The Hairy Ape - Eugene O’Neill (book suggestions txt) 📗

Is that so? Hum, you’ll excuse me, ma’am, but are you intending to wear that dress. Mildred Why not? Second Engineer You’ll likely rub against oil and dirt. It can’t be helped. Mildred It doesn’t matter. I have lots of white dresses. Second Engineer I have an old coat you might throw over⁠— Mildred I have fifty dresses like this. I will throw this one into the sea when I come back. That ought to wash it clean, don’t you think? Second Engineer Doggedly. There’s ladders to climb down that are none too clean⁠—and dark alleyways⁠— Mildred I will wear this very dress and none other. Second Engineer No offence meant. It’s none of my business. I was only warning you⁠— Mildred Warning? That sounds thrilling. Second Engineer Looking down the deck⁠—with a sigh of relief.⁠—There’s the Fourth now. He’s waiting for us. If you’ll come⁠— Mildred Go on. I’ll follow you. He goes. Mildred turns a mocking smile on her aunt. An oaf⁠—but a handsome, virile oaf. Aunt Scornfully. Poser! Mildred Take care. He said there were dark alleyways⁠— Aunt In the same tone. Poser! Mildred Biting her lips angrily. You are right. But would that my millions were not so anemically chaste! Aunt Yes, for a fresh pose I have no doubt you would drag the name of Douglas in the gutter! Mildred From which it sprang. Goodbye, Aunt. Don’t pray too hard that I may fall into the fiery furnace. Aunt Poser! Mildred Viciously. Old hag! She slaps her aunt insultingly across the face and walks off, laughing gaily. Aunt Screams after her. I said poser! Curtain. Scene III

The stokehole. In the rear, the dimly-outlined bulks of the furnaces and boilers. High overhead one hanging electric bulb sheds just enough light through the murky air laden with coal dust to pile up masses of shadows everywhere. A line of men, stripped to the waist, is before the furnace doors. They bend over, looking neither to right nor left, handling their shovels as if they were part of their bodies, with a strange, awkward, swinging rhythm. They use the shovels to throw open the furnace doors. Then from these fiery round holes in the black a flood of terrific light and heat pours full upon the men who are outlined in silhouette in the crouching, inhuman attitudes of chained gorillas. The men shovel with a rhythmic motion, swinging as on a pivot from the coal which lies in heaps on the floor behind to hurl it into the flaming mouths before them. There is a tumult of noise⁠—the brazen clang of the furnace doors as they are flung open or slammed shut, the grating, teeth-gritting grind of steel against steel, of crunching coal. This clash of sounds stuns one’s ears with its rending dissonance. But there is order in it, rhythm, a mechanical regulated recurrence, a tempo. And rising above all, making the air hum with the quiver of liberated energy, the roar of leaping flames in the furnaces, the monotonous throbbing beat of the engines.

As the curtain rises, the furnace doors are shut. The men are taking a breathing spell. One or two are arranging the coal behind them, pulling it into more accessible heaps. The others can be dimly made out leaning on their shovels in relaxed attitudes of exhaustion. Paddy From somewhere in the line⁠—plaintively. Yerra, will this divil’s own watch nivir end? Me back is broke. I’m destroyed entirely. Yank From the center of the line⁠—with exuberant scorn. Aw, yuh make me sick! Lie down and croak, why don’t yuh? Always beefin’, dat’s you! Say, dis is a cinch! Dis was made for me! It’s my meat, get me! A whistle is blown⁠—a thin, shrill note from somewhere overhead in the darkness. Yank curses without resentment. Dere’s de damn engineer crakin’ de whip. He tinks we’re loafin’. Paddy Vindictively. God stiffen him! Yank In an exultant tone of command. Come on, youse guys! Git into de game! She’s gittin’ hungry! Pile some grub in her! Trow it into her belly! Come on now, all of youse! Open her up! At this last all the men, who have followed his movements of getting into position, throw open their furnace doors with a deafening clang. The fiery light floods over their shoulders as they bend round for the coal. Rivulets of sooty sweat have traced maps on their backs. The enlarged muscles form bunches of high light and shadow. Yank Chanting a count as he shovels without seeming effort. One⁠—two⁠—tree⁠—His voice rising exultantly in the joy of battle. Dat’s de stuff! Let her have it! All togedder now! Sling it into her! Let her ride! Shoot de piece now! Call de toin on her! Drive her into it! Feel her move! Watch her smoke! Speed, dat’s her middle name! Give her coal, youse guys! Coal, dat’s her booze! Drink it up, baby! Let’s see yuh sprint! Dig in and gain a lap! Dere she go-o-es This last in the chanting formula of the gallery gods at the six-day bike race. He slams his furnace door shut. The others do likewise with as much unison as their wearied bodies will permit. The effect is of one fiery eye after another being blotted out with a series of accompanying bangs. Paddy Groaning. Me back is broke. I’m bate out⁠—bate⁠—There is a pause. Then the inexorable whistle sounds again from the dim regions above the electric light. There is a growl of cursing rage from all sides. Yank Shaking his fist upward⁠—contemptuously. Take it easy dere, you! Who d’yuh tinks runnin’ dis game, me or you? When I git ready, we move. Not before! When I git ready, get me! Voices Approvingly. That’s the stuff! Yank tal him, py golly! Yank ain’t affeerd. Goot poy, Yank! Give him hell! Tell ’im ’e’s a bloody swine! Bloody slave-driver! Yank Contemptuously. He ain’t got no noive. He’s yellow, get me? All de engineers is yellow. Dey