Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (9 page)

In a forced teasing tone.

Good heavens, how down in the mouth you look, Jamie. What’s the matter now?

Without looking at her.

Nothing.

Oh, I’d forgotten you’ve been working on the front hedge. That accounts for your sinking into the dumps, doesn’t it?

If you want to think so, Mama.

Keeping her tone.

Well, that’s the effect it always has, isn’t it? What a big baby you are! Isn’t he, Edmund?

He’s certainly a fool to care what anyone thinks.

Strangely.

Yes, the only way is to make yourself not care.

She catches Jamie giving her a bitter glance and changes the subject.

Where is your father? I heard Cathleen call him.

Gabbing with old Captain Turner, Jamie says. He’ll be late, as usual.

Jamie gets up and goes to the windows at right, glad of an excuse to turn his back.

I’ve told Cathleen time and again she must go wherever he is and tell him. The idea of screaming as if this were a cheap boardinghouse!

Looking out the window.

She’s down there now.

Sneeringly.

Interrupting the famous Beautiful Voice! She should have more respect.

Sharply—letting her resentment toward him come out.

It’s you who should have more respect! Stop sneering at your father! I won’t have it! You ought to be proud you’re his son! He may have his faults. Who hasn’t? But he’s worked hard all his life. He made his way up from ignorance and poverty to the top of his profession! Everyone else admires him and you should be the last one to sneer—you, who, thanks to him, have never had to work hard in your life!

Stung, Jamie has turned to stare at her with accusing antagonism. Her eyes waver guiltily and she adds in a tone which begins to placate.

Remember your father is getting old, Jamie. You really ought to show more consideration.

I
ought to?

Uneasily.

Oh, dry up, Jamie!

Jamie looks out the window again.

And, for Pete’s sake, Mama, why jump on Jamie all of a sudden?

Bitterly.

Because he’s always sneering at someone else, always looking for the worst weakness in everyone.

Then with a strange, abrupt change to a detached, impersonal tone.

But I suppose life has made him like that, and he can’t help it. None of us can help the things life has done to us. They’re done before you realize it, and once they’re done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you’d like to be, and you’ve lost your true self forever.

Edmund is made apprehensive by her strangeness. He tries to look up in her eyes but she keeps them averted. Jamie turns to her—then looks quickly out of the window again.

Dully.

I’m hungry. I wish the Old Man would get a move on. It’s a rotten trick the way he keeps meals waiting, and then beefs because they’re spoiled.

With a resentment that has a quality of being automatic and on the surface while inwardly she is indifferent.

Yes, it’s very trying, Jamie. You don’t know how trying. You don’t have to keep house with summer servants who don’t care because they know it isn’t a permanent position. The really good servants are all with people who have homes and not merely summer places. And your father won’t even pay the wages the best summer help ask. So every year I have stupid, lazy greenhorns to deal with. But you’ve heard me say this a thousand times. So has he, but it goes in one ear and out the other. He thinks money spent on a home is money wasted. He’s lived too much in hotels. Never the best hotels, of course. Second-rate hotels. He doesn’t understand a home. He doesn’t feel at home in it. And yet, he wants a home. He’s even proud of having this shabby place. He loves it here.

She laughs—a hopeless and yet amused laugh.

It’s really funny, when you come to think of it. He’s a peculiar man.

Again attempting uneasily to look up in her eyes.

What makes you ramble on like that, Mama?

Quickly casual—patting his cheek.

Why, nothing in particular, dear. It
is
foolish.

As she speaks, Cathleen enters from the back parlor.

Volubly.

Lunch is ready, Ma’am, I went down to Mister Tyrone, like you ordered, and he said he’d come right away, but he kept on talking to that man, telling him of the time when—

Indifferently.

All right, Cathleen. Tell Bridget I’m sorry but she’ll have to wait a few minutes until Mister Tyrone is here.

Cathleen mutters,
“Yes, Ma’am,"
and goes off through the back parlor, grumbling to herself.

Damn it! Why don’t you go ahead without him? He’s told us to.

With a remote, amused smile.

He doesn’t mean it. Don’t you know your father yet? He’d be so terribly hurt.

Jumps up—as if he was glad of an excuse to leave.

I’ll make him get a move on.

He goes out on the side porch. A moment later he is heard calling from the porch exasperatedly.

Hey! Papa! Come on! We can’t wait all day!

Mary has risen from the arm of the chair. Her hands play restlessly over the table top. She does not look at Jamie but she feels the cynically appraising glance he gives her face and hands.

Tensely.

Why do you stare like that?

You know.

He turns back to the window.

I don’t know.

Oh, for God’s sake, do you think you can fool me, Mama? I’m not blind.

Looks directly at him now, her face set again in an expression of blank, stubborn denial.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

No? Take a look at your eyes in the mirror!

Coming in from the porch.

I got Papa moving. He’ll be here in a minute.

With a glance from one to the other, which his mother avoids
—
uneasily.

What’s happened? What’s the matter, Mama?

Disturbed by his coming, gives way to a flurry of guilty, nervous excitement.

Your brother ought to be ashamed of himself. He’s been insinuating I don’t know what.

Turns on Jamie.

God damn you!

He takes a threatening step toward him. Jamie turns his back with a shrug and looks out the window.

More upset, grabs Edmund’s arm—excitedly.

Stop this at once, do you hear me? How dare you use such language before me!

Abruptly her tone and manner change to the strange detachment she has shown before.

It’s wrong to blame your brother. He can’t help being what the past has made him. Any more than your father can. Or you. Or I.

Frightenedly—with a desperate hoping against hope.

He’s a liar! It’s a lie, isn’t it, Mama?

Keeping her eyes averted.

What is a lie? Now you’re talking in riddles like Jamie.

Then her eyes meet his stricken, accusing look. She stammers.

Edmund! Don’t!

She looks away and her manner instantly regains the quality of strange detachment— calmly.

There’s your father coming up the steps now. I must tell Bridget.

She goes through the back parlor. Edmund moves slowly to his chair. He looks sick and hopeless.

From the window, without looking around.

Well?

Refusing to admit anything to his brother yet—weakly defiant.

Well, what? You’re a liar.

Jamie again shrugs his shoulders. The screen door on the front porch is heard closing. Edmund says dully.

Here’s Papa. I hope he loosens up with the old bottle.

Tyrone comes in through the front parlor. He is putting on his coat.

Sorry I’m late. Captain Turner stopped to talk and once he starts gabbing you can’t get away from him.

Without turning—dryly.

You mean once he starts listening.

His father regards him with dislike. He comes to the table with a quick measuring look at the bottle of whiskey. Without turning, Jamie senses this.

It’s all right. The level in the bottle hasn’t changed.

I wasn’t noticing that.

He adds caustically.

As if it proved anything with you around. I’m on to your tricks.

Dully.

Did I hear you say, let’s all have a drink?

Frowns at him.

Jamie is welcome after his hard morning’s work, but I won’t invite you. Doctor Hardy—

To hell with Doctor Hardy! One isn’t going to kill me. I feel—all in, Papa.

With a worried look at him—putting on a fake heartiness.

Come along, then. It’s before a meal and I’ve always found that good whiskey, taken in moderation as an appetizer, is the best of tonics.

Edmund gets up as his father passes the bottle to him. He pours a big drink. Tyrone frowns admonishingly.

I said, in moderation.

He pours his own drink and passes the bottle to Jamie, grumbling.

It’d be a waste of breath mentioning moderation to you.

Ignoring the hint, Jamie pours a big drink. His father scowls—then, giving it up, resumes his hearty air, raising his glass.

Well, here’s health and happiness!

Edmund gives a bitter laugh.

That’s a joke!

What is?

Nothing. Here’s how.

They drink.

Becoming aware of the atmosphere.

What’s the matter here? There’s gloom in the air you could cut with a knife.

Turns on Jamie resentfully.

You got the drink you were after, didn’t you? Why are you wearing that gloomy look on your mug?

Shrugging his shoulders.

You won’t be singing a song yourself soon.

Shut up, Jamie.

Uneasy now—changing the subject.

I thought lunch was ready. I’m hungry as a hunter. Where is your mother?

Returning through the back parlor, calls.

Here I am.

She comes in. She is excited and self-conscious. As she talks, she glances everywhere except at any of their faces.

I’ve had to calm down Bridget. She’s in a tantrum over your being late again, and I don’t blame her. If your lunch is dried up from waiting in the oven, she said it served you right, you could like it or leave it for all she cared.

With increasing excitement.

Oh, I’m so sick and tired of pretending this is a home! You won’t help me! You won’t put yourself out the least bit! You don’t know how to act in a home! You don’t really want one! You never have wanted one—never since the day we were married! You should have remained a bachelor and lived in second-rate hotels and entertained your friends in barrooms!

She adds strangely, as if she were now talking aloud to herself rather than to Tyrone.