmund jerks as if he’d been struck. There is a tense silence. Edmund’s face looks stricken and sick. Then in a burst of rage he springs from his chair.

You dirty bastard!

He punches his brother in the face, a blow that glances off the cheekbone. For a second Jamie reacts pugnaciously and half rises from his chair to do battle, but suddenly he seems to sober up to a shocked realization of what he has said and he sinks back limply.

Miserably.

Thanks, Kid. I certainly had that coming. Don’t know what made me—booze talking—You know me, Kid.

His anger ebbing.

I know you’d never say that unless—But God, Jamie, no matter how drunk you are, it’s no excuse!

He pauses—miserably.

I’m sorry I hit you. You and I never scrap—that bad

He sinks back on his chair.

Huskily.

It’s all right. Glad you did. My dirty tongue. Like to cut it out.

He hides his face in his hands—dully.

I suppose it’s because I feel so damned sunk. Because this time Mama had me fooled. I really believed she had it licked. She thinks I always believe the worst, but this time I believed the best.

His voice flutters.

I suppose I can’t forgive her—yet. It meant so much. I’d begun to hope, if she’d beaten the game, I could, too.

He begins to sob, and the horrible part of his weeping is that it appears sober, not the maudlin tears of drunkenness.

Blinking back tears himself.

God, don’t I know how you feel! Stop it, Jamie!

Trying to control his sobs.

I’ve known about Mama so much longer than you. Never forget the first time I got wise. Caught her in the act with a hypo. Christ, I’d never dreamed before that any women but whores took dope!

He pauses.

And then this stuff of you getting consumption. It’s got me licked. We’ve been more than brothers. You’re the only pal I’ve ever had. I love your guts. I’d do anything for you.

Reaches out and pats his arm.

I know that, Jamie.

His crying over—drops his hands from his face—with a strange bitterness.

Yet I’ll bet you’ve heard Mama and old Gaspard spill so much bunk about my hoping for the worst, you suspect right now I’m thinking to myself that Papa is old and can’t last much longer, and if you were to die, Mama and I would get all he’s got, and so I’m probably hoping—

Indignantly.

Shut up, you damned fool! What the hell put that in your nut?

He stares at his brother accusingly.

Yes, that’s what I’d like to know. What put that in your mind?

Confusedly—appearing drunk again.

Don’t be a dumbbell! What I said! Always suspected of hoping for the worst. I’ve got so I can’t help—

Then drunkenly resentful.

What are you trying to do, accuse me? Don’t play the wise guy with me! I’ve learned more of life than you’ll ever know! Just because you’ve read a lot of highbrow junk, don’t think you can fool me! You’re only an overgrown kid! Mama’s baby and Papa’s pet! The family White Hope! You’ve been getting a swelled head lately. About nothing! About a few poems in a hick town newspaper! Hell, I used to write better stuff for the Lit magazine in college! You better wake up! You’re setting no rivers on fire! You let hick town boobs flatter you with bunk about your future—

Abruptly his tone changes to disgusted contrition. Edmund has looked away from him, trying to ignore this tirade.

Hell, Kid, forget it. That goes for Sweeny. You know I don’t mean it. No one hopes more than I do you’ll knock ‘em all dead. No one is prouder you’ve started to make good.

Drunkenly assertive.

Why shouldn’t I be proud? Hell, it’s purely selfish. You reflect credit on me. I’ve had more to do with bringing you up than anyone. I wised you up about women, so you’d never be a fall guy, or make any mistakes you didn’t want to make! And who steered you on to reading poetry first? Swinburne, for example? I did! And because I once wanted to write, I planted it in your mind that someday you’d write! Hell, you’re more than my brother. I made you! You’re my Frankenstein!

He has risen to a note of drunken arrogance. Edmund is grinning with amusement now.

All right, I’m your Frankenstein. So let’s have a drink.
He laughs.
You crazy nut!

Thickly.

I’ll have a drink. Not you. Got to take care of you.

He reaches out with a foolish grin of doting affection and grabs his brother’s hand.

Don’t be scared of this sanatorium business. Hell, you can beat that standing on your head. Six months and you’ll be in the pink. Probably haven’t got consumption at all. Doctors lot of fakers. Told me years ago to cut out booze or I’d soon be dead—and here I am. They’re all con men. Anything to grab your dough. I’ll bet this state farm stuff is political graft game. Doctors get a cut for every patient they send.

Disgustedly amused.

You’re the limit! At the Last Judgment, you’ll be around telling everyone it’s in the bag.

And I’ll be right. Slip a piece of change to the Judge and be saved, but if you’re broke you can go to hell!

He grins at this blasphemy and Edmund has to laugh. Jamie goes on.

“Therefore put money in thy purse.” That’s the only dope.

Mockingly.

The secret of my success! Look what it’s got me!

He lets Edmund’s hand go to pour a big drink, and gulps it down. He stares at his brother with bleary affection—takes his hand again and begins to talk thickly but with a strange, convincing sincerity.

Listen, Kid, you’ll be going away. May not get another chance to talk. Or might not be drunk enough to tell you truth. So got to tell you now. Something I ought to have told you long ago—for your own good.

He pauses—struggling with himself. Edmund stares, impressed and uneasy. Jamie blurts out.

Not drunken bull, but “in vino veritas” stuff. You better take it seriously. Want to warn you—against me. Mama and Papa are right. I’ve been rotten bad influence. And worst of it is, I did it on purpose.

Uneasily.

Shut up! I don’t want to hear—

Nix, Kid! You listen! Did it on purpose to make a bum of you. Or part of me did. A big part. That part that’s been dead so long. That hates life. My putting you wise so you’d learn from my mistakes. Believed that myself at times, but it’s a fake. Made my mistakes look good. Made getting drunk romantic. Made whores fascinating vampires instead of poor, stupid, diseased slobs they really are. Made fun of work as sucker’s game. Never wanted you succeed and make me look even worse by comparison. Wanted you to fail. Always jealous of you. Mama’s baby, Papa’s pet!

He stares at Edmund with increasing enmity.

And it was your being born that started Mama on dope. I know that’s not your fault, but all the same, God damn you, I can’t help hating your guts—!

Almost frightenedly.

Jamie! Cut it out! You’re crazy!

But don’t get wrong idea, Kid. I love you more than I hate you. My saying what I’m telling you now proves it. I run the risk you’ll hate me—and you’re all I’ve got left. But I didn’t mean to tell you that last stuff—go that far back. Don’t know what made me. What I wanted to say is, I’d like to see you become the greatest success in the world. But you’d better be on your guard. Because I’ll do my damnedest to make you fail. Can’t help it. I hate myself. Got to take revenge. On everyone else. Especially you. Oscar Wilde’s “Reading Gaol” has the dope twisted. The man was dead and so he had to kill the thing he loved. That’s what it ought to be. The dead part of me hopes you won’t get well. Maybe he’s even glad the game has got Mama again! He wants company, he doesn’t want to be the only corpse around the house!

He gives a hardy, tortured laugh.

Jesus, Jamie! You really have gone crazy!

Think it over and you’ll see I’m right. Think it over when you’re away from me in the sanatorium. Make up your mind you’ve got to tie a can to me—get me out of your life—think of me as dead—tell people, “I had a brother, but he’s dead.” And when you come back, look out for me. I’ll be waiting to welcome you with that “my old pal” stuff, and give you the glad hand, and at the first good chance I get stab you in the back.

Shut up! I’ll be God-damned if I’ll listen to you any more—

As if he hadn’t heard.

Only don’t forget me. Remember I warned you—for your sake. Give me credit. Greater love hath no man than this, that he saveth his brother from himself.

Very drunkenly, his head bobbing.

That’s all. Feel better now. Gone to confession. Know you absolve me, don’t you, Kid? You understand. You’re a damned fine kid. Ought to be. I made you. So go and get well. Don’t die on me. You’re all I’ve got left. God bless you, Kid.

His eyes close. He mumbles.

That last drink—the old K. O.

He falls into a drunken doze, not completely asleep. Edmund buries his face in his hands miserably. Tyrone comes in quietly through the screen door from the porch, his dressing gown wet with fog, the collar turned up around his throat. His face is stern and disgusted but at the same time pitying. Edmund does not notice his entrance.

In a low voice.

Thank God he’s asleep.

Edmund looks up with a start.

I thought he’d never stop talking.

He turns down the collar of his dressing gown.

We’d better let him stay where he is and sleep it off.

Edmund remains silent. Tyrone regards him—then goes on.

I heard the last part of his talk. It’s what I’ve warned you. I hope you’ll heed the warning, now it comes from his own mouth.

Edmund gives no sign of having heard.

Tyrone adds pityingly.

But don’t take it too much to heart, lad. He loves to exaggerate the worst of himself when he’s drunk. He’s devoted to you. It’s the one good thing left in him.

He looks down on Jamie with a bitter sadness.

A sweet spectacle for me! My first-born, who I hoped would bear my name in honor and dignity, who showed such brilliant promise!

Miserably.

Keep quiet, can’t you, Papa?

Pours a drink.

A waste! A wreck, a drunken hulk, done with and finished!

He drinks. Jamie has become restless, sensing his father’s presence, struggling up from his stupor. Now he gets his eyes open to blink up at Tyrone. The latter moves back a step defensively, his face growing hard.

Suddenly points a finger at him and recites with dramatic emphasis.

Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,
That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury.
Seize on him, Furies, take him into torment.”

Then resentfully.

What the hell are you staring at?

He recites sardonically from Rossetti.

“Look in my face. My name is Might-Have-Been;
I am also called No More, Too Late, Farewell.”

I’m well aware of that, and God knows I don’t want to look at it.

Papa! Quit it!

Derisively.

Got a great idea for you, Papa. Put on revival of “The Bells” this season. Great part in it you can play without make-up. Old Gaspard, the miser!

Tyrone turns away, trying to control his temper.

Shut up, Jamie!

Jeeringly.

I claim Edwin Booth never saw the day when he could give as good a performance as a trained seal. Seals are intelligent and honest. They don’t put up any bluffs about the Art of Acting. They admit they’re just hams earning their daily fish.